Ringer

by Wiprud, Brian M

  “What if, like, the yellow polka dots loses me?”

  “Don’t let her.”

  “I’m just saying.” Pedestrians streamed all around him.

  Helena paused while cutting her sandwich. “You lost her, didn’t you, Tony?”

  “Kinda.”

  “Abbie?” Helena yelled at the ceiling.

  We hear faintly from upstairs, “Yeah?”

  “Call Gina!”

  The camera pans up from Tony standing on the sidewalk to a glass tower and zooms in on a high window in which Purity Grant stands smoking a cigarette and gazing out over midtown. She’s dressed in her trademark pigtails, white man’s Oxford shirt open at the front, bikini top, and thigh-high moccasin boots. Large dark glasses covered her calculating green eyes. A diet cola can is in her hand. Could there be a more perfect opportunity for a product placement?

  We move up into the office where she is standing, and there are two men talking alternately, off-camera. One has a high, fast voice; the other is lower, older, deeper.

  High: “So what we’re saying is that you’ve created this marvelously kinetic image of troubled youth, of dissatisfaction.”

  Low: “In effect. It is safe to say, Purity, that you have branded yourself. In so doing, you have commodity potential across a wide range of markets.”

  High: “We’re talking Gen P personified, rebel zeitgeist, the female James Dean of our times. Your ride through Central Park? Using it! We’ll capture that untamed wench, that mustang spirit in a pair of torn jeans, and a fragrance called ‘Fuck You, Dad!’ with Bad Girl Purity Grant on billboards ten stories high, bareback, police cars with flashing lights blurred behind you, your nipples covered with electrical tape!”

  Purity knit her brow and half-turned. “How much?”

  Low: “Compensation will depend on many factors, Purity, and we suggest you have an agent negotiate that for you. Ultravibe Media can suggest some that are tightly woven into the business and can guide you sagely through this process so that your needs are amply met.”

  She took a drag and blew out smoke. “How much up front are you offering?”

  Low: “Well, ahem, there will of course be a signing bonus, and we’re thinking that a reasonable first offer that would fit industry standards for endorsements of this kind might be in the low six-figure range…”

  High: “There are residuals, sweetie, and royalties and bonuses. We’re talking about jeans, fragrances, handbags, jewelry—I mean, sky’s the limit on this sort of thing. Reality TV. That knock your socks off? Hm? This is just the beginning, the ground floor.”

  Purity nodded at the carpet and then turned back to the window. “You must have some first offer? In writing?”

  Low: “Yes, we at Ultravibe Media have draft contracts drawn up for you and your agent to look over. However, there is something you must know, Purity, and it is written into the contract. As I said, you have branded yourself for a particular young adult that we are trying to market to. You have a countercultural image that we are proposing you, in effect, use to sell a variety of retail goods. This is a lucrative deal, and we do not make it lightly, and we place a high value on the image that you have cultivated for yourself.”

  High: “An album! Do you sing? Doesn’t matter. We have people.”

  Purity smirked but did not turn. “So what you’re saying is that I’ll be contractually obligated to continue to have the tabloids pissing off my stepfather. IOW, you’re going to pay me to piss off my stepfather to sell clothes to other people who want to piss off their fathers? Spiffy.”

  Low: “I would say that you have characterized the launch of your brand accurately.”

  High: “Purity will be the bad girl that is so good!”

  “What if I’m not pissing off my stepfather on a regular basis? What then?”

  Low: “That, I’m afraid, would erode the brand.”

  “Breach of contract?” Purity turned to look at them off screen.

  Low: “Most likely.”

  “What if my stepfather dies?”

  High: “Oh my God! The funeral! Hello? Black is the new ‘it’ color, every pissed-off chick who hates her dad buys the Purity Grant veil! Black torn jeans and a veil that is also a sleeveless tee. Can’t you see it! Is he sick? Is he dying? Bob, really, this could be huge!”

