by AnonYMous
“Do you know why?” Mitch repeated, louder this time.
“No,” said Len.
“BECAUSE HE GOT LOCKED IN A DRESSING ROOM FULL OF FUCKING MIDGETS.”
Len and I looked urgently toward the reception area. Astonishingly, none of Rossitto’s assistants seemed to have heard Mitch’s potentially catastrophic deployment of the M-word. Or maybe they had, and were just ignoring it. Regardless, Mitch lowered his voice to a forced whisper, and continued: “And now you’re telling me—with two minutes’ notice—that the guy we’re about to meet is gonna walk through that door singing the Oompa-fucking-Loompa song?”
Sweating now, Mitch reached for his briefcase, pulled out his phone and attempted to dial, before aborting the task to search for his reading glasses. “Gotta call Joey,” he muttered, to no one in particular. “This is gonna be a shit show if we’re not careful.”
Len’s face, which can bloom in many colors during moments of extreme pressure, had turned almost purple. “Mitch, Mitch, please,” he said, standing up. “Ed’s a great guy. I shouldn’t have even mentioned this. Look, there’s a piano in here. Why not suggest to Joey that he sit down and play a few bars of something, eh? That’ll calm him down, right? And Ed will love that. He’s all about bringing musical credibility back to the panel. And you don’t get any more credible than Jo—”
Suddenly, a commotion outside.
Len and Mitch froze, then threw themselves simultaneously in the direction of the noise. I followed, to see what appeared to be a Native American chief striding out of Rossitto’s elevator. Two absurdly hot girls flanked him, one of them wheeling a… a tank of water? “My Kangen water!” announced the chief. “Can’t go anywhere without my Kangen water! It’s got the yin and the yang, and the bim and the bam, and it soothes my aching soul, baby. Yeah!”
Joey Lovecraft.
The King of Sing.
My fingertips prickled with adrenaline, like I’d just had a near miss on the freeway. He was tall—seriously tall, like six five—and he wore a long bearskin coat over pants that might very well have been melted onto his legs with a blowtorch, they were so tight. No shirt, as you’d expect. Just a bone-deep tan, a lot of gold, and a stripe of crimson on either cheek. Not to forget the tusk of what appeared to be some kind of recently deceased ocean creature that hung from a rope around his neck. Oh my God, and the hair: a magnificent, walnut-hued mane, into which the plumes from several exotic birds had been intricately woven.
“Wassup, honey?” he said to me, with a smile wide enough to swallow the room.
“Hi, how are you?” I squeaked.
“Don’t you mean—‘How high are ya?’” he shot right back, with another sensational grin.
“I’m Bill,” I managed.
“A lady named Bill, huh?” Joey bellowed. “Let me guess, Bill: When you order breakfast, you like to get the muffin and the sausage? Right?” With this, he proceeded to make a series of high-pitched yelping noises—accompanied by rapid wiggling of his enormous tongue—causing Mitch to flinch visibly. Len coughed so hard, I felt sure he must have done himself some permanent damage.
“Say, Bill,” Joey went on. “Meet my lay-deez. Mu and Sue.”
“Moo?” I said, confused.
One of the girls stepped forward.
“Em-you,” she clarified. “A pleasure.” She offered the kind of bony, pathetic handshake that only the most pornographic-looking of females can ever hope to get away with.
“And I’m Sue,” added Sue, doing the same.
“Joey,” interrupted Mitch, with urgency. “We’ve gotta talk. There’s something you need to—”
“Where’s my man Ed?” asked Joey, arms outstretched.
On cue, Ed emerged from a doorway to our left. Only no one noticed this development, because his face was at table level. I now began to understand why Len had decided to raise the height issue with Mitch. Ed “Big Guy” Rossitto was—without any doubt—one of the smallest human beings I’d ever set eyes on. He might not have been small enough to make a career out of it, but it was surely only a matter of a few inches. That, however, was only the beginning… indeed, it was almost as though Ed had decided to upstage his unusually limited stature with every other aspect of his appearance. His miniature knee-high cowboy boots (with spurs), for example. Or his child-sized Guns N’ Roses T-shirt—on top of which was a tiny, silver-studded biker jacket, complete with S&M chains. Ed was also quite obviously wearing eyeliner and foundation, and when he walked toward us, this entire strange ensemble jangled, as though he were an approaching sleigh. It at least served to announce his presence.
