The Perils of Praline (9 page)

“Thanks.”

Praline turned around and saw that Warren was getting dressed. “Um, where are you going?” he asked.

“I’m going to give you some time to think about my offer.”

“But—” Praline got the distinct feeling that if he hadn’t decided to become Warren’s slave by the time the landlord came back he’d be given more time to think about the offer. And while he empathized with Warren’s desire to find a personal slave—after all, everyone deserved someone to love and, well, control completely—Praline didn’t want the position.

The moment Warren shut the door; Praline began to crave dessert. He found himself remembering a dish he’d seen on the cooking show
Southern Fried Charm
. Chef Dixie McKean had made a Blackberry Sugar-Biscuit Triffle. It was a beautiful dish, layers of berries, biscuits and sweet whipped cream. Though he’d never tried it, he knew it would hit the spot just about now.

Shaking off his craving, Praline remembered he was supposed to be thinking about something. Oh yes, whether he wanted to be Warren Filbert’s slave. His gut feeling said no, of course, but he’d been asked to think it through and
he
felt he owed his landlord at least that.

Being from the South, Praline was well acquainted with slavery. It had a bad reputation, though it had been good for the general economy of the region. And certainly there were Southerners who’d like to see it reinstated—Praline’s mother, for example. Now don’t misunderstand, Robin has many black friends and does not feel slavery should be reinstituted in their case. In her mind, blacks have done their share and it was time to move on to some other minority group.

For instance, at that very moment the good ol’ US of A was rescuing two primitive Muslim countries from fanaticism and an appalling lack of democracy. There ha
d
to be leftover bad guys who could come over to the United States and be put to work cleaning people’s homes, like Robin’s for instance. Sure, they might still have dangerous ideas, but in her mind nothing was more likely to cure a bent toward terrorism than a healthy acquaintance with American cleaning products.

None of this pertained to Praline’s situation, of course, but thinking about it helped him make up his mind. There was no question about it; he definitely did not want to be a slave. Briefly he considered lying to Warren and saying that he would be his slave and then escaping later when it was more convenient, but he couldn’t bring himself to tell such a bold lie. It was simply against his makeup.

Therefore, he was going to have to find a way to escape right now. He struggled against the ropes to see if they could be loosened. Unfortunately, struggling against them only seemed to make them tighter. It also shook the bed, which shook the nightstand
,
and Praline heard one of the candles fall to the floor. Turning his head, he gave the nightstand a worried look. He sniffed a few times, and decided that the candle must have put itself out when it hit the floor.

Praline ran through his options: he could scream bloody murder—but it was the middle of the day and it was unlikely many of the tenants were at home just then; he could take this time to mentally adjust to a life as Warren’s personal slave; he could attempt to telekinetically untie the ropes; or, wait, he smelled smoke. He stretched to the side of the bed, raised his head, and peaked over the edge in time to see the smoldering carpet burst into flames
.
Not good, he thought, not good at all.

Praline becomes an Internet sensation and nearly commits suicide.

Having no idea when Warren might return, Praline needed to figure something out fast. Otherwise he was about to be barbequed. In a flash, he remembered an episode of
House-Bound, Season Six
where the contestants were tied up and dropped into a glass box filled with water, and it was their task to escape. At first it seemed like a cruel trick the network was playing on them, since it was obvious none of the contestants would likely survive. But then the host trotted out a supposedly famous magician Praline had never heard of who was there to teach them a few tricks before they were dropped into the box. Still, most of the contestants panicked, forgot everything the magician had told them, and needed to be rescued moments before they drowned. Even Dave G. forgot the magician’s instructions, though he was able to improvise his own methods and, using his teeth, managed to untie himself and rise to the surface. Thus winning the competition.

Praline thought he might be able to execute the same sort of dental liberation. Shimmying over to his left wrist, he was close, but not quite close enough. He pulled on his right wrist as hard as he could. It cut off his circulation more than he liked, but he was able to get his teeth onto the rope. After gnawing furiously, the rope began to loosen.

