“So?” I said, rolling my eyes. “That doesn’t surprise me.”
“So, on top of that, you show an alarming disregard for authority. As I said before, we’ll need a decision in the next twenty-four hours.”
“Oh, you can have it now.”
“Why don’t you take some time to think about it?” Daniel suggested.
“Go polish some more apples, Danny. What’s there to think about? Kill Ruby Stargazer off; I quit,” I declared, tossing my script on the table before walking out.
“Good-bye, Ms. Jeffries,” Fern called after me.
“It’s never good-bye, Fern, just so long. And tell your bowling league and your aunt in Iowa hello from Ruby Stargazer.”
“Oh, I most certainly will,” Fern exclaimed. “They’ll be so thrilled!”
Edith, Randall, Felicia, and Daniel peeked out, taking in the exchange along with the rest of the staff.
“Fabulous,” I said with a granite smile, extracting mirrored shades from my purse. “Oh, and Fern, after you’ve told them Ruby Stargazer said hello . . .”
“Yes, Ms. Jeffries?”
“Tell ’em your bitch of a boss smoked her.”
CHAPTER 7
“D” for Difficult
There’s no way in hell I’m going back, Weezi, and that’s final!” I was having a full-blown indulge-a-thon, slumped on my down-feathered sofa, eating pecan and praline ice cream while glued to a Claudette Colbert marathon on Turner Classic Movies. Hadn’t moved from that spot since truckin’ home from the WBC studios eight hours earlier.
“You don’t have a choice,” Weezi explained over the phone. “You must tape your final scenes or you’re gonna be in a world of trouble.”
“What kind of trouble? They’re the ones who pushed me off the show. They wanna dump me off a boat somewhere off the coast of guess where?”
“Where?”
“Africa! How lame is that? Those racist slimeballs. Why should I go back and help them destroy my character?”
“Because you’re still under contract, that’s why, and the last thing we both want is for you to be back on your rump in an infomercial demonstrating at three a.m. how to tighten your maximus, minimus, and medius using the Butt-Blaster: Firm the Flab Forever gizmo. If you don’t go back it’ll kill your chances of booking another soap. Plus the show could sue you for breach of contract.”
“This is really rich,” I began, knowing Weezi’s objective was to keep me where I was, his sole meal ticket paying him nine thousand dollars a month in commissions. “Edith and her gang can shake me quicker than a bad habit, but you can’t shake them for nothin’. What’s wrong? Afraid to rock the boat for fear you’ll lose your gravy train?”
“C’mon, Calysta, don’t talk like that, look how far we’ve come together. You know I’d do anything for you. Think about your future. You can handle one more week of those nitwits with your eyes closed. Hell, you’ve been doing it for fifteen years, what’s one more week?”
“Why don’t you come down to the set and find out,” I snapped.
“I would if I could but I have to check on a new client. She’s only eighteen and working on that new Russell Crowe film. She’s having trouble remembering her lines.”
“Gee, Weezi, I wish I could feel sorry for her but—”
“Just one more week, kiddo, you can do it,” he encouraged. “Try to think of the money you earn from this day on as dough for your daughter’s trust fund or that kitchen remodel.”
“Wow, thanks for the free financial planning, Weezi. God knows, less deserving people on R&R get double what I make and they’re reading off goddamn cue cards!”
“All right already, who said life was fair? Not everyone’s as smart as you. You’ll have every producer in daytime begging to give you a contract if you would just be a good girl and finish out your last week without any drama.”
“Weezi, do you realize if you weren’t such a complacent slug you could be pulling double the commission out my—”
“Look, I’ve got an important meeting at the Polo Lounge and I’m just itchin’ to use my new pink card. You know what they say, a good meal lubricates business.”
“Is that what they say? Didn’t know.”
“You’ve got two choices: A, you can go into work all half-cocked and wreck your career, or B, you can show up at the soap and kick butt knowing the entire industry will be watching. If you finish without any problems the soap galaxy will be your oyster; otherwise, you’ll be branded too difficult to work with.”
There it was, the dreaded “D” word. I imagined myself in a yellow Big Bird costume with a cutout for my face, on the set of Sesame Street.
