by Ruth Kaufman
The train lurches around a curve, as it is wont to do. Everyone gets thrown against the person to his or her left.
“Sorry,” I say to Business Man as I right myself.
“No problem,” he replies, as the other bumpees murmur something similar. “Happens all the time.” He has a nice enough smile, straight though slightly yellow teeth. “Hey, you look sort of familiar. How do I know you?”
“I’m an actress.” Though he seems respectable, I’m leery of giving away too much personal information to a random stranger.
“Must’ve seen you in something.” He takes a card from his pocket and hands it to me. “I’m a dermatologist. I have my own practice in the Loop.”
“Frank McCall, MD. Dermatologist,” I read. He seems legit, and his office is in an upscale building, but I’ve heard too many weird stories, even about people not in the public eye. “I’m Marla.”
“Well, Marla. This is my stop. Would you like to get a cup of coffee sometime?”
That was fast. But he’s about to get off the train. He does have broad shoulders, he’s a doctor…I have to forget about Scott.
“Sure. Pick a Starbucks.”
He smiles. I can’t help but think of Michael Keaton as the ghost Beetlejuice. How can he, who helps others improve their skin and appearance, not want to use any of the numerous teeth whitening products on the market?
“How’s tomorrow morning at eight, the one in Willis Tower?” he asks.
“Ok, I’ll see you then.”
We exchange smiles. The doors open and he disappears into the throng.
My smile fades as the doors close. What have I done? Agreed to have coffee with a total stranger?
I call Andrea. “Am I desperate? Would you have a cup of coffee with a guy you just met on the train?”
“Cute? Smart? Seems nice?”
“Sort of, yes and yes. A dermatologist. But he has yellow teeth.”
“If I thought he could be interesting and I might like him, sure, I’d go,” Andrea says. “Why not, as long as you stay in public. Plus, you might get discounts on skin care. Don’t give him your email or phone until you’re absolutely sure. I just read an article that says you should have a separate email address and phone number you only give to dates so you can cancel it if your potential date is scary.”
“Why are you reading dating articles?”
Andrea sighs. “Because sometimes marriage isn’t all it’s cracked up to be, and reading about the horrors of having to date at our age reminds me how much worse you singletons have it.”
“Ha, ha. I’ll let you know how things go.”
Who needs Coffee, Anyone, one of the various dating services I’d contacted shortly after my divorce? I can get coffee dates on my own. Without paying their exorbitant fees.
The next morning, I arrive at Starbucks promptly at eight. It’s already filled with corporate casual masses. Frank’s not there. I sit in a plump brown velvet chair. Coffee aromas make my mouth water, but I can wait. I can’t glance at their display of pastries or I’ll want one. I’m reminded of Scott’s comment about him and Porsches. Stop thinking about Scott.
Five minutes go by. Ten.
I’ve been stood up. That’s what I get for believing some guy on the train. I shouldn’t be surprised, but it’s annoying. In need of a grande mild coffee in a venti cup, I get in line.
“Hi.” Frank appears behind me, wearing another bold tie. He still has yellow teeth, but at least he showed up. “Sorry I’m late. I’m usually late,” he says sheepishly. “What can I get you?”
He pays for our coffees, and we sit at a small table. Today I’m wearing highish-heeled Nine West sandals, black capri pants and an Ann Taylor sweater set bought on sale. I have on dangly silver earrings I think make my neck appear longer. My lip gloss has flecks of glitter.
I stir stevia in my coffee after adding two percent milk, anticipating that first sip. Frank drinks his latte while looking down. He seems very interested in something beneath the table.
“So where did you go to medical school?”
“U of I,” he answers, focusing on the floor. Not on me, where he should be.
“What made you want to be a dermatologist?”
“My father was an obstetrician and always on call. Often he had to deliver babies in the middle of the night. Weekends, too. I knew I wanted to be a doctor, but didn’t want to have my life constantly interrupted like that.” Frank glances at me, then back down.
