by Ted Michael
Goose snorted. “I mean, I’m no expert, but I don’t think that’s how it works.”
They giggled for another moment, then silence fell again in the gathering darkness.
“Take your T-shirt off,” Goose said quietly.
Stringbean looked at him in horror.
“Relax. Haven’t you got like an undershirt and a billion other layers underneath that? You look like you’re wearing a bulletproof vest most of the time,” Goose reassured her. It was totally flabbergasting how relieved Stringbean felt by just having this discussion. Leave it to Goose to be the one to dig it out of her.
Slowly, Stringbean shucked off the used-to-be-white T-shirt, tossing it aside.
“Can I?” Goose asked gently.
Taking a deep breath, Stringbean nodded. With poignant care, Goose picked the end of the tape ring free and began peeling off the tape, going two full revolutions around Stringbean’s torso. Stringbean took another deep breath, delighting in the unhindered expansion of her diaphragm.
“Does it feel better? Didn’t it hurt, the way you had it before?” Goose asked.
“I’d gotten used to the way it hurt,” Stringbean said. “But I gotta admit—it does feel better now.”
It felt so much better that she leaned in and kissed Goose again, and there they tangled for another immeasurable while, Stringbean’s bare arms still warm in the full darkness.
20. Interruption: Phone Call
Neither of them had any idea what time it was when Stringbean’s cell phone rang.
“String,” Little DeeDee said on the other end of the line, her voice troublesick. “I think you’d better come on home.”
21. Soon
When Stringbean got home, Junie Mae was asleep on the floor and Little DeeDee was crying at the table. She looked up and saw Stringbean, filthy and wild-haired, and rolled her eyes in an expression that reminded Stringbean of herself.
“I’m not even going to ask where you were,” Little DeeDee said, running a tired hand over her eyes and through her hair. “The nurse just left. They think—with BeeDee—they think it’s going to be soon.”
Stringbean looked bug-eyed at her mother. “They think what’s going to be soon?”
Little DeeDee gave her a hollow look, a don’t make me spell it out for you look, and lit a cigarette. “I think you should go in and spend some time with your grandmother.”
22. The End of Ugliness
Big DeeDee’s breathing didn’t sound right when Stringbean walked into the living room. Her breathing in sounded like a lot of work, and her breathing out came with a terrible rattle, a rattle that sounded like the insides of a broken machine.
Stringbean could transpose that ugly music of Big DeeDee’s. She had to. Big DeeDee had said it herself: not so many days to sing. Today, on the island, Stringbean had sung until the room was wreckage. Now, even though she was afraid of wreckage, she could feel her harmony was needed here.
When Stringbean sang for Big DeeDee, she left the camera out of it. Big DeeDee was at the end of ugliness, and it was Stringbean who was in the thick of it, anyway. She sang, through the tears, all of Big DeeDee’s favorites: “Amazing Grace” and “You Made Me Love You” and the song Carol Burnett sang at the end of her shows that went, “I’m so glad we had this time together.”
Afterward, Stringbean snuggled into Big DeeDee’s crook. Big DeeDee moved slightly, her head resting on Stringbean’s.
“BeeDee,” Stringbean whispered, “can you hear me?”
Big DeeDee made a humming sound: yes.
“I came to tell you that—” Stringbean said, her throat catching, “it’s okay to die, BeeDee. You can let go.”
23. Letting Go
In the morning, she was gone. Stringbean watched the medics take away BeeDee and the bed and the big beeping machine. In Big DeeDee’s honor, that afternoon, Stringbean went to Wal-Mart and bought her first nonsports bra.
24. The Wreckage of Stringbean and Goose
Stringbean and Goose called the Grand Hotel Sault St. Marie video “We Killed Room 15.” It got 13,274 unique hits and 5,024 new subscribers the week they posted it.
“That’s the weirdest thing I’ve seen today, but I can’t say I didn’t like it,” commented johnmonroe54.
“That girl sounds kind of like Janis Joplin,” wrote chcltbnnyxoxo.
