by J. J. Murray
I can’t go back there, Lauren thought. That’s what Congress Heights expects to happen to anyone who escapes. They expect me to crawl back with my tail between my legs. I’m sure they’re all talking about me at Styles Unlimited. “Oh, that Lauren Short has the worst luck with men, doesn’t she? That’s what happens when you get uppity and mess with white men. . . .”
I have to give them something better to talk about.
But not with this script.
She called Todd. “I read the script,” she said as soon as he picked up.
“And . . . ?”
“It’s a piece of rancid bat guano, Todd,” Lauren said. “It’s the cheesiest, most derivative, most clichéd, and ultimately most stereotypical and racist script I have ever read.”
“Well,” Todd said. “Say what you mean, Lauren.”
“I can’t see me doing this show,” Lauren said. “I can’t see any intelligent black woman doing this show. I can’t see any woman living or dead doing this show. Even the most desperate actress would have to be either crazy or brain dead to do this show.”
“Let’s see,” Todd said. “You haven’t worked in . . .”
He has to remind me. “Look, I know my career took a seven-year hiatus,” Lauren said, “but this show would end my career and tarnish my former career completely if I did it. Why did you think I would be interested?”
“You are desperate,” Todd said.
“I’m not that desperate,” Lauren said.
“Come on, Lauren,” Todd said. “It’s strictly for laughs. It’s a comedy. You do remember comedy, don’t you?”
“But it’s not funny, Todd,” Lauren said. “Comedy is supposed to be funny. It should at least be somewhat amusing, like Seinfeld. This show is demeaning and shameful and patronizing. It degrades just about every segment of American society.”
“Geez, Lauren,” Todd said, “don’t take it so seriously. It’s a job, and you need a job, right? Get back on your feet and all that, right? This is just the beginning of your comeback. All comebacks start small. We need to build you back up to the big time gradually. Some of the script was funny, wasn’t it?”
“I tried to laugh, Todd,” Lauren said, “but laughter shouldn’t give you gas and make you want to remove your eyes with an ice cream scoop. I mean, the premise may have promise, and there’s plenty of room for more interracial relationships on television, but the execution of the premise is horrific. Train wrecks have more class, dignity, and integrity. Horror films have more humor.”
“You’ve only read the first scene, Lauren,” Todd said. “I’m sure the rest of the script will improve.”
“I doubt it,” Lauren said. “My namesake is off to Hell’s Kitchen to find herself a white man. The only way this script will improve is if they fire A. Smith, whoever that is, and hire someone who has some sense. I don’t think the writer has ever even been in an interracial relationship. You know, I could write a better script than anyone else could.” I could base her love interest on Chazz. Yeah. That might actually be fun to write. “Why don’t I just write for the show? I have plenty of experience in interracial relationships.”
“You, a writer?” Todd said. “Lauren, with your track record with men, you could only write something called No Sex in the City.” Todd laughed. “Sorry. That was uncalled for.”
“It certainly was,” Lauren said.
I haven’t had sex since we got engaged, since Chazz said, “I want to wait until our honeymoon.” Why did I miss that obvious clue? I thought he was being sweet. And before that, it was all a performance. Chazz performed—but that’s all he did. Every sexual encounter I had with that man was a performance. He never truly made love to me. Why didn’t I notice?
“You knew Chazz was gay, didn’t you, Todd?” Lauren asked.
“I think the word is bisexual,” Todd said. “And you have to be the only woman in LA who didn’t know. And anyway, I thought you knew all along and didn’t care.”
“I really didn’t know, Todd,” Lauren said.
“Come on,” Todd said.
“Really.”
“You were engaged to him and living with him for three years, Lauren,” Todd said.
“I know, I know,” Lauren said. “I have always been too trusting, and look at the mess I’m in because of it.”
“Chazz doesn’t seem worse for wear,” Todd said. “In fact, his star may even be rising. I hear quite a few scripts went back into circulation the day he dumped you.”
“I dumped him,” Lauren said.
“That’s not what Entertainment Tonight said,” Todd said. “And without your rebuttal, his word is the truth now.”
“But you told me yesterday to ignore all that!” Lauren shouted. “You told me to rise above the foolishness, keep a low profile, and say nothing!”
“And you listened to me?” Todd said. “We have some serious damage control to do, Lauren. I can set up an interview.”
“I can’t even remember my last interview,” Lauren said. “It was at least eight years ago.”
“And that magazine has since gone out of business,” Todd said. “We can’t go print media with this. We have to go live. I’ll try to set up something with Fallon first, of course, and then The Today Show. NBC owes you for canceling Crisp and Popp. And then—”
“No, don’t bother,” Lauren interrupted. “I want it all to go away as soon as possible.”
“Or we can keep it all going for a reality TV show,” Todd said. “You know, that sounds doable.”
“What?” Is he kidding?
“We could call it Lauren: Short on Love,” Todd said. “You get what I did there? Lauren and then a colon and then Short—”
“No!”
“Oh, come on,” Todd said. “Doesn’t that sound fabulous ?”
“No!”
