by R. T. Jordan
Dressed to impress a platoon of paparazzi along a celebrity-clogged red carpet, Polly followed Tim and Placenta and hustled to the Rolls-Royce. “Step on it, sweetie,” she called from the backseat. The car cruised off the estate and sped down Stone Canyon Road and onto Sunset Boulevard.
Finally gliding up to Sterling Studios’ legendary lightning-bolt-logo wrought-iron gates, Tim stopped at the guard kiosk and pushed the control to roll down his and Polly’s windows. Polly’s favorite security guard, Jack, was on duty and waiting for her with his clipboard in hand. “One for Miss P.,” he said, handing a computergenerated self-adhesive drive-on pass with her name printed in large bold type. “One for Tim. One for Placenta. Better make it snappy, Miss Pepper,” Jack said as he raised the arm of the black-and-white-striped barrier. “Your show starts in thirty minutes. I’ll call ahead so they’ll know that you’re here!”
Polly called out, “You’re in my will, sweetums!”
Tim drove down narrow streets between the soundstages, searching for a parking space close to Studio B stage door. “There!” Polly shouted, pointing toward a block-long empty space that ran the length of Stage 37.
“Fire zone,” Tim said as he continued on.
“Don’t be a sissy,” Polly protested. “Studios don’t burn down. If you don’t count Universal. Still, if anyone makes a noise, you can move the car then. In the meantime, I have my own emergency. I’ve got to get into makeup!”
Tim was used to following his mother’s instructions, regardless of the potentially dire consequences. He parked parallel to the enormous soundstage and rushed Polly and Placenta into the studio. Just inside, a production assistant was waiting to usher Polly to the makeup room. Another PA escorted Tim and Placenta to their seats in the VIP section of the audience.
As Polly followed the PA, she joked, “I would have arrived earlier, but a deranged killer attacked me!” The production assistant, who like all the other unpaid production assistants on the show was a freshly minted actor from the Hollywood Academy of Stage and Screen The pians (the s had been missing from the sign on the dilapidated building that housed the so-called academy for as long as anyone could remember), politely, if disinterestedly listened to the old star.
Polly summed up the blond ingénue and said, “You’ll practically pee when I tell you that my intruder turned out to be that darling ‘High School Musical’ boy—in drag! You know the one. Hot bod, yet pretty enough to model Vera Wang.”
The young escort said, “No way!”
“Not a word of truth, dear,” Polly reassured the young girl. “But he’s pretty enough to get away with wearing Valentino. Don’tcha think?”
Finally settled in the makeup chair, Polly was given a quick touch-up of powder and lip-gloss and a dark pencil to her eyebrows. “Am I soup yet?” she said, smiling at Katie, the makeup girl. “Ah yes! A lovely tomato bisque. You’d do wonders for any old puss. Just tell me that the Saddleback creature was a makeup artist’s worst nightmare.”
“Absolutely,” Katie lied. “And you don’t look quite as constipated as Miss Thinks-She’s-the-Voice-of-American-Political-Reason.”
“One rounded tablespoon of Colon Cleanse mixed with champagne twice a day. That’s my regime! It would work wonders for her,” Polly declared. “By the by, gossip? Gossip? Gossip?”
Katie leaned in close to Polly’s ear. “You know I never dish my clients.”
“Just an initial or two?” Polly smiled. “Please, please?”
Katie grinned. “Okay. But this is more informational than simply the fun of ruining someone’s reputation with slander and defamation. I have it on reasonably good authority—the studio massage therapist told one of the interns, who told Kelly, the wardrobe lady, who whispered it to me—that Lisa Marrs is not Thane Cornwall’s killer!”
Polly yawned. “Oh, hon, everybody who’s paid the slightest attention knows that! But can you name names?”
“Let’s just say that Kelly says she heard that Thane’s ex-gofer, Michael What’s-his-name, plans to drop a major WMD tonight. Might breathe some excitement into this dead cow of a show. She said he’ll massacre a couple of powerful reputations.”
Polly suppressed a laugh. “Anyone we love to despise?” Before Katie could say more, the PA received a text message on her BlackBerry. Showtime, Miss Pepper! Gotta get you to the judges’ table right away.
