Fifty Cents For Your Soul
Page 11
Which brings me, in a round about way, to the Night of Wine and Roses. The roses were now dead black petals and the Chardonnay had probably turned to vinegar, but recollections, like clean socks and underpants, kept emerging, one by one, from my mental duffel bag.
I wanted to share what I remembered, but with whom?
My best friend would do nicely, only Bonnie, having snagged the role of Martine, had already left for Houston. Madison, she told me, planned to shoot in sequence, starting at the very beginning, before the Robin-Asmodeus possession occurs. Other movies had been filmed that way, Bonnie said. For instance, They Shoot Horses, Don’t They, a movie about marathon dancers.
My other best friend spent his days and nights seated in front of our computer, negotiating his Galveston Dinner Theatre contract, emailing friends, and researching rodeos. Andre couldn’t care less about beetles and demons. I had scared him, and for a self-professed inhibition buster, he was acting like a polite prick.
That left the police… “Officer, a man, or maybe it was a ghost, broke into my apartment via my fake fireplace. Then he/it ate some beetles. No, not John, Paul, George and Ringo. Deathwatch beetles, the kind that go click. How did the beetles get into my apartment? I’m fairly certain they avalanched from Anne Frank’s face.”
The nice officer would tell me to hire an exterminator. And/or a psychiatrist.
However, one doesn’t need a shrink when one has Ann Landers for a mother. Although I didn’t mention the demon by name, or, god-forbid, my bacchanalian revelry, Mom sprayed my hornet’s nest, so to speak, with twenty-four words.
“If you’ve got a dybbuk,” she said, “call the Rabbi. Then take some Nyquil and get some sleep. And don’t forget to dead bolt the door.”
Mom also grudgingly agreed to board Snow.
Chapter Sixteen
The phone didn’t ring so I was unprepared, at a loss for words.
I had picked up the receiver, planning to call my cousin Mark, who ‑‑ after years of sharing Aunt Shirl’s house and closets ‑‑ had moved in with his long-time lover, a drop-dead gorgeous stockbroker named Troy. I figured I’d give Mark and Troy a housewarming gift, the one or two rafter-plants that hadn’t dehydrated yet.
“Hello?” I finally said. “Who’s this?”
“It’s Mickey Roebuck…Samson. Hey, darlin’, I need a big favor.”
“Sure.”
“Don’t you want to know what the favor is?”
“As long as it isn’t illegal or fattening ‑‑”
“I’ve received an advance to write an unauthorized biography.”
“Unauthorized is the very best kind, Samson. Do you want me to dig up the dirt on a fashion maven? A Broadway star? Donald Trump? The Mets?”
“Nope. Victor Madison. When you told me about your audition I called a California publisher, reminded him that nobody’s ever written a Victor Madison bio and it would be a shame to wait till he’s dead.”
“That’s why you sent me the thank-you roses!” I wanted to say flowers weren’t necessary, but realized I’d sound like my mother. “That’s terrific, sweetie. Whoa. Isn’t Madison in Houston?”
“I won’t interview him until the first draft is written,” Samson said, and I could hear the excitement in his voice. “But Madison’s ex-lover, Catherine Lee Sands, lives right here in Manhattan. She agreed to an interview, then reneged when I turned on my tape recorder. She says she doesn’t talk into machines.”
“I don’t see how ‑‑”
“She said she’d talk to you, if you don’t record the conversation.”
“Me? I’ve never met her. I’ve heard of her, of course. Who hasn’t? She’s won a Tony, and last year she got rave reviews for Man of La Mancha, the revival at the Lincoln Center, opposite Richard ‑‑”
“It was my idea. I told her you have a memory like a sponge and wouldn’t need a tape recorder. People gravitate to you, Frannie. You’re like a magnet. I’ve seen strangers stop you on the street and tell you their life’s story. And it’s a good chance to get acquainted.”
“That’s right. She’s playing Robin’s mother in Forever Asmodeus. But…to be perfectly honest, Samson, I don’t know how to conduct a professional interview.”
“You’ve seen Jane Fonda in China Syndrome. Chat with Sands. Ask her about Madison. See if she’ll let loose with a few juicy tidbits.”
“Is it very important?”
“I can’t answer that until I find out what she says. Madison’s a supercilious prick, which is why the bio is sure to be a bestseller. So…how would you like to be in my dedication?”
“Is that a bribe?”
“Nope. A promise.”
“Please dedicate the book to someone else, Samson. I sort of like Madison.” To tell the truth, ever since he’d kissed my forehead at the screen test I’d adored him, but I didn’t want to rain on Samson’s parade.
“Trust me, Frannie, Madison has it comin’ to him. I’ve already dug up some incredible data, but I need to fill in the gaps. Please, darlin’? I’ll pay a research fee.”
“No, Samson. You wouldn’t accept a cent when I shared your loft, not even grocery money.”
“Invite Sands to lunch and I’ll pre-sign the credit card slip. Okay?”
“I guess.”
