Read Online Magical Thinking by Augusten Burroughs - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Augusten Burroughs
Ads: Link
graduate degrees had cured baldness!
I ordered the video: $9.95 plus shipping and handling. When it arrived a week later, I watched it immediately. And I was crushed. Unlike the infomercial, which featured upbeat, synthesized music and lots of shots of hairy-chested men leaping out of pools, the video had a more somber, homemade feel. It was an assembly of interviews between Dr. Sisal and some of his former “clients.”
Here, there was no fancy, professional lighting, no music track, no busty blonde eager to run her fingers through any man’s hair.
These men sat at their own kitchen tables, beneath overhead fluorescent lights. On the wall behind one guy was a red plastic clock shaped like a cat. The eyes moved from side to side with the seconds. The men spoke in monotone of their experience at Dr. Sisal’s clinic and how “happy, yeah, really positive” they felt now, with full heads of hair.
But the persuasion was gone.
In this video, all the clients looked like what they were: middleaged bald guys who had chunks of hair cut out from the back of their head and sewn onto the front. They all shared the same uniform, half-circle hairline. And while their mouths said words like “happy,” “success,” and “thick,” their eyes were all flat with disappointment.
These were the first men who’d been fooled by the infomercial, just like me. Only, they hadn’t had the chance to order the video for $9.95 plus shipping and handling because there was no video. Now these first men, they
were
the video. They probably got their hairline-rejuvenation surgery for free in exchange for appearing in this video. And they probably had to sign legal forms stating that even if they had regrets, they would publicly say they werehappy, thrilled,
overjoyed
with the results of Dr. Sisal’s procedure. I knew how this shit worked. I did it all the time.
So while my brief fantasy of ever being able to gel my hair into cool, sitcom spikes in the front was over, my interest in my career was suddenly rejuvenated. Maybe I could write these infomercials. And maybe I could write them better and more manipulative than anyone. Surely there was some manufacturer with a toxic facial mask, overheating electric blanket, or recycled aluminum life preserver who could use my services?
T HE R AT /T HING
T
his morning at four-thirty I woke up and walked into the bathroom to take a leak. I am one of those people who must wake up at least six times during the night to either pee or eat refrigerated M&Ms. I am probably prediabetic as a result of my constant M&M consumption, thus the need to pee frequently at night.
So I was standing there in the dark, half-asleep, trying to keep my burn-victim dream afloat, when I heard a vague, dry scratching noise coming from the bathtub.
Definitely not a drip.
I paused midstream to listen, but there was no sound. So I played the alcoholic’s wild card and pretended I never heard anything in the first place. But then as I was getting ready to flush, Iheard it again. I turned on the light and peered into the tub, where I saw an actual rat/thing trying desperately to scratch/shuffle up and outside. It would make a run for the slanted rear of the tub, get halfway up, and then slide back down the smooth, white porcelain.
I was struck with a bolt of distilled horror like I have never known before. Far worse than suddenly finding yourself walking through a prison cafeteria wearing Daisy Duke shorts and a Jane Fonda headband.
And like a campy cartoon housewife, I climbed on top of the sink, crouching under the ceiling and scorching my balding head on the light bulb of the vanity. I am over six feet tall, so this was a very sad sight.
Knowing I couldn’t remain on top of the sink, I climbed down and made my way to my desk, where I sat at my computer. I lifted my feet off the floor and folded my legs up underneath me to think.
Where did the rat/thing come from? Where? And of course, the answer
I ordered the video: $9.95 plus shipping and handling. When it arrived a week later, I watched it immediately. And I was crushed. Unlike the infomercial, which featured upbeat, synthesized music and lots of shots of hairy-chested men leaping out of pools, the video had a more somber, homemade feel. It was an assembly of interviews between Dr. Sisal and some of his former “clients.”
Here, there was no fancy, professional lighting, no music track, no busty blonde eager to run her fingers through any man’s hair.
These men sat at their own kitchen tables, beneath overhead fluorescent lights. On the wall behind one guy was a red plastic clock shaped like a cat. The eyes moved from side to side with the seconds. The men spoke in monotone of their experience at Dr. Sisal’s clinic and how “happy, yeah, really positive” they felt now, with full heads of hair.
But the persuasion was gone.
In this video, all the clients looked like what they were: middleaged bald guys who had chunks of hair cut out from the back of their head and sewn onto the front. They all shared the same uniform, half-circle hairline. And while their mouths said words like “happy,” “success,” and “thick,” their eyes were all flat with disappointment.
These were the first men who’d been fooled by the infomercial, just like me. Only, they hadn’t had the chance to order the video for $9.95 plus shipping and handling because there was no video. Now these first men, they
were
the video. They probably got their hairline-rejuvenation surgery for free in exchange for appearing in this video. And they probably had to sign legal forms stating that even if they had regrets, they would publicly say they werehappy, thrilled,
overjoyed
with the results of Dr. Sisal’s procedure. I knew how this shit worked. I did it all the time.
So while my brief fantasy of ever being able to gel my hair into cool, sitcom spikes in the front was over, my interest in my career was suddenly rejuvenated. Maybe I could write these infomercials. And maybe I could write them better and more manipulative than anyone. Surely there was some manufacturer with a toxic facial mask, overheating electric blanket, or recycled aluminum life preserver who could use my services?
T HE R AT /T HING
T
his morning at four-thirty I woke up and walked into the bathroom to take a leak. I am one of those people who must wake up at least six times during the night to either pee or eat refrigerated M&Ms. I am probably prediabetic as a result of my constant M&M consumption, thus the need to pee frequently at night.
So I was standing there in the dark, half-asleep, trying to keep my burn-victim dream afloat, when I heard a vague, dry scratching noise coming from the bathtub.
Definitely not a drip.
I paused midstream to listen, but there was no sound. So I played the alcoholic’s wild card and pretended I never heard anything in the first place. But then as I was getting ready to flush, Iheard it again. I turned on the light and peered into the tub, where I saw an actual rat/thing trying desperately to scratch/shuffle up and outside. It would make a run for the slanted rear of the tub, get halfway up, and then slide back down the smooth, white porcelain.
I was struck with a bolt of distilled horror like I have never known before. Far worse than suddenly finding yourself walking through a prison cafeteria wearing Daisy Duke shorts and a Jane Fonda headband.
And like a campy cartoon housewife, I climbed on top of the sink, crouching under the ceiling and scorching my balding head on the light bulb of the vanity. I am over six feet tall, so this was a very sad sight.
Knowing I couldn’t remain on top of the sink, I climbed down and made my way to my desk, where I sat at my computer. I lifted my feet off the floor and folded my legs up underneath me to think.
Where did the rat/thing come from? Where? And of course, the answer
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