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by Joseph Toscano
As I sat backstage, it occurred to me that I could have gone into the restaurant business like my father had wanted. That man owns six damn stores in the Kalahan’s chain and, as he reminds me to this day, can slide me into any of a number of managerial positions. But I insisted on finding my own path. I want to be on television, I had told him over and over.
"Okay Mister Ryce," the acne-faced intern informed me. "You’re on."
I crushed out the last lit bits of my cigarette and rose from my chair, removing the napkin that jackass from makeup forgot to take with him after caking foundation on my face. I crafted my cheesiest smile and waited for the voice-over.
"Welcome to another amazing edition of Inconceivable Discoveries! Here’s your host for the next thirty minutes of fun, surprises and astonishing business opportunities, Donny Ryce!"
I could have been serving pasta to businessmen. Instead, I trotted out in front of the cameras and examined this week’s collection of shills, plants, and hired extras we playfully call an audience.
"Hello ladies and gentlemen! Great to be here, of course!" Like hell it is. "Hope you all have your credit cards and college funds ready because today we have an endless array of brand-new inventions and household helpers guaranteed to warp your puny couch potato minds!"
One of my more inspired openings.
The director didn’t agree.
After inquiring as to how much money the company actually gives me and questioning my paternal grandmother’s lineage, the director called for speed and scowled, insisting I try again. So what if I have a little fun? Anyone up late enough to be watching these damn infomercials would probably be too tired to tell the difference between sarcasm and sincerity and too stupid to realize that these inventions are worthless anyhow. That gem of a thought reminded me to actually have a look at the script and find out what Reinkel Industries is offering this week.
Holy shit.
We ran through the introduction again. The audience, comprised mostly of actors who wait tables between theater gigs, waiters who act between restaurant gigs and housewives who enjoy being paid a few bucks to holler hysterically at anything we wheel out, responded mechanically and happily to me as though I hadn’t insulted them at all. The wonders of television.
I think I slept with that girl in the third row.
"All righty," I continued, spreading my arms wide and bringing them back into a clap like the circus seal that I am. "Our first guest today is the world-renowned pitcher of previously unknown gadgets and wonderful time-saving products, Mister Jonathan Q. Brandywine!"
The corny music blared in the studio as I watched a wiry, bespectacled bundle of English energy emerge from behind the curtain. He ran into the audience and then onto the stage as though someone had set fire to his underpants. As the paid applause died away, Brandywine flung a bony arm over my shoulder. The words exploded from his mouth:
"Thank you so much, each & every one of you! Salutations, Donny!"
Until Brandywine, I had never met a man who could actually pronounce an ampersand or who even bothered to try. Somehow, this curious British fellow pulls it off effortlessly. I suppose that if you didn’t know him, you might believe him to be an honest, enthusiastic eccentric from across the Atlantic eager to share his amazing discoveries with grateful ex-colonists. Sadly, those that do know him know that this is, in fact, the truth. Although Brandywine himself doesn’t develop the products, he actually believes that they work. And he loves to sell. He would sell anything. I can clearly imagine him shipping off the Crown Jewels to Arabian Oil Interests at the unbelievable price of ninety-nine ninety-five, throwing in the Falklands just to sweeten the deal.
But he couldn’t possibly endorse this invention.
"Salutations, Jonathan! What do you have for us today?" I inquired, hoping that this poor man would open his eyes to how useless this new product was. As a side prayer, I hoped he would get his arm off my shoulder soon.
"Oh, Donny, you’re too good to me! What I have to show you today is guaranteed to cock your eyebrows and perk your pectorals! Take a look at this astounding new product from Reinkel Industries!"
"Why, Jonathan, whatever could this be?" Outwardly, my years of acting school produced a relaxed and curious expression. Only I could hear my heart and soul screaming for this pitiful person to embrace reality and spare himself from a certain plunge into the pit of anarchy on judgement day. He mustn’t speak the words! He can’t! He won’t!
"What could it be? Well, it could be an iguana, but in reality it is the greatest item thought up by the human intellect since the combination vacuum cleaner and dishwasher I brought out last week!"
Do not speak the unholy words, lest ye shall surely burn in hell!
"Donny, this is called the Reinkel Turnip Twaddler and it will revolutionize the turnip market!"
