“Heh-heh,” he ad-libbed. “The exuberance of youth, eh, folks? And how about a big hand for April Wilder for demonstrating that acne sufferers are no different from you and I. Yessir, just treat them like anybody else and why not? After all, acne is not a communicable disease. I always say—” He kept talking desperately while three technicians descended on the couple and extricated the wildly flailing April from the octopuslike clutch of the eager youth.
April fled to her seat at the table. Billy followed instructions and stood where he was. He was still wiping off lipstick as the camera re-focussed on him. The emcee joined him there.
“Now, Billy, before you join Miss Wilder at our pledge-phones, do you have a word for other juvenile acne sufferers like yourself?”
“YES.” Billy managed to read the word on the cue-card.
“And what is that word?”
Again Billy ignored the speech written on the card. “The word is sex,” he said instead.
“Huh?” The emcee was caught off-guard.
“Sex. You see, for most kids, acne begins with puberty. All their juices are stirred up and they have no outlet. So it all comes out as acne. If the Foundation really wanted to help, it’d provide sex for all us kids and—"
“Yes. Yes, I see.” The emcee interrupted hastily. “Well, it’s been touching and informative to talk with you, Billy. But now we have to continue with our show. All those personalities waiting in the wings to lend their talents to this wonderful cause. So, if you’ll just go sit down next to Miss Wilder, we’ll continue with the rest of our show.” Billy sat down next to April. “Ouch!” She reacted as he pinched her. He leered, and she moved her chair as far away from him as she could get it.
Happy Daze was on next. He came on with a punny patter routine—half comedy, half pathos—laden with hackneyed acne anecdotes and zingy one-liners. I only caught a little of the beginning of his routine because I was to follow him and the network man had some last-minute words for me.
The words were a rehash of where to stand, where to look for the prompter with the cue-cards, where the camera would be, etc. Louis Ching stood by quietly while the instructions were given, and the network man took the pictures he’d developed from him, checked the sequence and handed them to me. I took a quick look through them. Louis had done a good job. The blowups were clear, the face as authentically cratered as the La Brea tar-pits. It was a bit of a shocker to see myself as I might have looked after the ravages of a plague or a smallpox epidemic.
Now the emcee applauded Happy to his seat at the table and introduced me. I was, according to him, the living proof of how in less than a year the Acne Foundation could effect a miraculous cure. I came out, exchanged a few words with him, and then was left alone in the spotlight to tell my story and illustrate it with the photos.
The way the lights were set up, the only thing I wasn’t blinded to was the cuecards being flipped just to the left of the camera. Because of the glare, even the prompter holding them was invisible to me.
‘This is how I used to look,” I read from the idiot cards. I held up one of the pictures and the camera rolled in for a close-up.
“WAIT!” the idiot card instructed me.
I waited. Another card was flipped:
“DON’T READ ALOUD!
PUSH BUTTON UNDER
TABLE TO KILL EX-
LAX WHEN PHONE CALL
SAYS TO PROCEED.”
I blinked. The camera was pulling back. Another card was waiting to be read. “Thanks to the doctors at the Acne Foundation, I don’t look that way any more.” I stammered the words, my brain in a whirl. “As you can see, my condition has been completely cleared up. But what is it like to go around with a face the way mine was? One thing it's like is the feeling of constant rejection because the non-acned part of the population turns away from those marked by this dread disease. But, fellows, I’m here. to say that such an attitude is mistaken. When faced with a choice between the girl with facial blemishes and the girl who is clear of skin, don’t turn your back on the former. Instead, think about the latter this way: She may look clean, but—! Remember that you can see what the girl with acne is suffering from! And the other girl? Well, who can say what terrible and secret affliction she may be hiding? Yes, people with acne are so conscious of their appearance that they tend to be the cleanest people in the world. So I say to you—”
I listened to my voice droning on, but I wasn’t really paying attention to what I was saying. Twice more when there were pauses between my reading of the cue-cards, the one referring to the murder of Ex-Lax was flashed before my eyes again. Finally my stint was over and I took my seat at the table.
I found myself between Happy Daze and the lecherous adolescent who was slyly stroking April Wilder’s thigh under the table. Prince Juv Satir was in the spotlight now with a young Poversian girl whose sensational figure was spoiled by a face lumpy with acne. The Prince launched into a description of the Acne Foundation’s work in Poversia as Happy Daze leaned across to me to whisper.
“Would you say that acne strikes so indiscriminately as to be called a rash rash?” Happy asked. His immediate chortling told me he didn’t really expect an answer.
I wasn’t really paying much attention to Happy anyway. Nor was I concentrating on the Prince and his fellow Poversian. My hand was under the table, gingerly seeking out the button mentioned on the planted cue-card.
My fingers found it without too much trouble. I touched it lightly and then immediately pulled away. My eyes focused blindly on the Prince and the acne victim, but my mind was focused on the call which might be coming and how I should prepare myself to respond to it.
I didn’t want to murder anybody. That was the first point. The second one was more involved. I’d been double-crossed once already. How could I be sure this wasn't another double-cross? How could I be sure that my instructions were really coming from Castor Oil, and not from Ex-Lax? How did I know that when I pushed that button I might not be committing suicide instead of killing Ex-Lax? What was supposed to happen when the button was pushed, anyway? ‘What would happen if I didn't push it? I decided not to push it and find out.
The Prince was still on-stage when the phone at my elbow rang. I jumped. I let it ring a second time. The network man in the wings was signaling to me frantically to pick it up. I did-on the third ring and with shaking fingers.
“Proceed!” a voice said in my ear. My heart hit my windpipe and struggled to. get through it.
There was a click in my ear. Then another voice, and only then did I realize that the first one had been the network operator clearing the call. “You the fellow cured his acne?” the second voice asked.
“Y-Yes.” I managed to get my voice under control.
“You really believe a girl can go for a fellow with acne like for a fellow without?"
“I don’t see why not.”
“You dig pimple-faced girls?”
“Well, not exactly, but—”
“Then whatta you pushing?”
“I'm not pushing anything. I just think a girl with acne can be truly beautiful inside. After all,” I improvised inanely, “beauty is in the eye of the beholder.”
“Ahh! In your eye! You don’t dig pimply girls, why should a girl without dig a fellow with? Huh? Answer me that!”
“Pimples shouldn’t be the determining factors in man-woman relationships, maybe,” I offered hesitantly. “Anyway,” I added, “there are other calls coming in, sir. So if you’ll tell me what you care to contribute --”