Fifty Cents For Your Soul

by Denise Dietz

  I wanted to ask him if I’d really masturbated, but I couldn’t. It would be like June Cleaver asking Wally if the Beaver had locked himself inside the bathroom with a copy of Playboy.

  “Yes, oh yes, that was terrific.” Suzanne sounded stunned and smug at the same time.

  Jesus Christ! Everything looked and felt so normal!

  Did I imagine the click-beetles?

  Did I imagine that whole orgasmic sequence?

  Maybe I had performed an erotic aerobics session.

  Comedian Mort Sahl once said his life needed editing. I edited my audition. I had used The Method, I decided, which I’d learned, studied, memorized in college.

  The door to the suite opened. Sol Aarons, a woman, and a young girl entered. There were introductions.

  I stared at Lynn Beth Sullivan. Like the first initial of her last name, every descriptive adjective began with S. Slinky. Sexy. Sensual. Seductive. Sinfully superb.

  Sunk. I was sinking fast. She was only thirteen, yet my pink and white sweater emphasized breasts one third the size of hers.

  Beneath a fake fur jacket, she wore a blue cashmere sweater, white butt-tight jeans, and high-heeled boots.

  Her mother, Dawn Sullivan, was pretty. Dawn’s brown eyes were a tad too small, but her auburn cloud of hair was lush, her nose and mouth patrician. She had clothed herself in a dun-colored, shapeless, too-long dress, and a pair of dreadful canvas shoes. Could she have chosen that outfit on purpose? Maybe, wanting the spotlight to shine on her daughter, she’d sacrificed her own curves. Maybe she was color-blind.

  Madison told me to stand next to Lynn. Her ginger perm blended nicely with my pale gold ponytail. She was half an inch taller, but we both had cat-colored eyes and cleft chins. We could have been sisters.

  Except for our bodies. In my youth, I might have bargained with Asmodeus for Lynn Beth Sullivan’s body.

  Sol Aarons said the makeup tests were working out fine.

  Scratching my brain for an exit line, I glanced toward Suzanne. She twined her arm through Madison’s while he tried to flick his silver lighter and light Dawn Sullivan’s cigarette.

  M…Madison. S…Sullivan?

  “We look alike, don’t we?”

  I turned to Lynn Beth and said, “We sure do.”

  “This is my first movie,” she said. “You probably have a list of credits a mile long.”

  Right! Jill the Aquarian, two aging Marthas, Maggie the Cat, a fat and frumpy soap teen, and eleven lines in an Off-Off Broadway show. I told Lynn about the “Broadway” show.

  “I’ve never been on the stage,” she said, “but my agent sent me to an Annie audition once. I didn’t get the part. My voice sucks.”

  “Who’s your agent?”

  She mentioned one of the biggies, then said, “My first agent was a friend of Mommy’s. He signed me when I was a child.”

  Mommy? I tried to remember when I had gone from Mommy to Mom. Around age eight. By thirteen it was Mother, with two syllables.

  “I did some commercials…Kelloggs, Nabisco, Campbell soup, Kraft cheese and macaroni,” Lynn Beth said, as if rattling off a grocery list, “and I played a kid on a series pilot, a sitcom, only it wasn’t picked up by any of the networks. Then I grew.”

  “Too old?”

  “Too big,” she said, and I knew she meant her cleavage. “Mommy met Madison a long time ago. When she heard he was looking for someone my age to star in his new movie, she wrote him a letter and sent him a picture. Isn’t that lucky?”

  Her voice lacked…intensity….so I said, “Do you like acting, Lynn Beth?”

  “I guess so. I’m not very good.”

  Not very good meant not very evil. I couldn’t help thinking that if Lynn Beth couldn’t play the possession scenes, I could.

  “Mommy says it doesn’t matter. She says directors like to direct, so even if I’m not good but look the part, I’ll get cast. She was wrong about Orphan Annie.” Lynn Beth shrugged. “Mr. Madison wants Jeremy Glenn for the evangelist. And they’ve asked Paul Simon to write a theme song. Isn’t that awesome?”

