Chuckerman Makes a Movie

by Francie Arenson Dickman

  At this comment, the camera will lift from the pavement to Slip as I force myself to look in his direction. I was sure I’d see his fist clenched, his arm cocked back in that familiar position, his body barreling over the chairs to the back of the crowd.

  Instead, Slip will say, “Seems to me like you’re asking for a rematch.” He’ll swing the jump rope over his head as if he is about to lasso Big Sid, but his voice will be steady. His eyes will lack the steel they held that night in the card room. I’d hear him say later, after my father praised him for his restraint, that he’d had no choice. “I’d have loved to show my grandson how I could have roped in that bastard like a bull, if it hadn’t been for all the ladies.”

  If it hadn’t been for the lady, he should have said. Because before I even relinquished my breath or my grip on the chair, Lucille Garlovsky grabbed the rope out of Slip’s hand and motioned for him to stop. And he did. With a single hand raise, the age-old signal to cease and desist, Lucille did what no one from my father to the Feds had done before. She worked a miracle.

  Now will be a fine time for a close-up on Lucille and a slo-mo camera. Nothing conveys anticipation like slo-mo, and at this point, the crowd was full of it.

  “Sid,” Lucille will say, taking a few high-heeled steps towards him, her rope slung around her neck like a scarf. “You big baby, go mind your own business. There isn’t anything less attractive than a jealous man.”

  The women will murmur in agreement. One of them will comment, “Except a jealous man with a broken nose.”

  From Big Sid, the audience will not hear another word. On command, as if under a spell, Big Sid, all six foot four of him, will turn and head back to ring toss.

  At that, Slip will take the rope; I’ll take a breath; Lucille will snap her fingers; and the contest will resume. All the while, the script will note, White Lips will swim and White Christmas will blare from the loudspeaker.

  Here, we’ll CUT from the scene.

  Though we haven’t reached the end of it. I’ve neither written the full scene nor told the full story. I didn’t even learn the full story until a few years ago. Only then did I realize the all-too-human array of emotions and entanglements that were at work that day, which had more to do with Lucille’s ability to thwart disaster than magic did. But that was what my ten-year-old self came up with—that Lucille Garlovsky, like the characters in the Harry Potter books I now read to Estie and Ryan, possessed some sort of supernatural ability.

  Whether her powers emanated from her rope or the confidence that oozed from her, I didn’t know. I didn’t care. From then on, I approached her with awe and with caution, like any man with good sense would approach that kind of woman, the snake charmer kind, the kind that causes us men to act in ways that we ordinarily wouldn’t—to put down the jump rope, to clog our counters with mammoth coffee makers, to spend Thursday evenings listening to Barbra Streisand impersonators, to feel like low-lifes for having another woman on our arm at dinner.

  Not that I wished Laurel had been with me on Saturday night. In fact, I was glad she hadn’t been, in much the same way I was glad Grandma Estelle had not been on the pool deck that day. The deck wasn’t her scene, the dinner wasn’t Laurel’s.

  My evening at Cipriani Downtown was a Spectacle Scene to end all Spectacle Scenes. This one even had a character change—although none for the better.

  Share’s transformation occurred the moment Bailey’s bodyguards—Carlos and Toby, identical twins—pulled open the gold satin curtain on our back room and Bailey and company entered.

  Not that her entrance wasn’t a happening. It was. They don’t call them pop stars for nothing. Even Ezmerelda let herself go for a moment: she allowed herself a small smile, raised her Manhattan and said, “Now this is what I call a dinner party.”

  As she spoke, Share rose from the chair next to mine and bumped Bailey’s agent—a buxom woman named Camille—out of the way so she could sit next to Bailey. “A pleasure to make your acquaintance,” she said in some sort of fake Southern accent. She held out her hand. “I’m Share.”

  With her genuine Southern drawl, Bailey said, “Relax honey. I know who you are.” She gave Share a smile—her full megawatt. Her teeth were as white as Laurel’s.

