TV LIFE
I’m already tired of the coffee thing, how about you? I’ll still drink my little ebon ambrosia, but I’m considering not telling you about it any more. Sooner or later, I’d be reduced to repeating things I’ve already read on coffee cups, and none of us want that. Plus, nobody got the Finabocci thing. Now I know what Dennis Miller feels like.
I was thinking about life in general (which is, of course, the job of all writers—not only to think, but to record for posterity and all that rot) and decided life would be must better if it were only like life on TV. Here’s a quick view of how an evening of my rather glamorous life would progress.
I’d put on my tuxedo, because everyone owns one, while my wife chose something alluring yet sensible (there may be running later) from her walk-in closet. The diamond cufflinks she gave me for my birthday would match the tie clasp I won at the Country Club raffle. We’d get into our late-model car (which is of the same make as every other car on the road) and drive off for the restaurant.
There would be a parking place right in front of where we’d want to go. We’d get out (she wouldn’t wait for me to open the door; she’s too independent, having made her own fortune in pork bellies) and enter the trendiest eatery in the town of Somethingfield or Springwhatsis. The maitre d’ would greet us as if we were long-lost friends. "Ah, Monsieur", he would say in his affected French accent, "your table ees waiting". This would be great, because I didn’t make reservations.
During the meal, the conversation would run toward the mundane until my wife’s startling revelation. "Darling", she’d coo (It’s the Truth: only on TV may women coo), "I’ve cleaned out our joint bank account and I’m leaving you for the cabana boy". At this point, I’d spew a good portion of the house’s best champagne (a "spit take" in TV patois) all over the wealthy elderly couple at the next table. As I got up to apologize to the coupe, I’d spot (and make some serious dramatic eye contact with) the richest man in town, The Evil Foreigner.
The Evil Foreigner can easily be identified by this black suits, his thick unidentifiable accent and the minor key that the orchestra would strike the first time our eyes met. Old animosities would flare up, and I’d be driven to do something drastic: a soliloquy. I would set everyone’s heart alight with my perfectly-time, soul-wrenching account of the time from my childhood when my loyal dog died to the time when the Evil Foreigner stole my 8th wife and how I wasn’t going to take it any more. I’d turn up his table, accuse him of terrible crimes against humanity (like bankrolling a boy band), make him believe I had proof of it all, and tell him I was going straight to the police. He’d reach for his gun, and I’d wrest it way from him, knocking him to the floor in the process. I’d stand over him with his own weapon pointed right at his temple. "Do it", he’d scream. I’d pull the hammer back and fire—intentionally narrowly missing his head. The police would show up and cart the Evil Foreigner away, and I’d return to my meal.
Back at the table, my wife would be teary-eyed over my speech. She’d wonder how she could ever leave a man so masculine yet sensitive. "I never knew", she’d sob, "about the dog". I wouldn’t buy any of it. "You made your choice, baby", I’d snarl in a somehow attractive way, "now live with it".
We’d leave the restaurant without ever paying. We’d ride silently back to the house, the same car behind us the entire way. In our driveway, I’d get out and light a cigarette. "You can keep the house, the money, the pasta machine, everything. I don’t need any of it. I’m already the happiest man in the world, and do you know why?"
"I never have to go to the toilet."