  For the first time she sounded like an enthusiastic teen. Paul for the music. And Jeremy Glenn…dear God, how many times had I stood behind that yellow crime tape, looking like Jamie Lee Curtis in Halloween, when all I wanted to do was sidle up next to Jeremy and hand him my apartment key? Correction: my loft key. I had been sharing Mickey Roebuck’s loft when Jeremy, who’s Canadian, played a New York Cop. Jeremy still plays a cop, except now they shoot his popular TV show in Canada.

  Jeremy Glenn. Tall, dark, handsome, and ‑‑ from what I’ve heard ‑‑ straight. Very.

  Bringing my attention back to Lynn Beth, I agreed that Jeremy and Paul were awesome.

  “They’ve asked Catherine Lee Sands to play my mother,” she said.

  “Lynn Beth!” Dawn Sullivan cupped her hands around her mouth like a megaphone, even thought she couldn’t have been more than a few feet away. “Mr. Madison wants you!”

  “Okay, Mommy. Bye, Frannie.”

  Dawn stared at me, but I couldn’t read her expression.

  Jealousy? Hostility? Resentment? Contempt?

  “I suppose we’ll see you at the screen test tomorrow,” she said, giving me my exit line.

  “Tomorrow,” I said, never realizing that Alice had just taken a giant leap through the looking glass.

  Chapter Ten

  Three hours later, Mickey “Samson” Roebuck let me off in front of my apartment building, then un-cinched my bulging pocketbook from the back of his motorcycle.

  Texan to the core of his six-foot-four-inch body, Samson had been born in San Antonio. Half Mexican, half Irish, he wore his red-black hair in a thick Willie Nelson braid. Despite his obvious physical attributes, it was the hair that had contributed to Samson’s nickname. Turquoise eyes matched his choice of jewelry.

  Samson “dabbled in professions.” Among other things, he’d been an actor, a nightclub stripper, a sommelier des vins, and a model. When his wealthy parents died, leaving an inheritance, he resolved to become a bestselling author. Since he didn’t have a starving-artists-live-in-cheap-garrets perspective, he leased an expensive loft and shared it with a variety of homeless cats. Andre and I sometimes teased each other with movie dialogue. Samson and I liked to play Jeopardy.

  I had run into him at the library, where he had been researching film erotica. I, of course, wanted to research demons. When I told him why, he looked pensive. Then, like a dog shaking water out of its fur, his attitude changed. Whereupon, we’d gleefully harmonized Ding-Dong, The Wicked Witch Is Dead until people shushed us.

  Now, he kissed my forehead and said, “Good luck.”

  “Thanks,” I said. “Hey, wait. Didn’t you once work with Madison?”

  “Yes, ma’am. I was an extra in his first film.”

  “What did he look like then? I mean, in his misspent youth?”

  “We extras rarely saw him. When we did, his eyes seemed to flash black lightning.”

  “A prince of darkness?”

  Samson grinned. “Ah, King Lear. Yes, ma’am, that’s a good way to describe Victor Madison. Don’t forget to say hello to Andre for me. How is your hunk?”

  “Hunky.”

  Samson doesn’t like Andre. I’m not sure how Andre feels about Samson, except I think Andre thinks he’s gay. But while Samson has never been romantically involved with a woman, I never saw him bring another man to the loft, and I sponged off my darling Samson for nine months. My mother disapproved. And approved. The downside was that Samson doesn’t have a Jewish bone in his body. The upside was his money and his loft, which has a kitchen to die for and two dead bolts.

  He tucked an errant curl behind my ear. “Frannie, I hate to sound like a Greek chorus, and I rarely spread rumors, but the grapevine says Andre will soon be gearing up for trips to the unemployment office.”

  Aha, I thought. That’s why Samson seemed so cerebral when he bumped into me at the library. Aloud I said, “That’s
bitchy, Samson. Your grapevine must be full of jealous raisins.”