Once he got one rope undone, it was a snap to untie his other arm and his feet. He jumped off the bed, grabbed his clothes and his backpack, took one look at the apartment, now nearly engulfed in flames, and decided it might be best to dress in the hallway. Once outside the apartment, he pulled on his pants and yelled, “Fire!”

Dashing out of the building, he ran smack into Warren coming through the front door.

“Fire, sir!”

“Shit!” Warren exclaimed, pulling out his phone to dial 911.

Praline considered staying, at least until the fire department arrived, but realized Warren was likely to demand Praline become his slave as payment for the destruction of the apartment. The fire was clearly Praline’s fault and, as he’d learned from TV’s Dr. Jill, you have to take responsibility for your actions. On the other hand, he was his mother’s son and she’d taught him that you always leave the scene of an accident and/or crime, and don’t come forward until you’ve secured and/or eliminated all incriminating evidence.

Genetics won out and Praline decided to run. He bolted through the front door of the apartment building and it wasn’t until he got to Hollywood Boulevard that he realized Dave G. had saved his life. Had he not been a fan of
House-Bound
, had he not fallen in love with Dave G., he might never have known how to escape. A surge of love welled in his chest, and he wanted more than ever to find Dave G., rent a small but stylish house, furnish it directly from the Crockery Barrel catalogue and live happily ever after with a pedigree pooch—perhaps a cockapoo or a pooacock or one of each.

As he walked down Hollywood Boulevard, every so often checking out the stars beneath his feet, Praline pulled out his smart phone to update his FaceSpace page. After he changed his headline to “Hollywood is smokin’!” he noticed that several of his buddies had written on his page, things like, “OMG you’re so sexy!” “Baby you’re a star!” “Love, love, love you!”

Well, Praline thought, after his busy morning he certainly needed an ego boost and thankfully his FaceSpace buddies were there for him. He put smiley faces next to all the comments then considered rewarding his buddies with a photo. He knew that the Chinese Theatre with its footprints in cement was somewhere on the boulevard, he could take a picture there. Or he could take a photo of himself in front of the wig store—the largest he’d ever seen. Or maybe he should just lie down on the sidewalk and get a shot of himself next to one of the stars. But which—

Suddenly, his phone rang. Glancing at the display he saw that he was getting a call from Box Studios. What a thrill, he thought. A call from Box Studios, while walking down Hollywood Boulevard!

“Hello?”

“Oh my God!”

Bummer. It was just his frenemy, Jason. Which was odd because he’d never expected to hear from him again and couldn’t remember giving him the phone number, though after a moment he remembered it was on his FaceSpace page. Of course, Praline realized they would have to talk occasionally, that was the fren- part. Otherwise they’d just be enemies.

“How did you manage to get into more trouble?” Jason yelled. “It’s barely lunchtime.”

“What do you mean?” Praline asked. Unfortunately, he’d been in so many kinds of trouble that morning he didn’t know which trouble Jason was referring to. Was he talking about Stewart’s husband and the man-eating security gate, or the cable TV personality who had shoved him into traffic, or did
Jason
somehow know
Praline
had just burned down the apartment he’d rented only minutes before?

“It’s all over the Internet! Harris Pilton just posted the video on his Website.”

Harris Pilton was the brilliant blogster who made a name for himself in Hollywood gossip by saying everything people think but no one else has the courage to say. By christening himself Harris Pilton, he was referencing British playboy and socialite Ferris Stilton
,
the cheese heir. Ironically, Harris’s fame has now eclipsed that of his namesake.

Praline adored Harris Pilton and read his site every day. “I’m on Harris Pilton?” he exclaimed. “How do I look?”

“How do you look? You look cock-addled!” Jason practically screamed into the phone.

“Do you mean that in a good way?” Praline asked.

“No, I don’t mean that in a good way. How could you have sex with Malcolm Wright?”

“Um, well…he gave me five hundred dollars,” Praline said, though it had nothing to do with why he’d had sex with Malcolm Wright. Jason’s tone suggested having sex with the almost-dashing celebrity had been a bad idea and he needed to stand up for himself.

“Yes, Harris Pilton mentioned that you’re a prostitute. I guess I should have figured that out when I found you hanging—”

“I am not a prostitute!” Praline insisted.