Oh. My. This is like pulling (yellow) teeth. Why do I bother? He reminds me of a total nerd who wouldn’t meet my gaze that I had a five-minute speed-date with. Somewhere there has to be a guy who can carry on a decent conversation. Who is interested in me and not only himself and the floor.
“Are you from Chicago?” Final effort.
“I grew up in Milwaukee. How long have you been an actress?”
“A while.” I open my mouth to elaborate, but his attention remains on the ground.
All I see is the floor. What could possibly be so fascinating? That smushed straw wrapper?
“You have great feet,” Frank says. “Really nice feet.”
I almost spit my coffee at him. This whole time Frank has been admiring my feet? Granted, I did get a pedicure recently, and my toenails are a lovely shade of pale purple with a hint of shimmer, but….
“Thanks.” I guess. He meant it as a compliment, right? But he’s made me uncomfortable and squeamy, like lice are wriggling through my hair. Not that I know what crawly lice feel like. I want to make a face and say, “Eeeewwww.”
What does it mean if a guy…a doctor…has a foot fetish? One he feels compelled to mention in the first five minutes of conversation at our first real meeting? I wonder if he makes his patients take off their shoes during exams by saying he has to check for moles on their feet.
In any case, wouldn’t it be more appropriate to bring up a fetish during a more intimate moment, perhaps after an invitation such as, “Tell me what turns you on. Tell me what you like. No matter how weird it may seem to some?”
“I like your feet,” Frank answers as if I’d actually asked those erotic questions. He’s got a strange gleam in his eyes. “What would you do if I kissed you right now?”
“Um.” I’m completely off guard. If I’d fallen instantly in lust or if he were Scott, or an unmarried star I think is attractive, I’d say, “Do it and find out,” or some other equally forward line. But I haven’t and he isn’t, and there are those yellow teeth combined with his creepy love of my feet….
“I’d make a face and say, ‘Eeewww.’ Do not kiss me. Do not touch me. Please do not call me. Thanks for the coffee.” I take my still-full cup and leave.
Yuck. I go home and take a long shower. Wrapped snugly in my bathrobe, I call Andrea. “The most disgusting thing just happened.”
“What? Do tell.”
“I met that Frank guy for coffee. He told me he liked my feet. In a Starbucks. He stared at them the whole time. And then asked what I’d do if he kissed me. Is that weird or what?”
“Thanks for reminding me how much better marriage is than dating. What did you do?”
“I told him not to call me, not that I ever gave him my number or even my last name, and got up and left. With my coffee.”
“Wow, you’re lucky that’s over. Go check your emails, I sent you a couple of links to articles about GS last night after the kids went to sleep.”
How could I have missed any? I turn on my computer and sign onto my email while we talk about other things. “Oh. My.”
“What’s the matter?”
“I’ve got an email from Frank! How did he find me? And so fast? My email address isn’t on the internet, is it? I know it’s not on my blog.”
“Are you going to read what he wrote?”
My hand shakes as I click on his email. I read it out loud.
“Dear Marla,
After I met you I wanted to learn more about you. I searched the internet for all actresses nam
ed Marla. I found your picture at IMDb. Your STARmeter is rising! Now I know who you are. I’m sorry if I upset you this morning but I find you so attractive that in my eagerness to get to know you better I said some things I shouldn’t have. Please write or call me so we can work things out.
Yours, Frank.”
“He sounds sincere, doesn’t he?” Andrea asks. “But still kind of creepy.”
“Very creepy.” I close the email. “I told him not to call, which I thought was clear enough. Obviously I should’ve said not to contact me in any way, shape or form ever.”
The next day, there’s another Frank email. Andrea’s not picking up her cell, so I open it myself.
Dearest Marla:
Why haven’t you written or called me? Are you wearing sandals right now? Are your toes still Evening Bliss, or did you change to red? Rarin’ Red is my favorite. I need to see you. I miss you. Contact me. Please.