“DUDE WHEN THAT KID FELL OFF THE BED I ROFLD MY ASSS OFFFF!!!!!” wrote mrsquashhocker1979, echoing the sentiments of many others in the thread.
Stringbean and Goose refreshed the page endlessly, screaming with laughter as they watched the bizarre, anonymous commentary unfold. They were working on a new concept for a series of webisodes, “The Wreckage of Stringbean and Goose,” in which Stringbean sang along with the sounds of Goose destroying various abandoned things.
Junie Mae had excitedly reported back about an old hunting shack in the woods that looked ripe for this afternoon’s destruction, and tomorrow, they were going out to the auto graveyard on Route 40 to see about a car. The kissing continued in manic, stolen fits and spurts, still unpredictable, still undefined. Sooner or later Goose would probably make Stringbean talk about it, but for now, they had to find a tractor or four-wheeler to borrow. Stringbean hummed with happiness, imagining the crunches and crackles of the hunting shack as they razed it to the ground. Its broken song.
ANECDOTE: TELLY LEUNG
My love of musicals came about in a very unexpected way.
When I was eight years old, my parents made it clear that they wanted me to focus on my studies. They forbade me from watching “junk cartoons” after school. Instead, I was expected to do my homework, practice the piano, and I was only allowed to watch PBS—because the programming was educational. My TV diet consisted of Sesame Street, Square One, 3-2-1 Contact, Nova, and lots of nature shows.
One day, I’m watching PBS and a life-changing event occurred. Great Performances came on, and they were showing the live telecast of the original Broadway cast of Into the Woods. I had found a new religion (Broadway), and I found a new god to worship (Stephen Sondheim). To this day, when my parents try to convince me to quit acting, I tell them it’s their fault! They were the ones that forced me to watch PBS!
I grew up in New York City, the son of Chinese immigrant parents. They escaped the Communists (very Joy Luck Club) and came to this country with two hundred dollars and a pair of suitcases, crashing on friends’ couches in Chinatown when they first arrived. They saved every penny they made, working blue-collar jobs in the garment industry and the restaurant business. They could only afford to have one kid (me), and they placed all of their hopes and dreams on this one child-to-be. Like so many immigrants, my parents came to this country to achieve the American Dream. To them, the Dream was a monetary one. I’m sure that when my parents first held me in their arms in the hospital that cold, January day I entered the world, they saw in me an Ivy League degree that would then result in a six-figure-a-year job as a doctor or a lawyer or an engineer. The last thing they wanted me to be was a starving artist. “Actor” and “artist” might as well be four-letter words in my family.
I was eight years old when we went on a family vacation to Boston. It was a guided bus tour, but my dad decided to ditch the tour guide and take me to Cambridge. We stood outside the ivy-laced gates of Harvard University. He held my little eight-year-old hand and said to me, in his soft-spoken, heavily accented voice: “Son, do not do restaurant business like your father. You study hard. Go to Harvard. Become Doctor. Lawyer. Engineer. Make a lot of money. Then, you buy a nice Rolex for Daddy.”
So—I did just that. I studied hard and got stellar grades. My parents were so proud to have their son on the honor roll (scoring not just As, but A pluses on every test). It made me happy to see my parents so happy at my scholastic success. All that hard work hitting the books paid off when I was accepted into one of the specialized high schools in New York City, Stuyvesant High School. I was on my way to Yale or Princeton—maybe even Harvard. My parent’s
American Dream was about to come true. I was on my way to that six-figure job in a steady, respectable profession.
Getting into that dream college also meant working hard on the SATs, and I went to every Princeton Review and Kaplan test-prep class I could. It was a grueling schedule, and I couldn’t wait for the whole daunting college application process to be over. I took my SATs on a Wednesday morning, and when it was all done, I wanted to give myself a treat—a reward for busting my butt in school. I decide to buy a ticket to a Broadway show. I’d saved up my allowance money, and so I walk over to the TKTS booth in Times Square, where they sell discounted tickets to Broadway shows.
