by R. T. Jordan
Then he signed off. “Reporting live from Santa Clarita, this is Lowell Lodge. Now back to you in the studio, Dan.”
The camera returned to a wide two-shot of the male anchor and his pretty but equally vacuous female co-anchor, presenting what they hoped were reasonably somber expressions. The camera switched to a close up of the anchor who solemnly reiterated, “Legendary television star Sedra Stone. Dead at sixty-two.”
“She’s history,” the perky co-anchor added without thinking of her unfortunate double entendre. Then, as if someone in the control booth had flipped a toggle labeled “lively and fun” and sent a jolt of electricity into the co-anchor’s chair, she beamed and said, “Let’s check in with Helen Rodriquez for a look at your traffic commute. God, I’d rather be dead than stuck on the 405 Freeway this morning. Tell us about it, Helen.”
Placenta switched off the television. Seated on the bed beside Polly and Tim she silently tried to think of the right words.
Polly’s thoughts had turned to the day she received a telephone call from The National Peeper, asking her to confirm that her husband, Tim senior, was divorcing her for siren Sedra. “Let me check,” Polly said at the time. Holding her hand over the telephone mouthpiece she yelled out from where she was reading a script in the den, “Hey! You! Mr. Hanger-On! Are you leaving me?” There was no answer. Her husband had climbed out the window and scampered off into Sedra’s arms without so much as a confrontation with Polly. Although he’d already met with attorneys to discuss spousal support—for him.
Tim flashed on a memory of the year after his parents’ divorce when he spent a summer with his father and Sedra. A precocious boy of ten, whose favorite old movie was The Women, he insisted on calling Sedra, “Auntie Crystal.” Not only did Tim think that Sedra sort of resembled Joan Crawford, but one afternoon he discovered her sucking face with the shirtless and muscled pool boy. In Tim’s young mind this was not unlike Crawford’s sinister character Crystal Allen who rips off other women’s rich husbands. He knew that his father was being cuckolded, and Tim spent the rest of the summer spying on Sedra and getting an accelerated lesson in the facts of life. He wasn’t trying to lay claim to any evidence of her infidelity to his father, rather, he was intrigued by how she so easily seduced men and he wanted to follow her example.
Placenta recalled having to comfort Polly after Sedra made headlines by flaunting her acquisition of husband number two of America’s favorite television musical/comedy variety show comedienne. For months, Polly was a zombie. Thanks to Placenta’s loving care, she never missed a rehearsal or publicity event. It was possible that Placenta hated Sedra Stone even more than Polly. Still, now that Sedra was in the news as literally a bag of broken bones, Placenta felt sorry for her.
The telephone rang for the second time that morning, breaking the reverie in Polly’s bedchamber. This time, Placenta recognized the number on the caller ID display. “Are you in for your agent?” Placenta asked before picking up the receiver.
Polly shrugged, too consumed with lethargy and thoughts of Sedra to care about much else. She decided that the least she could do was express her condolences for J. J.’s loss of another client. She reached out and accepted the cordless handset from Placenta. “This is Polly,” she said.
After an exchange of only a few syllables of shock and sympathy between Polly and J. J., she said, “Never! What am I, a third runner up, for crying out loud? This is not high school where I had to tolerate being the last one picked for the softball team. Anyway, that set’s jinxed. I wouldn’t set foot in a place with so many dead celebrity spirits hanging around! With my luck Jayne Mansfield’s there with Dick Kallman!”
After a short pause that suggested intrigue she asked, “How much did you say? Single card billing? Immediately below Dana and Missie? You actually got them to agree to the use of the words ‘iconic legend’ before my name? Hmm.”
Polly exchanged looks with Tim and Placenta. She mimed knocking back a drink to indicate it was time for breakfast, which sent Placenta to the bedroom bar for a chilled bottle of champagne. After another moment of Polly nodding her head and making the type of agreeable sounds that she usually reserved for expressing approval over the glistening body of a beach Adonis, she simply said, “Send over the new script. I’ll let you know by Lush Hour.” Then she hung up the phone.
For a brief moment, Polly’s mind wandered as she stared into nothingness, picturing her professional come back. It was only when Tim said, “We’re shadowing you on the set—for protection,” that Polly smiled and acknowledged that she had been offered the role of Catharine. Again.