Yours, Frank
Ick. I’m so done with Frank. I use my anti-spam filter to block his address. That’s that.
So I think.
The next day, there’s another missive from Frank, sent from a different email address. What’s the point of having a spam blocker if spammers can easily change addresses?
Dearest Marla:
I feel you’re avoiding me. Without cause. I want to make things right between us and have a meaningful relationship. I know how to find you. Contact me. Today. Or else.
Wanting to be yours, Frank
Or else? Now I’m angry and scared. Frank is a stalker. A stalker dermatologist?
I hit reply and type furiously.
Leave me alone. Never ever contact me again in any way, shape or form. Or else. I will go to the police.
I will never be yours, Marla
There. I feel better.
Do I? Maybe a reverse threat isn’t the best idea. Email can be good for getting out aggression, but delete is usually preferable to send. My mouse pointer hovers over send. I close the email instead and don’t save the changes. If I decide to write Frank, it should be when I’m calmer.
I search for information about stalkers. I learn that one should:
1) not reply to a stalker.
Check. Thank goodness I didn’t reply to his emails.
2) save all emails and other communications. Keep a log of contacts.
Will do.
3) take various safety precautions.
Hmm. Have to think about those. Maybe I need to hire a security guard. I used to think most stars who had them were pretentious.
4) notify the police.
That’s big. But Frank’s last email was a bit scary.
After more searching, I learn that Illinois has a law making cyberstalking a felony. In summary, a person commits cyberstalking if there’ve been at least two separate harassing incidents via electronic communication with a threat of harm or that make someone fear harm. A convicted offender can get jail time.
So far I’ve gotten only one email that could be considered harassing or threatening. I decide not to call the police.
But the next day, at 1:57 PM I receive another. The same time he sent the others.
Dearest Marla:
I told you to contact me. You haven’t. Why have you failed me? We will talk. I must explain and make things right between us. This is your last chance. Do not make me come to you. You might regret it.
xoxoxo, Frank
I gasp and look around as if Frank is standing right behind me. All is as usual in my home office. I’m alone and safe. Nonetheless, my fingers tremble as I dial 311, the non-emergency police number. Or is this an emergency…should I be dialing 911?
I remember reading about a local TV personality, Deidre Mann. She had a cyberstalker who sent harassing emails for months before he finally got arrested. How awful that must have been. Had she been frightened every time she left her house? Did she wonder, as she performed her anchor duties each night on the news, exactly who was watching her?
I shiver.
“Chicago’s 311.”
“Yes. I think I’m being cyberstalked. What do I need to do?”
As instructed, I go down to my district police station and file a report, which includes copies of the offensive emails. The officer at the desk says a detective will follow up with an investigation. I feel better for taking action, but pray this will all come to nothing. That Frank will leave me alone.
I’m almost afraid to check my emails. Three days later, no more missives from Frank have arrived. Nor, thus far, has he “come to me” as he’d threatened, though everywhere I go I’m constantly on the lookout.
Whew. I hope my not responding to him worked. I call Sandie, just in case.
“Hi. Can you give me some names of bodyguards? I might need one.” I proceed to tell her about Frank as she seeks recommendations.
She gives me three names. “Any one of these guys would be good. I’m sorry, though, that you’re already being pursued.”
“Me, too. And I hope Frank’s not off harassing some other woman.”
Chapter 15
STARIETY MAGAZINE
Marla: Mover & Shaker
by BB Beans
There’s no stopping Marla Goldberg’s snagging. Here’s what she’s snapped up faster than a barracuda in just the past few months: a key supporting role in a Great Scott Sampson picture, GS himself, a Stariety cover, and representation by Sammy Jonesboro himself. Now your BB learns she sold two novels and is short-listed for some major award nominations.
Next, we hear she’s auditioning for another revival of Damn Yankees. I’ll bet she sings “Whatever Lola Wants, Lola gets.”
