Deadly Dues

by Linda Kupecek

  “Yes, Daddy?” So much for the modern feminist woman, empowered and free of historic and sentimental encumbrance. Ha.

  “He’s a very nice man,” said my mother emphatically. This usually meant they had lined me up with a hacking heavy smoker who had a serious cholesterol problem and manners issues.

  “Harry Shapiro,” my mother said. “He’s a prince.”

  I sighed. My parents weren’t even Jewish. But like me, they were attracted to all that was Jewish. They would have given me a Bat Mitzvah if I hadn’t pointed out to them that it wasn’t exactly kosher to have this celebration for a Malone.

  Unfortunately, I was pretty sure that any Shapiro my parents handpicked for me was not going to be my dream man, an erudite, brilliant violinist/film director and Talmudic scholar who also owned shares in Stuart Weitzman.

  How could I redirect this conversation? I considered mentioning that several unknown persons had tried to kill me in the past two days. But then my parents would leap on a plane and come to my defence with croquet mallets. And maybe keel over with heart attacks from the excitement.

  I decided to be discreet. My parents loved me, and I loved them, but this was something I had to deal with myself.

  I remembered what my university roommate, Alice, had once said to me. “Ultimately, we are all alone. I expect nothing more.” This was just before she eloped with a rock band in a multicoloured van and ended up in a commune where she shared everything—and I mean everything—with five hundred people in orange robes.

  I signed off with love and a promise (fingers crossed) to call Harry Shapiro.

  I didn’t want my aging, bridge-obsessed parents to intervene in the recent drama in my life, but I did have faint hopes that my friends would show up as needed.

  The problem was that I hadn’t told my friends about the recent complications in my life. If only I had e-mailed twenty of my nearest and dearest as soon as we had found Stan, saying something casual and cheery like, “Found a dead body. Stay tuned.” And then I could have followed up with, “A big brute, size twenty shoe, tried to kill me. More later.” And so on. Instead, it now seemed rather weird to e-mail my friends and bring them up to date without seeming demented. If Jerome or Sally or Agnes or George e-mailed me with a story of assorted dead bodies and assaults, my immediate response would be to assume it was a practical joke or a puzzle of some sort, resulting in a fabulous party.

  This was, belatedly, an important lesson on the significance of maintaining friendships. Spiritually and emotionally, it is therapeutic to share passages. Intellectually, the exchange of ideas is stimulating. But on a more practical level, in the event that you are involved in murder and mayhem (which is mostly unlikely, unless you are me), it can save you a lot of grief to have friends with whom you can immediately share the gory details and get some feedback. I had been lax in this area. I realized it was because slinging burgers under the Arches didn’t lend itself to stimulating forays into conversation. Even though my friends understood my situation, they were embarrassed for me. I was embarrassed for myself. So I had ignored phone messages, shrugged off invitations and generally worked very hard at making myself a miserable, impoverished hermit. Why do we do this to ourselves? I knew, of course, that in times of discouragement, one needs one’s friends. Instead, I had removed myself from association with any except those who truly understood my situation: Mitzi, Geoff, Pete, Bent and Gretchen.

  I needed to reform.

  I turned on the computer and pasted in the addresses of friends from my varied past, scattered in theatres, film studios, art colonies and universities around North America and Europe. I also included a few bars in Paris, Milan and Chicago.

  This is what I came up with: “Suspected of Murder. Innocent. I didn’t do it. Size Twenty Thug Killed on Top of Me. No Hanky Panky. Strictly Murder. Don’t Worry. Love, Lulu.”

  Sigh.

  I deleted the message without sending it and turned off the computer. I stared at the blank screen, which pretty well matched my mind. Except that my mind had a blinking cursor that I could not turn off.

  Again, I wondered what on earth Stan might have given me that would justify these attacks? Nothing. Germs and the handkerchief. And that hanky was gross. I had thrown it away immediately, as it seemed too laden with mementoes of Stan’s cold.

  Could there have been something in that hanky? If there was, I had been too grossed out to notice.