  In the throes of recognition, Share apparently forgot she was from the South. She also forgot that she wasn’t supposed to be from Long Island anymore either, because in a New York accent heavier than Lucille Garlovsky’s she said, “Holy crap. Wait ’til I tell my mother.” Then she sidled herself as close as possible to the pop star. “What was it like singing while you were suspended right over a tiger?” A reference to her performance at the MTV Video Music Awards, Bailey explained to the table after telling Share that the tiger was a total rush.

  “An interesting first choice of questions,” I mumbled to Ezmerelda, “especially since I instructed Share to not ask any.”

  But Bailey seemed okay with it, so I decided I would be, too. Gradually, however, as Cosmopolitan number one turned to two and then three, Share started to get personal. “So, what was your scent of choice before David created Omnipotence?” She shifted her chair even closer to Bailey so that her leg, which was—along with her midsection—bare, pressed into Bailey’s.

  At this point, Carlos and Toby—I’m still not sure who was who—stepped in and simultaneously tapped each of Share’s naked shoulders. They didn’t say a word. They didn’t have to, as they were armed and as broad across the chest as Bailey’s agent, Camille, who had seated herself next to me, and who, on the opposite side of the clothing spectrum, wore an enormous piece of white fur around her own formidable shoulders. She was a modern-day Gladys Greenberg.

  I’d met Camille before, so I was not completely surprised when she began her advances. I was, however, stunned by Share, who had ignored my warnings to not get personal with Bailey. She’d also clearly forgotten her roots, revealing not a trace of the once-modest Emily Kaplinsky.

  I watched as she leaned toward Bailey as if she was going to whisper and then, oops, blurted out the question in her outdoor voice: “Are you and Jake really and totally over?”

  Everyone at the table except Camille, who was busy sweating under the fur, signaled to Share to stop the personal line of questioning. But Share, showing her age and inability to hold alcohol, didn’t listen. “I hope you guys get back together because you are like the ideal couple and your babies would make the cutest mini Mouseketeers.” She laughed and put her hand on Bailey’s shoulder.

  Obviously, the combo of Share and Camille was God’s way of punishing me for having taken another woman out behind Laurel’s back. I wondered how Carlos and Tony were going to reprimand Share for her inappropriate behavior. As the beef carpaccio came to the table, they returned to their spots on either side of her. I watched and readied myself. She looked at them and smiled. They raised their hefty bodyguard brows. She pretended to zip her lips with her fingers. They lowered the brows and went back to the bar.

  “That’s it?” I said. “A brow raise?” I turned to Ezmerelda. “Doesn’t it seem like a second warning deserves something more?”

  “Would you like us to shoot her?” Carlos or Toby asked from the bar. Bailey laughed.

  Ezmerelda answered. “Maybe you could sock her. It’s a pity to see those biceps go to waste.”

  Carlos and Toby did a few Popeye-style flexes while Ezmerelda and Camille applauded. Bailey continued to laugh. Truth be told, she didn’t seem to be bothered by anyone’s antics. She answered all of Share’s questions in her charming Southern way. She was not dating anyone, she told Share. She was thrilled to be working with me on her new campaign. Here, Bailey shot me a wink. There’s a small chance I winked back. I’m hoping I didn’t but even if I did, no one except Camille would have seen it. They were all staring at Share, who squealed after Bailey said she would love to work with her one day. Bailey then smiled, the epitome of poise. She didn’t even flinch when Share moved a hand to her thigh, and said, “Maybe we could duet
!”

  Bailey was either a real class act, I decided, or she was gay. Or maybe she was just used to this sort of thing. Maybe, I thought as Camille wrapped her fur thing around my neck, she liked the insanity.

  Then they began to sing.

  Share started by humming the chorus to “I’ve Got You, Dave,” and Bailey continued it by taking the song from the top. “They say we’re young and we don’t know,” she twanged. Share sang Nick Carter’s part. Together, Bailey and Share carried out 10,000 “I’ve got you, Dave” choruses, getting louder with each one.

  I got more annoyed with each one. “Can you please put an end to the madness?” I asked the bodyguards.

  Bailey disagreed. “Relax and sing along, fellas,” she told them. Because Bailey was boss, they did.

  “I’ve seen it all now,” Ezmerelda said.

  “Not me,” Camille said. She winked at me and rubbed her fur against my chin. “I can think of a little more that I’d like to see, Mr. Melman.”

