Dishwasher safe, p.1
Dishwasher Safe, page 1
By Rick Sheffield
Severe Clear
Publishing
Dishwasher Safe
By Rick Sheffield
Copyright 2024 by Rick Sheffield
ISBN: 979-8-218-32528-2
All rights reserved
Printed in the United States of America
No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without the written permission of the author except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.
This novel is purely fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental. The peculiar events described herein are inspired by decades of interacting with many outrageous characters, but all names and products are as real as the notion of free shipping.
Cover Design by Eric Labacz, labaczdesign.com
Published by Severe Clear Publishing
In memory of my big brother Skip,
a writer and musician
who gleefully resisted the dreadful pull of normalcy.
Table of Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
About the Author
Chapter 1
“Quiet on the set. And action!”
The perky blond on-camera talent for the infomercial sprang to work. The product was an amazing new mop with “cyclonic action.” She gamely tried to maneuver the whirling contraption over a piece of carpet that had been purposefully soiled with dirt and soot to make it look like the floor of a pigsty. The mop shot out of her hand and knocked over a light stand with a crash. Filthy, sudsy water flew everywhere. The spinning “cyclonic” brushes broke free of the machine and sailed like Frisbees across the room as everyone on the set ducked to avoid being beheaded.
“Cut,” shouted the director. “Let’s take a breather. That’s ten minutes, people.” The young crew of college interns eagerly pulled out their cellphones to check messages and text friends while a production assistant cleaned up the mess. Some grazed at a table of day-old doughnuts and tepid coffee. The production facility was actually part of a vocational school which made it the cheapest studio in town to rent.
“Sorry, Dickie,” said the blonde, brushing suds off her yellow pantsuit. “It won’t washie-washie.”
“It’s not your fault, Summer. That thing’s got some bugs to work out.” Dick Lance, the director of this production, let out a sigh. He was behind schedule, the product was a miserable failure, and he needed to have a finished spot in twenty-four hours. It was time to start improvising.
Dick Lance was no stranger to “TV magic.” After dropping out of college fifteen years before, he had answered a want ad for a production assistant at a small-market Ohio TV station. Even in the digital era, there is still a sprinkling of small market TV stations that help fuel the local economy with ads for car dealers, hardware stores, and plumbing services. Dick worked as a cameraman, audio man, set builder, floor sweeper—whatever was needed to keep their low-budget productions going.
After the Saturday morning cartoons, a yoga instructor bought a half-hour time slot to give yoga lessons and plug her studio. On Sunday afternoons a realtor showed slides of homes for sale in the area. The same obviously fake plastic plants moved from one set to another. These types of homespun productions kept the place afloat, if only barely.
One Sunday morning the weekend weatherman was a no-show.
Again.
He was so badly hungover he couldn’t stand without puking and wisely called in sick. The Switcher who called the shots for the Sunday Morning News asked Dick if he would like to give the weather a try. Nothing to it. Just read the teleprompter and smile.
A megawatt lightbulb had gone off in Dick’s head. He thought it over for all of twenty seconds. He’d always been an extrovert with an ego the size of Cleveland, and this was just what he had been hoping for. He was constantly imitating announcers he had heard and would bring ad copy home from the TV station to practice his delivery. In high school he had been voted Class Clown for his impersonations of late-night comedians, so he definitely wasn’t shy. It didn’t hurt that he had All-American Boy good looks, too.
Dick borrowed a tie, straightened his hair, and read through the weather report a few times before stepping in front of the camera. A red light lit, and the camera operator signaled that he was “on.”
Dick was a natural. He gushed about the current good weather, then became deadly serious about the possibility of showers coming up by midweek, then poured on a big smile for improvements by the next weekend.
Suddenly Dick was the new weekend weatherman, and he had a new name. The station management decided his real name, Gorshenblatt, didn’t have enough panache, so Dick Lance was born. As he honed his craft over the next few years and his ratings rose, he earned the regular evening news slot with a hefty raise in pay. He even came up with “Dick’s Picks” at the end of the weather segment to spotlight the nation’s best weather towns. Dick Lance became his legal name, and Gorshenblatt was never heard of again.
***
“How do I work that thingy-thingy?” whined Summer Springfield, staring at the new replacement mop everyone hoped would make it through the shoot. Her pantsuit had dried out, her makeup had been reapplied, and she was ready to try again. Dick Lance patiently explained that the machine was a piece of shit that didn’t work as advertised, so they were going to fake it.
“You just go through the motions and smile big. We’ll do cutaways to make it look like the thing worked. We’ll fix it in editing. You’re a knockout baby; show me those pearly whites. Let’s do this!”
The crew took their places, and the camera rolled. This time the emphasis was on Summer’s smiling face, which would later be quickly cut to a sparkling clean carpet. Amazing!