“Hi kids! It’s me, your old friend Calysta! The letter for today is ‘D’ for difficult. You see, when men in Hollywood speak out about incompetent producers or asinine writers or in general fight for their rights, they are called words that begin with ‘P’ like passionate and ‘C’ like courageous, but when women, especially women who are ‘B’ for brown, speak out they are called the bad, bad ‘D’ word, difficult. Spell it out with me, d-i-f-f-i-c-u-l-t!”
“If you just play the game, I know I can get you on Obsessions,” Weezi said, jolting me out of my daydream.
“Let’s stop the b.s., shall we? You might have watched The Rich and the Ruthless once the whole fifteen years I was on the air. By the way, I found out you called Daniel Needleman and asked, and I quote, ‘Is The Rich and the Ruthless actually the number one soap opera in daytime?’ News flash, it’s been number one since I joined. But before you go offering up my aging, difficult, colored hide to the worst show in the history of daytime television, you might want to check and see how much longer Obsessions is gonna be on the air. It’s being canceled next week!”
“Oh, really?”
“Yes, really. And maybe I don’t want to be on another sudser; have you ever considered that? If you would maybe break a sweat trying to find me a steady gig in prime time or a breakout indie role, I wouldn’t have to deal with soaps anymore.”
“Calysta, be realistic, there aren’t a lot of opportunities in prime time and film for women over thirty-five. Especially women of color, unless you wanna do a reality show.”
“No shit, Sherlock. Tell me somethin’ I don’t know. I’ll go in and finish up the week, but that’s it.” Click.
BLIND ITEM: What daytime diva, recently forced off her soap, came in to tape her swan song scenes only to discover her security privileges were revoked? That’s right, kids, soap ID badge #J25320 snatched! Read it and weep.
This soap superstar was literally kicked to the curb and had to park outside along the street! Heavens to soapsuds, what’s love in the afternoon coming to? As if that wasn’t humiliating enough, the producers sent out a tween intern to escort the famed bubbler to and from the set! What, did they think she was going to make off with those tacky knockoffs? Thank gawd the fashionista had the good sense to start bringing in her own bangin’ threads. Shame, shame!
The Diva
CHAPTER 8
Access Denied
I turned my black-on-black Volvo SUV (my Jag was in the shop for a tuneup) onto the WBC lot, stopping at the guard gate, rolling down the window as I approached.
“Morning, Jay.”
“Morning, Ms. Jeffries,” he replied with nervousness in his voice.
“Oh my gawd, it’s Ruby Stargazer!” yelled dozens of enthusiastic fans outside the gate. The game show contestants had been waiting since the wee hours of the morning in hopes of landing a seat on Deal of the Century, the popular lead-in game show to The Rich and the Ruthless on the WBC television network.
“How y’all doin’?” I yelled back to the crowd.
“We’re doing great now that we’ve seen you, Ruby. We love you!” called back an exuberant fan standing with a group in matching red T-shirts with THE WILLIAMS FAMILY FROM ST. LOUIS emblazoned on them. “Keep representin’, Ruby!”
I beamed, grateful for the much-needed ego boost.
“Yes, ma’am. Sure is.”
“How’s Thalia and the kids?”
“Everyone’s doing fine . . . doing fine.”
“Wonderful,” I replied, waiting for him to raise the gate. “Well, I better get goin’. You have a good day.”
“Ah, Ms. Jeffries . . .”
“Yes? Is there a problem?”
“I’m sorry, ma’am, your security access has been denied.”
“Stop jokin’ and let me through.”
“No, I’m serious. Ms. Norman sent a memo stating you had to park outside the gate this week.”
“Really.” A horn sounded behind me.
“I’m sorry, ma’am.”
“No, you’re just doin’ your job, Jay,” I said through clenched teeth.
Gripping the steering wheel and pissed, I shifted my SUV into reverse, sending it squealing back, burning rubber out into the street, nearly colliding with Emmy’s candy apple red convertible Porsche.
