Maury Show: Origins

A Story by Matthew Quinn

Origin story for Maury Povich

He sat naked in front of the mirror in his bedroom running his finger nail up and down the shaft of his penis. His nails left streaks of red skin in their wake and he tried to spell his name with them, but wasn’t endowed enough for the task and ran out of room. MAUR, read his c**k. He was slightly annoyed by this, but refused to let it ruin his special day so he cut up two skinny strands of duct tape and placed them on the head of his penis in the shape of a Y. Content with his labeled dick, he made his way to the bathroom to prepare himself for the camera.

The walls of the bathroom were decorated in a light blue wallpaper with sailboats and where the wallpaper stopped and the floor started the sailboats were cut off just below the sail by the off-white tiles of the floor. Maury’s bare feet felt chilled when he stepped on the tiles and they left vague, glistening footprints behind from their sweat. Once directly in front of the mirror, he observed himself. He had pale green eyes on either side of an overly ambitious nose and his hair was dark black and combed over at his brow line so that it flopped to the right side of his head. The magnificent sight of himself made Maury smirk and the magnificent sight of his smirk made him smile. His cheek bones inflated like balloons as he beamed at his reflection.

Exiting the bathroom, he drummed his feet down the staircase of the Povich family home with his open right hand sliding along the wall for balance. At the bottom of the stairs, he came out onto the hardwood floor of his kitchen where he found his mother preparing dinner while using her shoulder to prop up a telephone with a curly cord that traced back to the wall. She spoke into the phone at an unnecessary volume and cackled whenever something humored her. Maury seated himself in the living room on a couch, but sat on it like it was a stool with an upright back that never touched the cushion behind it.

“Well I’m just glad that he’s found something he’s interested in.” Mrs. Povich leaned her hip against the refrigerator and stared at her son seated on the couch. Curling the cord around her finger, she continued to speak to the companion of her phone call. “Yeah, yeah, it’s just right on the TV it’s unbelievable. All’s he had to do was to send an application in now he’s got his own show... No, I told you, you won’t be able to watch it. It’s public access so it’s only here... Well, of course, yes, I’ll record it for you. His birthday is coming up I’ll have the whole family over and we can watch it together.”

“Mom,” interrupted Maury.

“What is its darling? I’m on the phone.”

“When’s dinner?”

“Whenever it’s ready.” She resumed her phone conversation. “Sorry about that, what was I saying? Oh, yes, I didn’t even tell you the best part. Me and Arthur are gonna be his guests… yes, for the show. We’re gonna be interviewed, it’s so exciting… Yes, exactly… It’s true I never know. He never tells me… And, y’ know he never has friends over. I don’t know a single one of his friends… I really think he’s reaching out to us here, he’s letting us into his world, he’s saying, ‘LISTEN, enough of the secrets, let’s be a family.’ I couldn’t agree with you more.”

The doorbell rang and Maury’s mother sent him to answer it. He swung open the thick wooden door and was greeted by a wide smile in a firefighter’s uniform, his other guest for the evening. Stepping into the house, the aggressively jovial firefighter made a show of shaking Maury’s hand. Exhaling his jolliness, he planted himself directly in front of Maury, said, “Sir,” and with a serious face tilted his head while simultaneously extending his hand. Maury accepted the handshake and attempted to handle the intensity of the eye contact directed towards him. The firefighter had dusty, dry hands with wrinkles that flowed like waves from the vertical movement. When the handshake broke, the firefighter’s stoic handshake-face washed away and his ravenous smile returned. They walked into the kitchen together and had a seat at the table.

Upon the entrance of the firefighter, Mrs. Povich said goodbye and hung up the phone. Addressing him, she said, “ooooh looks like my opening act is here. Welcome, welcome.”

“It’s very nice to meet you.” The smile on his face testified to his truthfulness.

“I made meatloaf. Do you like meatloaf? My husband should be home any minute he’s working late. We’ll wait until he gets here.”

“I’m very particular about my food so I hope you don’t mind that I have brought my own meal. It’s a tuna fish sandwich. Absolute perfection. Just bread and fish. Like Jesus ate.”

“That’s not a problem.” The grimace on her face denied her truthfulness.