  “I’m glad for your sake, darlin’. Keep the faith.”

  “‘To have faith is to have wings.’ Quote, unquote.”

  “The Wright Brothers,” Samson said.

  “You forgot to put it in the form of a question,” I said.

  “Who are the Wright Brothers?”

  “Wrong,” I said, trying to sound like Alex Trebec. “J.M. Barrie.”

  After Samson’s small puff of pollution had turned the corner, I entered my apartment building. Slowly navigating the stairs, I wondered if it could be true. Unemployed? Andre?

  I greeted Snow and saw that my other roommate was missing. So, after going potty, I checked my answering machine.

  The first message was from my agent, Harris, who last week couldn’t remember my name.

  “Frannie, sweetheart,” he said, “you’re not home.”

  The second message was from Mom, another one-liner: “I guess you’re not home.”

  The third message was also from Mom. I had left my sweater at the cookout, did I want her to mail it back?

  The fourth message…Mom again. I was to tell Anthony thanks for the flowers, it was very thoughtful but not necessary. And I should NOT tell him the flowers were almost dead already.

  Andre, Mom, not Anthony!

  The fifth message…Mom. She forgot to tell me Sunday that my stupnagel cousin Charlene was pregnant again, maybe twins, and her husband had just gotten a raise, thank God, since soon there’d be four, maybe five mouths to feed. And I should tell Anthony he should eat more, people in Ethiopia were starving.

  Mom was number six…why was I not surprised? She hadn’t said her dead bolt bit yet. This time she wanted to know what Victor Madison looked like, was he as scary as his movies? And I shouldn’t forget to lock the door because she didn’t want me getting raped in my sleep.

  Nothing from Andre! Mister Sun was sinking fast, and so was I. Wouldn’t my “hunky hunk” be mildly interested in my audition? Maybe he meant to surprise me with Chinese take-out.

  Whoa! Could Andre’s contract be up for renewal? He had been so cranky lately, and his soap had just shot a hospital sequence --

  “I’d better get this part,” I said to Snow, then grabbed a Diet Pepsi from the refrigerator. “Maybe Samson lied, the snake. He’d love to stir up trouble in Paradise.”

  I was still in the kitchen when I heard click-click-click.

  Oh my God! Beetles? No. Snow was scratching at the patio door. I let him outside and watched him prance nimbly to the railed edge. “Be careful,” I said. “You have tons of faith, but you don’t have any wings.”

  Bonnie had called last night, warning me again about dream-demons. Despite Bonnie’s admonition, I decided to rehearse for the screen test in my usual way. Turning off the lights, I scrounged together all my candles, creating an altar, wanting atmosphere for a personal séance. If I had been rehearsing for South Pacific, I would have covered my living room floor with sand and washed my hair.

  For this screen test, I needed spiritual vibes.

  Digging into my pocketbook, I retrieved illustrations of Old Scratch, Clootie, Beelzebub, and other demons, run off on the library’s copy machine. Different sizes and shapes, they grinned with pointy teeth and fangs. I taped the prints to the wall. They had seemed harmless, even amusing, at the library. In my bayberry-scented, wick-lit room, they looked evil. Nevertheless, I became engrossed.

  Remembering this afternoon’s cavalcade of animals, I worked on primitive intonations; barking, oinking, hissing. I let the sounds distort my face. I felt hot, cold, hot again. Itsy-bitsy sweat-spiders trickled down my forehead, my cheeks, my chin, my neck, between my breasts. Whimpering, growling, crouching, crawling, I watched the candles flicker. Demons danced a wild jig, their bodies swaying, their mouths agape in silent glee.

