III

We’re on the Air!

“We will be on the air. If you think and behave like we’re on the air now, then it’ll seem more natural when the camera starts rolling.”

“Is that what you’ve been doing? Fine. We’re on the air. I don’t have to be in this, do I?”

“It helps tremendously. We actually get a Nielson rating, you know. People want to see who you are. Let’s face it, a house at this price level, at this position in the neighborhood, reflects substance and, in some cases, personality.”

“They’re not buying me. Are you always on the air?”

“Oh, but they are.”

“Get Allison in here. They’ll buy her.”

“Yes. She is much nicer.”

“And prettier,” Michael Mulroney smirks at the retort. “Little bird! Get in here! We’re on the air!”

“Why do you call her little bird?”

Mulroney shrugs. “Because she eats like a little bird? Better than calling her fish face, isn’t it?”

“What? Hello. On the air? Us?” Allison Mulroney enters as regally as a hundred-pounder can, pausing in the doorway for framing, the fingers of her left hand lighting on the jamb gently as wren’s toes on a twig. Of her total weight, two percent is hair in a bouffant to the mezzanine. “Hello,” she says again to everyone in general, waving her free hand slowly as Miss America at the millions of viewers watching just behind one-eye. She emotes for the camera, rather for the cameraman, who at that point is removing the camera from its carrying case. As the lens cap comes off, she elaborates, “I’m Allison. Welcome to our home.”

“Oh, fuck.” Mulroney seems untenably dour and thinks he has cause.

“I asked you not to do that,” the agent chides.

“She’s sloshed,” Mulroney points out.

“I am not sloshed,” Allison denies.

“Look, Allison. Come over here. Stand next to me.” Allison meanders over and leans on her husband, who turns to the cameraman. “How long till you get the camera ready? Let’s get this over with. Allison’s good for another two or three minutes.”

“Then what happens?”

“Yeah. Then what happens?” Allison would also like to know and, in fact, won’t budge until she’s told. The wren’s fingers now grip her husband’s arm like raptor talons, securing her claim on stability and domestic bliss.

Mulroney fondly covers her hand with his own, informing Ms. Moutard on the issue of what happens next: “She assumes a horizontal position and goes to sleep, not necessarily in that order, and not necessarily without a fuss.”

“Dirkson, are we ready?” Dirkson is the talent, on camera.

He says, “You bet we are. Scotty?” Scotty is the cameraman.

“Rolling.” Scotty plants the viewing cup onto his eye socket and focally ranges in and out—close on Dirkson, long on Allison—freeze! “My God! Where have you been all my life?”

“We’ve been waiting on you,” Marylyn erupts, regretting her impatience, but nonproductive banter with talent and tech and hot product on hand that should have sold but remains unsold just makes her want to scream—not that she would actually scream, but she might whine. Who wouldn’t?

“Not you. Her.” Scotty zooms on Allison, into macro intimacy, to pores, tiny hairs, and perfection. “What skin tone. What poise.” Scotty pans the alabaster complexion. Could this be Norma Jean revisited, not past her prime but still in it, gracefully aged?

Allison invites the scrutiny with a smile and a writhe, though her attempt at seductive warmth suffers a slight wobble. “I’m here,” she says. “I have always been here. But you have not been here. Now you better hurry. We’re moving to the tropics.”

“Keep moving,” Scotty enjoins, getting the footage he’s been after.

“Scotty. Please. Places,” Dirkson directs.

Scotty turns to stage right and holds.

“Hello, there. I’m Dirkson Duquesne—looks like Du-kezney but it’s not. It’s actually du-káne—and I’m not a local anesthetic! Ha! Gotcha. Hey—we’re back again with this week’s episode of … What They’re Doing Today in Heaven. Here we are at … Wait a minute. What’s the address here?”

“One Summit Nest.”

“What’s the street number?”

“One. I said one.”

“Nice address. Okay … Rolling … Here we are at … One Summit Next …”

“Summit Nest!”

“Try again. And … Okay. Here we are at … One Summit Nest, and believe you me, it is.”

“What? It is? It is what?”

“Let me do my job, please. Scotty. Did you get it?”

“I got it.”

“Okay. And … Marylyn Moutard is here today to show us her listing and introduce us to the sellers, Michael and Allison.”

“We sure are, Dirkson. Hi, everybody. I’m Marylyn Moutard. This is Michael and Allison, and they’re going to hate giving this place up. I can promise you they’re really going to hate leaving that hot tub behind too. We’ll go out to the fabulous sun deck in the rear of the home in just a minute. But first, I’d like for Michael to tell us what he loves most of all about this place.”