After numerous takes, the production was over. The crew gave a sigh of relief and began to tear down the set. Summer gathered her makeup bag and made her way over to Dick, who was jotting down notes on the master script, trying to figure out how to make this hodgepodge of shots somehow believable. She waited a moment for him to acknowledge her but finally cleared her throat.
“Umm…Dick…are we okay?”
“Sure, sure, everything went fine. I’m going to lengthen the animation to cover those blown shots. Nobody’s going to notice anything, believe me.”
“I mean, are we okay for tonight?” She edged a little closer and caressed his arm, her lips parted in a manner she hoped would be wildly seductive. She had always worried that her lips were too thin and came close to getting Botox injections, but Dick talked her out of it saying he didn’t want her to look like a balloon animal. He gave a sigh of exasperation.
“Oh, jeez, no. Not tonight. I’m gonna be up all night with the editor on this pile of crap. You know how it is; I’ve gotta put earrings on a pig.”
“Are you calling me a pig?” she asked in mock alarm. “You’d better apol.”
“No, no, of course not. You’re being silly.” Dick took her hand and looked around to see who might be watching. “I’ve got a hard deadline with this thing, I’ve got writing to do, a shitload of voiceovers, there’s just no time.”
Summer’s lips went into full pout mode. “It’s okay. It’s not a must can do.”
Dick’s voice dropped to almost a whisper. “Cut it out. You know I love you. Don’t forget that.”
Summer wrinkled her nose and giggled. “Okay, Super dupe.”
Summer had a peculiar habit of abbreviating words. “Fab” for fabulous. “Gorge” for gorgeous. “Super dupe” for super-duper. This made her rather maddening to listen to as a weather girl, which is what Dick had tried to groom her to be.
Over a span of several years Dick had grown into the role of a quite polished Chief Meteorologist for the TV station. He sported that constant “I forgot to shave this morning” scruff that took a lot of work to maintain but women found incredibly sexy, and wore stylish suits provided for free by a local menswear shop. He was well respected even though his only study of meteorology was to check out the online weather reports and copy them word for word.
Summer had caught Dick’s eye when she took a part-time job as a receptionist at the station. A late bloomer in high school, she had transformed into a blond bombshell by college age but had only begun to realize the power she held over men. She had played Audrey in Little Shop of Horrors at the local junior college to rave reviews, and now her heart was set on breaking into show biz. The tiny two-bit TV station seemed like the next best thi
Dick enjoyed imparting his vast television knowledge to his student, and Summer hung on his every word. He taught her to read the teleprompter without looking stiff. He taught her how to position herself in front of the green screen, which could transport the weather person to any spot on the map. He supervised her revealing wardrobe to showcase her prominent breasts.
Lance encouraged her to try her own natural personality before going into the written script. The problem was, when she tried to adlib, just about anything might blurt out of her mouth. After a few tries that dropped like lead balloons, he strongly suggested that for her first time out she just stick to the script and keep smiling, but the young lady couldn’t help herself. She debuted on the Sunday Morning News and let it fly.
“Wakey wakey, everybody, this day is going to be gorge, plus, plus!” was her opening line.
Dick cringed, but soon the phones were ringing off the hook about this beautiful new breath of fresh air.
Much of Summer’s instruction took place after hours when the news set was dormant. Dick would set the camera on Summer and videotape her delivering the weather. They could then discuss her delivery and make notes. It was during these tutorials that Dick and Summer gave in to temptation. What began as flirting and a fleeting touch gave way to all-out flailing and moaning intercourse on the control room floor. Dick told himself he would keep it under control. After all, he was a married man. Two years before he had met his wife, Kristen. Not only was she attractive, she had a newspaper job that he hoped would enhance his paper-thin credibility. He was far from the poster boy for fidelity, but he at least tried to be discreet. However, when he met Summer, it turned out he had all the will power of a teenaged boy with a stack of Playboys. As for Summer, she was all-in, head over heels. She had found her Svengali and was ready to follow him anywhere.
***
One particular evening, after a short session of rehearsing Summer’s weather delivery, they shared a bottle of cheap champagne and began to cuddle. Dick had sudden inspiration.
“You want to walk on the moon?” he said slyly.
“Walk on the moon? That’s cray cray”
“Watch this.”
Dick went to the switcher console and punched up a screen showing the moon’s surface. The image had been used on that night’s news program. “Now stand in front of the green screen,” he said. Summer walked over to her usual position, looked at the monitor, and saw that she appeared to be standing on the moon.
“I’m on the fucking moon!” she squealed.
“You look good on the moon,” said Dick. “Way better than Neil Armstrong. Hey, why don’t you take your clothes off?”
Summer giggled and began to strip with an exaggerated bump and grind. She was soon nude on the moon. Dick Lance threw off his clothes and joined her on the set. He exclaimed in his best deep announcer voice, “This just in!”