When Joey saw him, he staggered backward in mock disbelief. “Who’s the little fella, huh?” he cried, looking at Mitch. “Look! Someone shrunk Jon Bon Jovi!”
Joey’s overwhelming human charisma—enough to warm a seventy-thousand seat football stadium on a rainy night in Philadelphia—had clearly long since stopped his worrying about the sensitivity of such comments. He was Joey Lovecraft! He could say whatever the hell he wanted! Everyone would still laugh and say how much they loved him! But Ed wasn’t everyone. He was one of the most powerful men in television. He earned fifteen million dollars a year. And he looked seriously pissed.
“Joey,” coughed Mitch. “This is—”
“Grumpy!” shouted Joey, doubling up and shrieking. “No, wait… I’ve got it. Nick Nack!”
“I’m Ed Rossitto,” said Ed, sharply.
Joey fell silent.
An excruciating pause.
“Ed…?” croaked Joey.
“Rossitto. From Rabbit. Shall we?” He motioned towards the Dickensian murk of his office.
Joey’s expression was now one of horror. His eyes seemed to have turned black with panic. Mitch grabbed his arm, like a father leading his son across a busy street. “Is that a piano in your office, Ed?” he asked, desperately.
“Yeah,” said Rossitto.
A few more awful moments passed. Then Rossitto seemed to make a decision. “Hey, Joey—wanna play?” he said, grudgingly. “It’s a Bösendorfer. Epic bass, man. C’mon.”
We all followed Rossitto into the batcave. I tried not to catch anyone’s eye—it would only have made things worse. Mu and Sue remained outside with the assistants, their hot pants clashing with the antique furniture. Rossitto shut the door behind us, then walked over to the chesterfield to take a seat. The rest of us took his lead.
Not Joey, however.
No, Joey was very much still standing. “Gimme a second,” he said, distractedly.
“C’mon, Joey,” soothed Mitch.
It was too late: Joey groaned and fell to his knees in front of the piano. And then—still groaning—he began to crawl under it, until his entire six-foot-something frame was beneath the glossy black canopy of the enormous Austrian-made instrument.
“Interesting,” murmured Ed.
Silence.
“Whatcha doin’ down there, Joey?” asked Mitch, in a tone of upbeat curiosity, which suggested there might be an entirely practical reason for this behavior.
Joey said nothing. Instead, he began to hug one of the piano legs. Len and Mitch were now gesturing frantically at each other, each trying to get the other to intervene, to stop the madness. I noticed that Rossitto’s eyes hadn’t left Joey for a moment, however. He seemed transfixed; fully entertained by the spectacle.
“When I was a kid, my momma had a piano just like this,” Joey announced suddenly, his voice low and thick. “She was trained at the Royal Academy over there in Copenhagen, y’know. Quite a woman. She practiced six hours a day, every day—even when she was workin’ full time as a school teacher. We had this tiny, tiny apartment, and this huge, this epic piano. When the movers brought that thing into our place, they must have had to take apart the laws of fuckin’ physics to get it through the front door. Anyhow. Far back as I can remember, I would sit under it—like this—and close my eyes. She never showed me much love, my momma. Danish blood. Different generation. Saw affecti
on as a sign of weakness. But I felt it, man, oh yeah. Under that piano, I felt it so strong, I’d curl up and sleep for hours, knowing that my momma was right there, making these beautiful tunes for me. And when I woke up, she’d still be playing. I’d be diggin’ Mozart, man. Shosta-fuckin’-kovich. Shit by dudes with white fuckin’ wigs. Like their souls were being poured right into mine.”
No one said a word. I studied Rossitto: He was still entirely focused on Joey, only something wasn’t quite right with his face. It was… his eyeliner. It had smeared.
There was movement now from under the piano: Joey was coming out from his hiding place. He stood up, wiped his eyes, and made his way to the keyboard stool. And then—I could hardly believe it—he began to play. Yes, right there in front of me: Joey Lovecraft, performing live. Hesitant at first. But then his foot came off the soft pedal. The notes became louder, more confident. The rhythm quickened. He started to sing. That incredible noise! It filled the room, making everything vibrate. I felt a sudden, almost violent elation build within my chest.
