by R. T. Jordan
Laura was smart enough to know that Polly was in the same boat as every other one-time major female star of her age range. When Polly became silent for a long while, and listened intently to Laura, Tim and Placenta knew something had caught Polly’s interest. “A cruise? As a matter of fact, I do have some time off coming up.”
Tim nudged Placenta and they both nodded their full support to Polly for a high-seas adventure.
“Alaska?” Polly winced. “Isn’t that the place where that Gidget who ran for veep puts lipstick on her pit bull? I remember donating to Actors and Others for Animals to have her tongue removed … or was it to have her daughter spayed?” She listened for another moment. “I hear she’s a humanitarian at heart. Where did I read about her support group for unwed teenage girls of right-wing politicians with sexy but irresponsible sperm donors?”
Trying to get off the line, Polly finally said, “Yes. A-ha. I’ll tell J.J. to call you first thing in the A.M. No, stop being afraid of him. He’s really a kitty cat, albeit a saber-toothed one. Yes, ciao to you, too, dear. Arrivederci. Bye-bye. Gotta go now.”
Polly hung up the telephone, picked up her champagne flute, and took a long swallow. “Refill, please,” she said, looking at Tim. “We have something to celebrate. And I won’t say I told you so about landing in clover—or the Atlantic Ocean!”
Over the next few days, a volley of calls between Polly and her reptilian agent, J.J. Norton, ensued. They hammered out the details of the cruise that Laura Crawford had instigated, and finally signed contracts that provided for two extra guests to accompany Polly, albeit with less-than-stellar accommodations for her companions.
True to her nature and desperate for a job, Laura had somehow convinced the talent booking agent for Astral Cruise Lines—who ran the popular Kool Krooz XXX-itement ships—that she could get the legendary Polly Pepper to host a weeklong series of lectures with the original cast of her famous TV show. Although Polly was a piece of cake to convince to go along for the ride, the other two members of her comedy troupe, Arnie Levin and Tommy Milkwood, weren’t as eager to join in the promised fun. Especially since it meant sharing a stage again with the scene-stealing Laura Crawford. For the two male costars, twelve seasons on television with Laura was as painful as watching the fluke of Charlie Sheen having his own hit prime-time show. Almost.
As hysterically funny as both gifted men could be, like most comics, they also had their dark sides. Arnie could be as cruel as he was amusing—as the restraining orders from five former wives, and Donny Osmond, attested. While audiences adored him, for twelve seasons The Polly Pepper Playhouse staff had scuttled out of Arnie’s path in the hallways at the studio. The writers had to endure his weekly visits to their offices where he held hair-tearing tantrums whenever he perceived that Polly or Laura or Tommy or a guest star were getting a higher percentage of funny lines in a sketch. He was a brat with a temper that would make famously grumpy Jerry Lewis look like the Werther’s Original candy grandfather.
Tommy, too, had a flair for dragging negative vibrations onto the set. Often, when his Ego-meter detected that audiences were responding more favorably to the others, he sabotaged a sketch in order to draw attention to himself. A master of mean-spirited practical jokes, he knew that snails were the only things that terrified Laura Crawford more than her recurring nightmare—the one in which she was reduced to working as a sales associate behind the Clinique cosmetics counter at Macy’s. Armed with this fear factor knowledge, Tommy once maliciously sent Laura a Christmas gift of stuffed escargot from an epicurean mailorder catalog. Her nightmares escalated and she became addicted to sleeping pills.
The two comics were in agreement that they’d rather have appendectomies performed by Homer Simpson, without anesthesia, than have to work with Laura Crawford again. However, the reality of their own economic downturns made them reluctantly agree to the cruise. They rationalized that the horror was only for a week. Surely they could put up with a putz like Laura for that amount of time. Plus they’d get a free cruise and have an opportunity to mug for live audiences again—not to mention the payday.
When Polly heard that Arnie and Tommy were ready to set sail, she decided that a celebration was in order. She telephoned her beau, Beverly Hills police detective Randy Archer, and suggested dinner at Spago—and a much-needed sleepover at his condo.