“I’m trying very hard to be sad for Sedra,” Polly finally said as she accepted a mimosa from Placenta and took a long first sip. “But I can’t. Even now, she’s trumped me in the fame department. She’ll be a freakin’ legend long after you dispose of my ashes because she died in a hideous way. They’ll probably rename that goddamn school pool in memory of her. And you can bet that hordes of demented fans will create a myth to surround her memory. They’ll be making yearly pilgrimages to throw roses from the diving platform. Books will be written about her and people will forget what a shrew she really was. There’s still no love lost between us, even though I wouldn’t have wished her fate on anybody.”
Placenta poured a flute for Tim and one for herself, and refilled Polly’s glass. “Well, let’s have a combination invocation and toast,” she said, raising her glass. “Lord, have mercy on Sedra Stone’s shriveled soul…and cheers to Polly Pepper and her well-deserved return to the screen.”
Polly added, “Lord, don’t judge me for once wishing that Sedra go to hell. I didn’t really mean it. Not much anyway. And, as ‘The Good Book’ says, ‘Make hay while the sun shines.’ I’m just thankful it wasn’t me—or someone I liked—cracking that cement.”
Chapter 11
“Was there an apocalypse and I missed the CNN report?” Polly said as she surveyed the dismal Los Angeles bedroom community of Santa Clarita from the backseat of her Rolls. Tim was chauffeuring her and Placenta to the first day of work on Detention Rules! As they passed over rutted streets that ran beside decrepit stuccoed apartment complexes splashed in multihues of bile, and graffiti defaced empty strip malls, she turned to Placenta. “You say I don’t get out enough. Do you blame me? This is downtown Baghdad—on a good day! I’ll spend my time in Bel Air, or the Cote d’azur, thank you very much.”
Placenta agreed. “If ever a place screamed for an armada of bulldozers…” she said. “I’ll never again complain about where we live, or those tasteless tour buses jamming the street outside Pepper Plantation. J. J. better have negotiated for mileage, per diem, and gasoline, too. Check out those prices!” She pointed to a Chevron filling station sign. “You almost can’t afford to go to work!”
“Talk about social elitist snobs,” Tim chided. “Not everybody can afford to live as we do, ya know. I’m sure the locals have other things to enjoy here—like sex and drugs.”
Finally, after a full hour of driving, Tim found Chaparral Vista Street. He turned right and glided the Rolls up a hill and onto the Gary High School campus. He pulled into the circular driveway and stopped beside a smiling piggy-faced security guard who cradled a clipboard in his arm.
Tim pushed the power button on the armrest of his door and the passenger-side window slipped down. “Morning,” he said, cheerfully smiling back at the sentry.
Ever since security guard Duane Dunham’s altercation with Sedra Stone, he had become cautious and paranoid of people who drove about in ostentatious cars. Nonetheless, he continued smiling and peered at Tim. Sexy and rich, he thought.
“Polly Pepper is reporting for duty,” Tim said.
Duane’s doughy white face became whiter. He suddenly lost focus and, for a moment, he thought he was going to faint. “Polly Pepper?” he asked, checking his clipboard and the list of expected visitors. Duane was an ardent fan of Polly’s; however, her name was not on the call sheet and no one had warned him that
she was coming to the set. Beads of perspiration began to form on his milky white forehead as he feared another celebrity tongue-lashing. He tentatively said, “With all due respect, sir and ma’am, may I ask ya’ll to park over there, while I get a pass for you?” He pointed to a spot between a Jaguar and a Mazeratti, in a row of cars that cost more than the combined treasuries of a dozen Third World countries.
Suddenly the rear passenger side smoked glass window of the Rolls was slowly and ominously lowered. Duane automatically stepped backward onto the curb. Experience had taught him that a serrated tentacle would likely reach out from the maw and slap his chubby cheek. Instead, the familiar face of his favorite old star Polly Pepper was framed as though she were staring at him from a TV screen. To Duane’s great relief and excitement, she leaned forward and reached out. “Lovely to meet you…Duane,” she said, surreptitiously diverting her eyes to his name badge and back to his large brown eyes. “I’m Polly Pepper. I guess we’ll be seeing a lot of each other during the next week.”