“You’re not?” Jason said doubtfully. “You just told me Malcolm Wright paid you five hundred dollars for sex. How does that not make you a prostitute?”

Praline tried to explain. “I didn’t ask for the money. He volunteered it.”

“You do realize that part of Santa Monica Boulevard is famous for gay hustlers.”

“It is? That explains a lot.”

“Let me get this straight,” Jason said. “You got into his car and had sex with him because…”

“I thought he was cute,” Praline said tentatively. “I didn’t recognize him.”

“You do realize he’s the most evil, right wing conservative wacko on television. He’s done everything he can to destroy the gay rights movement…”

“I don’t really follow politics.”

Jason sighed. “If you’re going to continue making sex tapes with political figures, you might want to start.”

“I’m not planning to do it again.” Though to be honest he hadn’t planned to do it in the first place. Which meant it could happen again without any planning at all.

“I hope you wanted to be famous,” Jason said. “Because this is your fifteen minutes.”

Of course, Praline wanted to be famous. Who didn’t? Though as an aspiring same-sex celebrity spouse, he’d expected to be famous by connection, rather than in his own right. But now fame had fallen into his lap and he was thrilled by the possibilities
;
then he began to reconsider. While it was great to have a sex tape on the Internet, since in the past it had helped so many other fame-seekers, it was not great that his co-star was apparently an unpleasant man no one else wanted to sleep with. It was going to be challenging to spin this into continued fame, paid appearances, and a happy marriage to Dave G. He wasn’t sure if he was up to the task himself, which meant he now needed a job, an apartment
and
a publicity agent.

And he didn’t have enough money in his pocket for lunch.

“You have to lay low,” Jason was telling him. “If anyone sees you it’ll be a circus.”

“Oh, it’s okay. I’m walking down the street right now.  People are seeing me. Nothing’s happening—”

“You don’t understand. L.A. is crawling with paparazzi,” Jason explained. “Practically every third person is a professional photographer trying to get a scoop. If they see you on Harris Pilton and then see you in the street…okay, here’s what you need to do. You need to go to my place. My roommate, Clayton, is there and he’ll let you in.”

“Well that’s really kind of you, but I’m sure I’ll be fine.”

Praline was deeply suspicious. Was Jason a frenemy or not? He was beginning to seem like a real friend. Well, that would never work out. Jason was way too bossy to be friends with.
Praline
preferred his friends to be agreeable and supportive of whatever, well, difficulties he got himself into.

“Trust me, you won’t be fine. You need to hide.”

“I don’t see any reason in the world I need to hide,” Praline said, and just then a group of Japanese tourists noticed him and began pointing. Praline tried to walk away but they followed.

“And you need to change the way you look. You should buy some hair dye on the way to my place.”

Of course, it had been a stressful morning and the idea of sitting down for a while in Jason’s apartment, and maybe even taking a nap, was very appealing. Especially if it happened to be someplace without Japanese tourists; he’d tried to shoo them away but they wouldn’t go.

Jason gave Praline the address and then added, “And whatever you do, maintain your boundaries with Clayton.”

“I don’t know what you mean by boundaries,” Praline said, trying not to breath
e
too heavily as he ran down the street, the tourists hurrying after him.

“Yeah, I figured,” Jason said. “I mean, don’t have sex with him. Okay?”

Ducking into an alley, it occurred to Praline that Jason might have ulterior motives, sexual ulterior motives, which meant he was definitely back to being a frenemy.

“You like me, don’t you?” He said as he crawled into a garbage bin.

“Sure, I like you,” Jason said, in an overly casual way.

“No, I mean, you
like
me?”

“I’ve only known you for one day,” Jason said. “Besides, aren’t you in love with someone?”

Praline didn’t see what that had to do with anything. “Well, yes, I am. But Dave G. and I don’t have an exclusive relationship. So, if you wanted to…”

Certainly after he and Dave G. got married, bought that little house, furnished it, got their dogs and, who knows, maybe after a lot of talking and some parenting classes adopted a little Chinese girl, at that point perhaps Praline ought to settle down. But all that was a long way—