“Super dupe!”
The revelry continued for nearly an hour, with more action than the moon had seen in its long history. With the heavy studio door locked, no one could be aware of what was going on in the newsroom. No one except for the late-night board operator who was broadcasting a vintage rerun of Gunsmoke while concentrating on a video game on his laptop. When the time came for the commercial break, the board op briefly looked up from Dungeons and Dragons to trigger a spot for a local Toyota dealer but managed to bring up the newsroom instead. Not paying attention to the monitor, Dick and Summer cavorting in the nude on the moon was broadcast to fifty thousand households.
Chapter 2
Dick had already been moonlighting in the world of direct response production and voiceover work when he was abruptly fired from the TV station for his impromptu moon shot. After a few days of worrying about how he was going to continue to afford the lifestyle of a hot shot TV personality, he quickly and easily made the switch to full-time commercial production work, enticing people to pay $19.95 plus shipping and handling for each amazing new product. His moon might have eclipsed, but a new star was born.
Only one in ten direct response products actually sell well, but when they do, that $19.95 can be multiplied by millions. Summer Springfield was also dropped like a hot rock by the station. She tried to return to her quiet academic life at junior college, but snickers and sneers followed her wherever she went. She was even offered a porno movie titled, “Forecast: Hot and Steamy,” but indignantly refused.
Summer finally dropped out of school; Dick kept her employed for a while with direct response commercials, demonstrating kitchen gadgets, mops, scrubbers, and pet toys, but that ended abruptly when Dick’s wife Kristen laid down the law. No more Summer, period. Dick and Kristen quietly moved to the other side of town, and Dick shaved his beard.
***
Kristen was seething. The humiliation of having her husband’s nude romp televised all over the county—and then even make several late-night talk shows with discreet blurring of body parts—was simply the last slap in the face she could take. Dick had had quite the reputation as a ladies’ man when she met him, but of course, she thought she could change him.
They had met at a charity dinner auction to raise money for a new fire engine. Dick was the emcee. He cut quite a figure in his pale-blue tuxedo with an outrageous ruffled shirt, a retro look, but it had been a freebie from the menswear shop that sponsored his weather segment. He handled the auction with aplomb and managed to keep the audience laughing with lame weather jokes.
Kristen was covering the event for the local newspaper’s society page. When she’d graduated with a degree in journalism from Ohio State University, she’d had visions of becoming a female Woodward and Bernstein, uncovering greed and corruption, saving the planet from evildoers, and triumphantly exposing dirty politicians. Instead, she found herself reporting on fender-benders, shoplifting at Walmart, city council meetings, and covering the occasional charity function. She refrained from dating because no one in this small town was very interesting. She found the staff in the newsroom to be deadly boring except for a highly annoying sportswriter who kept hitting on her.
“Kristen Daniels with the Gazette,” she said to Dick, extending her hand.
“I always read the Gazette,” Dick said as he introduced himself. “It’s where I steal all my weather info.”
Kristen chuckled, not realizing he really meant it. The interview was light and brief, with Dick giving a few quotes about how important a new fire truck would be for the community and how he always wanted to be a firefighter. All the while he was looking her up and down like a hungry jackal. She was trim and pretty with dirty-blond hair and an engaging smile. She wore a tasteful, dark blue sleeveless cocktail dress that was quite modest compared to the bimbos he was used to dating. But it still revealed her nicely toned arms and legs. She was a refreshing change from the usual airheads and was the first woman he had met who not only was attractive enough for him to want to marry but had the credentials to help him move up in the world. As she finished jotting down notes in her notepad, he launched his best line. “How would you like to see a real TV set?”
“Um, no thanks, I’ve seen TV studios before,” she said, thinking to herself, “At Ohio State,” and wondering if a professional set was any different than the student set at the university.
Dick was flummoxed; this line was usually a real grabber. He launched into a florid description of how important meteorology was, how climate change was threatening the planet, and how much he really liked animals. Kristen was not impressed. This guy was slicker than axle grease.
The following weekend Kristen was participating in a 3K run to raise money for breast cancer awareness. Who should be handing out water bottles but Dick Lance, looking totally sporty in shorts, a polo shirt and running shoes.
“Fancy meeting you here,” he said with a broad smile, offering her a cold water. “I didn’t know you were a runner. Nice outfit.” He ran his eyes over her shorts and T-shirt. It didn’t occur to her that he had volunteered to help at a breast cancer charity to ogle breasts.
“I try to stay fit,” said Kristen, caught off guard. She was impressed by his seeming interest in helping community charities—first the fire truck, now the breast cancer run. Maybe this blowhard was a good guy after all. Finally, after much talk of healthy lifestyle choices and the importance of meditation, he wore her down enough to get her phone number. And the chase was on. In a year they had married.
