The bitch smiled. Good, he’d won her over. But, Madre de Jesus, these women would kill him!
“I don’t see it that way.”
He couldn’t believe it. “What?” he asked, his voice reduced to a rasp. When she had called him and told him she wanted to talk, he hadn’t been prepared for this. Who would be? But she sprung the idea of doing the April Irons film on her hiatus from Three for the Road—and then added she’d need four extra weeks off from 3/4. Like the show could wait. Like Marty wouldn’t mind. Like the network wouldn’t go loco. Like it was nothing. She was sitting on top of the world, and now, behind his back, she wants to go film some stinking remake with a pup director instead of keeping her sure thing.
“The reality is, Sy, I get the time off or I quit.”
“What?” he whispered.
“Listen, the way I see it, it’s all got to be downhill from here. What the show has going for it is novelty. That will wear off next season. And the imitations will start. If I leave now, it will be big news. Leave at the peak. Anyway, this show was not what I want to do. It was only a stepping-stone. And the Huey, Dewey, and Louey dialogue is really getting me down. I want to do some serious work.”
“Since when is a potboiler like Birth of a Star considered serious? It’s not Hedda Gabler, for chrissakes.”
“It’s better than the crap I’m doing now. And it’s a film. I hate TV. Wasn’t it Galbraith who said nobody could compete with us in producing morally depraved TV programs? I want out of the Flanders Cosmetics deal, and I don’t want to do the show at all.”
It was unbelievable. Women all over the country would give their left tit to be in those ads, and she wanted out? And out of the show?
“Wait a minute. Now you’re not talking about an extension of the hiatus, you’re actually talking about leaving the show altogether?”
“Well, why not? I only signed the one-year contract.”
“Why not? Why not? Sangra de Cristos! Because they’ll replace your ass so fast that no one will remember your name one year from now. You’ll become an answer in trivia games.”
“Maybe. But I could use a lot less fame than I’ve got now. And if you don’t agree, perhaps I ought to leave the agency.”
Sy got up from his desk, walked over to the window, and looked out on the glare and dust of the L.A. freeway. Holy jumping Jesus. It wasn’t the Assholes or the Regulars. It was the Talent that would kill him in the end. He began to truly fight for breath. How many times would one of them crucify him, castrate him? Crystal Plenum insisted on doing that Jack and Jill bullshit that ruined her career. She was becoming the Zsa Zsa of her generation. Michael makes an ass out of himself and Sy in front of Ricky and Lila Kyle. And now this! Marty would kill him if he lost Jahne. Jahne would leave the agency if she couldn’t do April Irons’ movie. And April would bust his chops over Jahne’s stupid contract.
He was one of the most powerful men in the goddamn Industry, and these empty-headed, loco putas tried to tell him that they were smarter. They were always smarter. Until they became yesterday’s news. He turned to Jahne.
“Now, you listen to me. You want to become the Art Garfunkel of the television industry? Never quit a winner. This town eats up pretty girls faster than reporters chew up free lunches. You get your shot, you’re hot, you can make any deal for any money; then along comes someone younger, a different type, and you’re history. You can’t get a fuckin’ guest shot on L.A. Law. You’ll be happy to make an appearance on Hollywood Squares. And you won’t even get called on by the contestants.”
“Oh, come on. The first film I do is important, but it is just one film. I mean, it doesn’t make or break a career. Who was ever ruined by one bad choice?”
“The list is long and distinguished. Suzanne Somers. Sexpot. Beautiful. Quit TV. Couldn’t get a supermarket opening for a decade. Shelley Long. Walked off Cheers. Name one of her films. Or Farrah Fawcett. Hottest girl of her decade. One season, leaves TV. No one pays to see one of her movies, ever, except maybe Ryan O’Neal. Movies are riskier. People pay cash to see movies. Not like a TV series, where people get it free and want to see you every week. Even for a features actress, it’s risky. One bad movie, two the most, and…Look at Michelle Pfeiffer. Ellen Barkin. Or Melanie Griffith, Kathleen Turner. Holly Hunter. They each got to be the hot girl. For a year. Where are they now?”
“They work, Sy. They all work.”