Now I was crying, too.
“Psycho Sluts from Paradise,” I heard Rossitto say, as Joey reached the chorus. “Greatest song… ever.”
5
Bibi and the Boy King of the Bronx
THERE WAS NEVER going to be any “sanity check” with Bibi Vasquez. Hell, no. Not even so such much as a phone conversation. If the executives at Rabbit wanted her—which they did, perhaps even more than they wanted Joey—they were going to have to beg.
Or rather, they were going to have to beg her manager, Teddy Midas.
Now, as I probably don’t have to mention, Teddy isn’t exactly known for his calm, rational demeanor. He’s a hysterical narcissist. What’s more, he has nothing to fear from being exposed as an Evil Diva From Hell, because no one expects anything less. While dining recently at Amuse Bouche in West Hollywood, for example, Teddy emptied his entire meal into the pants of the head waiter, due to an innocent misunderstanding over the phrase “courgette flower beignet.” And that wasn’t the end of the incident, if you believe the report by Chaz Chipford that appeared in the following week’s ShowBiz. As Teddy left the restaurant, his bodyguard, Mr. Tiddles—seven one, four hundred pounds—“accidentally” fell on the manager, breaking his leg in three places. Teddy left a half-a-million dollar tip, so the matter never went any further.
No further than ShowBiz, anyway.
Exactly how Teddy and Bibi’s friendship developed is something of a mystery. If I had to take a guess, however, I’d say Teddy saw a lot of himself in his future client when they first met in a TV studio a decade ago. Born to Chinese immigrant parents in rust belt Indiana (they owned a Laundromat), Teddy was a musical prodigy, but ended up on the street at the age of sixteen after his father caught him in bed with the eldest son of his business partner. Teddy never spoke to his family again. Instead he went to Nashville to work for BeeBop Records as a writer of country songs, of which his biggest hit was the Christian radio favorite, “I Love Ya, Honey (But Don’t Git Between Me & Jesus).” After that, Teddy relocated a second time, to New York City, where he became a houseguest of his janitor uncle, with whom he lived for all of seventy-two hours—long enough for him to later create a TV drama series about the experience.
Boy King of the Bronx was the title.
Teddy was able to move out of his uncle’s place so quickly because he got a job at Galactic Records, where he rose with similar speed to senior vice president, charged with overseeing the career of the nightclub owner/rapper/all-round hustler Bossman Toke—a.k.a. Bossy T. And it was Bossy T who introduced Teddy to Bibi: She was his girlfriend at the time, having just appeared as a thong-wearing, bare-nippled Queen Victoria in Bossy T’s music video for the multiplatinum hit “Kneel for the King.” In the extended ten-minute cut, which cost twenty-five million dollars to make, Bossy T plays a black English royal from the future who builds a time machine so he can sleep with every “smokin’ hot bitch queen since history began.” The video ends with him unzipping his fly in front of Cleopatra, allowing a solid gold asp to slither from his pants. It won Best Artistic Vision at that summer’s Cool Beatz Video Awards.
And why did Teddy and Bibi have so much in common? Well, Bibi had also been thrown out on the street at the age of sixteen, after refusing to accept a place at hospitality school. The Vasquezes lived in Middle Village, Queens: Bibi’s mother, a Dominican baby nurse, had come to America to work for a wealthy family in Manhattan; her father was a French Canadian dishwasher. Bibi took her mother’s surname on the advice of her manager: “Bibi Le Poupe” just didn’t have much of a ring to it.
Bibi’s parents yearned for their daughter to become a successful, independent American woman—and hospitality was something, the only thing, she seemed to be any good at. Or at least, when she waited tables at the French restaurant where her father worked, she earned more tips in a week than the manager made in a month… which she found out soon enough because she married him.
It lasted nine days. And still Bibi didn’t want to go to hospitality school. No, she wanted to be a dancer, an actress, a model… a singer. So she moved into a squat on the Lower East Side and auditioned every day. Eventually she got a two-week gig as a bikini-wearing pole dancer on a late night music TV show and wound up giving an onscreen lapdance to Bossy T, who by then had been profiled in Forbes thanks to his unexpectedly successful diversification into the plus-size underwear market.
