Flavor of the Month

by Olivia Goldsmith

  But he found that she was someone to talk to. Unlike the beauties, she listened, she responded, she was warm, loving, and always honest. Sam groaned aloud. Yes, she was honest, and he valued honesty and truth, although he couldn’t seem to manage much of either one lately. Jesus Christ, why was life like this? It was some kind of cosmic practical joke: you can’t get what you want without sticking it to someone else.

  Well, once upon a time, three years ago, Mary Jane was what he wanted. He had to keep reminding himself of that. Oh, it might have started as a pity fuck, but she blew him away. She was hot, and right there. She’d bailed him out with her warmth and her performance, and it was so touching to see how much she obviously loved him. He had been moved by her passion, and her gratitude, and when he compared it to the coolness and self-interest of Shayna and Nora and all those pretty, difficult girls that came before, he felt happy for the first time.

  Mary Jane asked for nothing, and she gave him everything. If there was an imbalance in that, he had felt too comfortable to question it. Not that he hadn’t had a few relapses. He’d slept with a few cuties, but it was pleasant, even powerful, to go back to Mary Jane. It let him off the hook with them. And he had promised her nothing. Absolutely nothing. He’d always been clear about that. Still, she grew on him. It became natural to stay at her house: it was comfortable there, with a soup always cooking on the back burner, and his laundry sorted and folded and even ironed. He’d had a chance to regroup, to lick his wounds. It was like going back to the womb. Her big body was motherly. And she believed in him the way his own thin, beautiful, wasted bitch of a mother never had. Mary Jane’s belief and talent sustained him. They worked together all day, intense in the Jack and Jill rehearsals, and then they comforted one another at night. She might be the first and only woman that he’d ever really loved. He’d even been tempted to ask her to marry him. Not that he was the marrying kind.

  She’d brought him luck. When the play hit, it was her performance that got raves, that drew in the crowds. They moved it to a larger theater, but were still Standing Room Only. He knew she was a cinch for the Obie. She believed he’d get one, or maybe two. They had: Best Actress, Best Play, Best Director.

  So, instead of slitting his throat before he was forty, as he’d planned, he was flying out to the coast and making a movie. He’d held out for getting to direct it. His agent was sick about it: she didn’t like to work for her money, but in this case she’d had to. No sale of Jack and Jill unless he, Sam Shields, got to direct. And, finally, Hollywood had gone for it.

  But he wasn’t going to get to enjoy the triumph. No. Because Hollywood was definitely not going to risk sixteen million dollars on a plain, fat, unknown actress for the lead, even if the role called for one, even if it was, as they said, “a small film.” It was a part of the deal from the get-go. Crystal Plenum was interested. If she signed, it was a guaranteed money-maker. So he got to be the bad guy, to break the news to Mary Jane. Try being happy looking at spaniel eyes that followed you everywhere, spaniel eyes that said, “It’s all right to kick me. I’m used to it.”

  He knew that she must resent the shit out of him, but she’d never say so. It was the one dishonesty she’d ever tried. She had simply accepted. And her voice on the taped message seemed fine, normal. But it didn’t play. Jesus, how it didn’t play. Thank God he’d never proposed.

  So, here he was, sorting his own laundry in his own dusty apartment. Because he couldn’t face those spaniel eyes. She hadn’t landed anything else since Jack and Jill closed. Christ! That, at least, wasn’t his fault. He was coming to believe that she wanted to be a victim. And that she was punishing him by not allowing him to enjoy his success.

  The message machine beeped again. “Hi, Sam. It’s Bethanie. I wondered if we could get together again.” The breathy voice paused; then she giggled. “I mean I’d like to. I’ll be home all day before rehearsal tonight. Bye.”

  Shit. The troupe had rehearsal scheduled. He had almost forgotten. Jesus, after the sun and studios of Los Angeles, he wasn’t sure he could handle St. Malachy’s basement tonight. And, to be honest, the revue he was throwing together, though a crowd pleaser, was really just a bone. The machine beeped again.

