My Neal Pollack is broken

by Aaron Kraus

For many celebrities it is the happy chance to endorse a range of products that confirms their status as a multidimensional personality and helps to separate them from their peers. Such lucrative signature product deals often signal a cultural ascent from merely famed to positively famous and are usually counted among the highest moments in a celebrity’s career. There is, however, an unlucky margin for whom it is an obligation borne of mismanaged fortunes, misspent evenings with prostitutes, or misplaced trust. And for an unluckier few it is a duty that is court designed and ordered as a means to repay debts to banks, whores, and publishers; but rarely is it all three and simultaneously.

Unfortunately, such was the declining trajectory of Neal Pollack’s celebrity following the millennial publishing of The Neal Pollack Anthology of American Literature. In the years since, so far had his star fallen that last week I found myself, while gift shopping at my local sex shop, staring down a rather unprofessionally packaged, and deeply discounted, Neal Pollack vibrator, with auxiliary anal stimulator attachment set beside it. I should say here that buyer’s remorse is seldom as quick to the scene as that wave of nausea that followed my handling—which, given the quality of the device, suggested that none had been sold without the invocation of the “you break it you bought it” clause—and payment for the unreturnable, battery operated personal stimulator.

With the monstrosity shielded behind the walls of the opaque black plastic bag, I exited the store to the laughter of both proprietor and patrons, and made my way uptown to the Batteries Plus where I hoped to find the Ukrainian Double [Cyrillic character unavailable] batteries that my Neal Pollack vibrator required for operation. En route, my girlfriend phoned and I assured her that I had indeed remembered our anniversary-night plans and that I would be home with her present just as soon as I made my last stop. We exchanged goodbyes and I was off the phone in less than a minute without any worry in the world.

On my drive uptown, I thought nothing of the horror that would slowly overcome my girlfriend as the wrapping paper was pulled back, first revealing the hot-pink and orange testimonial bubble in which Dave Eggers proclaims The Neal Pollack cLIToral Stimulator to be “of the finest craftsmanship ever court ordered”. Nor did I ever imagine any of the other reactions that my horrified girlfriend would cycle through as her eyes wandered over the picture of the titular Neal Pollack laying nude on a bed of surplus copies of Never Mind the Pollacks with the fluorescent red device posed in hand like a comically oversized pencil as he autographed one of the many hundreds of books supported atop his considerable gut. His upward glance toward the photographer seemed as cloying and as sadly desperate for attention as the picture that had introduced his most recent failure in the New York Times Review Of Books. Her eyes were aglow in a mix of shocked disbelief and fiery hatred.

Staring at the grotesque weapon resting on her lap my girlfriend swooned as she tried to stand but quickly caught herself on the arm of the sofa. “It’s ghastly! I wouldn’t have that thing near me and never IN me!” I clamored to cover the picture of Neal as I stood from the floor where only moments ago we had exchanged gifts in celebration of our third year of being together.

I tried to play it lightly, “It—it—it’s a joke! I thought you would get a kick out of—“

“Out of pleasuring myself with that dwarfish prick?!” she interrupted pushing the box to the floor. Her expression was that of resolute dismay.

“But, look here,” I took the box from the floor and showed her the side, “It says ‘All proceeds from the sale of this device go to those harmed by Neal’s destructive behavior in its myriad forms, both criminal and simply depraved.’!” I pointed plaintively at the small black type and re-read it as though the apparatus might eventually disappear with the recitation of some charmed phrase. Looking to have been somewhat appeased by the assurance that Neal would in no way profit from her pleasure I continued to press my case, albeit somewhat halfheartedly. “I just think this way you could, I don’t know, help out some of the people this guy has so viciously brutalized.” Her smile widened a bit as she took the box from my hands.

“Okaaay,” she conceded with a slight kiss to my cheek. “I guess it’s sweet, not the kind of sweet a person likes to use more than once, EVER—but still sweet.” It seemed all was forgiven.

Until later that night when she loaded the six batteries necessary to operate the machine and playfully introduced it during foreplay. “It smells like diesel fuel,” I noted as she seductively waved the manageably sized vibrator back and forth.

“I know, and it gets really hot when it’s not even on!”

“Maybe we should just throw it out.”

“No, no” she insisted “It was a gift and we ought to try it at least once. I mean the guy can’t be that bad.”

Incredulously, I asked, “Have you read The Neal Pollack Anthology of American Literature?” as she lowered the humming piece closer to her erogenous zone.

“Oh shit!” she screamed, halting all movement, “THAT Neal Pollack?!”

* * * * *

The next day, while I was away at work, she moved out of our apartment and took everything but the Neal Pollack vibrator. Left on the floor of our bedroom, she had written a short note and attached it to the vibrator, it read: “My Neal Pollack is broken, thanks for nothing.”

My contribution to the: