by R. T. Jordan
As Polly continued strolling along the deck she spotted another group of people taking photographs. “They should be saving their pixels for when they come to my show,” she said. “Now, who on Earth?” As they grew closer to the mob, Polly stepped onto a deck chair, the better to see over the heads of the other passengers. In the very instant that she saw who was at the center of attention, she lost her balance and fell into Tim’s strong arms. They both dropped their champagne glasses as Polly squealed, “You’ll never believe who’s here.”
“Famous?” Placenta asked as she picked up the stems of the shattered flutes.
“Big star?” Tim said.
“On parole?” Placenta added.
“Once, and not at the moment,” Polly answered their questions as she whisked away shards of broken glass with the toe of her shoe. She took Placenta’s glass and drained the contents. “You’ll never guess.”
“Hints,” Tim demanded.
“Still blond after all these years.”
“‘Years’ being the operative word?” Placenta suggested.
“Curly hair.”
“Bernadette Peters?” Tim said.
“Married Hollywood royalty.”
“Mia Farrow,” Placenta said.
“We have the same gynecologist.”
“TMI.” Tim frowned.
As the trio continued their futile game, a voice emerged through the crowd. “Look what the autograph trawlers hauled in with their nets. It’s everybody’s favorite international legend from television, recordings, theater and now, apparently, DVDs. The iconic Polly Pepper! And looking better than the photo on the ship’s newsletter, I might add!”
Polly, Tim, and Placenta looked up to see a familiar face squeezing through the throng of admirers. As the woman drew closer, Polly opened her arms for an embrace. “Deena Howitzer! Sweetums, your figure hardly ever shifts—much.”
As Tim and Placenta exchanged hugs with their old acquaintance, Polly looked puzzled. “Deena, dear, you’re not a celebrity stalker. What the heck are you doing on this rust bucket?”
“I wouldn’t miss a Kool Krooz,” Deena sniggered. “Hell, I’m here for the same reason you are, honey. And the same reason she’s here.” Deena pointed to Kate Jackson. “And him.” Polly followed Deena’s gaze to Bronson Pinchot. “And there’s the all-grown-up Cori Berman, that little rat, but looking very sexy, I must say.”
“Haven’t seen him since Highway to Heck.” Tim recalled the hit sitcom on which Cori had starred as a child before moving into a series of forgettable teen horror movie roles.
“He could have had a decent career if he hadn’t been such an evil little twerp,” Deena added. “It didn’t help that he had a bad boy reputation. He poked out the eye of one of his costars on Heck, and he got that Becky Thatcher actress pregnant when they were doing that crummy feature about Tom Sawyer and Huck Finn.” Deena’s eyes caught a few other famous guests on the ship. “Look over there. It’s Arnie Levin and Tommy Milkwood.”
“They’re with me,” Polly said, almost apologetically. “We’re the stars of this fantasy cruise for TV Land couch potatoes.”
“Aren’t we all,” Deena deadpanned.
“We? All?” Confused, Polly looked around and saw that the ship’s deck was as thick with pseudocelebrities as roaches in a Chinese restaurant’s kitchen. She let out a moan and began ticking off the names of the old-timers she sort of recognized: “Is that … David Hedison? Ouch, that’s Peggy Lipton—I think. That used to be Cybill Shepherd. Kent McCord?”
“No one in Hollywood, except Chevy Chase, is too old, obscure, or on trial to be hosting their own Kool Krooz shipboard event,” Deena announced. “You didn’t think you’d be alone, did you?”
“You’ve been duped,” Placenta said. “Laura Crawford has seen to it that you’re sailing away on a voyage of the damned.”
“Oh, God, Laura Crawford is on this cruise, isn’t she?” Deena realized.
“She’s holed up in her cabin, afraid of fans,” Tim said.
When Polly found her voice she said, “In other words, we’re on a ‘has-beens’ cruise. The ideal vacation for starstruck autograph hounds, and the last ship to sail toward the end of a showbiz career.”
“Just look around,” Tim said. “Bottom of the barrel Dancing with the Stars-caliber celebrities outnumber the passengers two to one!”
