The Western Sphere of Eternity
Milky Way’s Public Unveiling: T-Minus 30 Days (Eternity Standard Time)
“Honey!” Donald shook Danielle. “Come inside! You’re gonna miss it!”
She grumbled from beneath the bedsheet. “Huh? ’m sleepy, mutha fuh’er. ’m sleepy …”
Donald grabbed her by the hand and led her into the Brockryder living room. They sat on the couch where he had spent the night thinking about what their current predicament. The television was on. “Watch. Look. This is it. We got it.” Donald held the remote control. He turned up the volume.
***
“It’s happened to us all, hasn’t it?” Brigsby said. A cinnamon-colored scarf was wrapped around his neck, knotted in front. He also wore bell-bottom slacks, a paisley blouse and black leather zip boots. Oversized, tinted glasses camouflaged his wrinkles. His brown, bowl-cut toupee was so bad it was almost endearing. Almost. He
rested his slight frame on a stool against a black-lit stage, so that there was nothing for the camera to focus on but Brigsby. The star. He leaned one hand on his knee, and waved the other so that his palm was open.
“Oh, now don’t lie you turdy birdies. You know you’ve done it. We’ve all done it. Oh, darling … we’ve done it,” he confessed with his signature tagline. “We’ve all survived a horrible cocktail party with one too many martinis, one too many powder puffs in the parlor with a nameless squire,” he continued, making quote marks with his fingers. “Hell, they all have names … but who asks?”
More laughter.
“We’ve all had one too many throws in the rolls … and my-oh-my, you’ve knocked over a picture from your host’s wedding, but there’s no shiatsu to blame.”
“That’s today’s topic on Breakfast with Brigsby,” the baritoned emcee announced: “I Ruined Something Special … And Got Away With It!”
“Are we naughty?” Brigsby posed. “Perhaps. But that’s what keeps us fabulous. So what shall we do when we’ve committed a bit of a social whoops-y-do? Do we apologize? Do we confess? Oh, you jest. Confession may be good for the soul … but it’s not my soul I’m worried about.”
More laughter.
“So, you broke the picture frame. Should you hide it?”
“No!” the audience shouted. “Should you camouflage it?”
“No!” the audience shouted again, only louder.
“Should you … replace it?”
“Hell, no!” the audience shouted a third time, loudest of all.
“Oh, you are so good. The secret,” he said, and then stood up as he raised his voice, “is to be the first, to do your worst. If you knock over a glass giraffe from your host’s luscious little collection, break four. When you destroy something pretentiously precious … the divas are grievous, the queens are mean. But when you destroy with style, you ascend a mile. Your host will swoop and swoon for pity and condolence–and get it–all the while forgetting about that horrible little tchotchke you broke in the first place. Your hosts have moved on to better things. Themselves!”
The audience oohed and aahed.
“Say it with me: destroy with style, ascend a mile!”
“Destroy with style, ascend a mile!”
“I can’t hear you, darlings.”
“Destroy with style, ascend a mile!”
“Once more with love!”
“Destroy with style, ascend a mile!”
***
“Don’t you see?” Donald was beaming. “Isn’t this great?”
“Ain’t what great? That jack-ass says to go to some fool’s house and break a bunch of shit. What kind of dumb-ass logic is that?”
Donald faced his wife. He kissed her hand. “The kind that’s going to set us free.”