There, I see 50-percent-off tickets for the revival of Hello, Dolly! starring the legendary Carol Channing! I am about to witness a living theater legend, performing her star turn for, what would likely be, the last time she’d do it in her career. (Although, Carol is still going strong these days, and still performing all over the country. It wouldn’t surprise me if she put that red dress on again and descended those Harmonium Garden stairs in yet another revival.)
Suddenly, the storm clouds roll in and the biggest torrential downpour I’ve ever experienced completely drenches me from head to toe. But, it doesn’t matter. I have a front mezzanine seat to see Carol Channing, and “a little fall of rain” isn’t going to stop me now. (Can you tell I like musicals?)
I take my seat at the Lunt-Fontanne Theater, and by the end of the overture, my teeth begin to chatter. Being soaking wet in the intense air-conditioning in the Broadway theater was not a good combination. But Carol was electrifying. The whole production was a masterful recreation of the original Gower Champion production, and I felt like I had jumped into Marty McFly’s DeLorean and gone back in time. I didn’t feel cold or wet at all.
Carol begins her big closing number at the end of Act One. She is center stage, and it’s at this moment that I understand why she’s an enduring, timeless talent. She doesn’t have the most technically proficient, trained, polished voice in the world. What she does have is the ability to make everyone in that Broadway theater feel like she’s singing right to them. It’s a personal, intimate experience. She is a brilliant communicator, and there is something about her performance (especially as Dolly Levi) that breaks your heart because you feel like she is reaching deep into the core of your heart.
When she began to sing “Before the Parade Passes By,” I knew right then and there. I wasn’t going to Harvard. I wasn’t going to become a doctor, a lawyer, or an engineer. I was going to do what I wanted to do. I was going to pursue a career in acting. I was going to have a career on Broadway, and make a life of it, just like Carol had all of these years.
Carol Channing ended up giving me one of the worst colds I’d ever had. But she also gave me a new perspective—and a personal show biz anthem. A new perspective. She gave me the courage to follow my heart and live my life—before the parade of life passes by.
TELLY LEUNG’s Broadway credits include Godspell, RENT (final Broadway cast), Pacific Overtures, and Flower Drum Song. TV credits include Glee (Wes, Dalton Warblers), Broadway or Bust (PBS documentary), and Law & Order: Criminal Intent. Other favorite roles include Sammy in the world-premiere of Broadway-bound Allegiance at the Old Globe, Angel in RENT at the Hollywood Bowl (directed by Neil Patrick Harris), and Song in M. Butterfly at the Philadelphia Theatre Company. His debut solo album, I’ll Cover You, is available on the Yellow Sound Label. Website: www.tellyonline.net. Twitter: @tellyleung.
A DATE WITH DESTINY
Josh Pultz
INT.—IAA OFFICES, CONFERENCE ROOM—AFTERNOON
The view is spectacular.
This is one of my favorite parts of the day. Not algebra, not biology, not even lunch (which is usually spent outdoors, sitting in the courtyard reading some celebrity gossip blog or tweeting about some big Hollywood scandal on my iPhone). This part. The part of the day after the final bell rings, when I get to walk down Avenue of the Stars from Los Angeles PS 3 to my father’s office, go through the revolving door, and be ushered up to the very top floor of the building.
I sit in the conference room at the end of a long hallway. I’m surrounded by glass. As far as my eyes can see, all that exists are tall, shiny buildings and palm trees. Right now, I am at the head of the polished rectangular table. I close my eyes and pretend that I’m the world’s biggest pop star or an important actress here to talk about my next project. I pretend that I’m famous.
“Good afternoon, Imagine Artists Agency.”
I open my eyes and sigh. I hear Trish, my father’s secretary, on the phone just outside the conference room. “How may I help you?” she asks in a crystalline voice.
While I sit, barely (not at all) concentrating on my homework, the office bustles with ringing phones, shouting voices, and the click of computer keyboards.
Dad has been a talent agent at IAA for as long as I can remember. Whenever Dad and I are watching television together or spend a lazy Saturday afternoon at the movies, he’s always pointing out all of the famous people he’s met or talked to on the phone. Once in a while Dad’ll take me along to a movie set or to a premiere. Those are the days I remember the best: all the lights and the cameras, getting to shake hands, and talk with Dad’s famous clients.