  The idea of seeing any more of Camille than was already exposed was too much for me to handle. “I think I’ll visit the men’s room,” I said, excusing myself from the table. As I left, the bodyguards, at Bailey’s command, threw their arms around each other as they sang, and Share and Bailey laughed harder. I wasn’t sure I would live through the dinner but assuming I did, I thought, I would love to tell Laurel about it. And she thought our banana boat scene was movie material. I laughed to myself. Imagine what a writer could do with this stuff.

  After the eating and the singing died down, Bailey said to Share, “Should we call it a wrap in here and photo op?” As if Share might possibly turn her down.

  Unable to contain her excitement or her alcohol, Share said, “Totally.” And on that thoughtful note, we headed toward the front door and, apparently, the cameras.

  As we made our way outside, the fur piece again made its way from Camille’s shoulders to mine. “The reason I’m so hot is ’cause you are,” she whispered.

  I ignored both her comment and the fur around my neck and stared as Bailey and Share stood on the sidewalk in front of the restaurant’s thick glass doors and embraced for the paparazzi. I considered the scene from Laurel’s point of view and was thankful that she wasn’t with me. Not that I liked the thought of her in the same house as the promiscuous rabbi, but she was better off in the Hamptons, possibly in the company of God, than here with me.

  My moment was again interrupted by Camille. “Would you like to come home with me, honey? There’s a lot we can do with my fur.”

  Share was going bar hopping with Bailey, Carlos, and Toby.

  I returned Camille’s stole (as Marcy has since told me it is called) to her neck. “No thanks, I’m good.”

  And I was. I rode home in my Town Car, happy to be alone. Not that long ago, I would not have been; I, like Share, would never have turned down the chance to bar hop with Bailey Pierce. As the car traveled up 10th and my eyes drifted over the billboards, the cabs, the cafés, I reconsidered my relationship with Laurel. Maybe this was no longer a fling, and maybe Laurel wasn’t a snake charmer. Maybe, I thought as we passed 42nd and headed into Hell’s Kitchen, Marcy, of all people, was right, and I was just in love.

  CHAPTER 13:

  Twists and Turns

  Dare I say that David Melman had a spring in his step the next morning as he went to meet Laurel, his love, his soon-to-be-serious girlfriend, at the West End Parking Garage? Typically, I’m more of a shuffler, way too preoccupied and self-conscious to spring. But on that Sunday, I have to admit, I had a little lift.

  I’d last spoken to Laurel the day before. She’d called just as I was about to head out to pick up Share at the Plaza—what a waste of money that had turned out to be—and then head over to my dinner with Bailey. “Can we visit the Brooklyn Bridge when I get home from the retreat?” she’d asked. She said she’d gotten a sign from God through Simon & Garfunkel that had led her to conclude that the Brooklyn Bridge was symbolically a more appropriate bridge for an event depicting the loss of the American dream than the Verrazano.

  “I’m not totally following,” I told her.

  “You don’t need to, but let’s just say that during a meditation session, the rabbi played an instrumental version of the entire Bridge over Troubled Water album. And it came to me, no one is more quintessentially American than Simon & Garfunkel. They are much more representative of New York than the BeeGees. Who sang on Saturday Night Live after 9/11? Paul Simon, not Andy Gibb.”

  “Andy Gibb is dead,” I told her as I watched the hands on the clock above my desk tick away.

  “You know what I mean, Chuckerman. It doesn’t take a rocket scientist to put two and two together. If I want to stay in New York—and I do—I need my movie to sell. And if I want my movie to sell, I need to switch bridges. That’s what God was trying to tell me.”

  Maybe I was too busy towel-drying my hair and envisioning my dinner with Bailey Pierce and Share to put two and two together. Or maybe Laurel had done a few too many downward dogs and wasn’t even making sense. But she was adamant that if she was going to sell her movie so she could stay in New York, she needed to switch bridges. So I told her yes, I’d go with her to the Brooklyn Bridge when she returned.