“I could have a deal done by noon today if you give me the green light,” Todd said. “The groom dumped her for his best man—or men, as the case may be—and now Lauren is short on love but long on longing. See our angel rise to heavenly bliss again. What viewer could resist watching that?”
He’s out of his mind, as usual. “No, Todd,” Lauren said. “Never.”
“Never say never in Hollywood, Lauren,” Todd said. “Viewers will eat you up if you’re on a reality show. They love to see the high and mighty in extreme pain. It’s a great way to make a comeback. We could work on the script together.”
“What script?” Lauren asked.
“Don’t be naive,” Todd said. “Every reality show is scripted these days. It makes them more real.”
“It’s a stupid idea,” Lauren said.
“You’ll really cash in,” Todd said. “You’d make six figures easily.”
“I don’t want to cash in on my pain, Todd,” Lauren said. “I want to cash in on my talent.”
“There’s no questioning your former talent,” Todd said, “but your pain and suffering are worth millions right now, and we have to act fast. If you wait too long, no one will remember you were even engaged to Chazz Jackson.”
“I hope they forget by the end of this week,” Lauren said. “Todd, I will not do a scripted reality show about how stupid I’ve been. I want to get on with my life and put all that mess behind me.” Check that. I just want to get on with life.
“Why do that when you can make some money off that mess first?” Todd asked.
“The answer is still no, Todd,” Lauren said.
Todd sighed. “You’re missing a golden opportunity, Lauren. It’s the American way. No one would fault you for making a few bucks off your mistakes.”
“No. End of discussion,” Lauren said.
“Okay, okay,” Todd said. “Did you happen to see Chazz’s pictures on TMZ? He was surrounded by gorgeous women.”
“Who was he smiling at?” Lauren asked. “The photographer or the women?”
“Why, the photographer, of course,” Todd said.
“And the photographer was a man, no doubt,” Lauren said
.
“I think so,” Todd said.
“Chazz has to keep up his rep on both counts now,” Lauren said.
“And you have to build up your rep again,” Todd said. “You only live once, Lauren, and a rep has to be maintained.”
“No, Todd,” Lauren said. “You only die once. You have to live every day.” No matter what little test hangs over your head.
“You know what I mean,” Todd said. “You need to get your name back out there again immediately. This show is an excellent way to do it. Gray Areas will be your ticket to future greatness.”
“Gray Areas will be my ticket to anonymity,” Lauren said. “Have you contacted the Saturday Night Live people?”
“Not this again,” Todd said.
“Yes, this again,” Lauren said. “I could rock that show, and you know it.”
“Fifteen years ago maybe,” Todd said, “but certainly not now.”
“Why not?” Lauren said. “You know I would be perfect for that show. I was born for live television. When’s the last time you talked to them?”
“It’s been at least a decade,” Todd said.
“Put my name in front of them again,” Lauren said. “Tell them I’d even do a few guest appearances here and there to get my feet under me again.”
“Lauren, you need to get Saturday Night Live out of your head,” Todd said. “Chazz hosts that show once a year. You know that. It would be awkward if you were in the cast.”
“For him or for me?” Lauren asked.
“For both of you,” Todd said.
“People would tune in to watch to see if sparks flew, though, wouldn’t they?” Lauren asked. And fists.
“Hmm, they would,” Todd said. “That might be the angle I use. Big star live onstage with his ex. What might she say? What might they argue about? Yes, it has possibilities.”
Todd is so dramatic. “Okay,” Lauren said. “Use that angle.”
“But NBC already has its black woman,” Todd said. “Haven’t you been watching? They have Erika James.”
“Erika James?” That mannequin? I can’t call her an actress. “That sock puppet made one appearance on Meet the Browns and appeared in less than ten minutes of one movie with Martin Lawrence and Eddie Murphy, and suddenly she’s the next Angela Bassett. Erika wasn’t even funny in that movie. She had a straight role and read her lines very well.”
“Ah, but that movie made a ton of money,” Todd said. “And Erika’s gorgeous and young, and you’re not exactly young. You’re still gorgeous, of course.”
“I am only thirty-eight, Todd.”
“I know you still look young,” Todd said, “but we live in an increasingly young world, and right now, Erika has the look.”
Because Erika is so light-skinned, she could pass for white. “Erika James doesn’t even look black.”
“She’s black enough for NBC,” Todd said.
“And I’m too black, right?” Lauren said.
“That’s not what I meant,” Todd said.
“It’s okay, Todd,” Lauren said. “Whether you meant it or not, it is the way it is.”
“So, will you do this reading for Gray Areas or what?” Todd asked.
Lauren started to pace. “I don’t know.”
“I have to tell them something soon, as in today,” Todd said. “They actually asked for you by name, Lauren. Can you believe it? I mean, despite you and Chazz splitting up, they still want you, damaged goods and all—not that you’re damaged in any way. How often does that happen these days?”
I’m old news and damaged goods. “I don’t know, Todd. This script . . .”
“Lauren, they asked for you by name,” Todd said. “They created a character with your name. That means that they expect you to take the part. What’s to think about?”