Starstruck, but filled with a combination of awe and trepidation, Duane took a step closer to the car. He made contact with Polly’s hand and literally shivered. “It’s an honor to meet you, Miss Pepper,” he said with wonder, the sycophant emerging. He looked around to see if anyone was watching him. Then he whispered, “I’ll risk getting into trouble but I have to say this: I’m your biggest fan.” He nearly squealed the last word.
Polly laughed heartily. “Trouble? Honey, you’ll be in deep doo-doo if you don’t sit with me when we break for lunch today!”
That was enough to do the trick. In the campfire of life, Duane melted like the big fat marshmallow that he was.
Polly Pepper had been Duane’s favorite star for as far back as he could remember. He had been a weird kid whose parents barely tolerated him sitting for hours in their garage in Haverhill, Indiana, memorizing Polly’s television sketch routines. Although the height of her fame occurred at just about the time Duane was born, at age twelve he discovered Polly on a television retrospective and instantly fell in love.
As hobbies, some kids collect baseball cards, or jars of spiders. Duane collected Polly Pepper memorabilia. He spent a small fortune for a Polly Pepper doll (dressed by Bob Mackie) that was advertised in Readers’ Digest. He also owned a bootlegged copy of the limited edition two-disc CD set of Polly’s best-known songs including “For New Kate.” (Religious conservatives spoke the title quickly, running the words together to make their point about the lack of morals in Hollywood).
Duane also possessed a Polly Pepper Playhouse coffee mug, as well as copies of half the complete set of her fan club monthly newsletters. He even had a rare Polly Pepper wristwatch (albeit permanently stopped) with the star’s freckled face and toothy grin under the plastic faux crystal. He was most proud of his latest acquisition: the boxed DVD set of the first two seasons of “The Polly Pepper Playhouse” (with hours of commentary by Polly and the cast as well as outtakes and bloopers).
To say that Duane was a fan was an understatement, and he wasn’t about to keep a legend cooling her heels simply because someone forgot to enter her name on a list or to leave an identification badge. As far as he was concerned, if one didn’t know who Polly Pepper was—they’d been locked away all their life.
“Miss Pepper, he said, “you and your guests certainly don’t have to wait. Park wherever it’s convenient for you.” In the back of his mind he knew he could be given a demerit for not strictly enforcing the closed set rules, but he didn’t care. “I’ll call the PA and tell her to meet you by the gymnasium door.” He pointed to where Polly would be greeted. “She’ll escort you to your trailer.”
“It’s lovely to be made to feel welcome on my first day on the job,” Polly called back to Duane. As Tim slightly accelerated and rolled the car away from the guard to the parking slot, Polly said, “Such a sweet young man.”
Placenta added, “That boy’s gotta get off The Jim Belushi Diet!”
By the time Polly, Tim, and Placenta walked from the car to the meeting place that Duane had indicated, an imperious young woman with a noisy walkie-talkie greeted them and introduced herself as Iris, one of the production assistants. She looked with disapproval at Tim and Placenta. “This is a closed set. Visitors aren’t permitted, unless expressly permitted by Dana Pointer and Missie Miller,” she said.
Polly responded casually. “Nonsense, Virus. Tim and Placenta aren’t visitors…”
“Iris,” the PA corrected the pronunciation of her name.
“…they’re my ‘posse,’ my ‘Turtles.’ If you know who I mean. They’ll be at my side steadfastly,” she said, making it clear that she would be easy to get along with, as long as there was no interference with her way of doing things. “Simply instruct security to print out name badges for Tim Pepper and Placenta Bartlett. A pretty lariat to hang around their necks would be lovely too. Thank you, dear. Oh, and make Tim’s rainbow-colored. Placenta’s too. We’re a proud P-FLAG family, you know. You’re a dear,” she said as if her wish was a command.
Following Iris around to the back of the school gymnasium building, Polly finally stopped and cooed, “Oh, this must be our lovely trailer,” she stood in front of a Star Waggon with her name printed on a strip of masking tape. She turned to the PA. “Isis, you’re a doll. Many thanks for your assistance. I think we can handle things from here.”
