Luce. Celebrity doctors also have to be tall, charming, subtle, boyish, funny, trustworthy, and most of all, what we in the industry call fuckable.”

Bruce looks at me and frowns. “He may not be that, but his credentials are impeccable. As a surgeon, his reputation is—”

She hands him a sheet of paper.

“What’s this?” he says.

“The qualities housewives consider most important in a TV doctor.”

Bruce studies it. “This can’t be right.”

“Fifty-eight hundred housewives say it is.”

“Do you honestly expect me to believe TV viewers don’t care about a doctor’s qualifications?”

“When you’re in the fast food line at Burger King, you just want your fries.”

“Excuse me?”

“If two guys are bagging fries at Burger King, do you care which one made better grades in high school? No. You just want your fries. Daytime audiences want what they want. If we can claim the cute, hunky guy with dimples is a doctor, that’s good enough.”

I enter the conversation: “Fifty percent of all doctors graduated in the bottom half of their class.”

“Our audiences don’t care,” Jane says. “They want man candy.” She points at me while looking at Bruce, and says, “You think he resembles man candy in any sense of the word?”

Bruce sighs. “Is there any place in the daytime lineup he might fit in?”

“No. Sorry.”

“What about the guy who sits in the front row on talk shows?”

“What do you mean?”

I speak up again: “Bruce is referring to those inane talk shows where the host blathers on about some bullshit topic and eventually introduces an expert to give credibility to the discussion. Like when Katie Couric had the Duck Dynasty guys on, and screwed up a perfectly entertaining show by having an expert explain why people enjoy watching them.”

Jane says, “You’re not expert material, Dr. Box.”

“Why not?” Bruce asks.

“The expert’s roll is twofold: reinforce the politically correct viewpoint, and help the host appear semi-intelligent. The expert speaks in sound bites and requires nice hair, nice teeth, and a folksy delivery. That’s not you, Dr. Box. No offense.”

If you think Jane’s words could possibly hurt my feelings you don’t know me very well. The fact is I’m thrilled! I dislike people, hate television, and purposely tanked my audition. Not that I would have passed had I given my best effort.

I wouldn’t have.

But I didn’t want anyone offering me a second chance, so I was as obnoxious and offensive as possible.

And that’s saying a lot.

The only reason I’m here is because Bruce believes having me appear on TV will attract more donors. He’s a relentless fundraiser; the kind of guy who’d donate his mother’s knucklebones to a silent auction if he thought they’d generate a buck more than the current bid.

“What if he appears as a guest on someone’s talk show?” Bruce asks.

Jane thinks about it a minute, then says, “Mitch Chiles is always looking for guests.”

“Who’s he?”

“Exactly.”

“When is he on?”

“Three a.m.”

I say, “I can’t do a show at three a.m.”

“The show airs at three in the morning. But they tape at two in the afternoon.”

“Which day?”

“Today.”

“That’s in a few minutes.”

“No problem. It’s only two blocks from here.”

“Did a guest cancel at the last minute?”

“No.”

She calls to arrange it, and gives us the address. I call Trudy to tell her I’m about to tape a TV show, and she goes crazy with excitement. “Can I come? Please?”

“I don’t see why not. But you’d have to hurry.”

“How do I do this?”

“Do what?”

“Catch a cab.”

I laugh. “You never caught a cab in Clayton?”

“We didn’t have cabs in Clayton. Or in Kentucky, far as I know.”

“I’ll have the doorman take care of it.”

6.

BRUCE AND I meet Trudy’s cab in front of the studio.