The scent of the cinnamon candy offered to me hadn't the strength to pervade the room and mask the aroma of the obvious afternoon delight my editor, Yale Barnes, had enjoyed with his secretary. The notion of those two--she the poster child for Goth Chicks Anonymous and he the twin brother of Jabba the Hutt--bumping uglies amused as much as it disgusted me. Yale was at least twice her age to boot; proof of God's existence, or not, depending on your view of how things work.
I closed the office door behind me and had to stifle a laugh at the image conjured in my head of Yale's hairy ass bobbing in coitus, Alissa's spindly fishnet legs trying to hook together at the ankles. No, I've not seen the boss' tush myself, but it had to be shaggier than carpet; there certainly wasn't much on his head.
Yale popped three tiny red pellets into his mouth. I could hear them clacking against his teeth in a disjointed melody. "What's so damn funny?" he demanded.
"Nothing." The word came out singsong through twisted lips.
Yale grunted and snapped the proffered tin shut. He gestured me to the free chair before his desk with the other hand. It was going to take more than three mints to mask the flavor of Goth pussy from his wife, but I elected not to be a smartass and suggest that. Snickering in his presence was close enough of a career killer, and for all I knew he was about to give me a raise.
Instead, the first two words out of his mouth were, "Ellyn Grizzard."
Then came the smirk, the Cheshire grin of a cat with a speck of feather caught between his fangs. This was the look that precluded an exclusive for the paper--pure, unadulterated trash.
"No." Not Ellyn Grizzard. Getting a raise would be preferable to digging up dirt and using it to bury Ellyn Grizzard. Getting fired would be preferable.
I felt a pain in the pit of my stomach. Ellyn Grizzard is a revered name in my parents' household. Ellyn Grizzard hosts a daily Christian worship program that is syndicated nationally, though her ministry headquarters is located not far from here. Her devotional books and tapes are reported to sell into the millions. Imagine Oprah genetically spliced with Mother Teresa, add a pink Chanel suit and matching heels, then top the whole thing with a pouf of silver cotton candy for hair. Ellyn Grizzard.
It isn't all a facade, either. Despite the aesthetics, Ellyn Grizzard comes off as very sincere, and I suppose it is possible for some people to look sincere and drive a Mercedes.
Ellyn Grizzard collects canned goods and shoes for poor people. Ellyn Grizzard once sang "The Old Rugged Cross" with Johnny Cash, and used to have lunch with Billy Graham whenever he was in town.
Far as the world was concerned, Ellyn Grizzard walked on water. The devious gleam in Yale's eye insinuated that he wanted me, or rather Libby Hoffman, to grab Ellyn Grizzard by the ankles and pull. Yale wouldn't ask anyone of such a thing, either, if there weren't something concrete to prove.
I cringed. Not Ellyn Grizzard. Scandalous behavior was only supposed to be indicative of male ministers, the Bakkers and Swaggarts of this world. My mother would die to think that one of her idols might be hiding skeletons.
"Ellyn Grizzard," Yale continued, his head tilting at a confident angle, "is a great big bull dyke."
And maybe fucking them, too. Fucking butch, lesbo skeletons.
"No." That I could not believe. I had only seen the woman's show one time, not by choice, and was subjected to a tearful thirty-minute explanation of why all homosexuals were doomed to wade without flotation devices in the Lake of Fire for all eternity unless they rejected temptations of the flesh. Her voice had such conviction; she quoted Scripture to back her claims, and actually thumped the damn Bible she was holding in time to the blinking phone number on the bottom of the screen.
"Yes," Yale insisted.
"No," I said vehemently.
Yale nodded. "She's a lesbo. A queer. A butch bitch. A friend of Dorothy."
"My mother goes to her church."
"She's a breast woman, a carpet muncher, a sister of Sappho. Probably spells woman with a y and has a Melissa Etheridge CD in the dash of that Mercedes she bought with the tithes of a hundred little old ladies."
Did I mention Yale is an atheist? I doubt God believes in him either.
"I don't believe it." I slumped further into the chair.
"Believe it, girlie." Yale stuck his fat hand into an open drawer and produced a tattered envelope. "Got a hot tip that Miss Holier Than All of Us has been slumming the local dyke bars looking for the love that dare not speak its name."
"She better hope nobody speaks it on her show. It's live, you know, they can't edit it out," I muttered. This was something I could not picture. Ellyn Grizzard could have been one of the Golden Girls, if any of them had developed a habit of punctuating their speech with Praise Jesus in every other sentence. To hear this bit of alleged news was akin to learning that my eighty-year-old grandmother liked eating pussy. I shivered at the unbidden image burning in the back of my skull.
"I hope not, either. If this lead pans out, I want the Spectator to scoop it before anyone else." He upturned the envelope and three thin matchbooks fell to the desk. One was black and embossed in gold with a profile of a naked woman, not unlike she of the truck mud flap variety. "Your cell has a camera feature, right?"
"Yeah, but--"
"Check the batteries and hit the bars. Try not to look conspicuous," Yale said.
I rolled my eyes. I only made my living as an undercover reporter, yet Yale never failed to coach me on a job I could do better than he had ever done. This is why Yale is the editor--he sits behind his desk and dictates. Then he shifts in his chair to allow Alissa deeper access when she's kneeling underneath to suck his cock.
"Good thing I had my khakis pressed," I muttered, but he wasn't listening.
"I'd like to have seven inches of copy before we go to press. Get to it."
I waited for the inevitable joke about Ellyn Grizzard needing a good seven inches herself, but Yale simply folded his hands on the desk. No jokes, that meant business.
I slid the matchbooks toward me and turned them in my palm. In three days I had to patronize such aptly named establishments as the Grecian Urn, Club Virgo, and Uncle Marge's, all because of a tip claiming that maybe some senior citizen evangelist was grazing on the other side of the fence, fields in which I had never thought to step. Surely our readership would be more interested in seeing pictures of a sweet potato that looked like Paris Hilton. We had three leads submitted just this morning.
The look on Yale's face, the silent, urgent command that I take my assignment and get the hell out of his office, told me different. He was a man of few words, preferring to reserve his energy for the computer keyboard, and apparently for whatever he did with Alissa. My rebuttal went unspoken as his chubby finger pointed the way out his door to these greener pastures inhabited by women with crew cuts and Birkenstock sandals.
)
