Flavor of the Month

by Olivia Goldsmith

  She heard Mr. Ortis laugh. “I sure hope not, honey.”

  Sharleen hung up and looked around the large room of their new house. They had to get out of that really nice one-bedroom apartment in town—people would sit in the lobby all day waiting for her. Lenny from Mr. Ortis’ office found this big house for them, way out, almost in the Valley, with lots of land and trees around. And a high fence with a big gate. Mr. Ortis had hired security guards to sit at the gate and patrol the grounds twenty-four hours a day. And even they would go out of their way to peek at her whenever she walked on the lawn, or sat in the sun. It gave her the creeps, but she had to agree with Mr. Ortis. What else was she going to do?

  She knew what she’d like to do. She’d like to walk down the street somewhere, and look in store windows, try on some clothes, maybe buy some shoes, have a hamburger at McDonald’s, sit in a movie show. All the things she longed to do back in Texas. All the things she could do, now that she was making all this money. More money than she could think about. More money in one week than Mr. Hardiman, the richest man in Lamson, would make in a year. In ten years.

  But Sharleen couldn’t go to McDonald’s. Sure, she could get a twelve-dollar hamburger at one of them fancy restaurants that she’d been to since she made money. But make reservations to have a hamburger? And then the hassle of getting dressed up fancy and getting a limo and driver. Dean didn’t like to put on a tie, and he didn’t feel right in those places. And even there, in those fancy restaurants where they only have celebrities, even there she was ogled, and approached. And bothered. Mr. Ortis had said it was time to get a personal bodyguard, but Sharleen drew the line there. “I’m not the President, Mr. Ortis. No FBI,” she had said.

  But there was nothing like a Big Mac. So Dean would go for her, bring her one home with a vanilla shake, but it wasn’t the same. It wasn’t normal. She picked up another of them catalogues Mr. Ortis’ secretary had sent over when Sharleen told her how she couldn’t go out no more. Her money manager had told her to order whatever she wanted. Everything she wanted. He would tell her when she was spending over her budget. He hadn’t said anything yet, and she still had stuff being delivered every day, some in boxes still unopened. Sharleen knew she had to leave for her voice lesson, but she still sat there and flipped through the glossy pages, the color photos blurring before her eyes. Shopping from catalogues instead of in stores. Ordering food from outside to be delivered to the security guard instead of going out to dinner. Watching movies on the VCR and the thirty-five-inch Japanese TV, instead of going out to a show. It all would have sounded like heaven to her, once. But that was before she knew what fame was really like. Well, she better get a move on. She’d already missed ten minutes of her class.

  Sharleen heard the front door slam in the distance. Slowly, she forced herself to get up and go down the hall to Dean. “Howdy,” she said. “What did you get for tonight?”

  “Top Gun,” he said, “and Terminator 2. It’s about this guy…”

  Sharleen sighed. “Dean, didn’t we see them before?”

  “Yeah, but they’re real good,” Dean said as he made his way into the TV room and opened the cabinet. “Oh, and, yeah. I got us a paper-oney pizza, just like you like it, Sharleen.”

  Sharleen groaned.

  “What’s the matter, Sharleen?”

  Dean got that worried look on his face he got whenever he thought she was unhappy. “Nothing,” she said, with a big sigh. “Except I’m tired. I wish I didn’t have to go to voice. And then I got to go to exercise.”

  “Oh, why don’t you cut?” Dean asked.

  “Hey, we pay for them classes.”

  “So what?”

  The idea of simply not showing up was so sweet, so irresistible to Sharleen that she smiled for the first time that day.

  “I don’t have to be at work until the day after tomorrow. But even if I cut, I can’t go nowhere, do nothing. What could we do that’s fun?” She flopped onto the long Early American sofa.

  “I can show you something great,” Dean said. He whistled, and the three dogs all sat down. “Say your prayers,” he told them, and, one by one, the dogs stood on their hind legs, crossed their paws, and put their heads down.

  Sharleen had to laugh. “How did you get ’em to do that?” she asked.

  “Oh, I don’t know. Jest practiced them. It’s not a sin, is it?”

  “Surely not. It’s great, Dean.” She hugged him. “Hey, I got an idea,” Dean said, suddenly eager. “Want to play Parcheesi? This time I’ll let you win,” he said with a grin.