He looked at her, disgust plainly written on his simian face. “You don’t get it, do you? You just don’t get it. Right now you got heat. They want you. Everybody wants you. You can go anywhere. You can meet anyone. It doesn’t last long, not without good management and luck. And once it’s gone, baby, it’s gone.”
“I’m not your baby,” Jahne said coldly.
Sy stopped. He looked at her directly. And in that moment of silence, Jahne knew how much he disliked, even hated her. She shivered.
Is it because I’m a client or because I’m a woman that he condescends so? she wondered. Would it be any better with another agent? “Sy, I know this won’t really mean much to you, but I’m not doing what I don’t want to do. The show is crap. Stylish, sometimes even funny, but it’s crap. I want some work that’s important. Work that I can respect. That others will respect.”
Sy let out a small noise, a kind of sigh, as if this was childish and he’d heard it all before. Well, he probably has, Jahne acknowledged. His job is to turn people into deals and money machines; mine is to control that. Sy licked his lips, picked up what was left of his asthma spray, and began talking very slowly. “Listen to me. Things are different now: The networks are desperate. Television is still lucrative, but more competitive; they have to have hits or they’ll go the way of the old studio system. With a hit show, even a small hit, a network can schedule something before and after you, they can spin you off. They can build a lineup. They can attract new viewers. And hold them. And they can attract sponsors. A show like yours is a godsend to Les Merchant. They’ll put everything into getting you the Emmy. You’ll probably win. You can propose a television movie. They’ll back it. You’ll have respect. They’ll respect the shit out of you.”
“Thanks, Sy. But shit is not what I want.”
“Look, just tell me what is so respectable about a tired old melodrama, a puta that’s going to be directed by a newcomer and produced by a shark. Why, why would you want to do this to yourself?”
Jahne paused. She had known, clearly, before she walked in, what she wanted to do, but now she was uncertain, even a little scared. Could he be right? Could she wind up another out-of-work actress? “All right,” she said at last. “All right. I’m doing the film, but I won’t quit the show. I’ll do one more season. And I’ll make a deal with you: you arrange to get me enough shooting time with Marty. If Birth of a Star flops, then I’ll stay. But if it’s a hit, I quit the show.”
19
Sharleen was stretched out on the couch in her 3/4 dressing room, trying to rest before her next camera call. Sy Ortis was on the chair next to her, handing her documents to sign as they talked.
“Listen, it’s the end of the season, and with the Emmy nomination you’re hot. I got a great job for your hiatus. A movie deal,” Sy said, as he reached over and took a bunch of signed papers from her. “It’s light. Fun. It’s called Buffy the Cowgirl.”
“Another job? Mr. Ortis, I’m tired. I don’t want another job.” She wasn’t sure she could finish this one, even though there were only two more episodes to go before the season ended. Thank the Lord. “What happened to what you told me when I took this job—that this one would make me so rich, I’d never have to work again?”
Sy laughed. “Well, it might take a little longer, what with taxes and agent’s fees and lawyers and all. And, to tell the truth, I never figured you’d get so famous, Sharleen. You gotta strike while the iron is hot. You’re in demand, and this movie would be great for your career.”
“I don’t want no career, Mr. Ortis. I just have a job. And I
think what you told me back then was right. With what I’ve made on this show, I’ll never have to work again.”
“Only if you don’t want to live like a queen,” Sy added quickly. “This picture deal could do that for you, you know. Make you richer than your wildest dreams.”
“I’m already richer than my wildest dreams.” She finished signing the last paper and, with a sigh, thrust the stack of them toward Sy. “No more today, Mr. Ortis. I’m tired. I’m really tired.”
Sy stood up. “That’s okay, Sharleen. It’ll cost me money, and you might regret it later, but you do what you think is best. I’ll send your lawyer over tomorrow with the rest of this stuff. You just take it easy for a while before they call you.”
Sharleen closed her eyes and let her hand touch Sy’s arm as he moved away. “Thanks, Mr. Ortis. You’ve been good to me.”
The door clicked closed behind him, leaving her alone with the hum of the air conditioning in the darkness. She didn’t want to think about how disappointed Mr. Ortis was that she wasn’t going to work during her vacation. And she knew he was. But there was no way she could work. Sharleen had been working six days a week, twelve hours a day for months. Always nervous, always messing up. It was a little easier now that Jahne was helping her run lines, but still a strain. And I used to say waitressing was hard, she thought, as she slipped into a light sleep.
