And with that, she dashed off, in the extra-springy way that only a kid could run.
I studied the comic book again. The issue was a real heartbreaker. I actually cried when Phoenix first sacrificed her life on the blue area of the moon. I could feel the pain of Cyclops as the love of his life died screaming his name (and mine). This was how I got my drama fix, back when I was Madison’s age. I don’t know if it was a simpler time but Jesus Christ, I was a simpler kid.
________________
As far as puzzling figures went, Madison was a one-piece jigsaw compared to her mother. At 9:30, I received this narrow oddity in my inbox:
>PS-Thanks for the great gift. IT’S WAY
>TOO MUCH! But thank you.
I can tell you’re a reader, not a collector.
Don’t worry. Despite its great significance,
that issue’s only worth $40, mint condition.
So I wouldn’t call it “way too much.” I also
gave you a spare copy, so I wouldn’t call it
a GREAT gift either. Hell, it might not even
be a gift at all. It could be a subconscious
scheme to bring you down a rung or two in my
daughter’s high esteem. Can you blame me for
being jealous? I mean I was never really her
idol but damn it, we used to be so close. We
talked every day. Now all I get from her are
icy glares, secrecy, and a tsunami of drama.
So if I did subconsciously sabotage you, all
I can say is “oops” and “sorry.” Then again,
maybe the cigar’s just a cigar. Who can say?
In any case, please excuse my neurotic rant.
Sometimes I get a’Freud for no clear reason.
And yet this note seems strangely justified.
Enjoy the comic,
Jean
…who clearly has issues to spare.
Normally, I’d say this was a woman with way too much free time, but it had taken her just seven minutes to read and respond to my message. Seven minutes to express a few crazy thoughts, drop a few clever puns, and — most amazing — frame it all at exactly forty-four characters per line. How the hell did she do that in seven minutes?
By the time I finished admiring her handiwork, I noted the time. 9:43. All right, lady. Not only will I step up to the box, I’ll give it a little twist.
O
Jean,
don’t let
Madison’s new
esteem for me get
you down. By no means
does it indicate that you
somehow pale in comparison. I
have several unfair advantages in
that I’m not the one who tells her to
brush her teeth, finish all her broccoli,
write that thank-you note to Grandma for that
horrible green sweater, and so on, and so
forth. It’s all just part of the pain
of raising a teenager (not that I
would personally know). Look,
you did one hell of a job
with her. The kid is
a real diamond in
the rough. Oy!
Squarely,
Scott
S
…who has a number of classic issues himself.
I sent it off at 9:55. Twelve minutes. Damn. And I’d only worked in a fraction of the amount of text that she did. There was no denying it. Jean had kicked my ASCII.
And yet instead of being squarely smug, she simply shined on my crazy diamond. By her account, she had been composing a normal e-mail (well, as normal as she would get) when she noticed that the first four lines happened to be even. From there, she merely made a game out of it. She was only challenging herself. She never expected me to join in with my own text sculpture. Jean confessed that as far as speed went, she had the unfair advantage of being prelingually deaf. She thought in letters. I thought in sounds. But given my natural limitations, I did arousingly well (her words).
Of course she framed her entire response in the shape of a large “Z.” And she did it in five minutes.
But I didn’t have time to respond to her letter. Hunta’s interview was about to hit the nation, which meant Harmony would be calling, which meant it was time to get back to doing what I did best.
________________
“That’s so messed up!” Harmony cried, from the foot of her bed.
I grinned into the red phone. “Welcome to the business, hon.”
Those tuning in to watch an all-new Judging Amy were in for a disappointment, as CBS ran a special edition of 48 Hours in its place. The network had won the Maxina Howard sweepstakes, but victory came with a price. In order to keep her carefully crafted interview from devolving into one big episode of Judging Jeremy, Maxina had worn the producers down into a state of childlike submission. Yes ma’am, we will limit our footage of Mr. Sharpe to what you’ve provided on the videotape. Yes ma’am, we understand that means no raunchy bits from any of his videos, none of his randy appearances on MTV, and no out-of-context sound bites from any of his previous interviews. And yes ma’am, we promise to air each and every quote that you have earmarked as mandatory, including the part where your client stresses twice that he has no criminal record.
Harmony and I watched the whole show together, in the only way we could. She was curled up in front of her ancient thirteen-inch bedroom TV. I sat in my living room, rolled out on my extra-long couch. Every time the reporter asked Hunta a question or nodded to one of his longer answers, Harmony freaked out. She just couldn’t get over the deception.
“They making it look like that reporter guy was in the room asking all those questions. But he wasn’t even there!”
“Here’s a helpful hint for the future,” I said. “Any time you see a one-on-one interview and they never show you both people in the same frame, chances are it’s a cut-and-paste job like this one. They probably never even met.”
“But how did they get the room to look the same and all that?”
“I don’t know. Either they set up a background façade at the studio, or they just filmed that reporter in another room at the same hotel.”
“That’s so dirty!”
“Well, in this case Maxina didn’t give them a choice. But just wait. In a decade or so, I’m sure they’ll be faking the side-by-side shot, too. You know, like when an actor plays twins.”
“Goddamn, Scott. You scare me sometimes.”
“I didn’t say I’d be doing that stuff.”
“You know, Alonso’s kind of scared of you too,” she teased. “He said he likes you but you make him glad he’s getting out of the game.”
“Oh, and why is that? “
“He told me you were like… damn, how did he put it? Oh yeah, you were an East Coast shark in a West Coast fishbowl. He said that with a brain like yours, you should be making and breaking presidents instead of dealing in celebrity shit.”
“That’s nice,” I replied, only mildly flattered. “Did you tell him I got out of politics years ago?”
“Yeah. I told him you left Washington behind and all that. He said no you didn’t. You just brought it with you.”
“Ooh. He’s so profound.”
She giggled along. “I know. He talks like Jesse Jackson. But he’s nice, though. You know, he wants to put me up in a hotel for the next week or so.”
“I know. It was my idea.”
“Yeah, but who’s paying for all that?”
“It won’t be you. That’s for damn sure.”