  “This is Sy Ortis of Early Artists calling Mr. Shields. Please call our Los Angeles office at 553-0111.” Sam raised his brows. Sy Ortis himself had called? Wait until my agent hears this: that I’m being called by the biggest power broker in L.A.! Sam thought of the old Industry joke: A writer comes home to find the police and the fire department at his house. A detective greets him with the news that his agent has gone berserk, come to his house, raped his wife, killed his kids, and burned the place down. The writer looks stunned. “My agent came to my house?” he asks.

  Well, Sy Ortis hadn’t quite come to his house, but he had made the call himself, not delegated it to some effeminate assistant. Sam played the message again, just to be sure. God, he thought, I really am hot. Well, he was happy with his representation, but he would call Sy back. He scribbled down the number.

  There was one more message. “Hi, big boy. And I’m talking to your dick when I say that. Hope the flight was fine. Give me a call.” Sam smiled. April Irons was so secure she didn’t bother to say who it was. He’d better erase this tape. Not that Mary Jane came to his place often, but just in case.

  The thought of her once again wiped the smile from his face. Because, despite April, despite the others, he did love M.J. He hoped she would decide to come to L.A., though he was ashamed of her. But he also knew that he needed her, now more than ever. Despite the heat, despite the shot he had at the big time, despite the buzz, or maybe because of it all, he was afraid. Afraid he’d lose his shot at the brass ring. Bungle it, and wind up living his life out in obscurity. Ah, well, he’d see M.J. tonight. That would be soon enough. And in the meantime, perhaps he would pay a visit to Bethanie.

  3

  Mary Jane went down the stairs to the cavernous church basement that, for the last fourteen years, had been used as a rehearsal hall and showcase theater. Thank God for the warmth, she thought, walked into the large room, and stood for a moment, taking in the delicious sounds of actors gathered for a production.

  The vast room was low-ceilinged, with pillars breaking the big space into several areas. The walls were painted church-basement green, the floor a gray vinyl tile. Folding chairs of every design, color, and condition lined the perimeters of the room. At the far end was a small raised stage. A shabby deep-red curtain hung open, displaying the narrow backstage space and the klieg lights. Several people were already huddled in a small circle, running lines. Two women were adjusting the height of the lights, although the show was far from ready for lighting. Mary Jane spotted a table off to the side which held a big pot of coffee and several open boxes of supermarket cakes and chocolate-chip cookies. Thank God! Empty carbohydrates and caffeine!

  Sipping from a chipped mug, chewing one cookie and clutching another, she finally smiled. Mary Jane loved the animation, the excitement, whenever actors gathered in a room. Despite all her years in the New York theater scene, she never took it for granted. An actor could never afford to take the opportunity to work for granted, even if it was, here, unpaid. Because this ensemble group was good. Sam ran it, wrote for it, directed it. After he’d come back from L.A. the first time, almost seven months ago, he’d promised everyone that his next trip to California was only temporary, and that he’d come up with the idea for this revue. After directing Jack and Jill, he’d be back. Sam could never be happy in L.A., the town of false happy endings. His work was too real, too gritty, too involved with the realities of living life in good faith. The troupe had already had a few minor successes, along with the major one of Jack and Jill. If the rest of the actors felt any resentment or envy of Sam, they lived with it. Because you never knew what casting agent or director might turn up in the audience.

  She sipped the coffee again and felt herself thawing out. Everyone here is just like me, Mary Jane though
t. She had known some of these people for almost a dozen years, and to her they were family. We’re all broke or just hanging on, all more or less talented, and we’re all determined to make it. Some would look and see a roomful of actors, but it was also a roomful of waiters, cab drivers, speech coaches, word processors, and bartenders. Everyone with a day job. What we do for love of the theater, she sighed.

  “Mary Jane.” She turned to see Bethanie Lake, the newest member of the ensemble, walking across the floor with a fresh pot of coffee. The girl glowed. Mary Jane watched the young woman as she swayed, balancing the coffee. Though she wasn’t very good, she was very pretty. Mary Jane never would have voted her into the group, but Sam had lobbied for her. And Mary Jane respected his judgment.

  Bethanie was so pretty, M.J. had to work hard at not resenting her. She was the type her grandmother had admired, while the old woman ridiculed M.J.’s own looks. Mary Jane had never forgotten her grandmother’s childrearing: the poor food, the humiliation of the cheap, dirty clothes, the remarks and the scorn she got from Grandma and the other girls at school. But worst of all had been her own awareness that her grandmother had been right—cruel, but right—when she called her fat and ugly and a ridiculous dreamer.