CHAPTER 2
Polly, Tim, and Placenta stepped from their hired limousine onto the curb at the embarkation gate at Pier 35, at San Francisco’s Embarcadero. Although tired after the flight from LAX, and awed by the sight of the enormous ship berthed before them, they grimaced at a motley group in the check-in queue. “Tank tops?” Polly said, looking at several young men.
“This is what they call a Kool Krooz,” Placenta mocked. “Neanderthals. Jerry Springer guests. Southern state governors hiding out with their mistresses. Just pray to God that we aren’t assigned to the same dining table as the bald guy with shorts, missing front tooth, and hairy watermelon showing below his sleeveless T-shirt!”
Polly turned to Tim. “When your second father and I made the crossing aboard the QEII, I wore furs—before I knew better. For the men, suits and ties were de rigueur!”
Placenta pointed to a large banner and read, “WELCOME ABOARD THE S.S. INTACTI! NO SHOES. NO SHIRTS. NO SHIT!”
“Kool Krooz, eh?” Polly echoed ruefully.
“Intacti?” Tim said. “Um, does anybody else realize that’s an anagram for Titanic?”
The trio looked at each other with wary expressions, as the limo driver deposited their luggage with a cruise ship attendant and waited for Tim to hand him a tip.
“Kool Krooz, indeed!” Polly said again, but this time with more enthusiasm. She projected that the following seven days were going to be filled with many memorable experiences suitable for embellishing out of all proportion at dinner parties and in the autobiography she constantly threatened to write. “Much relaxation, and most of all a payday from my lectures and selling millions of units of The Polly Pepper Playhouse DVDs.”
“Look around,” Placenta retorted. “This group watches Whipped Out and Biker Bitches’ Conjugal Jail Visits.”
As the trio moved toward the check-in line, a solid woman in a flowing muumuu and sombrero abruptly barged into the space between Polly and Tim. “Hold it, Polly,” the woman barked. “Don’t move!” She looked at her companion. “Shoot her fast, Larry!” The woman wrapped a thick arm around Polly’s neck and yelled at her friend, “Make it snappy! And don’t mess it up. This has to move fast on eBay.”
Polly smiled for the camera, but instead of saying “cheese,” she muttered, “Laura’s gonna pay for this.”
While the flash was still a spot before Polly’s eyes, Muumuu Woman grabbed the digital camera out of her companion’s hands and looked at the image he’d taken. “Yep! That’s her, all right. No mistaking that famous chipmunk overbite. An easy five bucks. Ten if she signs the print later,” she said as if the star was invisible. She made no attempt to share the picture with Polly. “Hey, we’ll get the whole collector’s edition: Laura Crawford, and the other two clowns who used to be on that old show.” The woman waddled away with her friend, still talking amongst themselves.
“Bon voyage to you, too,” Polly called out. She looked at Placenta. “Chipmunk? Bet she thinks I’m Leslie Caron.”
After Polly and her posse had gone through the Homeland Security checkpoints, and were finally on board the ship, a smiling steward, the poster boy for the “after” pictures in a teeth whitening ad, was assigned to escort them to their cabins. Dressed in a white uniform with gold braiding on the sleeves, he was at once professional and personable. Tim eagerly sized him up, looked at his name badge, and decided that Keith could be a Kool Krooz diversion.
As Keith led the way from the check-in desk and out through the ship’s enormous ten-story-high center atrium en route to the glass elevators, he explained that their luggage would be promptly delivered to their cabins. He also discusse
d the many recreational amenities of the ship: casino, cinema, disco, spa, all-you-can-eat Taco Tuesday. “If you brought your laptop, there’s an Internet access fee. And your cell phone will work as long as it’s compatible with the phone tower on the ship.” He then explained that it was mandatory for them to attend the safety drill, which would occur just before departure. “The captain doesn’t feel sorry when one of his passengers ignores his drill, then falls overboard.”
“I’m not ready for my final exit,” Polly assured him as they stopped in front of a cabin door.
“Lately, our ships and suicide pacts—or murders—seem to go together,” the steward continued. “Old couples especially tend to get on this very ship and disappear before we arrive at port. Voilà!” he announced as he inserted the key card into the lock and led the way inside.
Polly’s smile instantly vanished. “Sweetums,” she cooed, “there’s been a teensy mistake. I’ve been assigned to a lovely deluxe veranda penthouse suite.” She looked around. “This is no bigger than Jo Anne Worley’s boa closet. Where’s my ocean?”