The color drained from Polly’s face. “This is my favorite feeling. The horror of when I’m about to face a live television audience is like an orgasm, only it lasts a hell of a lot longer!” She turned to the PA. “Let’s go, Peaches.”
As Polly moved through the backstage area of the studio, she absorbed the vibrations from the drone of the audience in the distance. She inhaled the scents of perspiration from the hardworking grips and gaffers. With each blink of her eyes Polly captured mental pictures of the backstage tumult. When she arrived at the judges’ table, she involuntarily smiled with a combination of excitement and fear. Just as her PA was leaving, another arrived with Brian Smith. “Sweetums!” Polly smiled and accepted a peck to her cheeks. “I’m thrilled to be home. What have I missed?”
“Nothing as exciting as your real life! I just saw the news on television. And someone told me it was Zac Efron disguised as Ashley Tisdale or Vanessa Hudgens. Are you all right?”
“I should be so lucky to have those cuties in my home. No, the intruder was just a crazed fan who broke into the wrong twenty-seven-room Bel Air mansion. Apparently she was aiming for Barbara Eden. For years I’ve been telling Barbara to answer fan mail more promptly! Loonies are just waiting for us to disappoint them. All of the Polly Pepper fan blogs commend me on authentic autographs. The particular crazy who wandered into my boudoir wanted to bottle Barbara up as Genie again and send her back to Babylon.” Polly shrugged. “Remind me who’s left among the contestants on this dangerous show!”
“Where’ve you been, girl?” Brian said. “It’s down to Ped-Xing and Taco Bell.”
Polly shivered. “Don’t let her mother hear you call her that.”
As Polly scanned the audience, the crowd suddenly erupted with boos; Richard Dartmouth was walking toward the judges’ seating area. “Oh Lord,” Polly said, nudging Brian. “I sense that I’m in for a rough night.”
“Success and power have gone to his head,” Brian said. “Richard is as bad as Thane Cornwall. The contestants are sullen, but I can tell they’re petrified of how he’ll slam their performances, and the way he’ll mock their answers to the interview questions. I’m surprised that he hasn’t joined Thane down in Hades.”
When Richard arrived he coolly ignored Polly.
“He’s ticked off because my lovely agent coaxed him into bringing me back to the program,” Polly whispered to Brian.
Richard took his seat, and the lights dimmed and the orchestra began to play. With a drumroll from the orchestra, the announcer called out, “Live! From Sterling Studios! Deep in the heart of the San Fernando Valley. Just over the hill from the real Hollywood. This is I’ll Do Anything to Become Fay-mous!”
The orchestra played the show’s theme song, an eerie Metallica-flavored arrangement of “Live and Let Die,” and the studio audience applauded wildly and stomped their feet. They divided their attention between the live action onstage and large television screens showing what the home viewing audiences were seeing. The announcer continued. “Ladies and gentlemen. Please welcome. Your host. Steven. Ben-ja-min!” The crowd cheered even more loudly as Steven bounced into the spotlight. His smile advertised the whitest, most perfectly arranged teeth. His eyes sparkled like glitter. His dimples dimpled. And the cleft in his chin was deep enough to require flossing after meals. He held up his hands to quiet his adoring fans.
“Here we are!” Steven said as the applause died down. “The final night of our competition! To celebrate, let’s welcome back that very special legend from the last century, the still lovely and ambulatory Polly Pepper!”
Blowing kisses, Polly stood up t
o accept the ovation. “I’m not quite ready for the Neptune Society.” Then she added, “I have the lovely and talented Richard Dartmouth to thank for inviting me to return for this auspicious final installment of the program.” Polly applauded Richard and was accompanied by a halfhearted response from the crowd. They weren’t as eager to salute the man they loved to hate. Instead, they wanted to hear Ped-Xing and Socorro sing, and to find out who would be voted the most likely to make an easy meal out of their family and friends in order to reach the top rung on the ladder of success. Richard Dartmouth studiously inspected his cuticles.
Before Polly could take her seat, the camera returned to Steven Benjamin. “Let’s set history in motion!” he said, rubbing his hands. “Please welcome our two remaining contestants. Ped-Xing! And … Socorro Sanchez!”