FYI: I’m obsessed with celebrities. With fame. And truth be told, even though it may sound a little shallow, I want to stop pretending that I’m famous. I want to be famous.
“Hi, sweetie,” Dad says, leaning against the doorframe. He’s wearing his usual work uniform—a crisp suit. Today’s is blue with light gray pinstripes, and the black tie with tiny zebras on it that I gave him last Christmas. On his ear hangs a wireless telephone headset. Sometimes he looks like a crazy person, wandering around the office seemingly talking to himself.
“How was school?” he asks.
“Hi, Daddy,” I say, looking up from the People magazine hidden inside my social studies textbook. “School was great. Did you hear about the big breakup?”
His forehead crinkles. “G-Puppy and what’s her name again?”
“First of all it’s C Doggy and second of all, no!” I say, annoyed that he doesn’t take this as seriously as I do. After all, Dad works in show business. He should know what’s going on. I decide to let it go; I have bigger fish to fry with him today.
Dad walks over and kisses me on the forehead. Stealthily he reaches down and grabs the magazine from inside my textbook.
“A-ha!” he shouts, like a magician who has just pulled a rabbit out of his hat. “Is there going to be a quiz tomorrow on the summer’s twenty hottest beach bodies?” He sits down across from me and tosses my magazine into the trash can. He leans back in the cushy brown leather chair and frowns. “If so, you’re sure to get an A plus. Should I quiz you?”
“Just so you know I took that from the coffee table in your lobby.” I grin. “So, Daddy, I was just reading about the new Danny Roberts movie and that they’re looking for a pretty, young, actress to play his love interest.” I pout my lips and twirl my hair, just for effect. “Can I ask you a question?”
Dad nods.
“Danny is your client, isn’t he?”
“Yes. It’s a very exciting project.”
I bat my eyelashes. “And who is the prettiest, most talented girl you’ve ever known in your whole life?”
“Let me see,” Dad says, tapping his finger to his chin, considering the question. “I mean, I’ve got so many talented people on my list. . . .”
“I was talking about me!” I interrupt.
“But you’re not an actress, are you, Monica?” He pauses, letting his words sink in. “I mean, you won’t even join the drama club at school. How can you expect to star in a movie with Danny Roberts?”
It’s true. I haven’t joined the Nuclear ReACTors, but that’s because, in all honesty, it’s a giant waste of time. No one in the drama club even borders on popular. I mean, most of them can barely dress themselves in matching outfits in the morning. Last
week I got partnered with Molly Farkus in biology lab. Molly is the leader of the ReACTors and an A-class drama geek. I tried hard to give her a pop-culture makeover during our forty-seven minutes together, but it was hopeless. She couldn’t have cared less about last week’s best dressed list, and she thought Ryan Seacrest was a coastal town in Maine. I couldn’t bear it.
“What good is having a high-powered agent for a father if he’s not going to help me be a star?” He helps all of his clients realize their dreams . . . so why won’t he help me?
“Monica Sarabeth Perlstein. I love you, but I’ve told you a thousand times: when you get serious about being in this business, then I’ll get serious about you being in this business. Do you think Danny Roberts just woke up one morning with a movie deal? No, he went to school, and college, and studied music and acting.”
“This isn’t fair.” I swing my chair away from my father. I stare out the conference room windows, silent.
“There’s more to life than being famous, Monica,” Dad says after a few seconds. “The sooner you learn that lesson, the happier you’ll be.”
I don’t say anything.
“Okay, well, I have to get back to work. I’ll see you at home later for dinner. Be sure to finish your homework before you pick up a magazine again, please. I’m asking nicely.”
“So what?” I turn around as my father is walking out the door. “I asked nicely for an audition and it got me nowhere.”
“It’s about to get you grounded for a week.” Then he disappears from sight.
I feel deflated. Dad knows how important being a star is to me. I spend all of my free time reading magazines and tweeting and imagining what it would be like to be read about and tweeted about. I want to know what it feels like to walk down the red carpet. To have people look up to me, take my picture . . . for everybody in the world to know my name.