“My god, she’s ugly!” John whispered to Sue.
Sue was shocked and angry. “Look,” she whispered, returning his vehemence, “it was your idea to do a segment on the chronically poor. I just made the mistake of letting you know that I had met her and spoken to her a few times. I still think…”
“Are you still going on about her privacy?” John whispered in disbelief. “She sleeps in the park and lives off the streets and you’re worried about her sensibilities?”
“Look,” Sue furiously whispered, “she didn’t choose to live this way. She doesn’t have a choice. She’s trying to maintain what dignity she can, living in circumstances that would kill you or me. I don’t want to make her a star attraction in a freak show!”
“Sure…sure,” John retreated. “But, I can’t show that on national television.” John looked meaningfully at the old, worn woman sitting on the park bench, picking imaginary bugs off her ratty coat. “If we can’t make her presentable, most people are going to take one look at her and turn to Jeopardy. Don’t forget, no matter how important you might feel her story is, we’ve got to be able to sell her to Oshawa…”
“I’ll see what I can do,” Sue said, and she stepped around the camera and walked up to the woman. “Mrs. Frump?” she asked.
“Yes, Sue?” Mrs. Frump responded, adding, not unkindly: “Mind the bags.”
“I’m sorry. I’d…I’d like to put some makeup on you,” Sue very delicately suggested.
“Makeup?” Mrs. Frump asked. She looked and sounded amused. “Whatever for? I haven’t worn makeup in 30…40…” her voice trailed off into a memory.
Sue suggested that they treat it as a game. She didn’t think that she could explain Oshawa in terms that Mrs. Frump could understand, so she didn’t try. The two women spent half an hour in the bathroom, talking and playing with makeup.
“Are you satisfied?” Sue asked John when she had finished.
John hemmed and hawed, but ultimately had to admit that Mrs. Frump looked ridiculous in makeup, like a garish, wrinkled kewpie doll. “I’ll get her washed off,” Sue said, “and then we can start.”
“Okay,” John said, “but, can you at least try and stop her from picking at her coat?”
Mrs. Frump did not really understand why she had to take off the makeup, but she went along with it. She liked Sue. In the bathroom, she asked, “John. What does he do?”
“He’s the cameraman and the director,” Sue explained.
“What’s that?” Mrs. Frump asked further.
“He runs the camera and tells me what to do,” Sue told her.
“I can see that he tell you what to do,” Mrs. Frump stated, “but, I haven’t seen him work the camera. I don’t like him.”
“Sometimes,” Sue admitted with a laugh, “Neither do I.”
By the time the two women got out of the bathroom, the only thing left was a sound check. “Say something into the mike,” Sue asked Mrs. Frump.
“Roosevelt is a good man, a good President,” Mrs. Frump said. John smiled, assuming her error to be that of memory. Sue smiled, assuming her error to be that of verb tense.
They were ready to begin.
Then, Mr. Frump wandered into the park. “Hey, Missus,” he shouted, “what are you doing over there with those youngsters?”
“I’m going to be on TV!” Mrs. Frump proudly yelled back.
Mr. Frump approached them, suspicious. “Really?” he asked. “Why?”
“We’re with CBC news,” John explained. “We want to show people all about your problems…”
“Problems?” Mr. Frump, trying to pull himself erect, said. “We don’t have any problems. We get by…”
John looked meaningfully at Sue once again.
“Oh, we’re not doing as well as we used to,” Mr. Frump went on. “But, everybody’s having little problems. The Prime Minister says things are going to get better, though, and I’m sure that we’ll get back on our feet when they do…”
“Is this your husband?” Sue asked Mrs. Frump.
“Hard to remember if we were ever married proper,” Mrs. Frump admitted, “but, we’ve been living together for as long as I can remember, now.”
“What do you want?” Mr. Frump insisted upon knowing.
“We want to ask a few questions,” Sue explained. “You’ll be on TV, maybe even get famous…”
“I watch TV,” Mr. Frump proudly stated. “Well, if you must…”
The interview lasted over three hours. The final segment, as aired, ran four minutes, 37 seconds. John was satisfied with it; Sue hated it. Mr. and Mrs. Frump, who had to see it at the studio because their television set was “previously demolished,” were very happy with it. They didn’t pay much attention to what was being said; they were simply fascinated to see their own faces up there on the screen.
And, the two did become celebrities, of a sort: whenever some punks started pushing them around, they would say they had been on television. If the punks recognized their faces, they usually let Mr. and Mrs. Frump go without further trouble.