  That evening, in the Arts Club, I had been trapped in a conversation with a casting director who was complaining about the non-nudity clauses in all Gretchen’s contracts, which I found incredibly boring, as it had nothing to do with me. (Unlike me, Gretchen still had the occasional contract in which she could invoke her standard non-nudity wording.) I told the casting director to take it up with Gretchen’s agent, and then was waylaid by Stan in the foyer of the club as I was leaving.

  “Lu,” he had slurred, leaning over me. I had my hand on the handle of the door and was ready to run, as he had clearly drunk more than usual.

  “Lu,” he had slurred again. Then he had sneezed big-time. I caught some of the spray, and prayed that my immune system was still in great shape. I had reminded myself to inhale some zinc lozenges, Echinacea tea and vitamin C when I got home.

  “Sorry,” he said. His unfocused eyes kept rolling back to me, as if he were trying to tell me something. Hello, I have your royalties, and I’m really sorry would have been nice. He had grabbed a handkerchief from his breast pocket, coughed into it and thrust it into my hand. I was revolted, but more interested in escaping his attention than debating hygiene with him.

  “Always liked you, Lu,” he muttered as I made my escape.

  I had tossed the handkerchief into the dumpster at the back of the Arts Club as I walked to my car, trying to avoid various nice, emerging, extremely drunken young actors who wanted me to give them tips on starring in commercials. I was so busy gnashing my teeth over the fact that I was no longer the star of anything, anywhere, that I had tossed the handkerchief over my shoulder like a mini-basketball. It had landed in the dumpster with a soft little thump.

  Oh, no.

  Stan had seemed pretty drunk when he sneezed on me, and even drunker when he had handed me the hanky.

  What an idiot. (Him. Not me. For a change.) Why did he hand me a handkerchief, which may have had something valuable attached, without mentioning that there might be something inside it?

  I tried to remember the handkerchief. It had some weight to it, but after a few glasses of wine, I had been more worried about Stan’s airborne germs.

  The dumpster contents were long gone, no doubt, after over a week. But maybe not. The Arts Club was on the East Side, where union conflicts had resulted in reduced service for the past month.

  I kept reliving the sneeze and the hanky. There didn’t seem to be anything relevant in it. Sneeze. Hanky. Sneeze. Hanky. Even my Dora Darling persona couldn’t find anything profound and insightful in those images.

  Why weren’t people stalking Sherilyn instead of me? She was tuned in to Stan’s evil mental network. I wasn’t. It made no sense.

  There was no way I could find that handkerchief.

  Unless … that dumpster was one of the ones that was only emptied every few weeks because of the union slowdown.

  I hauled out my Yellow Pages and did a quick scan and shuffle, looking for something under the category of handymen, handygals, junk retrieval. I even tried Dumpster Diving on Call. The number I dialed was a mistake. The voice at the other end of the phone for The Garbage Guys, We Go Down for You asked me if I liked it hard or soft and did I have a legitimate credit card. I slammed down the phone and drew a snarly breath that was part revulsion and part outrage that people who did that probably made more money in a week than I had in the past six months.

  I didn’t want to do this, but maybe I was going to have to dumpster dive.

  Dumpster Diving

  First I had some minor business, as in my so-called career, to addres
s. Mitzi had called with an audition for that afternoon. I told her about my black eye.

  “Perfect,” she said, not missing a beat. “It’s a commercial for the fight against domestic violence. Just try to look abused.”

  “I am abused! Sherilyn Carp swung at me with a Kenneth Cole bag.”

  “Which one?”

  “Are you saying I am two-faced?”

  “I mean the bag.”

  “Mitzi! I didn’t notice which edition! I have a black eye!”

  The audition was the usual, the account executives grouped with the casting director, who today was Ramona. The usual handshakes, glance at the resumé and the photo, the obligatory videotaping. More handshakes, and goodbye. Ramona stopped me at the door, discreetly, her face a little concerned. Oh, dear. She’s going to ask me about the black eye. I don’t want to talk about it.

  “Lu …” she paused delicately. “You did fine, but you went a little overboard with the makeup.” She gave my shoulder a reassuring pat and went back inside.

