by Bruce Wagner
Goodbye Mother . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
The LVN escorted him to the triage area. Bud heard raucous laughter that he identified as the caregiver’s. When he reached the open enclosure, Dolly was sitting upright on the exam bed. Marta was feeding her grapes.
“My son! My son!”
“Heyyyyy—what’s going on? What happened?”
“Where were you,” said Dolly. “Where were you—”
She pretend-bawled like a little girl.
“I was at a meeting. I came right after I got the message.”
“He was in a meeting,” she said, turning to Marta with exaggerated hauteur. “Did you hear? My precious son was in a meeting. Tell me, precious son, was it an unemployment meeting?”
Dolly arched her head, cuing Marta for their festive shtick wherein the caregiver held the cluster of grapes above Dolly’s mouth to nibble at Cleopatra-style. Marta howled with laughter; Dolly was enjoying her audience. (Marta even slept in Dolly’s bed at night. The two women were enthralled with one another—soul sisters to the end.) He cut through the revelry to ask what had happened. Marta grew serious. She said she was in the kitchen when she heard a thump on the baby monitor. When she got to the bedroom, “my big baby” was already on the floor. Dolly had been watching TV in her special chair, and dropped a cookie; when she leaned to pick it up, she tumbled onto the carpet. Marta pointed to the subtle bruise on Dolly’s forehead. It looked like a bindi. Marta told Bud that when she couldn’t reach him, she thought it prudent to call 911 because “your mommy she say she was dizzy.” She wagged her finger at the old woman. “No more! Tha’s a bad big baby. Next time you call me, Big Baby! Marta gunna come pick up your cookie!”
The two erupted in laughter again. A doctor who looked like he could have been Bud’s grandson came in.
“I heard everyone having such a good time that I just had to crash the party!”
“Doctor,” said Dolly. “This is my handsome only son.” He shook Bud’s hand. “And he’s currently unemployed. So if there are any single lady doctors you know who would marry a sexy, brilliant writer, I’d like you to introduce them. Because he needs to marry money.”
Bud cringed. He was used to it; he tried to let it go.
“I will absolutely keep an eye out,” said the doctor. He turned solemnly to Bud, as if he was really going to look into it.
“It doesn’t even have to be a female. As long as there’s money there.”
“When can she go home?” said Bud.
“We’re just waiting for a catscan. My guess is it will be absolutely clear and Mom’ll be good to go.”
The doctor turned back to Dolly and at the same time, pointed to Marta. He pretended to scold.
“But I want you to promise to listen to this lovely young lady. (Marta was 63.) The next time you drop a cookie, you give her a shout, OK?”
Dolly nodded her head, coy, sheepish. “Doctor,” she said. “Did anyone ever tell you you’re a very sexy man?”
“Coming from you, I’m flattered. Because I know in your day, you had the pick of the litter. You can still pick & choose—you’re a gorgeous lady.” He looked at Bud. “Isn’t she?”
Dolly smiled, almost tearfully, drinking it all in.
“She’s amazing,” said the doctor. “Has she always been like this?”
“Yeah,” said Bud.
The doctor assumed a professional demeanor, reiterating that he thought Dolly would soon be on her way.
“Now ‘soon’ could mean a couple of hours in ‘hospital time,’ but I don’t think so. I’ll try to hurry things along.”
He turned to go, then shook his head.
“Ninety-two-years old . . . you’re my hero. Take good care.” He shook Bud’s hand again. “That’s a wildcat. You watch, she’s going to outlive us all.”
. . .
Bud left word with Rod Fulbright. He wanted to tell him how the meeting went.
He wrote and rewrote in his head what he was going to say when the agent called back, and how he was going to say it (studied nonchalance): “Hi Rod. I guess it kinda looks like they want to make a deal.” Then he thought maybe he should have waited to call. It wouldn’t be the first time he’d heard someone invoke business affairs in a meeting, only to never hear from them—from anyone—again. Actually, though, he kind of had to call when he did, because Rod Fulbright did not yet know that Bud was his client.
His cellphone rang.
“Bud? I have Rod Fulbright, returning.”
He prayed the connection would hold. Reception at Dolly’s was always dicey.
“Hi, Bud.”
“Hey Rod.”
“Well, I just got a call from business affairs at Ooh Baby.”
“You’re kidding.”
“They were really drinking your Kool-Aid over there!”
“Wow. Great. I guess it’s kind of like a blind deal? I mean, in the sense I really don’t have any idea what they want me to adapt.”
“As long as their money’s green.”
Rod said CAA would act as his “pocket” agency for now, and that Chris—ICM—was fine with that.
“They’ve offered WGA scale, which is a little more than $39,000. I told them that just wasn’t acceptable. We’ll probably counter with a hundred.” After all the years of famine, it was hard for Bud to accept a seat at the table, let alone that food was being served. “They really want you for this. I’d like to get you at least 50.”
An hour later, he got an email.