  Low: “I don’t think that the brand is entirely dependent on your stepfather, Purity. You fly in the face of all authority. The target market yearns to capture a piece of that for themselves by buying your products but without going to jail.”

  “MEGO.” She turned back to the window, smiling to herself. “So as long as I’m arrested now and again, my ‘brand’ is maintained?”

  Low: “I would think that would fall into the definition of the brand that the current contract stipulates.”

  “What about jail?”

  High: “BE STILL MY HEART!”

  Low: “Your agent would have to find some vehicle to ensure that any royalty distributions or profits you might reap directly as a result of a prison term met with state and federal laws.”

  “So, he might be able to stash it for me somewhere if I went to prison?”

  Low: “That is between you, your agent, and your legal counsel. So, Purity, does this sound like a venture that would interest you?”

  “What about a triple play?”

  A pause as we hear Low and High exchange a whisper.

  Low: “Triple play?”

  “That’s right. What if I have three major events in my life in a week?”

  Low: “Define major event.”

  “Take this down, guys: A major event shall be defined for the purposes of this contract as any event whereby Purity Grant is in the Daily Post or tabloid with equivalent readership, both online and in print, to include but not limited to Purity’s arrest, Purity’s disappearance, a Purity sex tape released to the media, Robert Tyson Grant’s death, Purity Grant’s death, etc. A triple play shall be defined for the purposes of this contract as any three major events occurring within seven calendar days (one hundred and sixty-eight hours) and entitling Purity Grant to ten million dollars for each event, payable in a lump sum directly to Purity Grant within thirty calendar days. However, in the event that Purity Grant’s reported death ends up false, that part of the triple play can occur within one year of the last major event to qualify. This contract is confidential, and any release of its contents by your company to any person outside your organization will result in a ten-million-dollar bonus to be paid to Purity Grant—in Ultravibe Media company stock or cash—within thirty calendar days from the day that that information is published either in print or online or reported in any media outlet.”

  Low cleared his throat. “Ultravibe Media will have to discuss this with your agent, Purity. This is highly irregular.”

  Purity dropped her cigarette into the Diet Pepsi or Coke can, and it hissed like a striking cobra. She turned. “There isn’t going to be any agent, and there isn’t going to be any fifteen percent. I’ll take five hundred grand as a signing fee, with an annual salary of two hundred grand for two years, complete with standard percentages of all merchandising. Complete with full benefits, but you can keep your 401(k). Wouldn’t look good for the brand if I had a 401(k), would it?”

  High (whispering): “Bob, take it! That’s less up front.”

  Low: “I really think you should reconsider, Purity. These contracts are complex.”

  We see Purity through the window as she shakes out a fresh cigarette and flames it.

  “That’s the deal. Send the contracts to Mike Miller, he’s my attorney at Steptoe. Today, or it’s no deal.”

  The camera turns away from the window and zooms into the distance, and cross-zooms all the way to the front of my hotel, through the glass doors, and into the modern lobby. In an angular chair next to a glass-block pillar sits Skip Baker in his suede jacket and cowboy boots. He’s sipping coffee and distractedly reading the paper, his eyes flicking out the window and toward
the front desk and hotel entrance.

  I know, we’re making the camera whip around the city, but a lot is happening all at once, and I think this technique will give us continuity of action and a cohesive timeline at this crucial juncture in my story. If you don’t believe me, see page 114 of this fine book I have, Screenwriting: Yes You Can!

  Imagine my surprise as I came into my hotel and was approached by Skip. My mind was in rapture with the previous night’s romp, the notion of a hot shower, and the inevitability of a grilled cheese at the Lyric Diner.

  “Morty!” Skip’s smile was on the side of his face, the eyes under his blond eyebrows sparkling.

  His hand was extended, and I shook it. “Skip? This is unexpected.”

  “Is unexpected bad? How about some breakfast?”

  “To be brutally honest, I was about to bathe.” I cocked an eyebrow at my inquisitive friend. “So am I to assume you’ve come as a reporter, sought me out, gone from East Side hotel to East Side hotel looking for the handsome Mexican who caught Purity Grant in his arms?”

