by Kim Cayer
An executive meeting was immediately called and unfortunately Valerie wouldn’t be getting her last wish. By a vote of nine to one (mine being the dissenting vote), it was decided to keep the Beluga character in the show. Auditions were being held the same day as the funeral.
We didn’t get much work done that day, which was a pleasing side-effect of the suicide. All sorts of press kept interrupting us. Their questions were probing but they were kinder on me than my writers were. I thought I handled the interviews quite well. I put lots of emphasis on the fact that I was the executive consultant to the writers and only met Valerie once (and that was only in an elevator) and my last name was spelled with a ‘K’. It was all quite exciting, although I really did feel bad that Valerie had to go to such extremes to prove a point. Why didn’t she just set up a meeting to talk to us?
The next morning, I picked up a newspaper from my usual stand and handed the change to the vendor. He slapped the coins from my hand, spit, and said, “I don’t want your stinkin’ money.” That’s as nice as New Yorkers get, I guess.
I walked into Sebrings Productions and instead of the usual hearty greetings, I was met with averted faces and suddenly busy people. I saw newspapers everywhere. I surmised that Valerie’s death was still big news. On the elevator ride up, I opened my paper to see what else they had to say about ol’ Valerie and the first headline I read was ‘Head Writer to Blame for Star’s Suicide’. Oh, no! But which head writer? Bill or Mary? I scanned the story some more and to my horror, saw that I’d been demoted.
I was now called the ‘Head Writer’. Based on information received, the reporters discovered that a lot of the storyline, Beluga’s in particular, was based on my life. The story basically said that if I hadn’t been such a fifth-rate person, Valerie Krymkyw might still be alive today.
The elevator door opened onto a beehive. Everyone was running around with a newspaper and I swear I heard my name mentioned more than twice. My private secretary let out a huge gasp and pointed straight at me. All eyes turned and everyone froze.
“Good morning,” I said.
Everyone scampered away. I entered my secretary’s office just as she slid behind her desk.
“Good morning, Alice!” she said, as if she hadn’t already seen me yet.
“Good morning, Lilli. Have you read the paper today?”
“No, why?” she out and out lied.
“Never mind,” I said and started to walk out.
“Do you have something for me to do today?” Lilli asked.
Did I ever have something for her to do? She had a tough job being my personal secretary. File nails at 11 a.m., talk to boyfriend at noon, lunch with the girls for a couple hours, open my mail for a minute, and get off early for one appointment or another. How many facial peelings can one woman have?
“Of course not,” I said. Then a disturbing idea hit me. “Wait, you can do something for me. Buy me every daily newspaper in this city.”
I walked into the writers’ conference room. My writers were already shouting ideas back and forth. Hhmmm…they were usually still drinking coffee at this time. Scenes were just flying. All of next week’s shows had been written when someone finally acknowledge me at lunchtime.
“Oh, Alice, it’s lunchtime,” Mary reported.
“So it is,” I replied, giving them all a very suspicious look. Everyone cleared the room. Damn it! I didn’t say they could break for lunch! It was one of the few reasons I stayed with the job. Something was definitely up. And where the hell were my newspapers?
I stormed into the main reception room and damn if the entire floor hadn’t gone for lunch. I saw a stack of newspapers on my desk.
Good Lord in Heaven, grant me a lawyer. The first headline I read was ‘Charges Pending in Star’s Death’. I scanned the story and my jaw dropped. If I was reading between the lines correctly, my fellow writers dumped the death on me. I was to be the scapegoat.
The next headline was ludicrous. ‘Head Writer Jealous of Star; Gets Her Revenge’. That story claimed Valerie refused my romantic advances, so I got even by writing especially heart-breaking scenes for her.
An unusual sound caught my attention. What was it? I walked back into the reception room where the reception was better. Why, it sounded like a chant. I scurried over to the huge picture windows and glanced down.
Four thousand housewives, many pushing baby-laden strollers, were gathered below. I couldn’t make out the placards they were carrying, but had this funny feeling they didn’t say ‘Ban Abortion’. In my 13th floor suite (cleverly designed as the 14th floor), I couldn’t quite make out what they were saying.