  “Dean, honey,” Sharleen said, very patiently. “I’ve read every magazine, seen every movie, played every game. I even went through all those new catalogues. There is nothing I want to do except get out and go for a walk. Nothing. And we both know I can’t do that.”

  “We could get that nice guy with the long limousine. He could drive us around awhile. How ’bout that?” he asked, hopefully.

  Sharleen didn’t want to upset him, and she could see she was. She forced a smile. “No, honey, I’ll be all right. Put on Top Gun first.”

  As he popped the cassette into the VCR, the phone rang, and Dean answered. “What?” she heard him say. Then, “You little piece of worm dirt. If I get my hands on you, I’ll cut…” He slammed down the phone.

  “Dean, don’t go getting yourself all upset. I’ll just unplug all the phones tonight. Now, let’s relax and enjoy ourselves, okay?”

  “Sure, Sharleen,” he said, but his face was red, and his eyes had teared up. “How come people are just so mean and dirty? I can’t believe what that guy just said about you. I tell you, Sharleen, something’s wrong when you can’t be left alone in your own home.” He flicked the switch of the remote control, and the screen lit up. Sharleen sat down beside him and stroked his soft, white-blond hair. It was funny: she should be happy, because she had everything she’d dreamed of: a nice house, a new TV, lots of clothes, and good stuff to eat. The Lord had provided for them. She should be grateful.

  Oh, Lord, Sharleen thought to herself. I should have been more careful about what I asked for. I guess I didn’t really believe You’d give it to me.

  6

  The traffic slowed suddenly as it came around the bend of the freeway. Probably an accident, Jahne thought, as she settled into the new pace. The drivers in the cars on each side of her seemed to be straining to look ahead, but Jahne could see no obstruction. Up ahead, the four lanes of traffic were moving, no stalled or wrecked cars in any one. What the hell was the problem? She had a meeting with Sy Ortis in only half an hour, and she didn’t want to be late.

  Jahne followed the craning heads of the other drivers, and observed that the slowdown stretched across all eight lanes of the freeway. Then she saw it. The billboard was at least four stories high, and displayed the three women from the show, standing next to each other, elbow to elbow, hair flying, arms akimbo, legs parted in a defiant stance. Their black leather jackets were open, revealing deep cleavages; in fact, the jackets barely covered their nipples. The only words on the billboard were: “SUNDAY NIGHT.”

  Jahne pulled the Miata over to the shoulder of the road, stopping on the dry brown grass, and got out of the car. She stared at the giant figures, at the massive sign that at one time would have been considered one of the seven wonders of the world for its size alone. That’s me, she thought to herself. That’s Jahne Moore. Or me, Mary Jane Moran. Whoever I am. It’s me. She wanted to say it out loud to someone, but no one was there. Just the faces in the slow-moving cars staring at the three beautiful women on the billboard. It was hard to take it in. It was hard to breathe. For a moment, she felt faint, and bent over a bit to bring the blood to her head.

  She had done it. If she never did anything in her life before or after, she had, at least, accomplished this. She was there, fifty times bigger than life, over the freeway. And once a week, she was being watched by fifty million people.

  Her will, her pain, her work, her courage had brought her t
o this. Unlike the other two girls, she’d had no natural beauty or family ties to help her. And even though it wasn’t Shakespeare, even though it was only television, she had risen up out of the swamp of grayness to this.

  “Miss?” a voice said behind her. She nearly jumped, then turned and saw a California Highway Patrol officer standing next to his scooter. “Are you in trouble?”

  Jahne shook her head, then began to laugh. Realizing that she must seem like a crazy person, she tried to stop. “No,” she said. “I’m just looking at the picture.”

  “Lady,” the cop said, walking cautiously toward her. “Everyone’s looking at the goddamn picture. You better get back in your car and get on your way. It’s a little too dangerous to be standing out here.” Then he stopped, looked at her again, stared at her face, looked up at the billboard. The light dawned. “Hey, you’re the smart one!”

  Jahne giggled, and nodded her head. “I’ll say,” she told him, and got back into her car.

  What’s On…

  SUNDAY

  8:00 p.m.—Star Search Famous Look-Alikes. Tonight, Rhea Perlman.

  9:00 p.m.—Three for the Road. Crimson finds herself in the middle of the Kent State campus just before the National Guard appears. Clover and Cara arrive in time to prevent her shooting.