“I’m stuck on a ship of fools, and I’m the biggest one of them all for having trusted that duplicitous Laura Crawford!” Polly lamented.
“You’re in shock,” Deena said. “I know the one thing that will set things right.” She looked at Tim and Placenta. “Take her arms.” Deena steered Polly to the elevator and took the car up to the Polar Bar.
As Polly and Deena played catch-up over a bottle of champagne and agreed that there were more washed-up divas and divos on this cruise than had ever appeared on The Love Boat, Murder, She Wrote, or at the drive-through window at Dr. Rinkle’s Freeze Frame Discount Botox Center in Rancho Cucamonga combined, it became obvious that both stars had fallen on difficult times. “We’re of an age,” Deena explained matter-of-factly. “This is the only lousy job I’ve had in a year! I used to be on a pin-up poster, for crying out loud. Millions of teenage boys nailed me…. To their bedrooms walls that is.”
“Next port o’ call: potluck dinner theater in the basement of The Church of the Born Again Virgin,” Placenta said.
Polly wasn’t surprised that Deena’s career had faltered. She was never much more than a pretty face. But she was shocked to learn that the fortune left to Deena by her late/great husband, Grand Devlin, one of the true legends from the golden age of Hollywood, had vanished.
“Vanished isn’t quite the right word.” Deena retracted her statement. “I’m a spendthrift. I admit it. I like pretty things, especially if they’re just off the bus from Omaha, a little rough around the edges, and will do anything to become a star. And I mean anything—like that reality show you judged last season. However, pretty things are expensive. After a while it takes more cash to keep ‘em happy.” Deena gave Polly a tap on the arm. “Another reason to reclaim my virginity. What about you? You’re an international icon with boatloads of moolah! You don’t need to be here. What’s your sad sack story?”
Polly took a long swallow from her champagne flute and heaved a heavy sigh. “Sure. Boatloads,” she repeated. “Well, at least oodles. Frankly, I took this gig to help out my old costar, Laura….”
Deena instantly put up her two hands. “Don’t even mention that shrew while I’m trying to have some fun with an old friend.”
Polly took Deena’s left hand and studied it for a moment. “I seriously doubt that Laura purposely cut that finger off,” she said, recalling the tragic week that Deena was a guest star on The Polly Pepper Playhouse. “Laura slammed her dressing room doors on everyone from Elizabeth Taylor to Rock Hudson to Mary Martin. I’m sure that she didn’t know your pinkie was in the way.”
Deena shrugged. “Please! I’ve almost forgotten about that incident. I’m referring to what she did to Aaron Hanson and me.”
“Oh, right. That sexy star from that dumb Disney Channel musical, Remedial Rapper,” Tim said.
“Laura Crawford came along and ruined a very beautiful thing!” Deena added.
Polly nodded, remembering the scandalous headlines. “Honey, stage mothers tend to keep an eye on their meal tickets,” Polly said, referring to Aaron’s parent/manager/publicist/agent, who made a public fuss about Deena’s relationship with her teenage son. “But I never quite understood how Laura got involved in the first place.”
Deena took an extralong sip of champagne. “It’s no secret that Aaron isn’t exactly honor roll material,” she began.
“With those deep dimples he’ll get all the straight A’s that life has to offer,” Tim said with a laugh.
“Right you are.” Deena smiled. “Still, he should have known better than to let his dialogue coach take compromising pictures of him in the shower. Of co
urse they’d turn up on eBay. After the dialogue coach got busted, the studio hired Laura to take his place on set. I’d already been tutoring Aaron—”
“So to speak,” Polly interrupted.
“But when rumors found their way to Laura Crawford, she raced to the rags and made a small killing selling me out. Speaking of killing … If ever I have the chance!”
“On that salacious note,” Tim said as he signaled a waiter for the check, “you should attend one of Polly’s performances.” He provided Polly’s Zip ‘n Sip liquor pass and looked at Deena. “Your target will be center stage.”
Placenta smiled. “Polly Pepper meets Jerry Springer. What a hoot!”
“Nah, I’ll catch her when she least expects it. One day she’ll be indisposed and I’ll be right behind her. Of course it’ll never happen! I’m too old to get used to a flea-bitten mattress in San Quentin.”