“I-ris. Not I-sis,” the PA muttered as she handed Polly a manila envelope with a cast and crew contact list.
“So sorry, dear. I shouldn’t get those two mixed up with you,” Polly said. “One or the other was a goddess of fertility, wasn’t she?”
Iris raised an eyebrow.
Then Polly smiled as she opened the door to her trailer and stepped inside. Tim and Placenta followed.
Before closing the door Polly called back to the PA, “Just give me a holler before I’m required in wardrobe, would you? That’s a dear. Ta.”
As Iris shook her head and turned away, Polly called out again. “One more thing, hon—was this Sedra Stone’s trailer?”
Iris nodded. “And Trixie Wilder’s before her. Not to worry. Woolite spray and a lot of scrubbing got most of the blood out of the carpet.” With a smirk of satisfaction she added, “I hope you last longer than the previous occupants. Watch out for stray bricks, and don’t swim for an hour after eating,” she chuckled and then walked away.
Polly closed the door and complained, “She reminds me of that obnoxious Vicki Lawrence I had to work with for a nightmare week.”
“Shudder,” Placenta said, mocking Polly.
In the sanctuary of the trailer, the trio began admiring the deluxe accommodations. Then, out of morbid curiosity, they scrutinized the carpet for signs of Trixie’s dried up blood. Iris was right. The carpets were immaculate. And so Polly, Tim, and Placenta ravenously peered into the small refrigerator in the minibar. They filled three glasses with guava juice, grabbed bags of mini pretzels for a light breakfast, and then settled into their home away from home.
As Tim toyed with the television remote and surfed for reruns of “Seinfeld,” Placenta opened a copy of the Detention Rules! script that she found wedged between the cushions of the couch. Written on the cover was the name “Miss Stone.” The name “Miss Wilder” had been scratched out. She scanned the pages looking for Polly’s dialogue. On page ninety-eight she found the first reference to the Catharine character, along with handwritten notes scribbled in pencil all over the page. Lines of dialogue were also crossed out. She looked at the front cover again for the screenwriter’s name. “I guess someone wasn’t too wild for this Ben Tyler guy’s screenplay,” Placenta tsk-tsked.
Polly took a seat on the couch beside her maid and looked over at the page. She slowly deciphered the nearly illegible scrawl. “That’s Sedra’s handwriting, all right,” Polly said. She read aloud in a halting voice. “‘Ridiculous! Insipid! Blind to comedy! Killing me!’”
Placenta added, “Sedra must have been really ticked.” S
he pointed to the words blind and killing. “She underlined ’em in red ink.”
“A bit of an exaggeration,” Polly said. “Although I admit she was right about the dialogue being insipid. The new draft that I read last night has much more punch and zest. Whodathunk that Sedra had any insight into storytelling for the movies. Or maybe she was just throwing her weight around.”
As Polly and Placenta considered the possibilities of Sedra’s temperament there was a knock on the door. “It’s Adam Berg,” the director called in his affected accent. “Just want to welcome you aboard, Miss Pepper.”
Polly quickly stood up and opened the trailer door to the bright morning sunshine. She looked down at the director and with her famous wide mouth she presented him and his assistant with a radiant smile. Then, in her trademark voice—which was Shirley Temple revved up on Red Bull and espresso beans—she practically screeched, “You’re so young! And handsome, too! Come and meet the family!”
Adam was sincerely thrilled to be working with Polly Pepper. Although he was only vaguely familiar with the body of work that had made Polly a legend, he knew her reputation as a gifted comedienne, as well as a professional and dedicated team player, and one who easily got along with her colleagues. Adam sensed that he was finally about to get a reprieve from the torture of trying to handle the parade of clashing egos that had dominated his film set since the beginning of production.
Polly introduced Tim and Placenta, each of whom gave Adam and his assistant a friendly handshake. Yes, the director thought, perhaps my nightmare is over. Polly Pepper will easily fit in and maybe even teach Missie and Dana a thing or two about behaving like decent stars. He welcomed them all, and thanked Polly for stepping in to save the day. “You know our two leads, so I’m sure you’ll all get along famously,” he said. “I’m hopeful that we’ll complete principle photography by the weekend and finally have a well-deserved wrap party. Now then, Miss Pepper…”