The three of them sat at the table, which was already set with plates, cutlery, and dishes of food. The inside of a container of green beans was speckled with drops of water from condensation, and an obnoxiously large salad bowl obscured Maury’s view of the firefighter as he told a story. Without a view of his face, his exaggerated tone made it seem as if some sort of cartoon had been left on in the living room. Silently, Maury sat and waited for his father to arrive, which took over an hour and a half.

Beginning dinner, they carved up the meatloaf and distributed the slices. Maury cut his slice meticulously, pressing his fork firmly into the meat and cutting it up into evenly sized squares. His father cut off a piece, ate it, and then cut off his next piece. His mother cut her slice in half and placed the other half back on the dish with the rest of the loaf. The firefighter held a round tuna fish sandwich with both hands and took small bites. Forks and knives tap danced on the ceramic plates and the adults chatted.

“So, put out any burning buildings today?” asked Mr. Povich in a nudge-nudge type of way.

“Oh, no, not today, fortunately.”

“That reminds me, honey, did you turn the stove off?” Mr. Povich let out a powerful laugh and looked towards the firefighter expecting reciprocation.

“Would you like me to check?” offered the firefighter, earnestly.

“It’s alright my husband’s just being an a*****e,” responded Mrs. Povich.

Once everyone had finished eating, they made their way to the basement where Maury had already organized the furniture into a talk show format. Maury’s chair was set up diagonally towards the camera and the couch for his guests joined it to form an L-shape. Connected to the camera, a boxy television with wild wires ran a live feed of the footage. When Maury took his seat, his image appeared, flipped, on the television in front of him.

He began his vocal warm ups. “Mary Todd Lincoln lambasted the leper,” he over pronounced, followed by, “He annexed the planet because of the Xanax.” Behind the camera his parents and the firefighter stood waiting.

When his vocal cords were sufficiently loosened, he walked over to the camera and hit the record button, then rushed back to his seat before it started recording. From his chair, he looked into the camera and made his introductions. Reading from a note card, he said, “I, Maury Povich, would like to welcome the Washington D.C. area to my show. I am Maury Povich.” His forehead glistened from nervous sweat and his exhales were audible. “This show, or, my show, as one might say, is called The Maury Povich Hour of Interviews and Entertainment.”

“Long name,” Mrs. Povich declared to her husband from behind the camera. Maury shot her a look.

“Tonight, our first guest,” Maury continued, “is a firefighter named Donald Casper who fights fire for the fire department called the District of Columbia Fire Department. He is here. Here he is.” Maury gestured his hand out to Mr. Bell who stayed put not understanding the meaning of the gesture. “I would like to welcome, now, firefighter Donald Bell to be interviewed.”

“You’re too kind,” said Mr. Bell from behind the camera.

Maury still spoke directly to the camera. “Here, on camera, now, I welcome Donald Casper, a firefighter, to be interviewed. On camera. Now.”

“I think you’re supposed to go out there now,” offered Mrs. Povich to Mr. Casper

“I thought I was supposed to wait for the music to start playing,” responded Mr. Casper

Mrs. Povich turned towards her son. “Honey, is he supposed to wait for the music?”

“There is no music,” he snapped back.

“I think there should be music. David Letterman has music.”

“I would much prefer there be music. It will make my entrance more fantastical,” added Mr. Bell.

“I don’t have any music.” Maury’s eyes were wild with frustration.

His father ended the discussion. “For Christ’s sake, Maury, just sing something so we can get a move on here.”

Maury glanced to the camera and then back to his father and then back to the camera and then back to his father. He shifted in his seat, pressing his forearms down on the arms of the chair and sliding his butt from one side to the other. A throat clearing grunt seamlessly transitioned into a lazily improvised series of oh’s and la-la’s that spurred Mr. Bell’s movement towards the couch.

Mr. Bell graciously waved to a non-existent audience before he took his seat on the couch facing Maury. “Hello! Thank you for having me!”

“You’re a firefighter. Is that correct?”

“Indeed! I volunteer for the District of Columbia Fire Department. And the thing that’s actually quite funny is that my name, Donald Casper, has the initials D.C. and my wife’s name is Farah and her maiden name is Decker. So, at our wedding, it was like another day at the office!”