I didn’t even need to Google the rest of this story when I was putting together my research file: Bibi’s breakthrough casting in Elsa, a movie about the tragic life of the narcocorrido singer Elsa Melindez; her first single, “My Love Goes Bang-Bang,” which spent four months at number one largely thanks to the publicity created when Bibi, Teddy, and Bossy T got into an argument in a Chelsea ice cream parlor, during which Mr. Tiddles let off three rounds from his gun. (Bibi and Bossy T were questioned but not charged. Mr. Tiddles spent the next three months on Rikers Island, saying nothing to nobody.)
The scandal was enough to end Bibi and Bossy T’s romance—but Bibi stuck with Teddy, who became her manager, publicist, charisma coach, agent, and business partner, taking a separate percentage for each. He quickly consolidated her image as an unsmiling, imperious diva with a white fur wardrobe and a Queens-girl toughness. Every woman in America wanted to be her. Every guy in America wanted to sleep with her. Black, white, Asian, Hispanic—it didn’t matter. The great irony being that Bibi achieved all this without even being able to sing.
That was hardly the point, of course: Bibi was a brand, an idea, an aspiration.
I can hardly even begin to imagine how many millions Bibi and Teddy made together. They opened a chain of nail salons (Mani Bibi), launched a perfume brand (Bibi Beautiful), and created a line of personal massage wands (Bibi Naughty). As for Bibi’s personal life: She became involved with her hairdresser, Tommy Stiles, who proposed within three weeks of their first date. Teddy was both the officiant at the wedding—he sang the vows—and the best man. He even joined the couple on their honeymoon at Bibi’s villa in Italy, where the staff expressed surprise to an undercover ShowBiz reporter that the groom was spending more time with Teddy than he was with his bride.
When they all got back home to LA, Bibi hired two lawyers: One to annul her marriage; the other to sue Teddy. Not long after that, Bibi’s new boyfriend, Logan Deckard—Oscar-winning actor, chairman of the Hollywood Actors Union, patron of multiple cancer charities, and presumed candidate for governor of California—had his people take a look at Bibi’s books. Among the excesses uncovered: a full-time employee whose sole task was to switch on Teddy’s iPhone. (Teddy had never quite mastered technology.) Meanwhile, Bibi and Logan made inevitable plans to wed. He bought her a ten million dollar ring and a Siberian tiger in a cage. She bought him a private island and helicopter by which to get there. Then she recorded a song, “Bibi from the Hood,” the gist of the lyrics being: a) she was richer than God, and b) she was still a down-to-eart
h girl from Middle Village, Queens. Clearly, no one had thought to point out to her that writing a song expressing point a somewhat invalidated point b.
Then came Bibi and Logan’s first movie together, Jinky, which one critic summed up by praising its ability to “take the sexiest, most closely watched celebrity couple in the universe, remove all their chemistry, and make you want to stab yourself in the neck with a rusty fork for no other reason than to relieve the boredom.” Jinky made $400.25 on the Friday it opened in a few dozen theaters. Its costars had called off their wedding by the following weekend.
Thus began the most recent—and troubled—stage of Bibi’s career, which this time I did have to Google, largely because of the press’s waning interest in her affairs.
Her nail salons filed for bankruptcy. The company that Teddy had outsourced to manufacture her branded massage wands was found to be employing six-year-old girls in China. And try as she might, she just couldn’t recover from Jinky. Her follow-up movies bombed. Her albums didn’t sell. Even her fashion sense was mocked: “Bibi’s acrylic bedsheet,” was how the Style section of the New York Chronicle described her eccentrically dimensioned Oscars dress that year. (Teddy had previously selected all her outfits.) Exhausted, Bibi took a break to get married, again, this time to her teenage sweetheart Edouard Julius, the actor, trapeze artist, and former Olympic show jumper. To everyone’s surprise, it lasted more than a week. They even had children together: quadruplets, in fact. Hence, Bibi became “Mama B.” But her career was in worse shape than ever. A low point was duly reached when her comeback single, “I Wanna Rock (Any Diamond Will Do),” was released with spectacular insensitivity only a week after the Great Recession began, just as millions of her fans were being laid off and/or foreclosed upon. Worse: During a performance of the song at the Cool Beatz Video Awards, Bibi climbed up on the backs of twelve oiled and loin-clothed male dancers, broke a stiletto, and fell backward onto a giant projection screen.