“Who the hell do you think you are?”
Method acting could be such a good thing but bubblers like Phillip McQueen gave it a bad reputation. He had no problem suspending reality when it came to being Mahstah of fictitious Fink Manor, which consisted of two interchangeable 15 x 15 rooms boasting mirrors and beaux art appointments, faux-painted plywood walls, a stairway to nowhere, an oversize chandelier, a huge bucolic estate backdrop dotted with grazing horses in the distance, and of course a loyal maid named Queenie. The pompous actor had everything he needed to go back, say, four hundred years.
Equally as alarming was how excited Jade and Ethan got over the occasional scene written for them in the Fink big house.
“Calysta, did you hear the news? Our wedding is going to be at Fink Manor!” Ethan had exclaimed, nearly wetting himself, as if it were Versailles.
I had looked at the Uncle Tom and thought, When is he going to wake up?
Perhaps I was hypersensitive to the display, hailing from Mississippi, but that couldn’t be a bad thing.
“Listen you cross-eyed yokel, I know exactly who I am and who you’re not and that’s a few things. If I were you, I’d force quit now before I give Daytime Confidential the exclusive they’ve been sniffin’ around for.”
“Excuse me?”
“Oh, so now your incendiary ass is deaf?”
“Okay, okay, guys, we have guests on the set. Cool it,” Julius warned, joining us.
“She keeps changing the lines,” Phillip complained. “I’m just trying to get some artistic clarity here.”
“McQueen is being anal as usual.”
“Calysta, would you please not change what’s written? You know how sensitive Phillip is about the script and tag lines. You also know the rules, if you don’t get your changes in before five o’clock you’re SOL. Now let’s finish this damn scene. The soap is on an ultratight budget, we have a boatload of work to do before lunch, and the producers don’t have time for friggin’ bickering!”
“Fine,” I retorted. “Next time, King Lear should find a few minutes to rehearse this poetic magic instead of posturing in the mirror with a can of hair spray and a mascara wand.”
Phillip had selectively forgotten that I’d pitched him to my actress-turned-prime-time-casting-director friend Boston Ferrar, years earlier when things were placid on R&R. Don’t get me wrong, I definitely had my reservations from the get-go, but everyone faked the funk. Boston was under the gun and needed to quickly recast an actor who’d come down with a nasty case of adult chicken pox. She was in search of a leading man on a popular David Kelley series for six episodes.
Stupidity being the voice of reason, agentless McQueen telephoned casting, saying, “The role is simply too small.” That was the last time I ever recommended an actor for anything. McQueen was aiming high after all, he liked being a big minnow in a small pond and he got his wish, Top Frog.
From my first day on the R&R set, Augustus had encouraged me to flesh out the soul of Ruby Stargazer over many a dinner and gin and tonic. His instincts were razor sharp and our hard work was validated when fan mail and reviews poured in from all over the country and around the world. Fans thanked The Rich and the Ruthless creator for finally putting a relatable crossover character of color on his show and in a meaty role.
Conversely, I still couldn’t smash through the glass sudser ceiling. And the second Augustus relinquished control, Edith and her crew, including a paid-off reporter with a bad attitude, worked overtime, chipping away.
I reminded myself, Twenty-four hours, and then I’m scot-free like Celie in Purple, just one more freakin’ day.
CHAPTER 19
That’s Right, Mother . . .
I Found Your Diary
With soft harp music playing in the background, Maeve Fielding, the salty tough-as-nails octogenarian who played matriarch Lady Leslie Lovekin on The Rich and the Ruthless, said, “I hate these goddamn all-day weddings.”
Barely able to blink from her homemade face-lift, Maeve, along with the rest of the cast, was seated on the Wedding of the Century set, waiting for Ruby Stargazer to make her appearance, descending the enormous sweeping staircase and gliding down the rose-petal-lined aisle in the Fink Manor living room.
Maeve turned the hands of time back three decades, recalling Alison in her first, now infamous scene on The Rich and the Ruthless, so popular to this day it’s a top-rated clip on YouTube. Maeve’s character tried to reason with her rebellious teenage daughter Rory Lovekin, played by Alison Fairchild Roberts, attempting to talk her out of her harebrained scheme to trap Barrett Fink into marriage with another spawn.