But why were they trying to bust into Sebrings Productions? The cops were fighting them off quite brutally. Chester the doorman was also in the thick of it. What WERE they saying? “Kum-kumkum kid kim-ku” was all I could make out.
I walked back into my seldom-used office and noticed my window was designed so that you could slide it open. Well, the mysterious chant would soon be revealed. I slid the window open and was bombarded by “KUMPLUNKEM KILLED KRYMKYW!” Over and over.
“I did not!” I yelled out the window, but no one seemed to hear me. I tried using the executive treatment on them and ordered, “Go on! Go home!” Zip response. They were too intent on running my name through the mud.
The rest of my lunch was spent watching the crowd gathering below. I had planned on going out for some chicken nuggets but this looked like a lynch mob. So I sat in my safe, well-protected office watching the group who wanted to come in and tear me limb from limb. Surreal feeling.
Oh gee, lunch must be over! There was Mary and Bill fighting their way into work. Go ahead, Bill, tell them YOU’RE really the head writer! Come on, Mary, tell them YOU’RE the one who made Beluga get herpes when all Alice Kumplunkem ever said she caught was impetigo. But nooo, with Chester acting as halfback, they were magically transported into the building.
The afternoon became even more surrealistic. One second no one was on my floor, the next second it was pandemonium every time I looked. Once again, my help wasn’t needed. I sat back and took a well-deserved break from psychoanalysis. We all pretended to ignore the chant from outside. If they didn’t stop soon, I was going to jump out my office window and squash one of the suckers.
Miraculously, the gathering below dispersed at a quarter to four. Oh, of course, it was almost time for Tomorrow Will Come. Well, ha ha on them, I was going to get some revenge. Today’s episode was taped days ago and the same ol’ Valerie Krymkyw will still be playing Beluga. No surprises. Although Beluga does discover she’s adopted in this episode. And see what I mean? I was NEVER adopted. Only once did my mother farm me out to a foster home, and that was only for a few months after Daddy died.
Lilli walked into the conference room. Wasn’t she usually gone by this time? “Alice, there’s some people here to see you,” she told me. She wasn’t very efficient. What kind of people, Lilli? They wouldn’t happen to be axe murderers now, would they? “They’re in the lobby,” she stated.
“Show them to my office, Lilli,” I said.
“Oh, there’s way too many for your office,” Lilli informed me and walked out.
I walked into our lobby and thankfully, just as I entered the room, I saw a camera. Immediately I threw my hands in front of my face – an animal instinct. FLASH! POP! FLASH! You would have thought I was someone important. I turned around and hightailed it to my office.
And sonofagun if they didn’t give chase! There were a trillion questions being shouted at me. I made it to my office and locked the door behind me. Just hours earlier, my office had been such a safe retreat. Come on, people! You’re not going to break down my door now, are you?
I ran to my intercom and paged Lilli. “Whaaat?” Lilli bitched. “I’m busy!”
Lilli! I’m your boss, for cryin’ out loud! Jeezus, she was gonna get herself fired yet. “Lilli, this is ridiculous!” I said. “Look, tell them I’ll answer a few questions but I’m not g
oing to face them. They can phone me, alright?”
“This is the Herald,” a voice came over the intercom. “Is it true that you led a life the exact same as Beluga?”
“No, I should hope not. Beluga had a much worse life.”
“Entertainment Extra here,” my intercom interview continued. “What do you think of the accusations being thrown at you?”
“They’re all lies! I didn’t even know Valerie Krymkyw!”
“International Inquirer. Is it true you and Valerie were secretly lovers?”
“NO!”
The questions went on for close to two hours. My skin was crawling; judging from the reporters’ questions, I think I was in trouble. Sheesh, I never thought a simple suicide could reach such proportions. I took one last question.
“Have you been charged with anything yet?”
“Why should I be? For FUCK SAKE, Valerie committed suicide! I didn’t know her. I had nothing to do with it. Now leave me alone! I’m not answering any more questions. Lilli, send them away. Good-bye!” I wished I could slam down a phone but instead I clicked off the intercom with what force I could muster.