  The candles’ oscillating shimmer became hypnotic, soporific ‑‑ and hallucinogenic. Recent images merged. Pinned to Victor Madison’s forehead, my psychic’s pulsating brooch looked like a third eye. A white rabbit chanted “Frannie, follow me, follow me.” Instead, I followed Tenia through a mirror, then plummeted toward a snake pit at the bottom of a rabbit hole. Jeremy Glenn reached out from a TV screen and caught me. A demon fiddled Bridge Over Troubled Waters while I snuggled against Jeremy’s heroic chest. Gazing up into his face, I watched his features blur into the red-eyed, shadowy devil who’d screwed Mia Farrow and spawned Rosemary’s baby. Beetles clicked…

  The front door opened and my candles went out, leaving darkness and the vague scent of bayberries. I heard footsteps and felt fingers touch my shoulder. Icy? No. Sweaty. On my hands and knees, I scurried to the room’s corner, and cowered.

  “Frannie?”

  It knew my name! The demon knew my name!

  “Frannie, what the hell? It’s me…Andre.”

  He strode across the room and hunkered down. Burrowing my head beneath his unzipped Mets jacket, I said, “Make them go away.”

  “Make who go away? Wait a minute. I’ll turn on some lights.”

  “No! Don’t leave me alone! They’ll get me!”

  “Who?”

  “The demons and the beetles!”

  “John, Paul, George and Ringo?”

  I swallowed an hysterical giggle at the image of Beatles clicking and hundreds of beetles chorusing Hey Jude. “Not Beatles, Andre, beetles. Deathwatch beetles. Click-beetles.”

  “There’s some bug spray underneath the kitchen sink.”

  I assumed a normal position, if normal means butt on heels, feet and butt scrunched against the wall. “My cousin Charlene is pregnant again, Andre. Twins.”

  “She can name them Beetle-de-dum and Beetle-de-dee.”

  “That’s not funny! Maybe I had a panic attack. Maybe I’m stressed because my biological clock is ticking.”

  “Frannie, you’re only twenty-four.”

  Scooping me up into his arms, Andre staggered toward the couch. I gave him a kiss, tasting liquor on his breath.

  Andre said, “Who are your friends?”

  “Friends?” I whipped my head around, scared again.

  “The pictures on the wall.”

  “Oh, them. I was trying to get in the mood. Rehearse.”

  “For what?”

  “For Forever Asmodeus.”

  “You got the part?”

  “Not yet. I have a screen test tomorrow.”

  “That’s great, Frannie, but couldn’t you rehearse by memorizing a script?” He flicked a lamp switch. “A script doesn’t bleach all the color from your face. You look like a reverse negative of Snow.”

  “Oh my God! Snow! I left him out on the patio.”

  “Balcony,” Andre said, dumping me onto the couch and letting our fat black cat inside.

  I suddenly realized that Snow’s face had been at the window for a long time, next to a picture of Moloch. I also realized that Andre wasn’t exactly walking straight.

  “Andre, are you drunk?”

  “Who, me?”

  “You are drunk! You can hardly stand up. How did you carry me to the couch?”

  “Emergency. Damsel in distress.”

  “What’s wrong, honey?”

  “Come with me to the Casbah,” he said. Sliding down the wall, he belched twice, then swallowed convulsively.

  “You can’t make it to the bathroom,” I said, watching his face turn one shade lighter than the Jolly Green Giant. Whatever Andre had consumed, it was making a gigantic effort to exit his body via his throat.

  “I have concupiscence,” he said.

  “Concu-what?”

  “Concupiscence. Hah! You can’t even say the word sober.”

  I was tempted to reply, “Yes, I can. Sober,” but now was definitely not the time or place.

  Andre said, “Not bad for a WASP from Wisconsin, huh? Means strong sessual…sexual desire. Concu…pis…oh, piss, now I can’t say it.”

  I sat next to my intoxicated hunk, who i
ssued forth several warning burps. His body slouched like a rag doll on a shelf as I struggled to remove his jacket, my hands all thumbs. If Andre vomited on the Mets, he’d never forgive himself. Or me. I moved a dehydrated palm closer.

  “Tell me what happened, honey,” I said.

  “Celebration. Lotsa grapes. Madeira, m’dear. Goodbye party. Everyone bought pitchers. Ohshit! Ohfuck! Sorryfrannie. Gonnapuke.”