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fingers and wearing the same get-up he had on
at my house, though his "Vessel of Change"
glitter is red not gold. She's draped in a pink quilted robe. Her
1,ajr is in a fifties style do, which on he.r fat face and head Looks Like a
too small hat. A one-eight-hundred-number flashes in pink at the bot-
torn of the screen. The low budget production must have included the
gauzy Vaseline filter because the tears bearing down on Tucker 's puffy cheeks
are haloed. I snort.
"How bad do you want it, Madeline," Tucker says.
"I want it bad," Madeline sniffs.
Then Tucker looks right at the camera and grossly wipes back the snot
leaking out of his bulbous nose before pointing at the home audience.
"How bad do you want it?" he asks.
The rest of the infomercial contains testimonials. Shocking before and
after portraits. And for the grand finale, a much reduced Madeline walking
briskly alongside Tucker on a creamy beach paseo. Arms pumping. Legs
pumping. Butts jiggling.
"You're a fraud," I slurp at my sister between bites of Corn Flakes. We
share an extra large breakfast tray. I kneel as I slurp.
"Benny!" she says between bites of whole wheat bagel.
"I saw the true manifestation of your prayers last night. You're com-
pletely full of shit, Madeline/' I say.
"Benny! You'll wake up mom."
"Then stop screaming," I say.
A bloated cockroach skirmishes with a smaller roach over a crumb
located in the one patch of morning light to be found on the floor of my sister's
room. I marvel at their agitation, probably brought on by the light, and notice
that the putty colored linoleum is buckling right in the middle of their playing
field. I snort. Milk threatens to come out my nose. I wipe it back with the
palm of my hand.
My sister pushes the tray away. I comment on the half-eaten bagel still
lj,� 19'"& Jt,. smoldering under the weight of full fat cream cheese.
�& (..:>
"Tucker says I can eat whatever I want," she puffs. "It's about
(e,..., portions, really. Quantity."
II'
"Well that was a mouthful/' I say.