Following take after take, Maeve—who’d been kicked out of Old St. Vincent’s convent in Girardeau, Missouri, a gazillion years ago for beating up another nun, had run off to join Hollywood’s nostalgic Golden Age, and had married three times (rumored to have murdered her last two husbands)—had had enough of the ingénue’s snot hanging from her nose.
Unscripted, she’d grabbed Alison by her ponytail, cussing her out, “Listen, you little bitch, you have the acting skills of a lobotomized chihuahua,” before storming off the set. All caught on tape. Hating each other ever since, the thespians never showed it in public.
“So Maeve, did you hear—”
“No, I didn’t hear and I don’t care.”
“Randall and I may be going to Cannes this year. And I’m auditioning for Dancing with the Stars next week.” Alison gloated, seated next to her in a Madras dress, digging out her blush and compact from a makeup kit.
“I haven’t watched that show since those boobs picked Cloris Leachman over me. How dare they? I used to be a hoofer and I coulda’ danced circles around that broad.”
“I could just faint, I’ve been dieting all week for my audition,” Alison continued.
“I can’t wait to faint in this goddamned wedding scene so I can crawl the hell back to my dressing room, take off this freakin’ suit, and beeline it to the airport.” The legendary soap star was scheduled to appear the next day on Celebrity Poker in Las Vegas.
“Oh, Maeve, stop complaining, it’s a mystery that Felicia still insists on writing for your character after that pathetic on-camera gastro-bypass storyline fiasco. That was really desperate.”
“No more desperate than your last extreme acid peel, which kept you out of work for two weeks.”
“In case you didn’t know, our target demo is women eighteen to forty-nine, not seventy-five to a hundred and two . . . and since no one else will tell you, you’ve got grandma caked in the corners of your mouth.”
“She-devil,” Maeve hissed.
“That’s quite enough from both of you,” boomed Wolfe Hudson, the dashing, sophisticated Danish-born leading man, seated behind them next to his new love interest Dr. Justine Lashaway, played by the sexy, much younger Shannen Lassiter. “These are Calysta’s last scenes and you boobs are already making it difficult enough for her. And take off those hideous slippers and put your heels on, Alison, so that ve can shoot this shit. I have an important meeting with James Cameron tonight.”
“Figures you would defend that lunatic,” she shot back.
“Hey, Alison, keep your opinion to yourself,” Shannen exclaimed. “Calysta’s my friend.”
“Poor you.” She dismissed her before saying pointedly to Wolfe, “The two of you are cut from the same cloth.”
“How right you are. Consummate professionals. I only regret I never had the pleasure of sharing a storyline or two vith her. If you hadn’t had the forethought of marrying the producer, you vould have been playing an aging Sleeping Beauty at Disneyland years ago.”
Alison had turned around to give Wolfe a piece of her mind when she zeroed in on Phillip and me standing at the threshold of the lavish living room to swelling violins playing Beethoven’s Concerto in D Major, a full-size portrait of Barrett Fink in the background. Flattering filtered light illuminated Jade, Ethan, and Wilson Turner (now the preacher) all in place. Naturally there were no
other family members for the black cast; it was assumed we raised ourselves in the wild.
Costumed in Sonia Rykiel, Emmy was oblivious, wildly texting in her seat, “Hey Snuggle Bunny, are you watching? Get ready. XOXOXO.”
The room was decorated with lit candles, white roses, peonies, and a smattering of extras, including arbitrary bad child actors stiffly saying their one line like wooden soldiers, beamed in by stage mothers hoping for a National Velvet breakthrough.
If there was anything a Barringer production didn’t skimp on it was candles, flowers, and real champagne for a wedding, budget or no.
With everyone on their tired, swollen feet, Alison arched her eyebrow and said, “Damn, the bitch looks absolutely fabulous.”