“Hey, watch it, sistah. Now that you’re about to be unemployed and all, I’d hate to have to sue you for dingin’ my ride with that soccer mom mobile,” Emmy cackled in her leather “To Catch A Thief” driving gloves, looking over her jeweled Bvlgari sunglasses, gunning her engine up to the gate.
“Ohmagod, look, it’s Gina Chiccetelli, everyone!” screamed the fans. “Gina, Gina, can you look this way?” as they aimed their disposable cameras at her.
On cue, Emmy’s designer Pomapoo raised her tiny head and pedicured paws, posing for them, teeth bared. Unprovoked, two months prior, the vicious three-pound six-ounce mutt bit an extra. Emmy settled out of court but was ordered to muzzle her precious pooch if she wanted it on the WBC lot.
Ignoring the still-screaming fans, Emma flashed her badge and glided onto the lot, her vanity plates reading R&R STAR.
After parking along the curb, a country mile from the WBC gate, I climbed out and began searching for loose change.
“Here, Miss Stargazer,” said a young passing fan in full dress blues balancing a tray of coffee, offering me a handful of quarters.
“Thank you, um, Tom,” I replied, eyeing his oversize yellow name tag. “I know I have change in this purse somewhere.”
“That’s all right. It’s on me,” he said. “When I go back next week for my second tour of duty I’m gonna tell everyone how I helped out my favorite soap star!”
I smiled my gratitude at the young soldier, sensing he wouldn’t be coming home. As he walked away, I fought back tears, retrieving my hatbox and makeup kit from the backseat.
No crying, I mentally admonished. Think about the fans in the crowd. They came all this way to forget about their troubles and to suspend reality on that silly game show. Never expected to see you too. So suck it up. And I mean suck it up right now. Nobody wants to see a sniveling soap star.
I flashed a smile as I signed autographs, shook hands, and posed for pictures. The R&R cast and crew had begun arriving for work, noticing me on foot.
“What the hell?” Daniel Needleman mouthed through the window of his Lexus.
Holding my chin up, I trudged back up to the security gate, hot. A pubescent man was now standing with Jay. He couldn’t have been more than nineteen.
“Ms. Jeffries, this is Perry,” Jay introduced.
“Okay,” I replied with an impatient tone.
“He’s a new intern at The Rich and the Ruthless.”
“It’s an honor to meet you, Ms. Jeffries,” he said. “You’re my mom’s favorite and I’ve been watching you since I was four.”
“Thank you, Perry. Listen, I would love to autograph a picture for your mom, but can you catch me later? As you can see, I’m having a rough morn—”
“I don’t think you understand, Ms. Jeffries,” Jay said. “Perry is here to escort you onto the set.”
Just then the game show audience erupted into the biggest reception yet.
“Come again? Speak louder! I can’t hear you with all that racket behind me.”
“Perry is here to escort you onto the set!” Jay shouted.
“Um, yeah, Mr. Roberts told me I was to shadow you at all times when you weren’t taping this week,” the pimply intern stuttered.
“It’s okay, Jay, I’ll escort Ms. Jeffries to the set,” came the instantly recognizable, sexy voice of Derrick Taylor, my former leading man, on and off stage. We had been the most popular black super-couple in daytime. Derrick had left his wildly popular role as Dove Jordan on The Rich and the Ruthless two years earlier for the WBC prime-time series Pathological Murders, and more than a million viewers left with him.
My heart skipping a beat, I turned around to see my old flame pulling up beside me in his custom Rolls-Royce Phantom Drophead convertible.
“What’s going on, sexy?” he asked with a grin that revealed his twin trademark dimples. Derrick employed his good looks like a well-used passport.
A smile broke across my face.
The intern stood in disbelief, seeing Derrick Taylor, the eight-pack-sporting soap-star-turned-prime-time-vigilante-action-hero up close.
“Mr. Taylor, I have specific orders,” Jay said tensely. “I could get in trouble.”
“Chill, anybody gives you trouble, tell ’em to come see Derrick Taylor,” he said with a cocksure attitude. “Calysta, get yo fine ass in this car, we’re holdin’ up traffic.”
He didn’t have to ask me twice. Undone as I was, I managed to vamp my way around the polished Rolls and slide into heaven.