How could he do this to humanity? And, incidentally, what business does he have talking about reality? He just sprung a Twaddler on the world, for Christ’s sake!
On the bright side, he’ll probably get to sell ice cube trays to Satan.
I mustered up my intestinal fortitude and launched into my next routine.
"Whoa! A Turnip Twaddler, ay? Jonathan, you know it’s my job to be veeeeeery skeptical at first of everything you show our fine audience and all the people at home. We don’t want anyone getting ripped off here, do we?"
Brandywine agreed and continued to wax poetic about the Turnip Twaddler. His speech and the audience’s canned reactions became one indistinguishable drone, background noise to my sudden fantasy of hungry patrons lined up out the door at one of the restaurants my father has put into my charge, fighting over who gets to try the new Silly Monkey dessert first. The Englishman’s pointed question popped my dream balloon.
"Donny, how many times have you found yourself in the kitchen twaddling turnips while you miss the bulk of your own party?"
I forced myself to look at the teleprompter and spit out my reply.
"Jonathan, it once took me so long that my friends had all finished dinner and a round of bridge by the time I was out of the kitchen! I was literally up to my wazoo in turnips! Can the Twaddler really help?"
What the hell is a wazoo anyway?
"Absolutely, Donny. This tremendous new discovery will almost certainly cut your twaddling time by leaps and bounds!" he answered.
"Does it work that well?!?" I felt nauseous.
"Just look at this beautiful object," he replied. It resembled a pirate’s hook with a tinfoil antenna screwed on the bottom, plated garishly in the type of metallic silver reminiscent of chain-linked fences that hold back ill tempered Dobermans. "See how it shines. See how the cutting blade gleams in the reflection of the cameras!"
"Does it work that well?" I read, scanning the set for a bucket to throw up in. Death couldn’t be this busy.
"Homemakers will cheer! Caterers will swoon! Prison cooks will light up extra cigars!"
"Does it work at all?" I blurted out, and by the shocked silence from the studio audience I realized that I might have lost my temper a bit. Brandywine, however, didn’t miss a beat and happily put his chickenly excuse for an arm over my shoulder again, a statement doubly ironic as I remembered that chickens don’t even have arms. "Well, Donny, let’s move over to our demonstration area and I’ll prove to you that this, this is the most wondrous achievement mankind has ever witnessed!"
I resisted the urge to projectile vomit.
Brandywine shepherded me over to the cluttered display table, laden with outdated gadgets of every kind meant to glorify Reinkel’s new absurdity by comparison. "Okay, Jonathan," I exclaimed a bit too enthusiastically. "We’ve set up a few challenges for you here today."
"Not to worry," chirped Jonathan Q. Brandywine. One day, I’ll beat him mercilessly until he tells me what the hell the "Q" stands for. "The Twaddler is ready for any and all challenges. But first, let’s bring out our lovely Turnip Girl, Ms. Suzie Bonanza!"
The audience exploded after Brandywine’s introduction. Ms. Suzie Bonanza floated out from behind the curtain, bearing on a tray two turnips strategically placed just below her bustline. This invited the assumption that there were actually twice as many turnips as there really were. It is sad to stereotype and exploit anybody in such a manner, but somehow I just couldn’t feel very sorry for Ms. Suzie Bonanza. Maybe it was because she wasn’t smart enough to find her own ass with a map and a pair of Sherpas. Maybe it was because she was born with a name most porno stars only dream of, spurting the complete designation "Ms. Suzie Bonanza" happily from her mouth whenever the rare person not blessed with her acquaintance appeared.
However, it was most Iikely that I felt no sympathy for her because she gets paid twice what I do for carrying a few fucking turnips to a table while smiling and jiggling.
Her contribution to society done, the voluptuous succubus named Ms. Suzie Bonanza shimmied back behind the stage curtain leaving only Brandywine and myself under the hot lights. Suddenly, I yearned for her company.
"Let me show you just a few of the revolutionary uses for this new product," Brandywine spouted.
"Apart from twaddling turnips, you mean." I couldn’t resist.
"Well, naturally, O Doubtful One. To prove its worth, I will now effortlessly twaddle the very turnip you see before you now." Brandywine grasped a turnip, fiddled with it, and continued speaking. "You see how I’m doing this? You must remember to keep at least two of your fingers underneath the twaddler at all times, or else all you’ll get is a pair of fingers in tonight’s salad!"
