Slick (33 page)

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Authors: Daniel Price

BOOK: Slick
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________________
 
Yesterday, Madison had asked me what I’d do if I were Hunta’s publicist. It was a perfect opportunity to bring her into the fold (the outer fold, at least) but I had let that ship sail. Today, I confessed. Okay, I
was
Hunta’s publicist. But I was just one of many crisis managers involved, a mere cog in Maxina Howard’s machine.
Still, from Madison’s hanging gape, I might as well have been Batman. For all she expected, I was just another schmuck pushing Lysol on the nation’s vast subconscious. And she would have been happy with that. But now she just learned that I was playing a defensive role in the nation’s hottest hot-button topic. And she was helping! Holy hambone! She might as well have been Robin!
“Oh my God. This is amazing. So what kind of stuff are you working on?”
In response, I rattled off a list of Maxina’s action items instead of mine. First and foremost was the heat-and-serve “interview” with Hunta, which would be airing tonight on CBS. Then of course was the organized celebrity support effort. There would be a big tug of war between Washington and Hollywood over creative content issues. The more people pulling for our side, the better. Finally, we were prepared to get slappy with every “think of the children” activist who hit below the belt. They were already coming out of the woodwork. Maxina certainly had her hands full.
“Yeah, but what kind of stuff are
you
doing?”
I couldn’t tell her about my collusion with Harmony, not because I didn’t trust her but simply because that part of the job came with a moral burden. She was in eighth grade, damn it. She was too young to handle the uncut story, and I had too many karmic investments tied up in her. Forget it. She’d get the radio-safe version.
“There’s this woman...” I sighed. “Look, when a celebrity’s on the hot seat like Hunta is, it’s inevitable that a bunch of no-name ‘victims’ will pop up and cry foul. Usually you can swat them away because their accusations are tenuous and their evidence is weak. But now…let’s just say there’s a big one coming down the pike. She won’t be so easy to dismiss.”
“Oh my God. Are we talking about rape? Is she going to say she was raped by Hunta?”
“Pretty much.”
“Jesus. Who is this woman? What’s her name?”
I couldn’t say. At the time there was still a sizable chance her name would be Lisa Glassman.
“You’ll find out soon. Everyone will.”
“Wow. God. So it’s like your job to stop her?”
I laughed. “I can’t stop her. Nobody can. I just need to chart her damage, look for weak spots, and make recommendations accordingly.”
“Wow,” she echoed. “I’m sorry to be so...That’s just so cool. I mean I was never a fan of Hunta’s—”
“Neither was I.”
“—but I am so psyched to help. Just tell me what to do.”
I told her. Five hours later, I told her mother. If I didn’t, who would?
>What’s your job? What’s HER job?
 
My job is complex. I’ll try that one later. Madison’s job, however, is easy to explain. Using my computer, she’ll keep tabs on all the mainstream media websites for me. That may sound like a chore but she’s only tracking one developing story. Her goal isn’t to rehash what people are saying but to read between the lines and sniff out the bias. That I’m teaching her how to do.
 
So far she loves it. It actually works out great for both of us. I need to know which way the wind is blowing and your daughter’s the one with her finger in the air (no, not THAT finger).
 
You have a great kid, Jean. I really enjoy working with her. If you have any more offspring to lend me, please do. I could always use a collator.
 
Off to the races,
Scott
 
PS — Thanks for the great gift. IT’S WAY TOO MUCH! But thank you.
 
With all my Harmony- and Madison-related business, I had completely forgotten about Jean. I wanted to e-mail her and hose her down before she hit me with some immoderate present. Too late. It wasn’t until she pulled up in front of my building at six o’clock that the present hit me from behind.
“Oh shit!” said Madison, poring through her book bag. “I was supposed to give you something.”
Sandwiched between two textbooks was a pristine
Uncanny X-Men
comic, complete with Mylar sleeve and cardboard backing. From Madison’s disparaging look, she might as well have been holding the latest issue of
Hustler
.
“Scott, please tell me my mother’s wrong and you’re not into this stuff.”
I chuckled a little too defensively. “I wouldn’t say I’m into it. I mean it’s not like I dress up and go to... uh...” I got lost in the issue’s cover. “That’s not what I think it is, is it?”
“How the hell should I know?”
“It can’t be.” I took the comic out of her hands. “Holy crap. This is X-Men 137.”
Madison grimaced. “Oh God. You’re just like her.”
“You don’t understand. This issue’s a milestone. This is the one where Phoenix dies.”
“No,
you
don’t understand. You guys are adults.”
“Yeah, but I was your age when this came out. Jesus. This must be worth hundreds. Is it a gift or a loaner?”
“She said it’s a gift.”
“That’s insane. I can’t take this. It’s too much.”
“Her collection’s worth a gazillion dollars,” she replied, unfazed. “She lives for it. And she loves discussing it. Just wait. She’s going to spam you with geek talk until you hang yourself.”
Damn, this issue brought me back, all the way to the house I grew up in. My parents never understood what I saw in these “funny books,” either. Now, in this one, I saw them.
I walked Madison to the door. “I should really thank your mother.”
“No, Scott. Don’t. Please. You’re just going to trigger a long, boring conversation about comics and I’m going to have to translate. Can’t you just e-mail her? Please?”
I eyed her briefly. “All right. Fine. But you know, these aren’t so bad.”
“They’re stories for kids.”
“Whatever. Just tell her I’m very appreciative.”
“I will. I will.”
Madison threw her book bag over her shoulder. She stopped at the door and, after a moment’s debate, rushed back toward me. She stood on her tiptoes and put her mouth near my ear.
“You may be a nerd,” she whispered, “but you’re the best thing that ever happened to me.”
Before I could even fathom her words, she was back at the door. She turned around and threw me a grin that was alarmingly mature.
“Don’t worry. That’s the last time I’ll ever get sappy with you. From now on I’m all business.”
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.

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