  She wanted to go as soon as possible because she was heading to LA on Tuesday to meet with her agent. They would be putting the final touches on Mormons Don’t Die, as well as going to some fancy salon to get their hair relaxed. Due to the trip, Laurel had canceled our next class. Instead, she’d handed everyone a copy of an article she’d written for a Screenwriting for Dummies type of book. The article, “Twists, Turns and Revelations,” was supposed to get us started on the plotting of our own twists and turns. “You are the writer,” she’d told us. “You control the show. When you want to change your story’s course, drop a bomb of information.” We were told to read the article this week, and next week we’d finesse our technique.

  I figured Laurel should finesse her driving before she left for Los Angeles, so I told her over the phone, “We can go to the bridge, but you are going to do the driving. As you know, the notion of a woman not being comfortable behind a wheel doesn’t sit well with me. I drove to one bridge, you can drive to the other. Especially since you’re going to spend next week in LA. No subways, no taxis.” I paused. “And no me.”

  What I didn’t tell her, because I didn’t realize it myself until late that night as I was eating my pad thai (delicious, by the way), was that having Laurel drive the Caddy was the symbolically appropriate way to welcome her into the fold of my family. If she was going to become a permanent part of my life, what better way to inaugurate her than to have her drive my grandfather’s car, the same way a girl introduces her boyfriend to her inner circle when she knows the relationship is getting serious? I’d never introduced anyone to the Cadillac before. Hence the spring in my step. Hence the shower after basketball, the clean shave, my lucky Cubs hat, and my moccasins.

  When we met at the entrance to the garage, Laurel did not appear as excited as I was. Her eyes looked tense, though I didn’t know what to make of the rest of her. She wore a cowboy hat. Two low ponytails dangled from beneath it. She also sported her cut-off shorts, the ones I loved, and a flannel shirt with the sleeves cut off at the shoulders. Her messenger bag, filled to the brim, was slung across her side.

  “You’ll be driving a car, not a horse,” I said, although something about the cowgirl attire was hot. With my arms I motioned for her to come to me for her welcome-home hug.

  “I was getting myself into the mindset,” she said as I gave her a quick squeeze. “These are the clothes that come to mind when I think of driving.”

  “No wonder you don’t like to drive,” I joked as I grabbed her hand and her bag and escorted her toward the Caddy.

  “My last boyfriend drove a Harley,” she said.

  “I know,” I said, “you already told me that.”

  She smiled at me. “My father also drives a Harley.”

/>   “Of course he does.” I smiled back. “Maybe in your movie, the father should drive a Harley over the side of the Brooklyn Bridge. Why don’t you run that by your agent in LA? Talk about intense.” I tossed her the keys.

  “I know you are joking, Chuckerman, but you can see why I don’t like driving. My associations with it are not the happiest.”

  “I could see it if I was asking you to drive a motorcycle,” I said.

  “Driving your Cadillac through the streets of New York is as frightening as driving a Harley through the back roads of Utah,” she said.

  I nodded in semi-understanding and for a moment considered aborting my mission altogether. Maybe my idea was a bad one. Hadn’t Estelle’s driving lessons resulted in disaster? But then, this was twenty-five years later. Hadn’t I learned a thing or two since then? Hadn’t I just won the business of Bailey Pierce? Wasn’t I writing a Bildungsroman? I convinced myself to push aside Laurel’s reservations and soldier on, still feeling fairly certain that when all was said and done, when the Cadillac was back (safely, I hoped) in its spot, Laurel would be mine.

  Images of our initial encounter in her apartment floated to mind as I opened the driver’s side door for her, and then came around and sat down in the passenger’s seat. I dropped her bag onto the floor—a bag of Minis from Marcy’s bakery and the New York Post spilled out—and then I oriented myself as Laurel did the same. She adjusted her seat, located her signals, and started the engine.

  I started my conversation. I’d planned out my speech the previous night after writing my movie scene. I wasn’t going to pull punches. However, I was going to allow myself to ease into the meat of my declaration with an introductory set-up line, which I went ahead with now.

  “I have a proposition for you,” I said. This statement was to be followed by an invitation to go home with me over Labor Day weekend, as well as a brief explanation about how my niece Julia, Rachel’s oldest, was in a play, The Rats of NIMH, and I was taking Estie and Ryan home to Chicago to see it.