He burst the turnip open with his hands, without any apparent help from the bizarre tool.
"See how easy that was, Donny?"
"Jonathan, you opened that turnip with your hands." Oddly enough, my reply and the script’s matched exactly.
"Well of course I did! The only way any normal human could have done that would be to first soften the turnip up with the Reinkel Turnip Twaddler! Have you ever tried to open a turnip with your bare hands?"
I assured him that I had never attempted to do so. He asked if I ever felt like being fancy with my turnip salad, making all kinds of darling little turnip shapes and such. I could not have been more truthful when I told him that I’d never felt the need to. He blathered on about the "special perforated end" and the "three-quarter inch blade". Then, to demonstrate the twaddler’s versatility, Brandywine shaved a few pieces off the second turnip, inserted the blade once, removed it, and tore the turnip in half just as he did before.
The crowd squealed and cheered in approval.
I wanted to crawl into a hole and die, so fearful was I for the American consumer. Over the demented applause, Brandywine asked the crowd the inevitable question.
"Have you ever seen anything like this?"
The crony-filled audience erupted. For my part, I was sure that I had never seen a display even remotely like this before and decided that now would be a good time to pass out. Brandywine jolted me from my dizziness when he inquired how much I would pay for such a monumental find. Fighting off the urge to offer a nickel and pummel him into submission, I started the auction.
"Oh, gosh, how about a hundred dollars?"
The audience slung its obligatory hisses, boos and racial epitaphs at my overpriced offer.
In the manner of those dealing with the mentally disturbed, Brandywine scolded me and commandeered the floor.
"Well, Donny, for this week and this week only, The Reinkel Turnip Twaddler is up for grabs at the unheard of price of only forty-nine ninety-five!"
The cheers and whoops reached the insanity level. "Isn’t that great? Do you love it? Or do you good people want more?"
One didn’t need a degree in astrophysics to have predicted the response.
"My Lord in Heaven! Donny, do you think they’d like it if I threw in the external vulcanized grip attachment, perfect for even the slipperiest of turnips and a twenty dollar value all by itself, at no extra cost?"
"I suspect they would."
"How about it, gang?" he baited the crowd. "Do we have a deal at forty-nine ninety-five, or do I need to give you more?"
"As a matter of fact, Jonathan, we wouldn’t mind a little something else. How about it, audience?" The mob roared in agreement. My father’s restaurants were a billion miles away.
Brandywine grinned at me and revealed his secret weapon, the final dangled carrot that would drive John and Jane Smith out of bed and onto the living room phone, brawling over who gets to buy a Reinkel Turnip Twaddler for Aunt Daisy Mae.
"This, my friend, is much more than a Turnip Twaddler as I have so deftly proven here today. But let me ask you, Donny, have you ever sat sullenly under the Christmas Tree, disheartened by all of the bare spots that garland just can’t cover?"
As scripted, I agreed.
"Well I will include, absolutely free, fifty aluminum-cased Christmas Ball hooks which, when used with the Twaddler’s vulcanized grip attachment, will turn an ordinary turnip into a jolly holiday ornament!"
I feigned surprise and amazement. I asked the crowd if they were satisfied, and in unison came a resounding affirmative. "Beautiful, beautiful," gushed Brandywine. "I’ve struck another deal with Middle America!" He seemed genuinely pleased. "Donny, would you be so kind as to flash that nine-hundred number after the commercial break?" After my nod, he mercifully concluded his homily. "Well everyone, it’s back to merry old England for me! Cheerio!"
The audience cheered while the audio booth played him behind the curtain. I applauded along with everyone while secretly wishing a rattlesnake into Brandywine’s toilet. I closed the presentation with the five or six usual repetitions of Reinkel’s phone number, waving to the crowd as I stepped behind the curtain myself. Arnold Reinkel, my boss, met me there.
"Not bad, Ryce. Here’s a smoke and next week’s invention. Get some rest before the next taping."
I took a drag on the cigarette and opened the manila envelope. In sixty minutes, I’d have to love…
‘Mortician’s Helper.’
This should be clean, family fun.
I sauntered over to my trailer, musing over where I put my father’s new number at work.
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