"And tonight we have that miracle product--You've seen it in the stores, you've heard about it from your friends, now order it yourself at the new special introductory price!" The infomercial lady's voice rang out, jubilant and friendly. With an introduction like that, who could resist calling the easy one-eight-hundred number and relaying thier credit card information and life stories to the ever-helpful operators?

The camera zoomed out, showing more of the simple set to the viewers at home, for whom the program was being broadcast. The hostess sat behind a simple faux-mahogany desk, and her special guest, the product's designer, was perched in an oversized chair next to her. He seemed singularly ill at ease.

"Hello, and good morning everyone," the woman beamed proudly. "We are honored to be able to bring you this short informational message, and very honored to be able to bring it to you straight from the horse's mouth!" She grinned at her guest, who shrugged awkwardly.

So now I'm equine teeth, is that it? he thought derisively. How they'd gotten him here was anyone's guess. He couldn't even remember agreeing to it, only that someone had told him to get in the limo, get there, smile and be gracious. He had a sneaking feeling the latter was going to be a challenge.

"Yes, it's Mr. Michael Nesmith, singer, actor, author, and now inventor. Mr. Nesmith, would you mind telling us how you got the idea for this product?" the hostess turned to him with a million-watt grin that made him want to cringe and shield his eyes from the reflected stage lighting.

Mike felt the ability to be polite in the face of confusion and idiocy leave him. "What product? Look, I don't even know what I'm doin' here, okay?"

The woman laughed. "And a comedian as well! Well, as you well know, sir, we're here to make sure the public is well-educated the populace on your new product--Dr. Duck's Super Secret All-Purpose Sauce."

He gritted his teeth and refrained from saying "Well, well, well," in a sarcastic tone of voice. He smiled tersely instead. "Oh, you're sellin' videos. Okay. That I can handle--"

"No, no, sir. Not the video. The sauce."

"What sauce?"

The woman laughed again, a sound that was beginning to grate on Mike's nerves almost as much as her smile. "Why, this sauce, of course, that miracle product--" she whipped out a small bottle wrapped simply in a brown wrapper that bore a slightly evil looking, cartoonish, yet proudly grinning picture of Mike himself with the name of the product proudly emblazoned over its forehead. She continued on with a speil regarding the many uses of the item. "On the first day, you'll lose ten pounds..."

He wasn't sure how to react. Outrage that she was viciously plagarizing his lyrics? Outrage that she was reciting them so badly? Or simple astonishment that such an outrageous parody could be taken seriously?

Opting for the latter, he gaped in silence. That stuff wasn't real. It didn't exist. It was a figment of his imagination, patently impossible to be made and unable to be sold. What on earth were the gullible people getting when they sent their money? They were using his name to scam people!

Emboldened by this realization, he cut off the info lady in mid-sentence. "Look, whoever you are," he growled, "I don't know what you're tryin' to pull here, but I do not appreciate it. You'll be seein' my lawyers."

"Mr. Nesmith, I'm sorry, but I don't see what the problem is," the woman smiled ingratiatingly. Whether she knew it or not, her smile was a very potent weapon. Not for beauty, but for sheer blinding power. Mike turned away slightly as she continued, "Now, why don't you tell us what all this little miracle does."

Although what he wanted more than anything else right then was to either get up and storm out, or punch the woman's teeth out, Mike stayed put in the chair. He was upset, but determined to get to the bottom of this charade. Plus, he'd just spent too much time with messy legal procedures and he didn't want to have to do it again--he wanted to settle this here and now.

So, he smiled back, thin and sarcastic. When the hostess gleamed back at him, her face full of trust, he realized that the situation didn't have to be so horrible. What was stopping him from having a little bit of fun here on live TV?

"Well," he began, "Actually, I don't know quite what it does. Tests have confirmed that it's highly radioactive and'll make your hair fall out. Kind of like reverse Rogaine. And I won't even mention how it compares to Viagra," he grinned wickedly.

He was sure that would provoke some reaction. What he didn't expect was enjoyment.

The woman laughed. "Oh, Mr. Nesmith, you are such a kidder."

All right. So that hadn't worked. He tried another tactic. "I know, Doreen."

"What did you call me?"

"Doreen."

"Why?"

He glared at her. "Well, I don't know. Your people practically kidnap me, bring me here, and expect me to wax poetic about somethin' that doesn't exist, I figure the least I can do is give you a name."

"My name's Elisa."

"That's a nice name, Doreen."

He smiled, proud that he had flustered her so much. Surely she'd give in any time now. "I really do go by the name thing I mentioned in my book," he continued casually. "Have you read it?"

"Um... I can't say that I have..."

"Really?" he asked scornfully. "Well, I figured you would. Pre-show research. Or do you not do that on hack shows like this?"

Elisa looked at him blankly. Mike took this as his cue to continue.

"It says a lot about how to use this product, actually. I thought I'd see how it went over in print before actually tryin' to sell it outright. It's the true American pate, breaks magic windows, feeds the hungry, tastes like dirt, is fifteen million years old, and shuts down porn sites on the internet."

Elisa nodded, choosing to take his sudden rush of a postive tone as an encouraging sign. At least he was talking about the product now. She smiled at the camera again.