ABOUT MARLA ◊ ACTING ◊ BOOKS ◊ GALLERY ◊ CONTACT ◊ LINKS
Welcome to the official website of rising star Marla Goldberg! Visit often to keep up with Marla’s latest accomplishments, news, appearances and contests.
Latest news: Marla is thrilled to announce her Los Angeles representation:
Sammy Jonesboro of SJA.
Help! Sammy sent me such a heavy pile of scripts the delivery guy could barely carry the box. I’m so glad I now have a film agent to help me choose projects, because at this stage of my career I’m not sure what path I want to take, now that I have options.
Before I go through the pile, only slightly smaller than the shipment of current tabloids from Sandie I’ve yet to peruse, I decide I need to know what I’m looking for. I’m just not sure I know the right questions to ask.
How I wish I could call Scott for his opinion. And I’d hear the sound of his voice again. And maybe he’d say—
Stop. Stop being lovesick. Stop checking online for news about him every day. Back to the scripts. How do I choose?
Snug in my fleece sweats and Ugg slippers, I turn on my reading lamp. With a spiral notebook and pen in one hand, I grab the top script.
Hmmm. The plot is similar to ILMM. I’d play another betrayed wife. I scan the next few. All feature characters that either have low self-esteem because they’re overweight or have been betrayed by significant others, from family members to lovers. I move on to the TV scripts, and pull out a couple for shows I like. None of my favorites are in the pile. Yet?
I mark a couple to discuss with Sammy, set the scripts aside and start in on the tabloids.
A Stariety story about me “snagging” makes my breakfast rise to my throat. I hit speed dial 5 before masticated oatmeal with walnuts and blueberries spews forth.
“Catherine?”
“Marla, is that you? Are you sick?”
“Can you come over now?”
Fortunately, she can. Minutes later, Catherine Henderson, one-time WZRJ fellow account executive turned stay-at-home mom, is beside me on my couch. A few years younger than I am with short blond hair, she’s put on a few pounds recently, but doesn’t seem fazed by them despite jeans that look too tight.
A pile of tabloids fills her lap. She’s watching me drink Pepto-Bismol. She brought two flavors of ice cream, full fat at that, but I’m
so nauseated even my favorite treat doesn’t appeal.
I explain, ending with, “I just don’t get why so many people have an unquenchable thirst for any kind of information about whichever star happens to be hot at the moment. Why do they care so much? Why do I care that they care?”
“Maybe because stars seem more interesting than readers’ boring little lives. I’m sorry,” Catherine says. “I know you don’t think this is funny, but don’t they say any publicity is good publicity?”
“Have you ever been publicly ridiculed in a periodical with a circulation of more than two million? Can you imagine what that feels like? It feels horrible. It makes me physically sick. Because most readers will believe I am the grasping bitch BB Beans makes me out to be. They’ll start hissing at me on the streets. Or saying nasty things on Twitter. What if someone spread stuff about you that wasn’t true, but probably wasn’t worth refuting? Who knows where she came up with that bit about auditioning for Damn Yankees.”
I hand Catherine the bottle. She screws the top on as I sink deeper into my couch.
“Marla, you’ve come so far in such a short time, some people are bound to be jealous.” Her pale blue eyes fill with concern. “Perhaps you could just focus on you, and not so much on what others think or say?”
“My success just seems fast to them. We know I’ve been pursuing acting most of my adult life. I’m like Calista Flockhart. She did many serious plays before breaking out on Ally McBeal, but I’m among those who thought she’d popped up out of nowhere and got a lucky break.”
“Yeah? And where’s she been since?”
“In Supergirl, of course. And with Harrison Ford.”
I don’t have a hit TV show or a handsome star in my life.
Out of the blue, Christi Davis, the most attractive and fashion savvy WZRJ AE, invites me to a party. I’m honored to be included, especially since I haven’t talked to her in a few months. Knowing that former co-workers still think of me and want to include me feels great. I hope she’s not inviting me just because of the movie.