“But besides being a firefighter, you have other interests. Is that correct?”

“It is! Indeed! My second love besides the department, opps, I mean my third love behind my wife and the department, is tuna fish. A tuna fish sandwich is absolute perfection. I make my own and I like to believe that they’re pretty darn good. So, I’m here to announce the potential opening of my tuna fish sandwich restaurant. Look around town, there is a distinct lack of places where someone can get a quick, high-quality tuna fish sandwich. Mind you, I am not saying that I am opening a tuna fish sandwich restaurant, but here, on your show, I’m making the exclusive announcement that I have begun to consider it as a possibility.”

“And you have brought some of your tuna fish sandwiches for us to try. That’s - Is that correct?”

“Actually, I only have one, and if you don’t mind I would like to keep it as a snack for myself.”

“We have two more guests on the show. Would you like to stick around?”

“I would be delighted!” Mr. Casper reached behind the couch and grabbed a brown paper bag. Reaching in, he extracted a tuna fish sandwich wrapped in tin foil.

Now speaking directly to the camera, Maury proclaimed, “Our next guests are my parents. Give a warm welcome to my parents, Mr. and Mrs. Povich, as our next guests.”

They walked out from behind the camera towards the couch. Mrs. Povich had a wide, excited smile on her face and Mr. Povich looked blank and uninterested. Mr. Casper scooched down the couch to make room for them and began to nibble at his tuna fish sandwich with both hands wrapped around it, never lowering it below his chest. Once on the couch, Mrs. Povich sat closest to Maury and Mr. Povich sat next to her.

“How long have you two been married?” baited Maury.

Mrs. Povich, still beaming, placed her hand onto her husband’s arm, and replied, “Well, we’ve been married for 22 years, but we’ve known each other for almost thirty! Isn’t that right, sweetie?”

“Uh, yes, almost thirty. 25 maybe. I’m not sure”

“22 years of marriage is a long time. And an awful lot to throw away for a secretary.”

“A secretary?” laughed Mrs. Povich. A look of mild concern flashed over Mr. Povich’s face.

“We have a surprise guest today on the show. This show. Vanesa Beckman, my father’s secretary and mistress,” he glanced down at his note cards, “who, according to her, she said, in her words, loves all types of animals except for the scary ones and bugs and birds and anything that bites or smells. Welcome her now.”

Realizing that Vanesa was waiting outside in her car and that he had not given her a cue to come down, he ran up the stairs and out the door to go and get her. His father yelled after him asking him what was going on. When he returned, his father was off the couch pacing around the basement with his hands on his hips and fury in his eyes. Upon seeing Vanesa, he snapped.

“Son, what the hell are you doing?”

Ignoring him and instead reclaiming his seat and addressing the camera, Maury said, “Vanesa Beckman ladies and gentleman.”

Mrs. Povich sat slumped on the couch with her head in her hands.

“Are you f*****g kidding me, Maury? You see what you’re doing to your mother? I’m out of here, I can’t believe this.”

Mrs. Povich’s head burst up from her lap and she fired at him, “Walk away! Just walk away! Refuse to even address that you’re CHEATING on me with this W***E!”

“Did you just call me a W***E? You B***H! Maybe if you knew how to please a man your husband wouldn’t have needed me!” Vanesa stood over Mrs. Povich on the couch.

“I’ve been pleasing men since before you were even BORN, sweetheart. Don’t you tell me that I don’t know how to please my husband!”

Mr. Povich continued his pacing. “You see what you’ve done, Maury, you see what you’ve started.”

“Oh, so this is his fault. It’s his fault that you’re f*****g your secretary. Take responsibility, Arthur!”

“I’m leaving.”

“You walk up those stairs and this marriage is over! We are gonna do this show. I want all of Washington D.C. to know what a CHEATING PIG you are!”

Reluctantly, and after several proclamations that this whole thing was absurd, Mr. Povich seated himself on the couch in between Mr. Casper and his wife who shied away from him towards the arm rest. Noticing the large gap between them, Vanesa chose to seat herself there right between the feuding husband and wife. For a brief period while Maury perused his note cards, the only sound was the mushy clomping of Mr. Casper nibbling away at his tuna fish sandwich.