  Jesse Helms’ Anti-“Three” Rally Complete Bust

  Winston-Salem, North Carolina. The much-publicized rally organized by Jesse Helms and the Christian Family Network to protest the airing of “Three for the Road” was the biggest non-event of this senator’s eventful public life of protestations against what he calls attacks on family values. The rally was scheduled for nine o’clock Sunday night, but, unfortunately for him and CFN, only a handful of his most ardent followers showed up. Helms, reached at his Washington, D.C., office today, was unable to explain the lack of numbers in support of what he calls massive resistance to the show. He wouldn’t comment on this reporter’s speculation that perhaps everyone stayed home to watch the show instead.

  TOP TEN REASONS WHY MEN WATCH “THREE FOR THE ROAD”

  —FROM Late Night with David Letterman

  10. They’re into motorcycles

  9. They can’t get on the set

  8. They’ve heard that in one episode Crimson will mud-wrestle Clover

  7. There’s so little really good serious drama left on television

  6. To get back at their wives for making them look at Prince’s bare ass

  5. For the plots

  4. For the great location photography

  3. To make their girlfriends try harder

  2. Six are better than two

  1. They’re willing to take their chances at going blind

  Harold from the mailroom knocked on Lila’s dressing-room door, then entered when she answered. Lila was very clear about that: no one was to be in her dressing room without her, and it was kept locked at all times. “Miss Kyle, where do you want your mail?” he asked. He wanted to get away from her as fast as possible. Everyone at the studio knew she could be dangerous, even without provocation. He was the one in the mailroom who had lost the draw, so here he was.

  Lila didn’t turn around to look at him. “Where the fuck do you think I want my mail? On the desk!”

  “But, Miss Kyle…”

  Lila turned to him. “Don’t make a major production out of it. Just put the fucking mail on the fucking desk down at the end, where I told you to. And get out.”

  He watched her go back to brushing her long hair, shrugged his shoulders, and stepped outside. He lifted a large mailbag from the cart, and walked back in. “And take it out of the bag,” she yelled at him. Harold lifted the bag and dumped the contents on the desk. He went back outside, and brought the other two bags inside, emptying each on the now buried desk. Bitch wants it out of the bag, bitch goin’ get it out of the bag.

  He closed the door quietly after him, and had begun to push the empty mail cart back to the mailroom when he heard Lila shriek. Then the door to her dressing room slammed open, and she stood screaming at him. “You asshole, get back here. I didn’t know there was so much. I can’t even walk! Get back here and put all that mail back in bags. Every piece, do you hear?”

  Harold sighed, moved back into Lila’s trailer, then began scooping up the fan mail and stuffing it back into the sacks. The bitch looked up at him.

  “How many sacks did it come to?” Lila asked him.

  “Seven, Miss Kyle. There’s four more I couldn’t fit on the handtruck.”

  She paused for a moment. Then she frowned. “How many did Smith and Moore get?” she asked.

  Paul Grasso leaned back in his swivel chair and stretched as he listened to the harangue coming out of the phone earpiece. Yahta, yahta, yahta. “Mel, listen, I’m sorry, but we’re booked till February. Ya wanna talk about then, maybe we could…” More Australian-accented yahta yahta yahta. “Look, I understand you’ll be on location then, but that’s the slot we got. Everyone and their bookie wants a guest shot. No, no, Bob definitely couldn’t reschedule. I mean it, man. Look, I’m sorry. Maybe first episode next year. Sure. I know it’s perfect. The girl road warriors meet the original. Right. Listen, here’s what I’ll do: I’ll talk to Marty tomorrow, and his people will call your people, all right? Maybe they can find a slot. Right. You, too, babe.”

  What’s On…

  SUNDAY

  8:00 p.m.—Star Search Famous Look-Alikes. Tonight, Ivana Trump.

  9:00 p.m.—Three for the Road. In San Francisco Cara meets and becomes romantically involved with a Tim Leary follower. Crimson, Cara, and Clover try LSD. Cameo appearances by Leary and Donovan.

  Grasso hung up the phone and rubbed his eyes. He felt the stubble on his upper cheeks. Shit. He’d been out late last night, at a poker game with a few buddies, and he’d woken up so late this morning he hadn’t had time to shave. He reached into the side drawer of his desk and pulled out the Braun electric razor he stored there, switched it on, and began to run it over the left side of his jaw. He didn’t even need to use the mirror, which was just as well, since he must look like death on a bender after nine hours at the card table. He felt the smooth side of his jaw. You had to hand it to those Nazis. They knew how to build the shit out of anything. He moved the razor to the other side of his face. Then the buzzer began again.