Plenty. Look at me. I am living in a claustrophobic apartment at Studio Village in North Hollywood, because I had the audacity to break up with the gay—bisexual, whatever! —movie star I was engaged to for three years. I have a college dorm refrigerator and a microwave only big enough to warm up one frozen entrée. My bathroom is a foot away from my kitchen sink so I can cook and take a shower at the same time. I can’t even wash my hands in the bathroom because there’s no sink in the bathroom. Who builds a bathroom without a sink? That can’t be legal.
I have an in-wall air-conditioning unit that smells like pee and shakes as if there’s a perpetual earthquake somewhere. I have a rented daybed/couch that gives me an unobstructed view of the polluted pool I refuse to use. I pay for a gym—one treadmill and some free weights—I will probably never use. If it weren’t for the NoHo Arts District, where I plan to shop as soon as the paparazzi outside go away, I’d go crazy.
“Lauren?”
Lauren sighed. “I’m still here.”
“Time is money,” Todd said.
“I know that.” And I suddenly have plenty of time to make some money of my own now. “Could you just call the SNL people one more time?”
“It won’t do any good,” Todd said.
“Todd, please talk to them,” Lauren said. “I’m not getting any younger, right?” And if I were taller, “whiter,” and leggier, and if I sported jade-green contacts and had processed hair and overblown breast implants, I could be a leading lady in anybody’s movie again. Short, dark, curvy, natural, and brown-eyed just don’t look good enough on American TV and movie screens these days. I blame high definition.
“I don’t want them to get tired of hearing from me,” Todd said.
“It’s been ten years since you talked to them,” Lauren said. “How can they get tired?”
“I don’t want to wear out my welcome,” Todd said. “By the way, your star meter is down over six hundred points on the Internet Movie Database since your breakup, and you’re losing friends at all your Facebook fan sites, so I’ll be surprised if NBC even wants to hear your name.”
“That star meter is a sham, and you know it,” Lauren said. “And as for Facebook, I don’t care. And you can’t wear out your welcome, Todd, if no one is there to welcome you. You have never had the inside track in New York.”
“Oh, try to flatter me so I’ll help you,” Todd said.
As much as I hate this man sometimes, I really need him now. “Just . . . make one more call,” Lauren said. “For me. For old times’ sake.”
“For ancient times’ sake.”
“I’m still younger than you are,” Lauren said.
Todd sighed. “All right, I’ll make the call. But when SNL doesn’t pan out, and it won’t, you will do the reading for Gray Areas, right?”
“Oh, all right. I’ll do the reading,” Lauren said. And either I will fix that script as I read it or I will botch it up as badly as I can so they don’t want me anymore.
“They’ll be overjoyed to hear it,” Todd said. “Bye.”
Click.
“Wait!” Lauren yelled into the phone. He’ll forget to call SNL. I just know it.
Lauren trudged to her bed and booted up her laptop. After reading and then deleting several screens of e-mails suggesting new boyfriends and even a few girlfriends, she came to the last page.
A message from Patrick Alan Esposito. Nothing but a “Re:” in the title space. I am intrigued.
She opened Patrick’s e-mail and smiled. If I ever need someone to talk to.
“Patrick,” she said, “I need someone to vent to. I suppose that’s ‘talking.’ ”
Patrick likes Crisp and Popp. He’s already wiser than ninety-nine percent of the television network executives who have ever lived. She laughed. Why am I laughing? Oh, I guess it’s because I’m about to vent to a stranger. I really need to vent to someone. I have to get some of this mess out of my head.
She nodded at the screen. “Sorry, Patrick, but I have a feeling that this is going to get pretty heavy.”
She started typing....
Patrick:
I hope you don’t mind if I vent for a bit. You see, I’ve had a seriously bad week. I�
��m warning you, though. It could get pretty ugly.
No. It’s about to get very ugly. . . .
4
After a long, cold late November day of unclogging sink traps, tinkering with water heater settings, and taking only four trips to Mrs. Moczydlowska’s apartment to make “the sound go away,” Patrick bypassed the deli and the lure of a delicious frozen burrito and a soda, climbed up the stairs to his apartment, 2B, and checked his e-mail.
She wrote back.
Again!
Wow.
She really wrote back.
She wrote an epic!
Okay, it’s not that long, but compared to most e-mails I’ve ever gotten, this one is long. She says it’s going to get ugly. Let’s see how ugly this is going to get. . . .
First of all, I was engaged for three years to a bisexual man. That’s right. Don’t let his action roles fool you. He’s the modern Errol Flynn. He has sex appeal for everyone, but especially men.
So Chazz is fake, Patrick thought. Lauren must be going out of her mind.
He (I refuse to even write his name) is much more gay than straight, despite the lies he’s telling on TV. I didn’t know it until I caught him with two other men in our house only eight days ago. The One Who Shall Remain Nameless Forevermore gave me no signs that he was messing with men, and I feel so stupid.
Because of him, I went to get tested for HIV five days ago.
Oh, dear God, no, Patrick thought. No!
How’s that for an outstanding way to end an engagement? I should get my test results back anytime now, and I am scared . . . to . . . death. Angry, too. Scared and angry. It’s hard to smile, you know? I’m trying, but I kind of have a possible extended death sentence hanging over my head, you know?