Free Sellevision by Augusten Burroughs Page B

personal trainer about the whole fiber vs. carbohydrate issue, and what it really meant in terms of fat.

    D
    on, the Good Morning Show host, was angrily storming down the hallway in Peggy Jean’s direction.
    “Don, what’s the matter? Are you okay? What is it?”
    “Oh, hi Peggy Jean, no, I’m fine, it’s just that . . .” Flustered, he made the gesture of a handgun with his index finger and thumb, aimed it at his temple, fired. “ Pow .”
    “Now don’t even joke about that, Don.”
    “Sorry. Anyway, I’m in the kitchen set doing a Creative Cooking thing, right? And I’m in the middle of presenting that nineteen-inch Stick-Not frying pan, and the omelet that I’m making, which is supposed to like, glide out of the skillet, sticks, and then starts to burn and it’s all black and smoking and I’m scraping at it. Then the plastic handle catches fire. It was just a disaster; they had to cut away to a Yanni promo.”
    Peggy Jean sighed. “Oh, Dan, I’m sorry, how frustrating. It’s happened to all of us.” Though nothing like this had ever happened to her personally .
    “My mother was watching!”
    “Well, I’m sure she’ll understand. Live television doesn’t always go smoothly,” she said. Then she noticed that the bald spot on top of Don’s head was shiny. She thought it must create a hot spot on camera. But now was not the time to mention it and perhaps suggest Propecia.
    “No, she won’t understand. Ever since Nancy left me for her personal trainer, my mother has been convinced that my daughter is malnourished. Now she has her proof that I can’t cook and am an unfit parent.”
    Peggy Jean touched the sleeve of Don’s shirt reassuringly.
    “I’m not kidding, Peggy Jean. I guarantee you my mother will be on the next plane out here.”
    “Oh, Don—all I can think to tell you is, let go and let God.”
    “Gee, thanks, Peggy Jean,” Don said sarcastically, shaking his head.
    “You’re welcome,” Peggy Jean said earnestly.
    As she turned and walked away she thought to herself that helping other people, even if only to give advice, really did lift one’s own spirits. And when she reached her office, she was smiling.
    Until she sat at her computer and saw that she had received yet another E-mail from Zoe.

    To: [email protected]
    Fr: [email protected]
    Subject: Re: Re: Too good for me, huh?

I’m getting a little sick and tired of your fucking form letters. You treat me like shit, I treat you like shit. Deal? Deal. It’s called having a taste of your own lousy medicine. Mustache cunt.

    Zoe

    Peggy Jean immediately looked away from the computer screen, horrified, and checked her watch. Less than an hour had passed between this E-mail and the last. Less than an hour . Her finger trembled as she brought it to her upper lip, touching, feeling the hairs . Thank God she’d phoned Dr. Stewart.
    Peggy Jean sent her standard reply and then drove straight to the CVS pharmacy. She picked up her prescription and a bottle of Jolen Creme Bleach.

six

    “H ow wonderful to see you, Peggy Jean. Just take a seat and I’ll let Claude know you’re here.”
    Peggy Jean made herself comfortable in one of the black leather petite Le Corbusier chairs of the salon. The air was filled with the scent of narcissus blossoms and ammonia-free semipermanent hair coloring. Setting her emerald green faux crocodile handbag on the floor beside her, Peggy Jean picked up one of the magazines off the glass-topped table in front of her and began leafing through the pages.
    A moment later Claude’s assistant, Mia, arrived with a tray on which was a tiny cup of espresso, some milk, and two little blue packets of Nutrasweet.
    “Oh, Mia! You’re a doll, thank you so, so much,” Peggy Jean gushed.
    Mia set the tray down on the table. “He’ll just be a few more minutes, he’s finishing up a comb-out.”
    Peggy Jean tore open one of the blue Nutrasweet packets and sprinkled half of it into her espresso. Then she