Dead Air
The original Pugsley Ernsberger. Character Pugsley appears in Chapter 3.
I think it was the call from the Furrie that put me over the top.
It was only thirty
minutes into my three hour on-air shift at WYME Radio when Vera Mae Atkins, my producer, scrawled the word
FURVERT on a piece of paper and waved it at me from the production room.
Furvert?
Once she had my attention, she flashed me a pussycat smile. "You have a call
from Seymour on line one, Dr. Maggie. He says he’s a furrie." Then her lips
gave a tell-tale quiver and I spotted the wicked gleam in her eye, the
tell-tale shaking of her narrow shoulders. I expected her to break into the
happy dance at any moment.
Enjoy! she mouthed through the large glass window separating the airy
production area from the cramped recording booth where I sit for three hours
every day. She circled her index finger next to her ear in a Looney-tunes
gesture and tossed me a broad wink.
Okay, the truth finally hit me. I had a furvert on the line.
A furvert, in case you’re wondering, is a derogatory term–a mixture of the
words furrie and pervert. What’s a furrie? (Sometimes called a plushie, by
those in the know.) Here’s an idiot’s guide explanation. If you enjoy
dressing up like a chipmunk and having sex with someone wearing a raccoon
costume, you would call yourself a furrie. Or maybe you’re a snow leopard
who likes to do the horizontal mambo with a giraffe. Or you could be a brown
bear with a yen for a wildebeest–well, I’m sure you get the idea.
If this is what floats your boat, then Vera Mae–and others–might call you a
furvert.
Most days, my training as a clinical psychologist leads me to be less
judgmental, more accepting of all alternate life styles, including furries
and their bizarre couplings. At least that’s what a psychoanalytic approach
would endorse; two consenting adults dressing up as an animals and having
sex. No harm, no foul.
But here’s the thing (as Dr. Phil would say)–I just wasn’t in the mood to be
PC today.
I bit back a sigh. As the host of On the Couch with Maggie Walsh, I’ve had
my share of unhappy callers–bored housewives, bitter employees, frazzled
parents, desperate singles, and out and out crazies. In my quiet moments, I
compare myself to Dr. Phil, except as Vera Mae likes to say, "Dr. Phil
without the money, fame or glory."
Gee, thanks for reminding me, Vera. I needed that.
I punched line one. "Hello! You’re on the couch with Maggie–"
Before I could belt out the rest of my signature welcome, a male voice
slammed over the line, practically hyperventilating with rage.
"So you think we’re a bunch of weirdos, is that it? A bunch of crazy kooks?"
Uh-oh. This was going to be worse than I thought. I glanced up to see Vera
Mae grinning from ear to ear, her towering beehive bouncing from side to
side like a dashboard bobble-head. Vera Mae, who hails from southern
Georgia, believes that "the higher the hair-do, the closer to God." Her
carrot-colored tresses could give Marge Simpson a run for her money.
She held up a sign with the word YES! on it, followed by another that read
DAMN STRAIGHT!
I should explain that Vera Mae has an infinite number of these hand-lettered
signs, and she delights in holding them up at strategic moments during my
call-in show.
I like to think of her as a Dixie version of a Greek chorus.
"Really, sir, I have no idea–"
"Your coverage of our annual Furrie convention in Cypress Grove left a lot
to be desired, young lady," the voice went on in a harsh rasp. A smoker’s
voice, I decided. One of those gravelly whines that made you think he’d
inhaled an entire truckload of Camels and was threatening to hack up a lung
any minute. "I’d expected that at the very least you’d invite our esteemed
president, Clarence Whittaker, on your show as a featured guest...but no,
you walked right by him at the Furrie Awards without even a hello."
I frowned, trying to remember. The Furrie Awards. Oh yeah. I’d done a live,
remote broadcast outside the Cypress Grove Convention Center last week,
covering the Annual East Coast Furrie convention, but it was all a blur.
Which one was Clarence Whittaker, anyway? Was he the guy in the Smokey the
Bear get-up? Or the portly skunk with the swishy tail? Or maybe the gray fox
who’d patted my behind with his mangy paw? There must have been two hundred
people milling around the square, all dressed as their favorite animal, paws
entwined, drinking champagne and dancing in a conga line.
Is it any wonder I’d blocked the whole scene from my memory? As Freud would
say, there are no accidents. I wanted to forget, so my mind was a blank.
"It’s discrimination, that’s what it is! I’m sure my congressman would like
to hear about this. It’s un-American." His voice quivered with
self-righteousness.
"Hmm. Well, I certainly apologize if I overlooked your esteemed, uh, leader,
but..." "But nothing! Did you know that over half of our furrie members are
in a committed relationship with another furrie? And that most of us are
college-educated and upstanding members of the community? We’re doctors,
lawyers and teachers. We even have a few preachers in our midst..."
This call was going nowhere. I looked up at the window. Vera Mae was
pretending to slit her throat.
"No, I didn’t know that, but I’ll make a note of it. And the next time you
come to town, I’ll be sure–"
"Well, listen, girlie, the next time we come to town, you be sure to give us
the attention we deserve. And don’t forget the Furrie slogan." He had
another coughing fit as I leaned toward the board to cut him off.
"I’ll certainly do that. And thank you for calling WYME."
I punched a button and disconnected him. "Well, Vera Mae, I guess now we’ll
never know what the Furrie slogan is, will we? What a loss."
"Oh, I can think of a good slogan for that group," she said in her best
throaty purr. "How’s this?" She leaned forward so her mouth was almost
touching her microphone. "Once you try yak...you never go back!"
Ouch. "My producer thinks she’s a comedian," I said quickly. I could just
picture the phones ringing at her yak comment. "Who do we have next, Vera?
" I struggled to put a note of professionalism into my voice.
After all, I am a licensed Ph.D psychologist, although my grad school
advisor would probably have an aneurysm at the career path I’ve taken. The
truth is, I’d gotten sick of New York winters and rising real estate prices.
When I spotted an ad for a "radio psychologist" in sunny Florida, I
auditioned for the job and grabbed it.
I’m thirty-two and single and I figured this was the time to do something a
little reckless in my life. So I closed my private practice in Manhattan,
sold my IKEA furniture and moved into a two story mock-Hacienda style town
house into a tiny town called Cypress Grove, Florida. It’s north of Boca,
not too far from Palm Beach, a pleasant drive to Ft. Lauderdale.
As the Chamber of Commerce says, "Cypress Grove–it’s near everyplace else
you’d rather be!"
That was three months ago, and I’ve never looked back. Well, not too often,
anyway.