The hands felt real, but Sharleen knew she was dreaming. All those hands, pulling, grabbing, palms up. But this hand…
“Miss Smith, you’re wanted on the set in twenty minutes.”
Sharleen opened her eyes and saw Ronnie Wagner, the new second-unit AD, shaking her gently. “Boy, I must have been dreaming.”
“Is there anything I can get for you? Cappuccino?” Ronnie asked. Sharleen liked Ronnie. Ronnie made a point of having fresh cappuccino available on the set when she heard Sharleen liked it.
“Yes, that would be nice.” Sharleen sat up and put her feet on the floor, then pushed herself off the couch with a low groan.
“You okay. Miss Smith?”
“Oh, yeah. I’m fine. Just a little tired.”
Ronnie was about to say something else, then hesitated.
“What is it?”
“Well, the president of one of your fan clubs is out there to see you. And this one’s a beaut. Ordinarily, I’d suggest you meet with her, but since you’re so tired, maybe…”
Sharleen shook her head. From the beginning, she had decided that this went with the territory. She could never get used to the concept of fan clubs—as Dean said, “It ain’t like you’re Lucy Ball”—but she was overpowered by the sheer numbers in the groups that came from time to time. Mostly teenagers and young women, they all treated Sharleen both like a goddess and like they had known her all their lives. But to Sharleen they were still strangers. Strangers she tried to be sweet to. “Oh, no, Ronnie. I’ll talk to her on my way out to the shoot. Maybe I could ask her to stay and watch. Would that be okay?”
“Sure, whatever you want. Miss Smith.”
Ronnie let the man from Makeup in as she was leaving. While he retouched her face, Sharleen thought about the fan-club president again. She felt even less like seeing this one after Ronnie’s comment. She hoped she was at least young, like most of the others. The older women frightened her. They all seemed so poor, so desperate. Somehow they reminded her of the desperation of Lamson. Sharleen could understand a young girl getting all excited at television people. She knew that for most of them it was a phase they’d outgrow. Jahne had explained all this to Sharleen. But the older ones, the ones in the pants suits and the high-piled hair, they upset Sharleen. The crew made jokes about these women. “Get a life,” they would mutter under their breaths. But Sharleen knew how impossible it was for most of them ever to have anything of their own. She remembered herself back in Lamson, and shuddered. For most of her fans, this was all the life they were ever going to have, and that made Sharleen sad. She thought of Proverbs 6:25—“Lust not after her beauty in thine heart.” But the poor women did.
Sharleen never had to be called to the set a second time; she knew what was expected of her. She let the door to her dressing trailer clink shut as she scanned the set for her visitor. She caught the eye of Ronnie, who pointed toward the waiting woman. Then she noticed Ronnie raise her eyes to heaven. Sharleen nodded a thanks as she followed Ronnie’s gaze.
Oh, Lord, she thought. The woman was not only one of the older ones, but also loudly, though shabbily, dressed. She waved to Sharleen as Sharleen walked across the floor, and seemed to be standing on tiptoe in anticipation. Looking at her more closely, Sharleen could see that the woman was very different from the others. Down and out. Drawing nearer, Sharleen was surprised to see that the woman also looked worse than loud. She looked, well, cheap. She had dyed yellow hair which fell in tight greasy curls to her shoulders. She wore a pink sleeveless blouse, too tight across her sagging chest. One of the buttons had popped open. Her too-small yellow skirt had a tear along one seam, and her large belly strained against the fabric. She had no eyebrows, just half-circles of dark pencil lines in their place. A smear of red rouge on her cheeks was exaggerated by the thick gash of red-orange lipstick. Tangee for sure. Sharleen stopped in front of the woman, who was gripping a tattered Mexican straw bag in both hands in front of her, her eyes wide in anticipation, a hint of panic suddenly sweeping across her face.
Sharleen blinked once or twice and stared. The woman took a step forward. “Hello, baby,” the woman called out. After a moment, Sharleen answered.
“Hello, Momma,” she said.