"Yup, and that's not all. It eats your furniture. It animates buscuits and gets rid of cows. It chromes the duck and hands out tissues. It's better than a melmac plate on your forehead, and makes up catchy tunes at the spur of the moment." Mike knew he was on a roll now. Thank god for all that nonsense in those videos. "It smells like broccoli and sails from Hawaii to Malibu. It even defends you against people armed with sponges. Starts up your truck when it won't start. And inflames your natural paranoia. Even stops fits of BeeGees disease. Just to prove a point."

He paused for a moment, then finally stood up and approached the camera. "You know, I bet a lot of you out there in TV land don't believe all this. And that's okay, because it is a lie. It's all fake. This product does not exist. But you're gonna buy it anyway. And that's just fine with us. We just don't think the American people are stupid, we're banking on it."

He grinned. It must be being in front of a camera again, something he hadn't done in quite a while. All those instincts just came flooding back. Now that he'd downed any hopes of success for the "secret sauce," whatever it turned out to be, he resisted the urge to turn this into a real commercial venture by starting to sing or ramble on about his novel. He could peddle his wares some other time, this silly stuff was too much fun.

"Um, Mr. Nesmith?" Elisa asked, quietly.

Suddenly, when he heard her tone, with all its connotations of failure, the anger he'd pressed down and hidded under a thin veneer of enjoyment came hurtling to the surface of his consciousness. He turned on her, growling, "What? You upset I'm talking for myself? Upset that I'm not taking all this shit seriously? I don't know what you've got in that bottle, and I don't want to. Dish soap? Water? Sewage? I don't care. It's all fake. None of this is real. That product does not exist and I for one am not too pleased that you think I'm stupid enough to sit back and watch you con people like this!"

Elisa stared at him in shock.

In the moment of silence, someone from the hired studio audience called out, "Well, it may not exist, but neither do you!"

Mike whirled and squinted out through the lights. "What?"

A young woman stood up and made her way through the audience. "You don't exist. So I don't see what you're so upset about."

Unfortunately, Mike had no idea what to do in the face of such surrealism. "I... don't... exist?"

"Nope," she smiled proudly, clamboring up on the stage. "Hi, I'm Carrie." She stuck out her hand, and Mike shook it weakly, soical instincts covering his total inability to deal with the situation at hand.

"Pleased to meet you," she continued. "Now, if you'll just go sit over there, I'll get on with this."

"What?" He mentally kicked himself. Surely this was just another ploy to get him to relent. But this one appeared to be working. He wandered back to his seat and stared out at the lights, in a daze. Elisa had vanished somewhere, but he was too confused to really care what was going on any more.

Carrie smiled broadly out at the camera. "Are you in the middle of a life-crisis? Do you think you don't exist? Well, don't wonder any longer! Just call now, and order this handy guide!" She held up a slim oversized paperback. "I Am Not That... or Am I?"

Mike was so bewildered that he couldn't even work up proper indignation that they'd stolen one of his song titles.

"And to demonstrate the practical uses of knowing your state of existence, we have a special guest, Mr. Michael Nesmith, who refuses to acknowledge that he is one of the non-existent." She turned to him and smiled again. "So, Mr. Nesmith, how are you today?"

"Fine," Mike heard himself lie.

"That's great! And, sir, do you exist?"

The wave of insecurity passed and his anger returned. He shot out of his chair and approached the front of the stage. "I am not even dignifyin' that with a response. And I am sick of bein' treated like a sheep here! Get off the stage and stop this goddamn hack program. No, actually, stand here and ridicule yourself. I don't care. I am leaving!"

Carrie shot a small benevolent smile at him. "I'm sorry, sir, but I'm afraid we can't have that. Outbursts from the non-existent? If we let that go on... well... we just cannot allow it. Good bye."

>From this point on, the home veiwer was probably a little confused by what had occurred. One minute, the special guest was ranting and raving, and the next he just... wasn't. Most assumed he had left quietly during the following commercial break.

In fact, most of the viewers didn't even understand that there had been a product shift, and continued calling in and ordering the sauce, just as if nothing had happened.

During the last scheduled break, Carrie ran over and harassed one of the handy ever-friendly operators to find out how the sales of the book were going.

"Ain't sold a-one yet," she was told.

"What? But... but... the phones keep ringing off the hook!"

"They're orderin' the other stuff."

"What? But that's a fraud! This is real! You saw him pop out of existence, didn't you? What's more proof than that?"

"Well," a small voice came from the direction of the desk, "Maybe you don't exist either."

Carrie whirled around to see Elisa peering over the top of her faux-mahogany three-drawered shield.

"Of course I exist!" she protested, and then promptly failed to.

"Huh. Guess there's somethin' to that after all," Mike said, rising from where he had hidden behind the chair. "Thanks, Doreen." He smiled out at the audience, then shook his head and quickly left the stage. Never again. Whole thing was probably just one damn big publicity stunt that they hadn't filled him in on. He resolved to find a new booking agent at the first opportunity. On his way out, he snatched one of the copies of the strange little book to peruse during the flight back home.

The driver outside waited an hour and a half for Mike to emerge from the studio, then gave up. He hated chauferring for rich people. They thought the whole damn world exists for them. Well, fine, he'd teach this one. See how he liked having a non-existent limo waiting for him.