“I got you, babe,” Karen said.
That spring and summer it became impossible to glance out the window without entertaining questions of physics, of multiverses collapsing onto themselves, of time lines breaking off like Antarctic ice shelves. Was all this really happening: masks and tyrants, aerosol sprays and gun-toting clowns? Senderovsky and his family and guests had moated themselves into their biosphere for four safe months, until they were breached by the Actor’s return, but others had developed different ways of coping. One such way was a return to the 1980s.
Karen found compilations of commercials from that era on her computer, and now the phlegmy cough emerging from the bungalow’s inner bedroom was counterpointed by chirpy instrumentals, barking dogs demanding better pet food, and the blandishments of bubble gum and cars “made with pride” right here in the USA. Vinod had long found sleeping on his back or sides impossible, the accursed stickiness, the mucus, coursed through his chest and windpipe, but now he could doze off while sitting upright as the commercials prodded him into semi-oblivion instead of the pure slow annihilation of that elevator on Washington Street.
Raise your hand, you know it, raise your hand, you got it, raise your haaaaaand if you’re Sure.
Raise your hand, you feel dry now, raise your hand, you know why now, raise your haaaaaand, if you’re Sure.
Confident, confident, dry and secure, raise your hand, raise your hand
If you’re Sure.
He had sung these lyrics with Senderovsky during their high-school days （“confident, confident, dry and secure!”）， as both of the immigrant boys had been accused by their elementary-school classmates of not smelling the way an American should. （Karen would always laugh at their particular Indo-Soviet predicament.） The commercial still mesmerized. Cowboys, policewomen, naval cadets, future supporters of the current president, all were raising their hands, showing off their deodorized armpits with confidence, all of them were “Sure” their scent was not just ambient but gone, devoid of all odor like a piece of plastic or else, at worst, tinged with a hint of processed sugar like a Quaker Oats chewy granola bar wrapper from the same period. And in the final shot, the Statue of Liberty herself was brandishing her barely clothed armpit for both the newcomer and the native-born to smell, for despite being born a Frenchwoman, she was an American now, dry and secure, confident beyond all reason.
“I think Jim’s the most handsome guy in the world.”
“Her smile just warms me inside.”
“Her teeth, they’re really beautiful.”
“I love a bright, beautiful smile.”
“I like fluoride. I like white teeth and freshness is a plus.”
“Close-Up makes me feel all fresh especially if I’m going to be kissing Jim.”
“Close-Up helps me get close to Lisa.”
Lisa and Jim and their joint beautiful hair and their joint beautiful teeth were kissing now. They were kissing with all the concentration with which his mother chopped yam for winter undhiyu or with which his father tried to sell an Apple Lisa computer to an unsuspecting American. （“Not to rush you, sir, but I’m actually closing in ten minutes.”） As they kiss, Vinod can sense his parents watching this commercial over his shoulder, scandalized, both of them thinking, Are these two even married, baka? And young Vinod thinks: Why does Jim need Close-Up to help him get close to Lisa? If he were Jim, he would be kissing Lisa’s mouth even if her tongue was on fire （much like his has been for the past two weeks）。
“It’s not my fault, Mom. Sneakers just smell.”
“Her mamma loves her. How does she know? ’Cause her Skippy tells her so.” And now he feels it at the back of his throat, those tears stoking the humidity that chokes him, tears for the missing American mama all three of them had never known, maybe a mama no one had ever known. He had been so affected by these commercials as a boy, staring at them openmouthed, heartsick, even while his brothers kept wrestling on the shag carpeting in front of their pleather frigate, calling each other “chutiya motherfucker” like the hybrid Queens children they were.
“Bain de Soleil for the San Tropez tan.”
“President Reagan has decided to join hands across America this Sunday.”
“Call 1-800-453-4000 to see if you qualify for food stamps. Mealtimes don’t have to be tough times.”
“Are you keeping up with the Commodore? ’Cause the Commodore is keeping up with you.”
“Tonight at eleven, a big win for the homosexual community.”