Breaking the silence, Maury said, “Having a mistress breeds mistrust.” He pronounced the word mistrust like mistrist to further emphasize the play on words. He had prepared the line in advance. “Mom, how do you feel with the knowledge that you now know that your husband has been having an affair?”

Mr. Povich intercepted the question. “I’m not even having an affair. She’s just my secretary.”

“Bullshit! You’re a cheating prick and you know it!” screamed Mrs. Povich over Vanesa to her husband.

“Do not talk to my boyfriend like that!” Vanesa interrupted.

“Your boyfriend, he’s my HUS-BUND!”

“I’m not her boyfriend. I swear, she’s just my secretary,” Mr. Povich pleaded.

Maury reached into his pocket to pull out a folded up piece of paper. His hand struggled to wiggle into the tight pocket of his jeans, but, eventually, he retrieved it. The paper was folded into a square and its edges were dulled from having been in there for so long. Unfolding the document was a slow process because his shaking hands lacked the necessary dexterity, and while he worked on opening it up Vanesa and his parents continued arguing. The open paper had a square grid from where it was folded over a list of charges from his father’s credit card.

In order for the audience to view the paper, Maury stood up and held it in front of the camera. His shaky hands prevented the camera from focusing in on the text so the live-feed television displayed blurry black lines. Still holding the paper up, Maury twisted his neck around to look at his guests. “As, you can see, twice a week, my father makes a charge on his credit card at the Holiday Inn.”

“I can’t see anything,” said Mrs. Povich, “hold the paper steady.”

Maury placed two hands on the paper, and, facing the wall, asked, “Is that good?”

“No still blurry,” said Vanesa, “Here let me do it.” She stood up and took Maury’s place holding the paper in front of the camera. “How’s that?”

“Much better,” said Mrs. Povich, before adding, “you s**t.”

Back in his chair, Maury pointed out the charges to the hotel on the television. As he went on, Mr. Povich slumped down on the couch and seemed to grow tired with the skin under his eyes puffing out like airbags. When Maury was finished, he turned to his wife and tried to take her hands. She resisted and yanked them away so he rested his hands on her knees and did his best to make eye contact despite her down casted gaze.

“Honey, I’m sorry. It’ll never happen again. You mean everything to me”

“How am I supposed to believe that?”

“Because I love you.”

Mrs. Povich broke down in tears. With pools in her eyes and rivers running down her cheeks, she looked at her husband and considered forgiving him. However, she became distracted when Maury started to speak to the camera again.

“We have one more surprise for the night,” he said while reaching his hand into the crevice between the cushion of his chair and the arm rest. When his hand emerged, it held a sealed envelope. He ripped it open and took out the paper that it contained. “My mom is angry at my father for having an affair, but, herself, has she been faithful?”

“No,” said Mrs. Povich, “what are you doing?”

“Let him finish.” Mr. Povich held his arm out in front of his wife. Vanesa noticed that she was still holding the paper with the credit card charges in front of the camera and moved it.

Maury continued, “Recently, at the doctor, I got a DNA test. I brought one of my father’s hairs, and- From his comb, that’s where I got the hair- and I went to the doctor and here are the results of what happened when I was at the doctor.”

“Why in the world did you get a DNA test?” asked Mr. Povich

The results from the DNA test were folded into thirds with bottom third tucked under the top third. Maury unfolded the paper. Everyone in the room was silent. Maury said, “Mr. Povich, you are not my father.”

He wrapped up the show and exited the room walking up two sets of stairs to the second floor. Entering the bathroom, he immediately migrated to the mirror. Unzipping his jeans and dropping them to his ankles, the strongest erection of his life sprang to attention. The marks from his finger nails had faded away but the duct tape remained. When he removed it, it left white flesh where it had once been, and, when he rubbed at it with his hand, he rolled up the residue from the sticky side of the duct tape into long skinny strands. Writing with his fingernail, he attempted to spell out his name again. This time there was plenty of room. Maury, read his erection.

“Maury,” he said to his reflection

“Maury,” he repeated, “you’re absolute perfection.”