Valentine's Day Fiction
Whip-it
It's the final phone conversation of Demi and Ashton's marriage and, wait, is that Rupert Murdoch listening in?
(Credit: Reuters/Salon) Kutcher-Moore Residence, Los Angeles, Jan. 26
Demi Moore sits, distraught, on her living room floor. The house is in upheaval, every flat surface covered with boxes halfway packed, then abandoned; it seems her husband will never be done with moving out. A large bottle of Zyrtec is at her side. A dozen thin, high-strung dogs wander in and out of the room. Her cellphone rings.
“It’s me,” he says. “Don’t hang up.”
“What do you want?”
“I want the truth.”
Demi grabs one of the dogs with her free hand — it hardly struggles — and holds it closely, rubbing its silky fur against her cheek. How she loves these dogs: their dark, smooth coats, their effortlessly thin flanks. No matter how much she feeds them, she can still feel their ribs through their skin. Wonderful!
The dog nuzzles at her cardigan pocket, where she has taken to keeping treats for them: sinewy pieces of bison jerky, tiny sausage links, sliced-up organic hot dogs. The maid, shaking her head over the grease stains on her sweaters, suggested dog biscuits instead, but Demi has a horror of carbs. Besides, there is something strangely appealing about cutting up hot dogs. She holds out a nub, and the dog takes the treat delicately between its teeth.
“They say you’re holed up with whippets again.”
“Don’t you have some strippers to …” She sneezes three times, violently. “Some cameras to sell?”
“How many this time?”
“I don’t know,” she says, looking around the roomful of dogs. “One or two. Maybe six.”
“Look, I know haven’t exactly been a model of responsible behavior …”
“It’s true,” she says. “You have not. You also have some packing up still to do. Your free weights … your grooming products … your glassware.”
Demi hates the word “bong.”
“… but I think you might have a problem.”
Demi sets the phone in her lap and extends two thin, tawny arms. The dogs run to her, tumbling over each other just to lick her greasy fingers. She feels a pang in her chest. “When it’s just me and the whippets,” she murmurs, “there’s no more pain.”
“This is front-page stuff!”
Demi picks up her phone again and holds it to her ear. “What did you say?”
“I didn’t say anything,” says Ashton.
“MENTAL LASS, DENTAL GAS,” the voice mutters again. “Bugger it, I’ve dropped my Mont Blanc in the loo.”
“Someone with an Australian accent,” Demi says. “Is Hugh Jackman there with you?”
“No,” says Ashton.
“Eric Bana?”
“Nope. Look, we may not be together anymore, but I care about you and your well-being.”
She hears this kind of talk every time he comes by to retrieve a stray video game or a favorite T-shirt; it never stops him from leaving just as quickly as he arrived. But the dogs, every one of them younger and more handsome than Ashton, never leave her side.
“I have something to tell you,” she says.
“Good. I’d like to hear it.” He sounds hopeful.
“If you want to take digital photos these days, you can just use your phone. Everyone knows that.”
She gathers another dog in her arms and rubs her face on its fur, inhaling. Her lungs constrict. With her free hand, she scrabbles for the Zyrtec bottle.
“You’re huffing one of those whippets right now!”
“I can handle it!” she wheezes. “I know my limits!”
“If you keep doing that, you’re going to wind up in the emergency room!”
“You have your tech start-ups and your hot-tub whores and your four-megapixel paperweights. These whippets are all I’ve got!”
The dogs gather around her, first one at a time, then in a pack, whining, wagging their wiry tails. She realizes there is frying-pan grease in her hair. The dogs begin to lick her head.
“Aaah!”
“What? What?”
“These whippets are messing with my head.”
“So you admit it!”
The speedy dogs dart back and forth, licking Demi’s hair, her face, her cellphone.
“The whippets are going to my head so fast!”
“What? You’re breaking up!”
On the business end of an illegal wiretap, Rupert Murdoch is scribbling frantically. “Wendi!” he hisses. “Are you getting this?”
“I need a dog … walk … er…” Demi moans.