A few still persisted, but not for long. “Miss Kumplunkem, are you an illegal alien?” Now, what kind of trashy newspaper would be asking me that? Next thing you know, I’ll be from Mars. I didn’t answer and eventually my intercom was silent. I tested it. “Lilli? Are they gone?” No answer, so I assumed Lilli had left too, probably giving an insider’s scoop along the way.
It was almost 6 p.m. so I walked to the writer’s room to dismiss them. My goodness, the executive producer was standing in the doorway. I heard Bill’s voice. “We’ve been ignoring her all day. She hasn’t given us any ideas.”
“Excuse me,” I said as I slipped past the big boss. I gave the writers another one of my suspicious looks. Why weren’t they letting me in on the big joke?
“Alice,” the boss said, “I’ve got some bad news.”
“Am I fired?”
“No, no. WE know how valuable you are to Tomorrow Will Come, but THEY don’t. You see, we are under tremendous pressure at the moment. So, until things settle down, Sebrings thinks it would be a good idea if you were to take a leave of absence. A paid one, of course.” Of course. Otherwise, some rival soap opera might bid for my services. It is a cutthroat business. “We’ll be letting you know when your services will be required again.”
I gathered a few belongings and left the building. Chester showed me a nifty back way out. I needed a friend right now. My life was collapsing around me. I didn’t care who was available. I’d find Raundra and drown my sorrows in cannabis; I’d go for beers with Andre; hell, I’d even let Silvio have his flagellation fantasy.
Piles o’ Pies was closest. Raunda was just getting off work. She took one look at me and understood. “Come on,” she said. “It’ll cost more but it’s the best stuff you can smoke.” She made a quick buy and headed off in the direction of her place.
“Raunda, please don’t take this personal,” I said, “but I don’t want to go into Harlem tonight. This hasn’t been my day and I just KNOW I’d be asking for more trouble if we go there.”
“Where, then?” Raunda was always impatient to get high.
“Let’s go to my place,” I suggested. I know it wasn’t Raunda’s favorite hangout; the security cameras bothered her. But since we were just around the corner, Raunda agreed.
We were just about to smoke our second joint when my apartment buzzer sounded. I went over to the intercom and said hello.
“Alice Kumplunkem?”
“Yes,” I said, belatedly wishing I’d stop doing that.
“Police. May we come up and ask you a few questions?”
What could I say to that? No, I’m busy smoking pot? You say, “Yes, of course you may come up.” Then I ran into my living room. “Raunda! It’s the cops!” She was as terrified as I. She grabbed the bag of pot and bolted out of the place. I ran into the hall with her and almost entered the stairwell when I wondered why we were running. I called after Raunda but to no avail.
I walked back into the apartment and the first thing to hit me was the aroma. I may as well have had a neon sign proclaiming ‘Pot Was Smoked Here!’ Flying to the windows, I flung them open. I bolted to the bathroom and grabbed my can of air freshener. It was still full because when you live alone, who do you freshen the air for? I sprayed that can until I heard a knock at the door. I doused perfume on myself and went to let in New York’s finest.
As soon as I saw them, I thought to myself, I am very, very high. I could almost feel blood dripping out of my eyes. “Come in,” I said and led them into my living room. The air was still misty from the spray and it stung the eyes.
One of the cops spoke. “Thanks for seeing us. We’re just conducting a routine investigation.”
“Into what?” I asked, then stopped talking. My eyes had spotted a white, rolled-up paper that had fallen onto the floor by the coffee table. That wasn’t…that was. It was the joint Raunda and I had been about to light. I ripped my eyes away from it and focused on what the cop was saying.
“We’re looking into the death of Valerie Krymkyw,” he said.
“Yes, I can understand that,” I enunciated, wondering what I was talking about. Could I just walk over and pick it up noncha-lantly? Should I ask them if they dropped it, ‘cuz it sure wasn’t there before?
The officer continued. “We have to ask you a few questions to determine if you tried to murder her.”