  He held up the tabloid with my picture. I had not seen this yet, and took it from him to hold to the light of the windows. “Taken by one of the scumtators?”

  Skip shrugged and smiled.

  “So this is your work, then, making this small incident a sensation of sorts?”

  “That’s what I do, Morty. That’s what reporters do. Molehill? No such thing. Only mountains.”

  I was not sure at the time whether I should be offended by his intrusion into my privacy or flattered by being featured on the front page and dining on a fleeting morsel of fame. I had never been in the newspaper before, much less on the front page.

  My lip curled at the photo as I held it this way and that. “I suppose I look heroic.”

  “The ladies will love it.” He had my number, as they say.

  I nodded. “Yes, I suppose they might, as you say.” I handed the paper back to him. “So, Skip, your generosity in allowing me to accompany you into the courtroom paid off. You have your front-page story. What else can you possibly want of this molehill?”

  “I want your story. For tomorrow’s paper.”

  I shook my head. “I am afraid not, Skip. This kind of publicity might be adverse for the business I am conducting here in New York. It is not that interesting, anyway.”

  Skip made a big shrug, sighed, and hung his head. “I totally understand, Morty. But if you were me, you’d try, too, wouldn’t you?”

  I patted him on the shoulder. “As Lincoln used to say, nothing adventured, nothing gleaned. Now, if you’ll excuse me. The ‘guardian angel’ needs a shower.”

  “Lincoln was a very smart guy.” He followed me to the elevators. “Can I at least buy you breakfast? It is the least I can do for the guy that gave me that awesome story yesterday. To be honest, things have been a bit slow, and being there when you caught Purity helped save my job. Generosity pays, who knew? So how about it?”

  I sighed because I knew I should say no but at the same time I liked Skip. He was what you might call an honest liar. Skip made only the slightest pretense of disguising his disingenuous nature. I recognized some of that in myself, so felt a certain kinship with this hustler.

  “I am going to take a shower.”

  “Great. Take your time.” He pointed with his newspaper to the seat in which he had been seated. “I’ll be right there.”

  You see? Skip was making it look like I had a choice to have breakfast with him. Yet the other option would be that he would stalk me.

  I boarded the elevator, and as the doors closed I saw Skip sink contentedly into his chair.

  Ninety minutes later, when the elevator doors opened on the lobby, I saw Skip rise contentedly from his chair, folding his cell phone as he did so.

  I had purposely taken my time to see if he would perhaps be discouraged. Yet at the same time, I was not about to be held captive in my room. I did take a long shower, and while doing so, I had a chance to do some thinking about my situation and the negotiations with Dixie and Grant. On my part, there was nothing really to fear from this reporter; he had merely made a tabloid story about me and Purity that would likely be forgotten as soon as something actually newsworthy happened. I did not see why this small incident should have any effect on my dealings with Robert Tyson Grant for recovering the ring. If nothing else, were he to imagine that I was somehow insinuating myself into Purity’s life, he might want to give me the ring just to get me out of the picture. On the other hand, now that I had Skip’s attention, what if I were to tell him the story of the Hernando Martinez de Salvaterra ring and that Grant would not return it to the church. I thought this story of the rich man hoarding a holy relic might be newsworthy, and a story in the paper about it might compel Grant to cough up the ring bearing the double cross of Caravaca. So Skip might actually be useful to my holy mission.

  Who can say? Perhaps Purity fainting and Skip chasing me down were all part of His will in action.

  Skip looked at his phone as I approached in my tan suit and walking stick. “Brunch?”

  “Why not?”

  So we strode together from the hotel, and he veered right, so we went uptown. It was another fine June day, warm and breezy, the remaining blossoms on the trees now white petals floating through the air. “Any particular kind of restaurant?”

  I shrugged. “French?” To tell you the truth, I had not eaten at a French restaurant, but thought I might as well as it was on his dime.

  “Sure.” He pointed ahead to where tables were on the sidewalk, their tablecloths fluttering.

