Tabloids Bring Back Family Values!
by Ana Marie Cox
September 13, 2005
Jim tapped his fingers on the steering wheel of his Hummer H12 (seats two). He was going to be late for work. He looked toward the front door and imagined he could see the ivy trembling on its trellis from the force with which Marcia had slammed the door.
Why do we keep having the same fight over and over? he thought, replaying it in his head:
Marcia: If you want a whore, get a whore! Don't just screw the nanny!
Jim: Well, maybe if you weren't so busy putting God-knows-what up your nose, you'd have the energy to screw me yourself!
Marcia: You'd like it if I got fat again, wouldn't you?
Jim: I didn't marry you for your body.
Marcia: No, you married me for my money! My money that pays for the goddamn nanny!
Jim: You won't have any money left if you keep that habit up.
Marcia: If I stop, I'll balloon.
And so on. Whore-coke-fat-money-whore-fat-coke-money. Sometimes she called him gay. But he basically had it memorized. The Clarks down the street, now they had some good, original fights. Abortions, plastic surgery gone wrong, sex tapes. Would anyone notice if we stole the bit about driving around with the baby in his lap? He wondered if anyone wrote their material.
Glancing toward the monitor in his dashboard, Jim saw a small spike in the number of users searching "Jim Marcia Stevenson affair nanny." Finally. What was the nanny's name again? He should have mentioned it. Whatever; she was with the kids in the country anyway.
His cellphone buzzed: "im wet 4 you darling." He smiled and thumbed a message back: "keep urself amused 4 awhile . . . fyl."
A van bearing the logo "Papa-rent-zi" pulled up to the curve and began disgorging a small phalanx of photographers and at least a couple of guys with handheld video cameras. Jim put the car in reverse and waited for them to rush the miniature SUV. The click and whirr of the cameras sounded muffled. Forgot to roll down the window. Jesus, it's that kind of day, thought Jim, buzzing down the tinted glass on both sides. He was just beginning to extend his palm — "No, guys, really, no, can't comment . . . " — when all of them heard a sharp report from down the block.
Jim whipped his head around. The photographers rushed to the other side of the H12: "Hey, it's Bill Simmons, and he's in a dress! With a gun!" The stampede flew through Jim and Marcia's hedge, press tags flapping behind them.
Jim gritted his teeth as he watched them go. I should have known a timeshare wasn't going to work. He gunned the engine and fishtailed out of the driveway, not really looking where he was going. Hell, he thought, if I'm lucky maybe I'll hit someone. But he shuddered at the thought. Slow-moving car chases are so over.
Stuck in traffic on the way to his office, Jim put the car into auto-crawl and stretched the monitor to full windshield size. Another text message waited for him: "cant wait." "As soon as i get to work," he responded. His brief pop of pleasure at the thought was dampened by what he saw on the larger screen. Bill's stunt was all over Channel Cherrydale. "Simmons snaps!" read the crawl under the footage of Bill lumbering through his wife's azaleas, wearing the dress Jim recognized from the Annual Northern Virginia Near Suburbs Small Screen Reality Awards last April. "Will Bad Billy be able to bring back his bride after this break with reality?" Right, Jim thought, Claire had left Bill for her manicurist. A pop-up ad in the corner of the screen asked Jim if he wanted to buy a copy of the printed shift Bill wore on his rampage.
Irritated, Jim flipped around: FallsChurchNow carried a wrap-up of who in the neighborhood had become Scientologists recently. NWDC — which covered the Connecticut Avenue corridor of Washington — was profiling the lawyer who drew up "beard" agreements for Dupont Circle residents. All old news, all boring. The Bill Simmons story could bubble through to entire metro area. Unless someone bought an ultrasound or led a freeway chase, Simmons was a lock for the whole news cycle. Back on Channel Cherrydale, a mug shot of Simmons flashed, his hair wild and his eyes fixed in a studied blank stare that Jim knew had to be the work of a life coach.
"Dial rep," Jim sighed aloud.
The car dialed, and a perky automated voice answered smoothly: "Wendell, Marks and Sloane, we treat you like the star you are! How can I help you?"
"Patty Ewing, please."
"And who can I say is calling?"
"Jim Stevenson."
"And this is regarding representation, placement, a lawsuit or rehab-escort service?"
"Representation."
The car's speakers burbled as the computer patched him through to Patty. "Jim! It's been an age! How are you doin', sweetheart? Marcia and you looked just great at the Safeway opening last week. Is she showing? Is she?"
"What's wrong with your voice, Patty?"
"Oh!" A quick burst of static came, followed by Patty again. Her voice dropped a tone or two and thickened with smoke: "What can I do for you, honey? You still screwing around on that beautiful wife of yours?" That was better. If he'd wanted a California smoothie, he'd have asked for one. Jim liked Patty's overt abrasiveness — it reminded him of some movie about agents he saw once.
"Yeah, I've got something going with the nanny. Did you get the sex tape I sent you?"
Traffic crawled forward. Jim called up the digital file of him and the nanny — what was her name, dammit? — and watched it on mute. The graininess added a touch of realism, though it meant you couldn't really see her lips move around his cock. But it had been expensive enough to make without pouring even more money into CGI.
"It looks great, Jim, really. I'll leak it when I get a chance . . . " Patty trailed off.
"Bill Simmons is killing us." Jim pulled into a parking space at work.
"I have to say, sweetheart, that all these gags are good but they reeeeeeeek of the pros, you know? You have to come up with something new, something genuinely spontaneous." He heard the sharp inhale off of a cigarette: "Have either of you ever thought about doing it with a dog?"
"What?"
"Just blue-skying here, Jim. Maybe just the dog could watch . . . "
Jim rolled his eyes. "Let's just stick with the sex tape for now, Patty."
"I'm sure it'll be fine. It's fuzzy but she looks twelve. That'll help."
They signed off. In the parking lot, his colleagues meandered through the thicket of cars, cellphones plugged to their ears or a screen winking up from their upturned palms. Jim wondered how many of them were simply digesting their own Google Alerts. He was struck by an idea: Wonder how Patty would like footage of me masturbating in public . . .
His own cell jangled with more text messages: "coffee break, yes? I have the cream . . . hotel down the street. 432." He felt a rush of blood to his thighs and did a quick U-turn in the parking lot, glancing around to ensure people were checking messages and not him.
It was hard to keep a grin off his face; thinking about the date made the back of his neck prickle pleasurably. In the lobby, he asked for directions to the public restroom. On the way, he spied the Rent-a-Razzi. Fucking hell, never around when you need them and now . . . Jim lay low behind a ficus and considered his options. He was contemplating a house-paging call for Simmons when a lithe blonde in a trenchcoat and large sunglasses stepped out of the elevator. At first the Razzi didn't notice her, but when she looked over her sunglasses at them, subtly flashing her monthly membership pass, they went nuts. She pulled her trench more tightly around her as they trailed, popping/flashing/screaming for more.
Jim breathed again. He ducked into the stairwell and arrived on the fourth floor flushed, huffing slightly. Patty, Bill, whatsherface distant memories . . . His knock was answered quickly but he couldn't avoid making sure the hall was empty.
A woman's hand pulled him in. He started to protest: "Baby, you know we can't keep taking these kind of chances. I almost ran into a camera crew on my way upstairs."
"Shhh, honey," Marcia smiled. "No one will ever know."
©2006 Ana Marie Cox and hooksexup.com.