  “Yeah?” Christ, this business would kill him. One day you can’t cast a fuckin’ jeans commercial, and the next day you’re the gateway to the hottest show in the country. “Whataya want, Patty?”

  “It’s another one.”

  “I’m out,” he told her. “You handle it.”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “I’m out,” he repeated. Patty was smart—shit, she could run the fuckin’ place without him—but she was sometimes a pushy bitch.

  “It’s Brando,” Patty said.

  It was hard to hear her over the buzzing Braun. “Brandon Tartikoff?” he asked. “What the fuck does he want?”

  “Not Brandon. Brando,” Patty yelled.

  “Holy shit!” Paul Grasso said. “He wants a cameo?”

  “Apparently.”

  Paul Grasso laughed and turned off the razor. “Hey, Patty. Ya think the wild one can still ride a motorcycle?”

  Jahne clutched her hands nervously behind her. The two other people in the green room—her publicist and some nerdy stand-up—stared at the screen where Arsenio was busy rapping with some black dancer. Jahne wished she hadn’t agreed to do this. She was an actress, not a personality. This was the kind of stuff Neil used to want to do. How would he handle it? The butterflies in her stomach were as large as barn swallows. Then the assistant producer was there, leading her through the dark hall and leaving her to enter into the glaring light. Arsenio, now in person, stood up and extended his hand. She took it, smiled, and sat down. The chat began.

  “So, are you as political in life as you are on the show, Jahne?”

  “Not really.” She knew she should say more, sparkle, be funny or sexy or
something, but she was only an actress, and she had no lines.

  “So, you’ve got no position on stuff.”

  “Well, women’s rights…”

  “Like abortion?”

  “Yeah. I feel strongly that no women should be given abortions.” She felt Arsenio stiffen, and heard a hiss from the audience. “Unless, of course, they’re pregnant,” she finished, and after a beat she got her big laugh. Thank you, Neil Morelli, she thought, and the interview continued, smooth as silk.

  What’s On…

  SUNDAY

  8:00 p.m.—Star Search Famous Look-Alikes. Tonight, Larry Fortensky.

  9:00 p.m.—Three for the Road. Crimson and Clover and Cara go to Woodstock, N.Y., for the concert. Bob Dylan and Neil Young guest star.

  It was her day off, and Jahne was exhausted. Who’d ever imagine that success could be so tiring? Already Sy had let her know that movie offers were pouring in—they were mostly jiggle-in-leather scripts, but better things would surely follow. The Arsenio gig had gone surprisingly well; after her initial stage fright, she’d loosened up and been tough and funny. Now Sy was pushing more appearances. She stared at the pile of movie treatments, her next week’s scripts, memos and pictures to autograph, and sighed. No, today she would simply rest. She’d bought an Anne Tyler book, and she’d stretch out by the pool, ready to enjoy it. But first she picked up the copy of Vogue. It opened to the two-page spread of the three of them. Gorgeous black-and-white photos. They all looked beautiful. Only the three of them knew the hours and hours they’d spent under the hot lights to get that perfection, with dozens of specialists huddling over them constantly to create the illusion of perfection. But my, she looked fabulous. She stared and stared.

  Dr. Moore had warned her about the sun, so she was prepared. “Sun is bad for everyone, but it would be murder on you,” he had reminded her in his last letter. “I’ve been able to get such good results because you never tanned, so your skin, despite aging, has retained a lot of its flexibility. But in the future, no sun—ever.” She’d laughed, and written him back to say he made her sound like a vampire, and that the only reason she hadn’t tanned before was that she could never afford to go away to a beach. Now she had her own private lap pool. But she’d rubbed SPF number fifteen all over herself half an hour ago, she’d poured half a jar of conditioner on her hair, swathed it in a towel, and was wearing huge sunglasses. To stay cool, she had a long, white cotton robe, a wonderful, fine Egyptian cotton, smoother than silk. And the houseman had fixed her a pitcher of iced tea. Now, for the very first time, she was going to spend the whole morning just quietly enjoying the warmth, the pool, the vista. Then, later, she’d do her laps, work out with her trainer and, at two, a masseuse that Mai had recommended was coming over to work on her back and legs. Jahne stretched out luxuriously, opened to the first page of Saint Maybe, and took a deep breath.