  She remembered sneaking into the dark, mildewed bathroom of the farmhouse to check on her reflection, hoping for some contradiction of her fears. She would turn on the light, a single sixty-watt bulb that extended from the wall over the bathroom mirror without benefit of a shade. She would open, the shallow drawer in the chipped Formica vanity beside the sink and scrabble amidst the old hair clips, broken scissors, and half-used tubes of ointments, looking for the hand mirror. It had been a double-sided one, with a cracked magnifying glass on the back, two ancient rubber bands holding it together. Clasping it in her right hand, Mary Jane had to open the medicine cabinet so that it stood out from the wall, its age-speckled mirror facing the toilet. Then Mary Jane would climb up onto the commode seat and crouch there. It was the only way she could see her profile, and, awful as it was, it mesmerized her.

  Each time, before she looked, she had paused for a moment, closed her eyes, and whispered one last prayer. Her heart always pounded, and her palms were always moist. Then, each time, she held the mirror in her left hand, angling it so that she could just manage to peer into it and see her profile reflected back at her in the larger, medicine-cabinet mirror. And each time her heart sank.

  Her nose jutted out in a high arch from her forehead, her thick eyebrows almost meeting there. Then the nose flared out into a fleshy blob over her thin lips. Her chin, what there was of it, receded into her neck. Her cheeks were too full, formless chipmunk pouches. Except chipmunks were cute, she had thought. Chipmunks were attractive. Her face was unbalanced, horrible.

  Each time that she crouched there and stared at her reflection, hot tears had filmed her eyes, as they did now. And each time she had, in the end, turned back to the mirror to face her enemy. Her eyes, still teary, big and brown, had stared at her from under the beetle brows. Windows to the soul, she’d thought. What good did it do her to have pretty brown eyes? So she could see how ugly she was? Nice joke, God.

  At thirteen, Mary Jane Moran had known a few things. She had known that she was smarter than most of the kids in school. That wasn’t hard in a place like Scuderstown, New York. Let’s face it, she had been smarter than most of the teachers, too. But she hadn’t let it show if she could help it. People didn’t like you if you were smarter than they were. Her grandma had always called her “Miss Smartypants,” and made it sound not like a baby word, but like a real insult. Mary Jane also had known that her grandma didn’t love her. And she’d known that she was ugly, and probably would stay so. So, then, nobody would love her. Ever.

  Now pretty Bethanie refilled Mary Jane’s mug. What skin! She looked as if she’d just had sex! “Oh, bless you, Bethanie. How could you tell I needed it?” Mary Jane sipped the hot liquid and moaned with relief while Beth helped her arrange her wet garments on a chair behind her.

  “So. Tell me. How was Unemployment?”

  Mary Jane paused for a moment. Had she mentioned to Bethanie that today was her reporting day? She didn’t think so. How had she known? Well, it wasn’t important. Mary Jane shrugged.

  “Pretty much as I expected, Beth. It’s the end of my twenty-six weeks. The well’s going dry.”

  “I’m sorry, Mary Jane. Is there anything I can do to help?”

  She was very sweet, Mary Jane knew. Pretty, not too talented, but very sweet. Mary Jane had seen a thousand of them. They all had thin thighs and cute names. Bethanie was newly arrived in town, and filled with ambition and awe. Too bad that, despite Bethanie’s face and body, she’d never make it. In New York you had to be able to read before you could act. But, hey, Mary Jane thought, you never can tell. There’s always television.

  “You can’t help any more than you just did. Thanks for the coffee.” Looking around the noisy room, she asked, “Is Sam here yet?”

  “Yes, we’ve been here about an hour. Oh, we’ve come up with a wonderful scene for you and me to do together.”

  We? Mary Jane thought, and sighed. Another starry-eyed actress in love with her director. Mary Jane had gotten used to it. She looked around for Sam, but he wasn’t anywhere among the bustle that she could see. “That’s great, Bethanie, I’d love to work with you. What kind of thing is it?”