Hi Bud
Brando wanted me to give you Biggie’s info. He can be reached at [email protected] He’s pretty much always on line! Brando had a great time this afternoon, and I’m sorry I wasn’t able to attend. But I’m sure we’ll meet soon, and welcome to the crazy Ooh Baby family!
Best,
Keira
Keira Thompson
Director of Development
Ooh Baby Baby Productions
14 Alden Drive
Beverly Hills, CA 90210
(Tel) 3105816889
www.oohbabybaby.com
CLEAN
[Michael]
Lovers
“It’s an awful thing to go through.”
Michael and Catherine were having dinner at Mr. Chow.
“Has he opened up?”
“Yeah he has. A little bit. Because I’ve talked about Cameron. So there’s a bond: our wayward children.”
“Did she really say she thought porn was ‘art’?”
“Yes she did.”
They nodded their heads in muted sorrowful stupefaction.
“Did I tell you I saw Calliope?”
“No!”
“Jesus. There’s been too much goin on.”
“How is she?”
“She’s fantastic. We had a very interesting conversation—if you want to call me just sitting there listening a conversation.”
“I love that woman. And you never just sit & listen.”
“She sends her love. She said, ‘There’s a brave one.’”
Catherine raised a devilish eyebrow.
“And what pray tell was this one-sided conversation about? If I may be so bold.”
“You may, because you’re the bold & the beautiful. I went to see her because it’s been too long. I don’t know how long she’s planning to stick around. Plus I miss the old broad. I knew she wanted to see me—probably for the same reasons! I talked about Jazz, my hesitations of late, and solicited her opinion. She was very elegant in what she had to say. Which in a nutshell was, Damn the torpedoes! Kind of a ‘Mikie, you’re gonna go anyway, so you may as well go in a blaze of glory.’ She gave All That Jazz the green light.”
“Michael, please don’t tell me you’ve seduced one of the most brilliant psychiatric minds of our time into managing your career.”
“Ha! Not a bad idea though.”
“Oooo I want to kill her!”
“I told her you weren’t all that high on the idea.”
&
nbsp; “I didn’t say that. What I said was, I wasn’t sure I wanted to play the Angel of Death. At my age, it’s the kind of rôle that tends to typecast.”
“You know you’re right. Those Angel of Death offers are gonna start pouring in.” She swatted him. “Did you know Fosse was her patient?”
“Uh uh.”
“For years.”
“Well,” she said, resolute. “You do what you do. As it should be. But nowhere is it written that I must come round to being keen on my husband playing himself—”
“I am not playing myself.”
“—or a reasonable facsimile thereof, in a film where he dies at the end.”
“Who says? Who says I have to die? He doesn’t have to die. Calliope said the character could live.”
“This woman should be a studio head! Or God.”
“Try both.”
“Actors frequently confuse them. Michael . . . I just want you to respect my decision. If I choose not to play that part, you must promise not to bully me. Promise?”
“Point taken.”
“When I say ‘Promise?’ you’re supposed to say ‘I promise,’ not ‘Point taken.’”
“Point taken and promised.”
“That’s a gross point, I hope. Give me ten of those, and you just might have found a way into my heart.”
“I’ll need to run that past Calliope.” (Another swat) “I still think Heather Morris would be phenomenal in the Reinking role. As the mistress. Girl has a rockin body—”
“O shush your noise!”
(A double swat)
“Hey, come on now, don’t hit a cancer survivor. TMZ’s gonna say you beat up your gaunt, defenseless husband in front of shocked diners. Onlookers. While in a bipolar frenzy.”
“Hmm. I bet lots of women in this restaurant would like to do the very same with their fellas. You know, what’s that line from Harry and Sally? ‘I’ll have what she’s having’!”
She was funny and fiery and could really make him laugh.
“Young Heather as your mistress, & no doubt you’ll cast some unknown hottie for your bespoke Angel of Death. You’ll be in heaven, won’t you?”
“You know who I think would choreograph?”
“Who.”
“Benjamin, Natalie’s husband.”
“He’s wonderful.”
“But you & me are going to have to hit the dance floor soon. You’re going to have to show me some moves.”
“I was going to make a Dancing With the Stars joke but it’s all becoming a bit too close to home now, isn’t it?”
“That’s Calliope’s favorite show!”
“Well of course it is. I suppose the world is coming to an end—the therapist I once revered as world-class has now completely regressed into little more than a Tinseltown svengali! How quickly they fall! She dropped like ninepins!”
“I talked to Annie—”
“Annie Reinking?”
“We’ve spoken a few times. She sent me some beautiful notes when I was in treatment, & one or two since.”
“Are they still in Phoenix?”
“Yeah. Her son’s a special needs kid—”
“Marfan. I know. She was wonderful about Dylan. Wonderful to talk to.”
“—she’s very much involved, on a national level. Raising Marfan awareness.”
“I should call.”
“Hey, when’s the gala?” he asked.
Catherine knew she was about to get her funnybone tickled. Her husband raised an eyebrow—the couple raised lots of eyebrows when they were together—transforming himself into Master Thespian, an old character from Saturday Night Live.