MURDER HER? Suddenly that lil ol’ joint seemed so inconsequential. I tried to deal with the officers coherently but I was so stoned, I may have confessed to it. Please believe me, Mr. Policeman, I am so very innocent. I guess they thought so too, because they left without me.
As soon as that door shut behind them, I dove to the floor, picked up the joint and lit it. The phone rang. Now what? I answered and it was my dear mother.
“Alice,” she immediately went into a nag, “they had your name on Entertainment Tonight. What’s going on? Now you’re murdering people for a living?” I tried to deny it but she wouldn’t give me the chance to break in. “They didn’t get a good shot of you though; you covered your face. But, Alice, if you’re gonna be on TV, don’t wear yellow! That’s never been your color. And obviously you’ve gained at least 20 pounds since you moved to New York. And for chrissake, do something with your hair! It…”
I hung up on her.
If I was going to be charged for murder, why couldn’t it have been…?
The phone rang again but it went unanswered. I wasn’t going to talk to anyone else. Now I had a new ‘worst day of my life’. I picked up my purse and headed back to my favorite Holiday Time Hotel.
I was going to hole up for a while.
* * *
I took what spare cash I had on me, which amounted to a little over 1400 dollars. When I checked into the Holiday Time, I was decked out in sunglasses, hat, scarf, and collar pulled up. Then I tried something illegal, but I heard it’s done all the time.
“Fill out the registration card,” the reception clerk said.
Under name: Trish Halapeno. Something pretty. Something exotic. Something so far removed from my real nationality.
Under address: Winnipeg, Manitoba. As I was checking into a hotel, I could realistically be travelling. And if I had to speak, my prairie accent would be believable.
I put primo bullshit in every space requiring information about me. The clerk picked up the card when I’d finished and gave it a long look. My breath caught; my criminal career wasn’t off to a good start.
“How many days will you be staying here?” he asked.
“At least two…maybe more,” I replied.
“And how will you be paying?” he enquired.
“Cash.”
The transaction went smoothly after that. I was given my room key for a suite on the top floor. And there I stayed.
I didn’t want to see anyone, including hotel staff. Every time I ordered
from the various delivery services offered in New York, I paid cash and dressed up in my Mata Hari disguise. A ‘Do Not Disturb’ sign hung on my doorknob 24/7. My room was littered in Pegli’s Pizza cartons, Wong’s Ribs and Super Sub wrappers. I watched a lot of TV.
I had been given quite a scare. Why was everyone after me? After two days, I dressed up and went downstairs. The reception clerk (Oh, no! A different guy!) was busy with a customer. I picked up a newspaper from a table and buried my face in it. ‘Kumplunkem Hiding From Press’, with a sub-heading, ‘What IS She Trying to Hide?’ I was the subject of an editorial in the New York Times. Now that was big-time. Whoop-tee-doo.
I decided to check if I was in any other papers. Through rose-colored glasses I read in the Post that ‘charges against Alice Kumplunkem have been dropped, although the overweight, prematurely greying Kumplunkem continues to elude the media.’ Well, I was glad to hear about the charges, but what did the media want to talk to me about? I wanted to be left alone! Oh, and by the way, I am NOT going gray. The newspaper used a photo of me that had been snapped the afternoon all the press converged on me. On that morning, I had tried to spruce up my thick, unruly hair. I decided to wear a light blue ribbon in it. In the photo, you can’t see my face but my hair takes up a good third of the picture. The ribbon wasn’t very apparent, although it DID look like I had two long streaks of silver. And OK, I looked fat. But doesn’t the camera add ten pounds?
In another newspaper, I saw a letter to the editor concerning me. I read it and wished it had given an address under Mrs. Edith Racine’s name. I wanted to pay her a visit and give her a good punch in the nose. One of her lines: ‘There was no need for Beluga to suffer as much as she did, and I truly believe Alice Kumplunkem, the head writer, put Valerie Krymkyw under a terrible strain.’ She whined for two whole columns.
The reception clerk let out a fake cough. I guess I had been loitering for a while. I walked up to him. Considering I was still hot news, I decided to stay for another three days. I told the clerk my intentions.