Clad in her unwearable secondhand wedding dress the Pattern Cutter had stitched together partially, I found out later, with one of her tablecloths, I was, critics argued, the most radiant bride The Rich and the Ruthless had ever seen. My hair, upswept in a regal Audrey Hepburn–inspired do courtesy of my emergency glam squad from Inglewood, was adorned with those dewdrop Czechoslovakian hand-blown crystal beads. Only I rocked the baubles like nobody’s business.
As Phillip escorted me down the aisle, I caught Wolfe’s eye as he mouthed, “Knock ’em dead.” I beamed, heading toward my soap opera wedding crescendo. He was my favorite person on the show besides Shannen.
“Calysta certainly looks better than you did stuffed in that marshmallow monstrosity all those years ago,” Maeve whispered to her TV daughter.
Alison sat in the throes of stunned silence, bitterly realizing none of their conspiracy was working out the way they’d hoped.
CHAPTER 20
The Martini
Over the last two years, Ethan had thoroughly ruined the popular character Derrick made famous, instantly transforming him into a minstrel, complete with spoons and tap-dancing to the Virginia Reel. He delivered the lines exactly as written, but for once, at least for our Wedding of the Century, I wished he would rail against Felicia Silverstein’s blatant attempts to keep the black characters on the show in a perpetual place of servitude.
“Ugh.” Those insipid lines replayed in my head as I undid the hook-and-eyes to my bodice, watching Nancy Grace while I nursed my knee with an ice pack in my dressing room. I’d strained it during my fight scene on the roof of Fink Manor. R&R had been too cheap to hire a stuntwoman.
Felicia tried so hard to keep Dove as Ruby Stargazer’s “one true love” after Derrick left the show. Her small myopic brain thought the fans would buy into anyone brown. Wrong. Everyone knew Derrick’s Dove Jordan was the real love of Ruby Stargazer’s life and no replacement was ever going to work.
I played the oldest trick in the book, resisting Ethan on camera in hopes the producers would fire him. It was no secret I missed the amazing chemistry I felt with Derrick.
“What does it matter now anyway?” I sighed aloud. “I’m leaving the show; who cares who Ruby’s true love is?”
“Hey, Calysta,” Shannen said, walking in.
We were temporarily sharing my dressing room because of all the extras and full cast, plus special accommodations that should have been for Grammy Award–winning guest artist John Legend, after much begging by Weezi to Edith on my behalf to spice up the soap and boost sagging ratings. Come to find out the WBC never came up with the money, so instead they hired R&B duo K-Ci and JoJo.
“Oh, hey,” I said, grateful for the interruption. “How’s the gang behavin’?”
“It’s pretty quiet, to tell you the truth. Emmy’s hiding out in her dressing room, guess she’s afraid of running into Bonnie.”
Bonnie Blackburn had played the role of Uranus Winterberry, the most dastardly villainess in the history of The Rich and the Ruthless, on and off for the past twenty years. The network paid her a queen’s ransom to return for Ruby’s final storyline.
“Do you remember Bonnie’s last stint on the show when Uranus Winterberry became involved in that torrid lesbian love affair with Emmy’s character?” Shannen asked.
“Who could forget? The affair soon spilled over into real life and onto all the tabloids. They couldn’t keep their hands off each other and didn’t care who saw their girl-on-girl lip locks, even at the annual fan club luncheon, now that was crazy.”
“Why do you think it suddenly ended?”
“Girl, where were you, under a rock? That gossip was all up and down the soapvine. It ended because Emmy found Bonnie in bed with another woman. She swore off Bonnie but Bonnie wasn’t about to let chica go, so things got a little aggressive on the set. Emmy actually hired a bodyguard for protection. Talk about lipstick drama.”
“Is it true Augustus threatened to fire both of them if they didn’t stop the madness?”
“Yep. Emmy ended up quitting for a year in protest, but nobody cared. She moved to Memphis and tried to get a country western singing contract but it was a bust. She begged for her job back on R&R.”
“Wow.”
“Wow, what?”
“I’m gonna miss all this. Who am I gonna talk to after you leave?”
“You’ll be fine,” I assured her.
“Yeah, but it won’t be the same without you.”