“What do I love about the place?” Michael shrugs. “It’s a nice place. What’s not to like?”

Marylyn drops the microphone. “Michael. We need to effervesce here. Emote. Give. Convey. Don’t worry. Nobody will think you’re frilly. You need to sound enthusiastic. This is sales. A pitch. Do you know how to pitch?”

“Okay. I got it.” Michael looks down, going to character. He looks up. The camera rolls. “What do I love? About the place? That’s easy. For starters, I love the view. Who wouldn’t? You got the whole ocean out front. You know, the Pacific Ocean is the biggest ocean in the world, and from here it’s easy to see why.”

“The view. That’s so important. Tell us about living here.”

“Well. It’s nice. It’s really nice. We get up in the morning. You know. I’m thinking of getting a new bicycle, you know. Yeah. It’s terrific riding around here. Some of the best in the world. I see guys older than me out there humping it. So I figure …”

“That’s fabulous. That’s sooo healthy-lifestyle living. Come on. Let’s take a look at the gourmet kitchen. Two sinks!”

“Three sinks, Marylyn,” Michael corrects. “Don’t forget the wet bar. It’s smaller, for your ice and drinks, but it’s still a sink.”

“Three sinks! Even better! And a six-burner chef stove! I can’t wait to see that fantastic master bath.”

“Yeah. Me too. Allison. Wake up.”

“Wha … Oh. Hi. We’re moving. We’re moving to Hawaii.” Allison speaks to the camera, but it passes her on its way to the fantastic kitchen. “I can’t wait,” she calls, practically shuddering in anticipation of tropical warmth. “You can hear the wavesh. And palm treesh.”

“Yeah,” Michael chimes in. “Your shirt sticks to your skin. You got heat ripples everywhere and racism, gridlock, and water shortage and fucking insects that look like fucking dragons and humidity to bend your fucking knees. And ignorance. Did I mention the ignorance?”

“Why are you going then?” Marylyn asks, shooing the camera away.

But Scotty keeps it rolling, so Michael tells it: “Because Allison wants it. And what Allison wants long enough, Allison gets. She breaks you down. She gets her way. Capiche?”

“How lovely.” With a dismissive flourish, Marylyn moves flamboyantly onward. She would like to ask why he keeps Allison around or allows her to get her way, but instead she sweeps a hand majestically yonder, beckoning the marvelous entertainments in store for you, your family, and friends in this dream kitchen come true. “Now this! Is a party house!”

“How’d … I do? Howdy Doody.” Allison ponders silly wordplay and its deeper meaning, which isn’t so deep, and so she shrugs. But recalling her childhood TV pal, she also remembers simpler times. Nobody relates but Mulroney, who watched Buffalo Bob and the whole gang along with the rest of the peanut gallery. He pauses in a rare moment of reflection, wondering where all those kids are now. Dead, some of them must be.

He laughs. “Dilly Dally. Clarabell. Phineas T. Bluster. Too bad, we never got to watch together. We could get a DVD, but that never works out.”

“What are you talking about, Michael?”

“Nothing. You doody fine, dear.” With an arm around her for affection and balance, he leads the way down the few steps to the sunken atrium on the way to the bedroom. “Now go lie down, so we can get this done.”

“I’m not sleepy.”

“That’s okay. Just lie there, close your eyes, and breathe slow. Give it a minute. I got this for now. Then in a while you can get up and join the living—I didn’t mean that. I mean you can get up and we’ll … have dinner and watch a movie.”

“No. I’m not sleepy.”

“Fine. You help Marylyn. Tell her what you love about living here. I’m going out. I’m not waiting to sell this place. I’m going to look for a bicycle. A bicycle is something to be excited about. I’m going to buy a bicycle that’ll show what living on top looks like and means and … and anybody can have the very best if they’ll step up and pay up. I think a new bicycle now should be the best promotion available to enhance prospects for a quick sale.”

“Wha should I tell her? I don’t love it. I’m cold. It’s always cold here.”

“You want to get out of here, don’t you? Sell, Allison. Give it heart. Pretend you’re entertaining an unwanted guest who might tell everyone how gracious you are. Remember: It doesn’t matter what you say; it’s how you say it.”

“Okay. I’ll try it that way.” Allison shivers again with a quivering smile and a sprightly flutter, as if drying her wings in a drizzle.