Smelling of Armani’s Acqua di Gio cologne, Derrick leaned over to lay his firm lips on my cheek. And like Pavlov’s dog, I had a reaction that remained concealed.
“Derrick, you’re a lifesaver. Some girls get a prince on a white horse; I get a brutha in a bullet gray Phantom.”
“What can I say? I’m always happy to help a damsel in distress.”
We shared a laugh before I looked away. Derrick parked.
“So, shortie, what’s going on? You have a flat or somethin’?”
“It’s a long story.”
“You know your new leading man, Ethan—” Derrick began.
“Please don’t call him that,” I interrupted. “He’s a bad replacement.”
“Remember when the dork left me that stalker message on my voicemail?”
“Who could forget?”
“It was wack. ‘Man you got the crib, the ride, and the women I want and now you got my show. Good luck you bastard.’”
“What a loser,” I clucked. “He’s still braggin’ about that Pathological Murders audition to anyone who’ll listen. Ain’t nobody tryin’ to hire his bubbler butt outside of daytime. You might consider getting a restraining order,” I suggested as we maliciously snickered together.
“I’ve been hearin’ all kinds of crazy mess about you leaving the show. Is it true, babe?”
“Yeah, it’s true,” I said, disguising my pain. “And I’ll tell you what else is true.”
“What’s that?”
“I truly miss you on the set, D. These people get crazier by the day, tryin’ to minimize the tracks we laid down for this damn sudser and doin’ it without the same paper.”
“Word. Ain’t that nothin’? Believe, with Edith ’n’ the Barringers, dollar’s king. They still ain’t ready to invest in big brown but trust . . . they will. In the meantime you gotta be lookin’ out for number one. You still cute ’n’ got time on your side. Remember, black . . .”
“. . . don’t crack. I feel you on that,” I replied. “I shoulda left when your behin’ did. Heard daytime only has a few more years.”
Derrick had declined to return to the number one soap during his last round of contract negotiations, when despite his titanic stature as daytime’s most popular actor, The Rich and the Ruthless refused to offer the soap god the same northern-million-dollar salaries offered to popular white leading actors. The WBC, not wanting to lose Derrick, a Nielsen ratings magnet, offer
ed the hunky leading man a series regular spot on the prime-time procedural Pathological Murders. He more than cleaned up.
“So where’s the exotic location shoot this year?” Derrick teased. “Flying anywhere nice in the honeymoon jet?”
Laughing briefly, I thought of my many trips on the Vinn Hansen private plane. Pretending to be at cruising altitude, the grounded jet consisted of a seventy-two-inch-radius wall, four portals, and four seats.
“Man, I got as far as Pittsburgh. Cheapskate Randall had the temerity to piggyback my personal appearance at a mall in the hood with no air-conditioning. Bootlegged the gig, turning it into a location shoot.”
“Ooh, that’s rough, Calysta.”
“I swear it was over a hundred degrees in that damn building. Sweated my hair out lookin’ busted for three whole days.” I shuddered. “I don’t understand why I stuck around this place for so long.”
“Because you love it.”
“Huh?”
“Maybe not all the cast or the crap, but you love playing Ruby Stargazer, and more than that, you love your fans. Hell, most actors see daytime as a stepping-stone to prime time. But you would’ve been perfectly happy sticking it out for the long haul if those idiots only knew how to treat a sistah of substance.”
He was right. Most soap stars wanted to be on prime time, prime-time stars wanted to be movie stars, movie stars wanted to be rock stars, rock stars and wrestlers wanted to be politicians, politicians wanted to be in Hollywood, and all I wanted was to be Ruby Stargazer on The Rich and the Ruthless for the rest of my life.
“So what are you gonna do?” Derrick asked, as he rolled the car up to the Artists’ Entrance.
“Hell if I know. You-all hiring over at your show?”
“You know if they were you’d be the first honey I’d call.”
“Yeah right; you know you want some spicy young thang to play your love interest.”
“They don’t get any spicier than you, mamma. By the way, I kinda miss those plastic palm trees that the soap borrowed from Deal of the Century for our tropical destination shoot.”
Secrets of a Soap Opera Diva Page 6