“You got that right.” I laughed. “And here’s something else I’m right about, you’re gonna be America’s next big soap star if this industry lasts long enough. Don’t let this bitter bunch steal your thunder, and whatever you do don’t get stuck, you have what it takes to do other projects. Keep your day job but stay hungry and keep your options open or else your fruit will die on the vine.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Shannen agreed, wiping away a tear.
“Okay, cast, I know you’re tired but this is the Martini shot. Five minutes . . . five minutes until we’re back,” announced the stage manager. “Calysta, Wolfe, Ethan, Jade, Emmy, Shannen, Phillip, Maeve, Wilson, get your touchups and be camera ready for scene forty-seven in the Fink Ballroom. And to all the extras, I know it’s been a long day and you’ve had to occupy your time, but please put away your dominoes, cards, knitting, and crossword puzzles before you come to set.”
We stood up wearily.
“Shannen, would you be a love and help me fasten up this Rory Lovekin Original?”
“I’d be honored.”
“Careful, it’s vintage.”
“No . . . it’s a masterpiece.”
We laughed so hard we cried.
“Let’s get to set and kick butt before Julius has a coronary.”
CHAPTER 21
Sudser Showdown
The extras gasped.
“Cut!” screamed an unraveling Julius, taking a swig of Johnnie Walker from his flask. Rubbing his eyes, looking at multiple screens in the control booth, he asked the rest of the crew, “Did she say what I think she just said?”
Everyone looked back deadpan, not wanting to get involved.
“Emmy, what the hell did you just say?”
“My line, what’d you think I said?”
“You ain’t slick. It’s like sayin’ Schwarzenegger’s name with a slant and a smile.”
“I don’t think she was calling you anything,” Ethan said, taking her side.
“Let’s pick it up, same place,” Julius said.
“Okay, this scene is so not working for me,” Emmy huffed.
“Cut!” Julius yelled, on the verge of a nervous breakdown. “Emmy, what’s the problem? And where’s Maeve? She’s supposed to be in the background.”
“Uh, Maeve left the building. She thought she was through,” the stage manager said.
“That’s what she always says,” replied the pissed-off director. “It’s always that or her ‘bronchitis’ flaring up.”
“Something’s missing in this scene, it’s flat,” Emmy said. “I need to be doing something with my hands. Someone get me a glass of sparkling water, ASAP!”
“What for?” I asked.
“Mind your own beeswax, sistah. You make your movie and I’ll make mine. I know you of a
ll people aren’t questioning a little improvisation.”
“Whatever floats your boat,” I replied as a flute of Perrier flew in for the bossy bubblette.
“Okay, where can we pick it up from?” she asked Julius.
“Take it from ‘Barrett promised me that job.’ In five, four, three, two, go.”
Unscripted, Emmy took a healthy swig of water off camera, then brazenly spewed it in my face, bursting into a fit of hysterical toothy laughter. I waited for the brass to do something, but they didn’t, at least not right away. Doing the opposite of what was expected, I stood in that peace which passes all understanding kind of stillness that tends to scare folks. As the vile sludge slid off my rouged cheek and onto the hand-me-down wedding dress, I finally heard, “Cut!”
Peripherally, I spied Alison, Phillip, and a few others intensely watching.
“Open the boom, Cisco.”
“What is it, Calysta?”
“You have to ask? Obviously I need to wash this hate off.”
“You can’t do that, Calysta!” shouted Emmy. “You need to stay exactly the way you are for continuity.”
“And you need to shut your mouth. The only reason you still have teeth is ’cause I have a daughter to raise and a mortgage to pay.”
“Calysta, we don’t have time for all this, Emmy’s right,” Julius agreed. “It’s just a little water.”
“Water, my eye. It’s spit,” I corrected, fighting to repress my growing emotions yet knowing the Mississippi spirits were taking hold, and the bull was about to go ballistic.
“You people always get so sensitive over nothing,” Emmy taunted me with a snicker.
“You think it’s funny?” I said, refocusing my fury on the harlot as a mist of perspiration spread above my upper lip.
“Obviously you’ve never heard of a spit take.”
My chest tightened, and a small voice, no doubt inspired by Weezi, begged me to push through. Don’t let them win, make it to the finish line. But his voice was unilaterally silenced by Beulah Espinetta Jones.
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