“Woman, I demand a reply! I am please to be informed of the time and the date of the latest gala—there’ve been so many, I’ve lost count—the latest gala celebration of . . . ME!”
“If it’s the Courage Ball you speak of, Lord Master Thespian,” she said, using his favorite berserk maid-in-waiting voice. “I believe it to be the 23rd of this month.”
“O how I love to be fêted!”
“You’ve been fêted so often, you’ve become fetid.”
He resumed his normal self.
“Y’know, we oughta have a face off—Master Thespian vs Catherine Zeta-Jones, Commander of the British Empire.”
“Let’s not. Did you know Beyoncé is taking Rihanna’s place?”
“At the ball? What happened?”
“She got terribly sick and had to cancel her tour. The doctors don’t even want her talking for 3 weeks.”
“Is Steve still hosting?”
“Far as I know. And that little girl is going to perform.”
“My Telma? My sweetheart Telma?”
“The little girl from Canada. She’s going to bring down the house.”
CLEAN
[Telma]
To Reach the Unreachable Star
Telma had been practicing, you could hear her through her closed bedroom door, and all through the house. Gwen would stop whatever she was doing and listen, and it was nightmarish, almost more than she could bear.
Smile tho yr is aching
☺ even tho it’s breaking . . .
Where was Phoebe? She called to say she was stuck in traffic, but that was half an hour ago. She didn’t know how much more she could endure—————————————————
. . .
Mother and daughter in the kitchen. Telma starving, ladling peanut butter & jelly onto rye bread, her favorite. Bag of giant marshmallows out, her favorite. A big bowl of Hawaiian Sweet Maui onion chips, her favorite. Big open thermos of crushed ice/pink lemonade, her favorite.
She was going to sing Smile for her mom but since Phoebe was coming (supposedly) she decides to wait.
Picks up Gwen’s energy.
“Mom, are you having problems?”
Gwen says no but her denials are becoming frayed. Old soul Telma continues to be respectful, thinking it’s to do with Daddy, they’re right around the anni of his death, so she leaves it alone. The child is the mother of the woman.
And all that.
Telephone rings.
Gwen grabs it, certain Phoebe’s calling with another update from LA traffic hell. Hoping she’ll say she was in a wreck: engine blew up, hit a pedestrian, got shot by a road rager—anything but “Be there soon.”
But it isn’t Phoebe, it’s Jesselle, the gal who’s coordinating talent for the Courage Ball . . .
Right then something occurs to her that is so obvious, so blatant, it unhinges. How could she have even entertained having The Conversation with her daughter before, before the Courage Ball? The recklessness of it, the lack of a sensible, coordinated plan, the flight from rational was suddenly disturbing, mostly because Phoebe hadn’t come to the same glaring conclusion independently; it was a terrible idea, cruel and unworkable, and Phoebe should have shot it down the moment Gwen voiced it. The woman she was desperately relying on was in way over her personal & professional head. Gwen shivered with the cosmic aloneness of her realization; no cavalry to her calvary would come.
Telma made a joyous leap toward the phone, pressing SPEAKER.
“Hi Jesselle!!!!!!!”
“Is that my Telma-girl?”
“Queen Telma speaking.” (A not-so-great English accent)
“Hello Your Highness! Hello Gwen.”
“Hi Jesselle.”
“You know I always have to say hello to Her Highness first, that’s the protocol. Now, you can’t see it, Telma, but I curtsied too, same as I would to Queen Elizabeth.”
“You better,” said Telma comically. “I can’t see it but my knaves are there, & they report back to me.”
“You’re scaring me! Gwen, she’s scaring me! I want my Telma-girl back!”
“Jesselle,” said Telma. “When are we going to have dress rehearsal at the hotel?”
“Well that’s one of the reasons I’m calling, guys. Sweetheart, you’re not going to be too happy with me, but we need you to sing another song.�
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“Why?” (Crestfallen not hopeless—yet)
“You’re doing ‘Smile,’ aren’t you?”
“You know I am.”
“Jesselle, what’s going on?”
“Our problem is that ‘Smile’ is the only song the little girl Aleisha knows.”
“She’s not even supposed to be singing!” said Telma.
“I know, I know, darling, but she sang ‘Smile’ for Marcy and now Marcy insists that she sing it at the gala.”
“But that isn’t fair!”
“I know it isn’t, baby. I know.”
“Darling,” said Gwen. “Can’t you sing ‘Over the Rainbow’?”
“‘Over the Rainbow’ isn’t ready, Mama! And I sing ‘Smile’ so much better, you know I do! Tobey Maguire & Mrs. Biden sent me flowers. People brought bouquets to the stage. They never did that for ‘Over the Rainbow’—”
“Honey,” said Jesselle. “You are a rockstar. ‘Over the Rainbow’ is so much more of a big person song. There’s still a few days, you can nail it.”
“Of course she can.”
“I can’t.”