Second Guest
On a television monitor hanging from the ceiling, the house band fumbled a reggae ending, their guitarist shouting the count like a preschool teacher. Cameras cut rapid-fire, marking their territories. An intercom voice warned thirty minutes until show, and ten minutes to doors.
A blonde ponytail necked around my door now ajar. “Knock, knock.”
I waved her inside with my snake tongs, and she navigated through the crates strewn between us as if toeing shark-infested waters. Her toothpaste-selling smile endured in spite of the clutter.
“Do you have everything you need, Mr. Tulley? Can we get you anything else?”
“Got a carpet shampooer?”
We think of producers as towering moguls, while in fact most of them simply ensure things get done. And this five-foot stack of ambition had me convinced a RugDoctor stood on-call within reach of her radio.
“Just messin’. I’m fine.” I patted the couch cushion next to me, the only unoccupied surface in the green room. “Grab some sit-down. Cantaloupe?” The tray sat untouched, pastel fruit fanned and decomposing.
“No, I’m good, thanks.” She had probably refused thousands of snacks and guest advances in her short career. She pulled her skirt taut and checked the cushion for critters or cooties before one-cheeking its edge and facing me.
I laughed. “Don’t worry, they’re all still in lockdown.”
“It’s not that.” After a long pause, she shrugged in confession. “Kid Rock was here last night.” Her eyes scoured the walls and the lewd secrets they held.
“I’ve had my shots.” My arm draped the length of the couch, all but around her shoulders.
She tapped her pen against her clipboard. “So. Barry wanted me to run down a few things you might discuss. I mean, your segments always pretty much write themselves, so there’s the usual, of course.” She pressed her fingers to the headset over one ear and turned away while she whispered into the gooseneck microphone attached. “He’ll be here. Jesus, chill.” As if I couldn’t hear.
I poured diet cola over ice into two glasses on the coffee table and consecrated one with whiskey from the monogrammed flask in my breast pocket. She palmed the second glass and waved her finger no before I could dose hers, still putting out fires with a whisper. “Just … do your job, Melanie.”
I swirled the ice below my nose. “Everything cool?”
“Oh yeah.” Her hands dismissed any fledgling ulcer. “Just the joys of live television.”
“But we tape at 4:30.”
“It’s still a pretty tight window to get the show posted in time.” Back to her notes. “Anyway. The dog-and-pony stuff, a little about your reality show of course, and then he’ll probably ask about the Tampa incident. We’ve got a clip.”
I’d already done that bit that same morning on another network over Irish coffee and stagehand stares. And the afternoon before at my conservation keynote. Look, it’s only natural that another primate might find me attractive and wait until I’m half in the bag and in front of third-graders to express his simian desires.
“Fine, I just gotta be sure to plug the new Australian exhibit.”
“Got it. Want me to have a page help you haul this stuff out into the wings?”
“Nah, I think Katie can manage. Well, she could probably use a hand with Crockett there.” The largest crate resembled a pine-box coffin, except for the occasional self-propulsion and the warning stencils. “But I got another handler coming down from the Bronx Zoo any sec, so if you could just make double-sure he’s on your list.”
Her pen followed a path across her clipboard as she made for the exit. “So where is Katie, anyway? Leaving you here all by yourself to chase tails.”
“Eh, said something about wanting to meet Simon Flax. Mr. Romantic Comedy. Can’t keep a bird caged up too long, ya know.” I winked.
“Oh, that reminds me,” she said, “try to be out of makeup by quarter-til in case your segment gets bumped up.” The ponytail spun and left me in its wake of lavender conditioner.
Maybe next time.
__________________________________________
“Norris fuckin’ Tulley, the arch-bushman himself!” Noxious breath wilted this praise from the redhead in the feral beard who shook my hand and pulled our chests together in a hetero hug. He carried an extra hundred pounds from tits to knees, yet still wore the belt of a “before” photo.
My preoccupation with the departing producer broke the ice. Ice I wished he’d been skating upon. He turned to follow my gaze as she rounded the corner to the stage. “You hit that, or what?”
“What?”
He thrusts in the space between us, hands on air-hips.
“Nice meeting you. Thanks for watching.” I pressed my shoulder to the door but he’d already wedged halfway inside.
“Dude, man, it’s Zach.”
No bells rung.
“Zach Reavis.” I think that’s what he said. All the consonants collided with one another as they slid off his tongue.
I apologized for not knowing him. Might’ve been one of our summertime shit-shovelers. Also could’ve been Barry’s nephew, maybe a cue-card jockey.
“The comic.”
“Ah. My kid reads ’em. I don’t really follow that world; sorry. You an artist, or a writer?”
“I’m a stand. Up. Comedian.”
Two strikes countered his chosen profession, as I’d soon discover he was neither a stand-up kind of guy nor had the muscular control to remain upright in his condition.
“You on the show tonight, Zach?”
“Network debut.” He wiped his hands across a marquee visible only to himself. A stoned laugh.
“All right. Well, Zach, I need to get dressed, so–”
“Nah, man, it’s cool. Do what ya gotta.” He slumped against the wall and crawled across the carpet, then folded his legs underneath himself. “I’ll just hang with some of your friends here.”
Most days, the worst part of being an ambassador is the uniform. Everyone else in late night is tailored in couture. If I were to appear in anything but my trademark name-embroidered safari shirt and outback hat, it would serve as camouflage.
Lacing up my hiking boots, I glimpsed Zach releasing the gate on Perry’s flight cage, then swallowed in his blue wingspan before I could wrangle the peregrine falcon onto my finger perch. The planet’s fastest animal had come face-to-face with its slowest, and I questioned the true meaning of endangered.
“Don’t you have a dressing room to get to?” I threaded my utility belt through its loops.
“My agent went to go find the janitor. Had a little … accident, and it smells like Bourbon Street in there. These fuckin’ Percocets, man, guess they don’t like beer.” He rubbed his stomach, lip curled.
“The hell you taking Percs before a show?”
“Surgery.” Juan, my bearded dragon, clawed at the walls of his box while Zach shook it like a Christmas gift. “Agent just had a shoulder thing done, and I was being sympathetic. Little bit stronger than those oxys, though. Oops.” He giggled through his nose.
All I knew was that somewhere, a village was enjoying one idiot-free evening at my expense. I’d seen tortoises mount one another with more agility.
Katie entered with an armload of bags from the gift shop and our son Noah in tow, reflexes glued to his handheld video game. Her uniform matched mine except for her superior genetics underneath. “Flax ain’t gonna make it, Norris. They said his driver called and he’s stuck uptown. So much for his opening weekend, huh?” The last drops of iced coffee sputtered through her straw. “Who’s the rug monkey?”
“Dibs on the first segment!” Zach rolled onto his back, snorted, and picked nits from his beard.
“Think we can fit him for a leash?” I started unlatching the cages and opening boxes for inspections and last-minute grooming.
“Long as you can keep him from peeing on Barry,” Katie said.
I told Zach it was time to nap on his own couch, and pulled him up by the arms. He stumbled over Crockett’s crate and dropped three hundred pounds of knee right into the alligator’s back. I never even saw the jaws clamp onto my calf. Only felt the burn of my scream escaping my throat and my knuckles slamming into his eye before the searing throbs and adrenaline shot though my leg.
And that’s why Thursday was a rerun.
©2008 Gordon Highland