“This is an inside stateroom,” Keith explained. “You have a virtual view. It’s on the television. Channel 3.”
“Miss Pepper doesn’t want to see a movie of the ocean, she wants the Pacific outside her very own, very expensive, and completely comp deluxe veranda penthouse suite,” Placenta said.
“This is like a cheap motel in South Central,” Polly pouted, spying a single Hershey’s chocolate kiss on the bed pillow. “I’ve never been to South Central, and this cabin may make their cheap motels look like a room in the Playboy Mansion, but you get my drift.”
Placenta snatched the key card and printout of Polly’s reservation from the steward’s hand and carefully reviewed the details. She matched the cabin number on the door with that on the printout and shook her head. “This will not do. Miss Pepper was promised a suite. You’ll have to make other arrangements for her.”
Until now, the steward had been as cheerful as a Disneyland ambassador wired on Ephedrine. Now, he stiffened and crossed his arms. “I’ll see what can be done,” he said, struggling to maintain the advertised high level of decorum required of all employees of the ship.
Tim stepped forward. “We know this isn’t your fault, Keith, but my mother really was promised a suite. After all, she’s the star on the ship.”
“Aren’t they all,” the steward said.
“Beg pardon?” Placenta growled.
“What I mean … that is … everyone aboard the ship is treated like a celebrity,” the steward corrected himself as he apologized, quoting the company motto.
When Keith finally left the cabin, and with no promised satisfaction, Polly sat down on the bed and sighed.
Placenta groused, “Betcha that Laura Crawford’s got a great suite and you’ll be stuck right here for the duration of the voyage.”
“Get her cabin number,” Polly said, and pointed to the telephone. When Tim obtained the information from the operator, Polly ushered everyone out of the stateroom and down the corridor to the glass elevators.
The Galaxy Deck, where Laura’s cabin was located, was more like a wing of the Ritz-Carlton hotel. Decorating the corridor were crystal pendants dangling from sconces on the walls. The carpet was a mural of underwater sea life. “Dolphins and whales and starfish,” Polly pointed to the floor. “We have barnacle print linoleum!”
Polly knocked on Laura’s cabin door and called out her one-time protégée’s name. It took a louder second knock before they heard Laura’s weak voice.
“Who?” Laura whispered through the door.
“Just us sea urchins, Sweetums,” Polly said.
The door opened a crack as Laura peered into the corridor. “I’d invite you in, but …”
“We’ll only stay a second.” Polly blithely nudged the door and Laura aside. She stepped into the cabin and her jaw dropped. The suite was more like an elegant New York Fifth Avenue penthouse apartment than a floating hotel room. The stateroom was dominated by a sunken living room, which was four times the size of Polly’s own accommodations. Straight ahead was a stunning view of the Pacific Ocean seen through floor-to-ceiling sliding glass doors that led to a private terrace. A fifty-inch flat-screen television adorned one wall and an elevated dining area, wet bar, and kitchenette were on the opposite side of the cabin. A separate bedroom contained a queen-size bed. The bathroom was marble and travertine, and boasted a large glass shower.
Polly picked up a small ceramic bust of Nefertiti set on the coffee table and examined the shape of the queen’s nose and headdress. “A fitting tchotchke to symbolize this stateroom is meant for royalty,” she said.
Laura closed the door then listened with detached interest as Polly wandered around and described her own small room. “I rather think they accidentally gave my suite to someone else,” Polly suggested.
Laura picked up a copy of her reservation. “Sorry, Polly. Someone else may have your stateroom, but this one was definitely assigned to me,” she said, pointing at the cabin number and her name on her key card and itinerary. “But don’t tell anyone I’m here. I’m trying to avoid … um, well, you know … um, the fans.”
“They’re sorta the point of you being here in the first place,” Placenta said.
Polly looked askance at Laura. “I’m sure the captain or someone will realize they’ve made a gross mistake and will reassign me to the proper stateroom.”
“No doubt,” Laura said. “Until then …” She opened the door to signal that Polly and her troupe should leave.