Sharleen sat with the Bible opened on her lap, reading the psalms of praise. Who would have dreamed two years ago that she would be on TV, that Dean and she would get a wonderful home, and that they would find their momma? God was good!
She had begged her momma to come home with her, but Flora Lee had refused. “In these rags? Why, girl, I know how I look. Like hell in a nightie. Before I see my boy, I want to look right.” So instead, they had agreed that Momma would freshen up in the trailer for now, and just the two of them would go out for dinner.
Sharleen had ached to call Dean with the great news, but perhaps this was best. Sharleen would have a chance to get reacquainted with Flora Lee, then tell her about Dean being…well, the way he was. Lovable and all, but maybe not so smart. But should she tell Flora Lee about what had happened back in Lamson? What if Momma felt it was their duty to go to the police? Sharleen never talked about it to anyone, and had cautioned Dean over and over not to. But would he talk to Momma about it?
Sharleen sighed, some of the happiness draining out. It was taking Momma a long time. She looked down again at the Bible. She was sure that God would forgive Dean. She thought about Flora Lee. Surely she was kind, and generous, and understanding. She saw the next line below her fingers: “The ungodly are not so but are like the chaff which the wind driveth away.” What did that mean? she wondered.
When Momma came unsteadily out of the trailer, they drove to the Sheraton. It was a big hotel but not too fancy. Sharleen wore a baggy old dress she had borrowed from Mai, and a big hat, along with sunglasses. She had her hair tucked up, covered with a scarf. She hoped no one would recognize her.
“Where should we go to sit down?”
“Here’s as good as anywhere, honey,” Momma said, ready to dump herself down in the lobby.
“Well, maybe not here.” Sharleen looked around. “Let’s go somewhere quieter.”
“Why, how about the bar?”
“The bar?” Sharleen never went to bars. Did her momma?
“It’s dark and quiet,” Flora Lee reminded her.
So they went to the bar. And Sharleen began with all the questions she wanted to ask. “What happened to you right after you left, Momma?”
“I got as far as El Paso. Thought I might settle there. Heal up a bit. Nice town, El Paso. Got a job at a truck stop. Got a place. But then I met a trucker. Should have known better, but after your daddy
, well, any man looked good. He left me in Salem, Oregon. Stranded without a penny.” Flora Lee emptied the nut dish out and called out to the waitress. “Honey, could we get some almonds and some service over here?” she called.
The waitress came to them and forced a smile. “What will you be having?” she asked.
“Ginger ale,” Sharleen said.
“A beer, please. A Bud.” Flora Lee turned to Sharleen. “Those nuts can make you powerfully thirsty.”
Sharleen smiled at her mother, and now she felt her own smile was forced. Did Momma drink? She never used to. Well, she’d be entitled to a beer at the end of a day like this one. “What did you do then?” Sharleen asked.
“Oh, I spent a long time getting out of Oregon. Wanted to go to hairdressin’ school, and the Department of Welfare was going to pay for it. But then I met a feller who worked for Chrysler—he traveled through the whole Northwest training their service mechanics. Took me down as far as Sacramento. We set up house there. Right nice, too. Till I found out he had a wife and four kids up in Olympia, Washington.”
“Oh, Momma!” Sharleen said, and pulled the hat farther down on her head. The waitress brought over the soda pop and the beer. Flora Lee drank hers down in two or three gulps while Sharleen toyed with her own glass. Somehow, her happy feeling from earlier in the day was disappearing just like the bubbles that were leaving the glass.
Don’t you be judging your momma, she told herself harshly. She wasn’t even kin, and she raised you. And who are you to judge? You remember what you done with Boyd, and what that led to. And how Mr. McLain got you drunk. Momma was beaten and alone, without her children, and she must have been powerfully lonely.
Flora Lee rambled on, about more men and more towns. She beckoned again to the waitress. “You want to freshen that up?” she asked Sharleen. Sharleen shook her head.
“Well, I’ll have another beer.” Flora Lee paused. “Make that a beer and a ball,” she said. The waitress nodded. Sharleen wondered what that was, but it wasn’t until the waitress returned and put the beer and shot glass side by side that she opened her eyes wide. If Flora Lee noticed, she pretended not to. She picked up the shot glass and threw the whiskey back down her throat.
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