“Tell you what. Take Cat…that’s the name she prefers…to the restaurant I’m always raving about, the one on Wall Street. I’ll make the reservation. Order anything your little heart desires, but be sure to taste the oeuf a la neige. For dessert.”
“The what?”
“Poached egg white floating in sugar and cream sauce.”
“Samson, I need to lose ten pounds!”
“Thanks, darlin’, I really appreciate this. The secret of writing is to know something that no one else knows. Quote, unquote.”
“Who is Aristotle Onassis? And it’s the secret of business.”
“Very good, Frannie!”
“You are a foul ball in the line drive of life. Quote, unquote.”
“Joe DiMaggio to Marilyn Monroe.”
“You forgot to put it in the form of a question.”
He chuckled. “Who is Joe DiMaggio?”
“Wrong. Who is Charles Shultz? Lucy to Charlie Brown.”
Chapter Seventeen
Catherine Lee Sands and I shook hands.
Her fingernails were long, oval, polished blood-red. Mine were short, bitten, polished Mets orange.
After brief self-introductions, we descended a small flight of stairs, away from the herd-like bustle of Wall Street’s bulls and bullshit.
The restaurant’s heavy carpeting and acoustical ceiling muffled our footsteps. Copper ware and ceramics hung above plush scarlet banquettes. Colorful oil paintings transported me to France, and I wished I could step into a painting and join the peasants strolling along the Seine. Lucky peasants. They never had to wriggle their lush bodies into a pair of petite pantyhose.
A penguin-clad maitre d’ guided us around a table of cold hors d’oeuvres. I thought of Bonnie when Cat chose terrine de legumes, a pâté made entirely of vegetables. I chose mussels topped with powdered almonds and screw the calories.
Seated, Cat and I studied our menus. Then we both ordered the rest of our lunch ‑‑ bay scallops with mustard sauce. Unable to pronounce the complicated French wines, I asked for a carafe of the house white.
Catherine Lee Sands defied conventional specification, so I tried to think of something non-cliché. On my mental interview pad, I scribbled: A forty-ish Natalie Wood riding sidesaddle on a unicorn. Magical. Elfin. Mystical.
Dark brown hair swept her forehead in thick, pixie-cut florets. Dark brown eyes revealed a fey expression, as if she wore sunglasses that enhanced rather than blocked out the sun. Her ballerina’s body had a waist so slender, I could have sworn she’d used a gold choke-collar to belt her white dress.
I had donned a pink mini-skirt and my pink and white audition sweater. Unlike Lynn Beth, Cat made me feel almost busty.
“Your friend wants Victor Madison tittle-tattle,” Cat said, “but I’m not sure where to start.”
“Tell me about you,” I said, “and fuck Madison.” It just popped out. The damn wine. Hadn’t I sworn on a stack of Ray Milland videos that I’d never drink wine again? Except my promise was that I’d never drink wine on an empty stomach again, and my stomach was well-musseled.
“Please don’t take notes,” Cat said. “Because if I talk about me, it’s off the record.”
“I’m not a reporter,” I told her, thinking about Jane Fonda in China Syndrome. Hadn’t her co-star, Jack Lemmon, incurred a slight mishap? “Just start at the beginning, Cat.”
“Yes…the beginning. I was born in Las Cruces, New Mexico, christened Mary Catherine Lelia Sanchez. I won’t bore you with my early childhood, Frannie. Suffice to say my parents died in a car crash. Papa had consumed a goodly portion of tequila, just before he hit a tumbleweed. Unfortunately, the tumbleweed hid a telephone pole.”
“Cat, I’m so sorry.”
“Thanks. I was very young, no big deal. My two brothers and I were farmed out to relatives. I ended up in Tulsa, Oklahoma. My aunt and uncle were Oral Roberts fans. Make that fanatics. They had no children of their own. They didn’t smoke, drink, or…” As the waiter placed our lunch plates on the table, she whispered, “Fornicate.”
After the waiter had watched us take a bite and nod our heads, Cat said, “Where was I?”
“Fornicate,” I said.
“Right. As I grew older, I wondered who in his, or her, right mind would name a baby boy Oral.” She dabbed at the corners of her mouth with a linen napkin. “Due to evangelistic backlash, I tended to rebel. A lot.”
“Rebel with a cause, huh?” I said, still thinking Natalie Wood.
“Causes, Frannie, plural. Energy conservation, banning the Miss America pageant, saving minks.”
“You should hear my mother’s zealous commentary on minks, namely coats and stoles. And red paint.”
“I was a paint-thrower.” Cat chewed a scallop. “To make a long story short, I said goodbye to home, hearth and daily prayers. Then I found the man of my dreams.”
“Victor Madison,” I breathed.
She laughed, chewed another bay scallop, then said, “Not even close. My dream man managed a gas station. His name was Mike ‘Dancer’ Bleich. He got me off drugs…did I tell you I was hooked on drugs?…and into acting. My biggie was the annual summer production of Oklahoma. I want to barf every time I hear that song about beautiful mornings. Corn as high as an elephant’s eye, my ass. ‘Corn as thick as an elephant’s dick,’ Dancer used to say. He was killed during a robbery. I saw the bastards drive away from the gas station in a black pickup with a filthy, mud-encrusted license plate. The cops were sympathetic, but in Oklahoma the words ‘black pickup truck’ are redundant.”