The two walked across the stage. Their lack of camaraderie was evident. Neither did they hold hands, nor did they smile at each other, or at Steven. In fact, they stood on opposite sides of the host looking as bored as prostitutes working Main Street, Disneyland.
However, gracious master of ceremonies that he was, Steven pretended not to notice the lack of congeniality between the contestants. “As you remember from last week, darling Miranda and sweet Amy said goodbye to our shrinking family here at I’ll Do Anything to Become Famous. Shall we take a look at some of their more memorable parting shots?”
Projected on the large screens throughout the studio soundstage was a montage of film clips showing Amy’s three weeks on the show. Her singing was flat, and what appeared to be mean-spirited jibes from Thane and Richard were mostly spot-on. Then came the moment from last week when Steven Benjamin had to open a sealed envelope and read, “You’ll never be famous,” which were the dreaded words telling the contestants that they were being ditched from the show.
The screen revealed Amy in shocked skepticism. Then the smug faces of the remaining members of the contest were shown. A handheld camera followed Amy as she stomped off the stage to return to her dressing room. In the cinder block corridor, she looked into the camera and said, “I was promised! I swear, when I write my book, I’ll let the freakin’ cat outta the bag!”
The camera returned to Steven. “Such a good sport. Not! And of course, Miranda departed last week, too. I’m biting my nails all over again. Let’s take a look at that auspicious occasion.” The large screens showed the tense moments as Steven opened the envelope and spoke Miranda’s name. The eliminated contestant put her hands on her hips, curling her lips. Then she slapped Socorro. “You know what that’s for!” And she slapped Steven while sputtering, “Liar! Cheater!”
Backstage, she said, “Some so-called big people are gonna become very small, very soon.” Then she slapped the camera out of the videographer’s hands, breaking the thirty-five-thousand-dollar piece of equipment.
When camera number one again focused on Steven, he smiled and said, “Owww! That still hurts!” He good-naturedly rubbed the side of his face where he’d been slapped the week before. “Let’s get on with this final show. But first, take a minute to watch these great commercials from our amazing sponsors!”
When the stage lights dimmed, and the lights in the audience were turned up, Polly nudged Brian. “Where’s your beautiful Lyndie on this special night?”
Brian pointed into the audience. “She and Tiara are together. Isn’t that your son with them?”
Polly looked in the direction that Brian was pointing. “That’s my Timmy. And Placenta, too.”
Brian suddenly looked startled. “Oh, damn! I forgot to give this to you.” He reached into the breast pocket of his suit jacket and retrieved an envelope. “It’s from Tiara.”
Polly smiled and slipped a finger under the sealed flap of the envelope. She withdrew a sheet of expensive notepaper and began to read silently. When she finished, she smiled and looked up at Brian. “She’s a darling. I’m invited to their anniversary party celebration. Ten September.”
Brian nodded. “Guess we’ll see you there.”
“Anniversary,” Polly said in a cynical tone.
“Something wrong?” Brian asked.
Polly shook her head. “I’m such a ninny. I couldn’t keep two husbands, so I suppose I’m a bit suspect of others pretending domestic bliss.”
“Are you suggesting that Steven and Tiara aren’t as happy as they appear to be?”
Polly smiled sheepishly. “No relationship is perfect.”
Brian looked across the audience to Lyndie. “Steven and Tiara are both nice people, but…”
“But?” Polly said.
Brian looked at Polly, trusting that she was a clam. “I don’t like to spread rumors, but…”
“Spread ‘em!” Polly pleaded. Just then, the lights in the studio dimmed and the stage shone brighter. Polly whispered to Brian, “What rumors?”
“I’ll tell you during the next commercial break,” Brian said, and turned his attention toward the stage.
Polly huffed, but plastered on a wide smile for the camera.
“And we’re back!” Steven said with his boyish enthusiasm. “Ped-Xing and Socorro flipped a coin backstage, to determine who would be the first to perform this evening. Oh, and to make the competition just a little bit more exciting, Ped and Socorro each chose the other’s song. So, please welcome to the stage, Ped-Xing, singing ‘Muskrat Love’!”
Wild applause ensued as Ped-Xing ambled onto the stage, showing obvious disdain for the song he was about to sing. When his performance was over, he didn’t bother to bow. He simply walked forward and, with his arms defiantly folded across his chest, placed himself in line for a direct hit from the judges.