  Soon enough we were seated at one such table, Skip with a cup of coffee, me with a glass of champagne. Hey, I know it was early to be drinking, but the day was my own, it wasn’t like I had anything to do but enjoy a nice lunch and wait for Dixie to call—and to be brutally honest, the notion of a tasty champagne brunch and a nap was quite appealing. When is it not, I ask you? For me it was made more so as I was still enjoying the afterglow of my romp with Dixie and her implants.

  I feel I must take a moment to defend implants, which come under a lot of scrutiny and derision, mainly by women who do not have them. Would I rather have a woman with delightful breasts that were not implants? Absolutely. Yet for a man, this is not an either-or proposition. We do not look at a woman and think, Oh, I must have natural breasts at any cost, so I will go home and masturbate rather than have sex with this woman with the cleavage of Venus. The truth is that men’s standards just aren’t that high, and if women really want to know the truth, most men are just as happy with small breasts as large breasts. Implants do not feel like natural breasts, but who said they have to? Natural A cups and D cups don’t feel the same, either. I for one would say there is room in the world for all kinds of breasts and that they can exist in harmony, each with their own qualities. To eliminate the one or the other would make no more sense than to say one would only be charmed by natural blondes. How many natural blondes are there versus the number we see? Not many, let me tell you. Oh, now that she is naked before me, I see that her pubic hair does not match the hair on her head—I must have natural blond hair at any cost, so I must leave Jessica Simpson, who wished to engage in actual sex with me, and return home, where I will masturbate instead. I would no more endorse a woman moping around with mousey brown hair that makes her unhappy than I would a woman moping around with breasts that make her unhappy. Dye the hair, install the implants, whatever makes you feel good about yourself that isn’t over the top or a fixation. Nose job: by all means. Tattooed eye liner or eyebrows: if you must. Face lifts, collagen lips, forehead injections: please do not. If you mess too much with the face, it becomes angry and rebels.

  Tolerance in this and all matters, my friends, including but not limited to implants. Amen.

  “How long are you in town, Morty?”

  “Perhaps another few days.”

  “Returning to Mexico or are you traveling?”

  I remembered slipping and mentioning t
hat I was Mexican.

  “Back to Mexico, but I have been enjoying myself here.”

  “I’ll bet. Any man that returns home in the morning to take a shower has been enjoying himself. Been clubbing?”

  “Not so much, no. This bottle service at lounges is terribly expensive. One might as well just pay for it.”

  “Pay for what?”

  “So tell me something of yourself, Skip. You are a handsome man, successful in your field. You must be what they call a man-about-town here in New York.”

  “I have a full life.”

  “Do you spend all of your workday chasing down Purity Grant stories?”

  “Some days, not all.”

  “She must know you by now.”

  “Mm, you could say that.”

  “Does she despise you?”

  “Yes and no.”

  “Ah, I see. Yes because sometimes she does not want to be in the news, and no because sometimes she does want to be in the news.”

  That smile slid up one side of Skip’s face. “You’re slick, Morty.”

  “Let’s just say that I have been around. Does Purity do the things she does to rebel against her stepfather or is she really a whore and an unwieldly bitch, what we used to call in East Brooklyn a hump slap?”

  “Hump slap?”

  “She allows the former, but follows up with the latter.”

  I am not usually so ribald, but wondered if in some small way Skip was attached to Purity, whether he had seen the small ember of innocence lost that I had. If this was so, I hoped my insult to her honor would annoy him and put him off balance. He felt he held all the cards when dealing with me, and I wanted to shuffle the cards a bit to even the stakes. Not that at that time I knew there were any stakes—it was just clear to me he thought he could hustle me.

  He shifted in his chair. “I think it’s mostly, you know, the stepfather. Robert Tyson Grant is her stepfather, and her mother died, so Robbie holds the purse strings on Purity’s trust fund and tries to more or less imprison her out on Long Island to keep her from acting out and that of course makes her want to act out. You see?”