  I stopped at Costco and bought a nice selection of facial masks, rubber gloves and protective clothing. I also purchased duck boots, aromatherapy smelling salts, anti-nausea tablets and some heavy-duty disinfectant wipes. I added garbage bags, breath mints and Irish Spring soap. There was a scary moment at the till when I thought my credit card might bounce, but after an interminable moment the cashier handed me the bill to sign, with what I interpreted as a strange look. Would I ever return to the days when every credit card transaction wasn’t a source of extreme stress? I told myself that I needed this stuff as a professional expense. I think staying alive could definitely be categorized as a professional expense. Once this had occurred to me, I had thrown in a do-it-yourself will kit. You never know. And things weren’t going so well for me at the moment.

  I called Mitzi from my cell. She sounded distracted.

  “How did the audition go?”

  “Great. Ramona thought I looked perfect for the part.”

  “Ramona loves you. Let’s pray she lands a major feature.”

  That would solve a few problems. A breakthrough role (oh, all right, maybe a second or third breakthrough role) in a huge feature would solve a lot of my problems, like income and career maintenance. I closed my eyes and tried to visualize this really, really clearly, then landed back in reality.

  “Hey, Mitzi, want to go dumpster diving?”

  I knew it was unlikely, but I wanted company, and Mitzi was usually game for anything.

  There was a long pause.

  “Lu,” she said slowly. “I know things are tough right now. I can lend you grocery money.”

  “Oh, Mitzi, thanks, but it’s not that—”

  She started to warm up, much as an opera singer starts an aria slowly, then peaks.

  “But it will never be that bad, Lu. Don’t do it, Lu. Don’t do it. You don’t have to sink that low. Not that low, Lu. Not that low, Luuuuu!”

  By this time she was hitting both ends of the vocal register. I had to stop her before she damaged my eardrum or broke my phone.

  “Mitzi! Stop that! I’m looking for clues!”

  Another pause.

  But at least she was speaking normally now.

  “In a dumpster? Clues for what?”

  Oh, damn. I hadn’t thought this through. I hadn’t told Mitzi about Stan. All this violence was confusing me. What had I told her? Ah, right—Mr. Size Twenty—whoops, Zonko.

  “The guy who tried to kill me kept asking me if I had something that Stan might have given me. I thought it might be in the dumpster behind the Arts Club.”

  “When did you put it there?”

  “Mitzi, are you in or out?”

  “I am definitely not in the dumpster, but I’ll meet you there for moral support.”

  “I thought you might drive?” I asked hopefully.

  “Lu, I love you. But if you are diving into a dumpster, you are so not getting into my car afterward.”

  Right. Mitzi always told it the way it was.

  • • •

  Fifteen minutes later, I was at the Arts Club. At this time of day, it was deserted, thank goodness. The Arts Club didn’t open until four o’clock, for pre-performance gossip and schmooze. I prayed that no street people had already rummaged through the dumpster in the past week. The dumpster was well inside the Arts Club parking lot and under a street light, so I might be in luck.

  I pulled into the lane beside the club, then manoeuvred into the empty lot. The Sunfire chugged in protest when I turned off the engine. It probably guessed how I would smell when I got back in.

  A dirty green fence backed the lot, which reassured me that I would be out of view as I embarked on my glamorous work.

  I got out of the car and spread a plastic drycleaning bag on the driver’s seat. Boy Scouts and Lulu: prepared. I had even found a pair of goggles that, although not flattering, completed the ensemble. I decided to add the Oh, What a Lovely War! helmet as a last minute embellishment. I was Ms. Rubber, Platex, Latex, Plastic, Anti-Bacterial and Heavy Metal, ready for Dumpster Diving.

  Then there was the next, formidable step. Meaning I actually had to take a step, and then another, and then another, toward the dumpster.

  For a moment, I had the disconcerting feeling that somebody was watching me. Of course, I was being paranoid. I was adorable, but not that adorable. Despite my fleeting fame, I had yet to attract a stalker. Zonko and the kid with the Crocs didn’t count as stalkers. They were more in the potential murderer category.