Deena walked out of the bar with Polly, Tim, and Placenta, and before blowing air kisses she said, “I know I’m on a very long wait list to take care of Laura. I’ll leave it to someone with a more inventive way for doing her in than my primitive idea of slitting her throat. Ta!”
The quartet parted and walked away in opposite directions. Polly went to her theater, and Deena to the casino.
CHAPTER 3
When Polly and her family arrived backstage at the Big Players Little Theater on the Promenade Deck, Arnie Levin and Tommy Milkwood were already waiting. Polly trilled, “Déjà vu!” as she embraced her two former costars.
“I don’t see the lovely and talented Laura Crawford,” Tommy said snidely, looking at his watch and tapping his foot. “Where is that goof-off? She better not hold up the show for an entrance! She wouldn’t even rehearse with us earlier.”
As Polly scuttled about, peeking out through the curtains into the nearly full auditorium, she called back, “It’s my fault that we didn’t rehearse. A gazillion apologies. I figured we’d do the same shtick we did at UCLA last year: tell stories, let the audience ask questions, and kill ‘em with funny answers. Then we run home and pop a cork.”
Arnie said, “I’m not putting up with Laura the way I used to. If she dares to step on my punch lines again …”
Tommy added, “After all these decades, she still remembers the best behind-the-scenes anecdotes about our old sketches, but instead of feeding me intros, she tells the stories herself. A simple straight line to lead me in to telling about that day when all of the Polly Pepper Prancers couldn’t leave the bathrooms. That story is golden. It’s my story!”
“Actually, it’s my story,” Polly said. “What a disaster! I’m sure it’s what finally killed dear ol’ Fred Astaire. He never recovered from having to waltz with Laura on camera after rehearsing all week with real dancers.”
“That’s a perfect example of how Laura steals the spotlight,” Arnie snapped.
Tommy gave Polly a hard look. “To this day, whenever I run into any of those dancers, they insist that it was Laura who spiked their enchiladas at lunchtime.”
“I hear that the plumbing in the studio’s bathrooms never functioned properly again!” Arnie said.
“Every single one of those dancers still talks about wanting to die that day,” Tommy continued, “but they had a stronger will to live, in order to kill Laura Crawford for depriving them of their once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to dance with the great Astaire! That little publicity whore made sure she had Fred all to herself.”
“Sticks and stones!” The voice of Laura Crawford issued through the backstage area as she ambled up to her former cast mates. She looked at Tommy, then at Arnie. “Stop churning up the past, for cryin’ out loud. I’m a more mature person than I was when we worked together. I’ve learned a lot of life lessons the hard way, from watching Oprah. I realize now that I could sometimes be a pain in the backside for a few people. But let’s start fresh. Please?”
“Absolutely! Fresh!” Polly chimed in.
Tommy and Arnie looked at Laura with contempt.
As the cast assembled and prepared for their entrance, the stage manager asked if anyone needed something stronger than water before they stepped before the audience.
“Hey!” Laura barked, “Are you insulting Miss Pepper? The stories about her blood components being equal parts plasma and champagne are totally false!”
The stage manager held up his hands to guard himself against Laura’s vitriol. “It was just an offer. No offense intended, ma’am,’ he said, looking at Polly.
“None taken, Sweetums.” Polly smiled, and touched her hand to his warm cheek. “Laura was just looking out for me. Like the time she brought her entire AA meeting to Pepper Plantation, unannounced. She thought I had a problem. I had to borrow extra cans of coffee from Dean Martin across the street.” Then, as an aside to the stage manager, Polly whispered, “I could use a teeny-weensy flute of anything that sparkles. Something medicinal.”
The stage manager winked at her and rushed into one of the dressing rooms. He returned with a split of André champagne. Upon seeing the label, Polly’s smile disappeared. “On second thought, I’ll just have water,” she said. “The audience is the only intoxication I require,” she said with her famous wide smile. “On with the show!”