Steven put his arm around Ped-Xing’s shoulders. “To celebrate the return of our very own living legend, let’s allow Miss Polly Pepper to be the first to assess your performance.
“Whatever …” Ped-Xing said.
As cameras focused on Polly she smiled and waved to the audience. “Darling, Ped-Xing! I love that song! I loved it a hundred years ago when The Captain and Tennille made it a hit. You weren’t even a guppy in your father’s glands, but trust me, they were the cutest couple. Not the glands. The singers. You’d have to have been there to appreciate ‘em. We had corny acts then. Husbands and wives. Brothers and sisters. Entire families. Black ones and white ones and Christian ones and Mormon ones. La, what a lovely musical period. Of course, they all appeared on my show at one time or another. Purchase the new collector’s edition boxed DVD set from the first five seasons of The Polly Pepper Playhouse. You’ll see what I mean.”
“And the clock keeps ticking,” Steven Benjamin said.
“Anyway,” Polly continued, “you did a marvelous job, Mr. Ped-Xing. I could tell that you really felt those lyrics. ‘… and now he’s ticklin’ her fancy, rubbin’ her nose …’ So deep and yet you brought a genuine sense of what those two sexy muskrats were up to. I say, bravo!”
“What the hell’s a muskrat, anyway?” Ped-Xing said. “And does ‘ticklin’ her fancy’ mean what I think it does?”
Steven interrupted again and said, “I think this is a family show. So let’s hear from our very own best brownie baker in the country, Brian Smith!”
Brian smiled and accepted the applause from the audience. “I’m with Ped-Xing—and Polly Pepper. The lyrics are stupid, but Toni Tennille made it seem sweet—a quarter century ago,” he said. Considering the material, which I suspect was selected by Socorro specifically because the song is so dreadful, you did a decent job.
At least you spared us from clearly hearing all the lyrics. For that we’re grateful. Good job, man.”
Before Steven had an opportunity to introduce Richard Dartmouth, Richard spoke up. “Christalmighty! Man, you’re a drag! You have a lousy song to begin with, one that I thought couldn’t be any worse than the record, and you succeed in proving me wrong. You’ve just wasted three and a half minutes of my life! Did it ever occur to you to save what little dignity you may have and refuse to perform that tripe in public? J
eez!”
The cameras refocused on Steven, whose dimples seemed to grow deeper by the minute. “A novel thought from Mr. Positive! I think we’re off to our usual interesting start! Now let’s see how Socorro handles the song that Ped-Xing selected specifically for her. Please welcome back to the stage Socorro Sanchez, to sing ‘Torn Between Two Lovers.’“
As the key light followed Socorro to her place on the stage, the audience’s applause was tepid but she maintained her straight posture and held her head high. Polly was convinced that Socorro’s confidence was a result of believing that she held the trump card: the DVDs of the sexcapades between Steven and her, and Steven and the other contestants. Although her mother obviously wouldn’t be delivering the discs as they had planned, her friend Michael wouldn’t let her down. She was certain that he’d ride in at the last moment and prove that she was the most nefarious of them all, and would thus win the grand prize.
As Socorro began to sing, Polly leaned forward on the table and looked intently at the performer. With her mother in the jail ward at Cedars Sinai, why is Socorro even onstage? Sure, the show must go on, but your mother’s been accused of attempted murder, and she’s suffered a concussion at the hands of her almost victims.
When the spotlight was again focused on a beaming Steven Benjamin, Polly nudged Brian Smith and whispered, “Remember that kid Michael who was at our dinner party? Have you seen him today?”
Brian shrugged and stuck out his lower lip. “I don’t think so.”
Richard Dartmouth was the first to send his verbal daggers toward the stage. “I’m torn too,” he said to Socorro, “between suicide and murder. Honey,” he continued, “you didn’t display an ounce of genuine feeling. It’s a song about a tramp who’s wracked with guilt because she’s cheating on two guys, both of whom she desperately wants to bang her. You acted as though you were torn between the Big Mac and the chicken nuggets!”
As the audience booed, Socorro gave him the finger.
The audience broke into wild applause with hoots and whistles thrown in for good measure.