“Hold on, baby! I’m calling the doctor right now!” cries Ashton.
“This could be the scoop that causes the Daily to stop hemorrhaging money!”
“Wait,” says Demi, sitting up. “Rupert Murdoch?”
“Wrong number!” Murdoch says, and hangs up.
Ashton is confused. “Is the Daily the same thing as the Daily Beast?”
The dogs close in again, yipping, licking, panting: an ecstasy of devotion. Soon the line goes silent.
“Oh man,” says Ashton. “Wow.” He pauses before dialing 911. “Dude.”
Belle Boggs is the author of the story collection "Mattaponi Queen," which won the Bakeless Prize and the Library of Virginia Award. More Belle Boggs.
Richard D. Allen is a poet and humorist. More Richard D. Allen.
Demi’s last night out
When did Demi Moore know she and Ashton were done? Maybe when she tried and tried, but still couldn't rise from bed
(Credit: AP/Salon) The party is in the Hollywood Hills, at someone’s house that looks familiar, or maybe all these houses look alike to me at this point. We’re outside by the pool and the air smells of citronella and night-blooming jasmine. I’m drinking a Red Bull and watching a couple of girls in sundresses leap into the shimmering water, the thin fabric revealing their underwear, both of them shrieking loudly to make sure everybody pays attention.
They are lovely, those girls.
The music is so loud it pulses inside my chest, as if it’s replacing my heart, which would be fine with me. Two guys come up and start dancing. They look exactly the same, androgynous and pretty, with floppy hair. It’s a look I like, feel strong against, and we all three sway together.
Continue Reading CloseAlix Ohlin is the author of the novel "The Missing Person" and the collection "Babylon and Other Stories." A new novel, "Inside," and a story collection, "Signs and Wonders," are forthcoming from Knopf this spring. More Alix Ohlin.
One day you’re in
When Seal and Heidi Klum split, no one survives on the "Project Runway" set unless they get a little crazy
(Credit: AP/Salon) The old crew was back to work for the first time since Season 9 ended, and the new hires were cracking the “Make it work” jokes that the rest of us had gotten sick of five years ago. Even Tim seemed a little apologetic when he said it these days. He’d gotten too much sun the day before and was pinker than usual. “Just … make it work, I guess,” he told the makeup artist.
The casting episodes were always awkward, no proper sets or dressing rooms in the hotels and a desperate mass of humanity clutching garment bags in the hallways. And now everyone tiptoeing around Heidi, looking to see if she’d changed since the news broke, peering for bags under her eyes, or deepened lines around her mouth. If she looked older, she must be unhappy. If she didn’t, maybe the entire thing was a stunt to sell more albums. Women in this business are never just sad, they’re one step closer to the grave.
Continue Reading CloseCaitlin Horrocks is the author of the story collection "This Is Not Your City" (Sarabande). Her fiction has been published by the New Yorker and in the 2011 edition of Best American Short Stories. More Caitlin Horrocks.
Pitch and catch
It must've been awkward for Tom Brady and Gisele Bundchen after she blamed his teammates for losing the Super Bowl
(Credit: AP/Salon) “You shouldn’t have said it.”
“Yes.”
“I wish you wouldn’t have.”
“I did.”
“That’s what I’m saying.”
“I’m sorry.”
“I know. I’m not mad.”
“You shouldn’t be.”
“I’m not.”
“It’s just that the man wouldn’t stop.”
“You shouldn’t start with people who won’t stop.”
“I know. I’m mad at myself.”
“You shouldn’t be. Be mad at him.”
“I am mad at him, too.”
“Right. You should be.”
“He started talking about you and he wouldn’t stop.”
“That’s what they do.”
Continue Reading CloseBen Greenman is an editor at the New Yorker and the author of several acclaimed books of fiction, including "Superbad," "What He's Poised To Do" and "Celebrity Chekhov." His fiction, essays and journalism have appeared in numerous publications, including the New York Times, the Washington Post, the Paris Review, Zoetrope: All Story, McSweeney's and Opium. More Ben Greenman.