The stage manager lined the cast up in order of their entrances. “You’ll go out boy/girl, boy/Polly,” he said, placing Tommy in first position, followed by Laura and Arnie. “I’ll announce your names and one by one you each walk out with great big Kool Krooz smiles. Bow and wave to the audience. Pretend that they’re your guests. You’re honored to have them in your homes. Then, when I introduce Polly Pepper, join the audience in a rousing ovation. After the crowd settles down, each of you take one of the chairs. Save the wingback in the center for Miss Pepper.”
Polly looked at Tim and Placenta. “Wish me luck, dears. And swipe a bottle of Cristal from the Polar Bar!”
Suddenly, The Polly Pepper Playhouse theme music began to play through the speakers and the audience applauded with eager anticipation. One by one, the cast was introduced, and each moved out onto the stage. When Polly’s name was announced, the theater reverberated with a standing ovation and thundering applause, and the star made her grand entrance.
After a full five minutes of blowing kisses and holding her hands to her heart and dabbing at fake tears with a Kleenex tissue, the cheers and bravas subsided. Polly sat on her throne and welcomed her admirers as well as the old cast from her classic television show.
Over the next hour, the laughs and giggles from the audience came every fifteen seconds. They had come to see and be entertained by the great Polly Pepper, and were not disappointed. Only once, when Arnie Levin took off his shoe and threatened to “beat the crap out of you, Miss Laura F-ing Crawford,” did the audiences sit in silence until they erroneously decided that the appearance of hostility was a funny sketch routine.
“‘Can you feel the love tonight?’” Polly sang a cappella to the crowd as Arnie chased Laura off the stage, with his shoe held high in the air. “We’re just like any other family—the Sopranos come to mind,” she laughed, and the audience laughed with her. Laura and Arnie eventually returned to their seats on the stage, and both stuck their tongues out at each other.
“What’s a mother to do?” Polly teased as she looked at her costars and wrapped up her performance. She thanked the audience for their generous love and affection. “And don’t forget to take me home with you!” The stage manager walked out and handed Polly the boxed set collector’s edition of the most popular sketches from her legendary television series. “I’m all yours,” she said. “I also make a great gift for all occasions!”
Laura Crawford spoke out and said, “Don’t forget, the supporting players always make a star look good. Buy these damned DVDs!”
As the audience laughed at Laura’s famous potty mouth, Polly’s theme music played again and the cast took more bows. “Come back anytime … every time,” Polly called out. “We’re trapped, er, staying here, all week! Lucky y
ou!”
As soon as the cast was backstage and out of sight from fans’ eyes, Arnie roiled with furor at Laura. He walked up to his old costar and gave her a shove. “You miserable … no-talent … thieving … You stole my best lines! So help me, as God as my witness, the next time …”
Laura shoved Arnie back. “Your comic timing stinks like the monkey cage at the zoo on a hot day in July,” she said. “You were never anything more than third banana, so thank me for getting you a job. I’m your meal ticket, and don’t forget it!” She looked at Tommy Milkwood. “The same goes for you, you whiney little sissy. If we don’t all do this show, none of us gets paid. So don’t think about quitting,” she spat, and flounced away.
By now, Tim and Placenta were finished telling Polly how brilliant she had been, and were now wondering how the performers would ever be able to get through another show together. “Never fear,” Polly said. “Laura needs the money. We all do. She’ll be back on stage tomorrow, even if I have to kill her and prop up her body in that chair!”
The next morning Placenta knocked on Polly’s door and used the spare key card to enter her stateroom. “There aren’t any windows in this darn place,” she said, and turned on a light. “It’s ten o’clock, but you can’t tell if it’s day or night!”
Tim followed with a serving cart. “Is this what they mean by Kool Krooz cuisine? he asked. “Your breakfast’s been sitting outside in the corridor for God knows how long. The pancakes are cold and the Bloody Mary is warm. The steward simply abandoned the tray.”
“Perhaps he joined the suicidal geriatrics. Did he remember the Tylenol?” Polly asked as she stepped out of bed and slipped into her pink silk monogrammed bathrobe. She reached for the drink. Placenta handed her the headache tablets. “I trust you all slept better than I did,” Polly moaned. “The neighbors in the stateroom next door were certainly enjoying their first night out.” She gave her son a lift of her eyebrow.