“I suppose you need to get some rest,” Polly said as she took one last look at the magnificent cabin. As she was reminding Laura that their first show was scheduled for four o’clock that afternoon, Polly spied a bottle of Moët beside a welcome basket of fruits and chocolates wrapped in cellophane. “A decent bottle,” she said, and glanced at the card. “‘Welcome aboard, Polly Pepper,’” she read aloud.
Laura giggled. “Yeah, your bottle was misdirected to my suite. You’ll save me the trouble of bringing it to your cramped space. Ciao!”
Back in her tiny stateroom, Polly was seething over Laura Crawford lying about the accommodations that were obviously meant not for a second banana but for a star. “She’s a lying little slut!” Polly spat.
“Something you never knew?” Tim scoffed.
“I would like to know how the little conniver arranged the swap,” Polly said, and held out a champagne glass to be filled. “It’s entirely my fault. I have always let her get away with the crap she pulls because I felt sorry for the little no-talent loser.” Polly clinked glasses with Tim and Placenta.
“She was born with stainless-steel cojones the size of heavy-duty construction equipment,” Placenta mocked. “Even your agent, and your Sterling Studios’ nemesis, Shari Draper, don’t treat you with as much disrespect as Laura Crawford does.”
“Never mind,” Polly huffed. “I’ll take this up with the captain later. I can’t wait to see ‘em haul her body out of that gorgeous suite. In the meantime, we’ll attend the safety drill, then stroll along the Lido Deck before my first lecture.”
“I suppose it’s time for you to see more of the riffraff that Neptune has barfed up from the ocean for this cruise.” Placenta grinned. “The embarkation was just a small sample.”
After Polly and her troupe found which lifeboat they were assigned to in the event of an emergency, they made their way up to an outside deck, champagne glasses in their hands, and marveled at the number of people who were sailing with them. “How, during this sucky economy, can so many people afford to take a cruise?” Polly asked as the trio wended their way through a sea of bodies on deck. “Heck, if it weren’t for the fact that this is a freebie, with a paycheck to boot, I wouldn’t waste el dinero!”
“The sycophants who take this type of cruise can always scrape up the bucks for a chance to rub elbows with celebs,” Placenta said. “Star stalkers will do almost anything for memorabilia and to boast h
aving met a famous person. Heck, Matt Damon’s gardener told me that someone paid fifty thousand dollars for a jacket that Matt wore in his latest Bourne movie.”
“That’s ridiculous!” Tim scoffed. “Fifty grand for a Matt Damon hand-me-down? Hugh Jackman’s T-shirt, fresh off his back after a workout at the gym, maybe.”
“If Billy Bob Thornton auctioned off a vial of his blood, some fans would cut off payments to their mothers’ rest homes in order to get the bucks to place the winning bid,” Polly added.
Polly bathed in the idea that many people had turned out for an opportunity to see her in person. “But if these darling fans are so eager to see Polly Pepper, why have I not been accosted by the great unwashed? We’ve had only one dubious encounter. I’ve been walking the deck for ten minutes and no one else has asked for a picture or an autograph.”
At that moment, Polly saw a large group of people huddled by the outdoor tennis court. She veered off course and made her way toward the throng. “Perhaps they’re giving away free samples of Ryan Seacrest’s dimples.” The crowd was too thick for her to see what everyone was interested in, so Polly tapped the shoulder of a corpulent woman wearing a tight-fitting two-piece bathing suit. “What’s all the excitement about, Sweetums?” she asked.
The woman turned and looked blankly at Polly. “It’s only Dr. Beverly Crusher!” the woman said, and instantly turned back around.
Polly tapped the woman again. “Is someone ill? Or is she demonstrating cardiovascular surgery?”
The woman saw Polly’s eyes wander over her rolls of flesh. “Sheesh, lady! It’s Gates McFadden, for cryin’ out loud. Ya know, ‘Star Trek: The Next Generation.’”
“So she’s not a real doctor. She just played one on TV.” A smile played across Polly’s face and she turned to Tim and Placenta. “Another celebrity onboard! Thank you, Jesus! Never heard of her, but we’ll have one of our own kind to share some fun times with. We’ll invite her over for Lush Hour—no, she can’t see my cabin. Still, she’ll be thrilled that we’re here too. Birds of a feather, and all that.”