  It wasn’t too big, as dumpsters go—not that I am a connoisseur of dumpsters. It was an oversized bin on wheels. Larger than a baby buggy. Smaller than a dump truck. Not as big as the one from which Stan’s arm had dangled—Lu, stop thinking about that!—but still a substantial size, maybe the size of a small pickup truck. I could do this.

  But I could smell it from where I was standing, having completed my first three steps. I pulled my mask on more tightly and pressed my goggles to my forehead.

  Didn’t I star in a commercial once, years ago, as Gertie the Cleaning Gal? I did a dynamite job, getting excited about diving into piles of filth on the set. Maybe I could get back into that mindset. Go, Gertie, Go! I remembered the cheers from the crew after my first dive. And also how nobody sat with me at coffee break afterwards.

  I forced myself to take another step towards the dumpster.

  It looked … full. It was overflowing, the way a kitchen garbage bin overflows—with tendrils and bags hanging over the edge—only more so. Much, much more so.

  I couldn’t smell it anymore because of the goggles and the mask, but I could guess.

  I took another step.

  I paused and sort of swayed, contemplating my life. I was the woman who had sat in the Polo Lounge, at Elaine’s, at the Russian Tearoom, at high-end to-be-seen places across North America, and now I was no doubt not only in the bad books at McDonald’s, my current employer—I should have called to cancel my shift. Damn, where were my manners?—and I was dumpster diving, and not for antiques and collectibles (which would be justifiable).

  A car pulled up behind me. It was Mitzi in her Mercedes.

  “Lu!” she shrieked, struggling out of the driver’s seat. She was wearing a flowing navy blue caftan with tiny pink flowers embroidered throughout and navy patent spike heels that must have been at least three inches. Of course she was still barely five feet, even with all those accessories. Nevertheless, I was glad to see her.

  “You shouldn’t have come,” I said. Liar.

  She looked at me.

  “Okay,” and she turned around and started back to her car.

  “I was kidding,” I wailed. “Can’t you tell when I am kidding?”

  She looked me with a raised, impossibly tweezed and re-etched eyebrow. She wobbled on her heels, but her eyebrows told me she was hurt.

  “I’m sorry,” I said. “I really would like some company here.”

  The eyebrows went down and she relaxed.

>   “Okay, as long as I don’t have to go in there with you.”

  “No. But call Sanitation. Or the paramedics. Or maybe Dumpster Divers Anonymous—if I don’t come out in a few minutes.”

  Mitzi settled back into the driver’s seat of the Mercedes and started to play with her BlackBerry. I had hoped she would strap herself to me with a rope when I went into the dumpster. No such luck. The BlackBerry is a wonderful invention but at this moment it was preventing people from connecting with other people on a real-life, immediate-need basis, such as being backup in dumpster diving.

  I reminded myself of the time I had played an assistant private detective (in the days before Darling, Detective), the one who had to do the dirty work, in a low-budget film (trying to forget that I was knocked off in the first act and the lead actor spent the rest of the film trying to find my killer) and put my foot on the wheel of the dumpster. I hauled myself up and finally straddled the edge of the dumpster.

  Oh, goodie. What a thrill to see the garbage of people’s lives bare naked before you. I noticed a few credit card receipts. Note to self: buy paper shredder. I also saw at least sixteen tons of cholesterol in the discards of meals and tried to feel dispassionate, not barfy, about it. Then I ceased to be an observer and became a diver, goggles, gloves, boots and all.

  When I resurfaced, I was carrying a nice early 1900s silver platter, half of an Occupied Japan cream and sugar, a pair of 1920s flapper shoes, a movie pass for two (good until next spring), a cigarette case with the Chicago World’s Fair logo and a piece of tramp art (or maybe it was just some old bamboo). I pulled myself up and hung over the edge, gasping for air. I tossed my finds to Mitzi.

  “Lu!” said Mitzi, grimacing as she dodged my treasures, letting them settle on the ground around her. At least she caught the cream and sugar. But the cigarette case now had one more dent in it.