By now I was so fascinated by Cat’s narration, I’d forgotten all about Samson’s unauthorized biography. I had even forgotten about poached egg whites in sugar.
Cat and I finished our lunch, left the restaurant, and just wandered, no specific direction, until we reached the New York Public Library. Seated on the steps in front of its columnar facade, leaning our butts against the base of a lion, we continued our discussion.
“Where,” said Cat, “were we?”
“Tulsa.”
“Right. After Dancer’s death, I began hitchhiking to California. Enter a quartet I’ll call Winkin, Blinkin, Nod and Son. I can’t remember their real names, not that it matters. They were three businessmen and one pimply offspring, off on some sort of a hunting trip. The quartet made room for me in a Ford Bronco filled with Dr Pepper, whiskey, and an ice chest that reeked of partially defrosted cow. I surmised that the hunters didn’t intend to eat their kill. To make a long story short, Wink wanted me to spend a week in their cabin. If I shared Son’s bedroll, Wink said he’d spring for a plane ticket to LAX”
(People gravitate to you, Frannie. You’re like a magnet! I’ve seen strangers stop you on the street and tell you their life’s story!)
For a while Cat and I sunned ourselves in silence. Then she yawned. “I must be boring you, Frannie. I’m boring me!”
“No, really, please go on.”
“Where was I?”
“Wink and Son.”
“Right. Every morning Wink, Blink and Nod left the cabin with guns and fishing poles, but the only thing they ever caught was a sunburn. Meanwhile, Son and I structured our game plan. You see, Son was…well, let’s just say he was asexual. So every night we pretended, with lots of moaning and groaning. Wink was happy and I got my one-way ticket to Hollywood.” Cat looked up at the library. “However, with apologies to Ernest Hemingway, I doubt that Son will ever rise.”
When I finished laughing, I said, “This is fun, but I’m supposed to be asking you about Madison.”
“I’ve had enough fresh air and sunshine, Frannie. Let’s find a shady cave and I’ll talk about Madison.”
We hopped onto a bus and got off near the Boxing Hall of Fame, an old loft on the edge of the garment district.
“This is probably the most off-beat museum in the city,” Cat said.
She and I strolled past display collections of photographs, gongs, timers and pocket watches, all donated by famous sportsmen. Then we passed an array of gloves, punching bags, and championship belts.
The theme from Rocky vibrated inside my head.
We finally stopped in front of several showcases that contained fist sculpture. I thought about Sol Aarons as I stared at bronze-colored plaster casts. On the casts, names had been printed in white ‑‑ Joe Lewis, Rocky Graziano, Floyd Patterson, the great Mohammed Ali.
“Okay,” said Cat, “where were we?”
“One-way ticket to Hollywood.”
“Right. That’s where I met Madison.”
“And?”
“I moved in with him. A year later we split, so I shifted my tailbone to New York and I haven’t seen him since.”
“And?”
“End of story.”
“Cat, do you want me to ask questions?”
“No.”
“I don’t understand.”
She stared at Ali’s bronzed fist. “I thought I’d give you generalities, Frannie, make stuff up. But you’re too nice, not at all what I expected.”
“What did you expect?”
“I figured Mickey Roebuck sent you to question me girl-to-girl, pillow talk and intimate details. He looked the type. Mr. Macho.”
“Oh no, Cat. I mean, he’s macho, but he’s also generous and sweet and…didn’t Samson…that’s his nickname…didn’t he tell you that I’ve been cast in Madison’s new movie?”
“No, he didn’t.” Cat looked startled, but in a nice way.
“I’m doubling for Lynn Beth Sullivan,” I said, “after she gets possessed.”
“You don’t look very demon-ish, Frannie.”
“Wait till you see me in Sol’s makeup.”
“My part’s easy. Angst, angst, angst. And, every once in a while, hysteria.”
“Angst is easy?”
“It is when you’re standing near Victor Madison!”
“Speaking of Madison ‑‑”
“Frannie, let’s get out of here, taxi to my place.”
“Sure. Where do you live?”
“The West Village.”
She hailed a cab and we traveled down cobblestones, past brownstone buildings, old cafés, street singers, flea markets and fruit stands. Finally, we slowed and halted next to a tree-lined curb.
“Now it’s too expensive and chi-chi,” Cat said, paying our driver. “But this area attracted poets and artists en masse in the fifties. The Village has more shoe shops than any other street in the world,” she added, unlocking her door.
I glanced down at my sandals and my Mets-orange toenail
s, then stared at my new friend’s slender form.
She didn’t look like a white rabbit, but oh, dear, oh, shit…
Was I about to catapult myself into another Wonderland?
Chapter Eighteen
I entered into a world of Roy Liechtenstein and American Indians.