  “Well, it’s sort of a spoof on a magic act. It could be good.” Bethanie was all enthusiasm. “You know, I’ve wanted to work with you since I first joined the company. You’re so, I don’t know, so professional. I know I’ve learned a lot from you already, just watching you. I feel the older, you know, the more experienced actresses have so much to offer, like role models.”

  Great. Thirty-four years old, never been in a Broadway production, and I’m referred to as a “role model.” Why doesn’t she just roll out the wheelchair? That’s it, Mary Jane thought. Today qualifies as the worst day of the year and it’s only January. Stifling a groan, she turned as she heard Sam’s voice raised over the buzz in the room. Just hearing him warmed her better than the coffee had.

  “Okay, everybody, let’s settle down. We have a show to do.”

  Mary Jane moved with the others to the circle of chairs in the center of the space, glad that her conversation with the deadly Bethanie had been interrupted. She looked over to Sam and smiled, and he nodded. She wasn’t surprised. He had never been demonstrative in public. Well, he’d say hello later, at home, in bed. Now the work of improvisation, rehearsal, scripting, and more rehearsal would start up again. Together, this group of ragtags would create a polished theatrical work, a showcase for all their talents. They were working on an idea of Sam’s—to do a spoof of a variety show as in the days of television, but to show the backstage story as well. The working title was Snow Business.

  Mary Jane loved the idea. But, of course, that was why she loved Sam. He was brilliant. Funny, brilliant, and hers. So what if every now and then he was tempted by the latest little item? Sam had insisted, from day one, that theirs would be an open relationship. Mary Jane simply closed her eyes to his dalliances. Not that there had been any that she was certain of. As she took a seat, Mary Jane looked across the room at Sam, caught his eye again, and winked, but he didn’t wink back. Well, he was being the serious director again, she thought. Remember, he comes home with me, not with any of them, she reminded herself for the thousandth time.

  She loved watching him in the theater setting, loved drinking him in without his noticing. Tall and lanky, he moved with grace, like a dancer, Mary Jane thought. His usually pale skin was tanned from the California trip, and the two-day growth of beard and the black turtleneck sweater he favored reminded her, as always, of some Italian film star of the fifties. His long, silky black pony tail offset his slightly receding hairline. He was very aware of his hairline, and she sometimes caught him measuring it in the mirror. It may bother him, but not me, she thought.

  He’d be l
eaving for L.A. soon. What will I do then? she asked herself. Though she’d forgiven him for not being able to cast her in the film, Mary Jane wasn’t sure that she could bear to watch stoically while Jack and Jill and Compromise was made without her, and she doubted she’d get any work on her own in L.A.

  “Let’s face it,” she’d said to Sam, “I’m not the L.A. type.”

  “That’s why you’ll get work,” he insisted. “Character parts. I can almost guarantee it. You’re so fucking talented, even the morons out there will see it.”

  “Seymore LeVine didn’t see it,” she reminded him.

  “Oh, Seymore’s just a producer. He’s an asshole.”

  “It’s my impression that it’s the assholes who do the casting,” Mary Jane had said dryly.

  Sam had been more than disappointed; he’d seemed angry that she wouldn’t say she’d come—angry and guilty, a lethal mix—so maybe she shouldn’t risk the long separation. After all, Crystal Plenum had a reputation. And, to be honest, with Sam gone, Mary Jane had nothing going for her here. Worst of all, she wasn’t sure she could bear being without Sam for months. He had made her life worth living.

  Sam was handed a note by one of the troupe. He looked up, and that was all he needed to silence the room. “First an announcement,” he said. “This Saturday’s dinner will be at Chuck Darrow and Molly Closter’s place, in the East Village, Sixth Street, past Avenue A. As usual, the hosts will provide the pasta, everyone else brings the wine, bread, and dessert.” The tight circle turned to the couple and clapped lightly. Mary Jane almost always found the Saturday Movable Feast to be warm and homey. And Molly was her closest girlfriend. I’d hate to leave this. This is my family, she told herself, as she looked around at the friendly, bantering crowd, caught Molly’s eye, and smiled. Then Mary Jane’s gaze fell on Bethanie, but her huge gray eyes were staring at Sam, waiting for his next word. Has he slept with her? The thought was a little flicker of poison, like a serpent’s tongue.