Mackenna on the Edge

by Djuna Shellam

  Mackenna continued staring and wondered what in the world the strange little woman was talking about. Her somewhat delayed and startled reply was a mixture of disdained confusion and mild repulsion. “Huh?” she replied, almost as an afterthought.

  The creature spoke with an electric intensity, which caused her whole body to move as she uttered each word. Each and every word was punctuated with her jingling ears and every mid-sentence with a question—the kind of up-talking that drove most people over thirty out of their minds.

  “Your first time… Lily?… The show?”

  Mackenna found the small ADHD-like being dancing before her slightly unnerving and answered tentatively, “Oh… yes. This is the first time I’ve seen the play.” She looked out over the woman’s head and searched the crowd, desperately hoping to see Francine’s face emerge from the sea of backs of heads.

  “Whoohoo! A virgin! Totally cool! Man, I’ve seen Lily forty-three times? In New York, that is. Crazy, huh? And I saw her five times in L.A.? When she was working the bugs out? Of the play? I guess you could say I’m a big fan?” The woman’s arms waved wildly to express just how big a fan she was, exposing arms filled with clanging metal bracelets. “She’s so wonderful… I’ve met her before? Twice? Once on my birthday? My twenty-eighth? Last year? It was so cool. And another time? Backstage?”

  As the woman pointedly ticked off the alleged meetings, Mackenna noticed each finger and thumb on each hand was encircled by large, gaudy rings which clicked together adding another percussive attribute to her persona. “Right over there. I got her autograph? She wrote ‘To Inca? My biggest fan? Love, Lily?’ Neat, huh? And my friend’s been to her house? Well, actually,” she confided, “my friend’s cousin’s sister-in-law’s neighbor’s been in there? She’s in the business or something. You know, show business? It’s really neat inside? Lots ’o pink? Everywhere? I’ve been there… just on the outside, though. You know, out on the street? I like to sit outside and watch? Someday? Maybe I’ll get to see the inside. Y’know? I mean, I could get in there if I wanted to…” Inca drew in a quick breath and continued her manic rambling.

  “Hey! You meet her yet? How’d you get backstage? D’you know somebody? Maybe they could get me in? You know? Maybe we could have lunch or something?” Inca immediately read the negative reaction in Mackenna’s face. “Nah… probably not, huh? Oh, hey… my name’s Inca?” Mackenna opened her mouth to acknowledge she already knew that when Inca plowed right on with her one-sided conversation.

  “Oh yeah, I guess I mentioned that before, huh? Inca? Like ancient Peruvians? You like it? My real name’s… well… I shouldn’t even tell you… it’s stupid… Okay, I’ll tell you? But… don’t go spreadin’ it around… ‘kay?”

  Mackenna’s head felt like it was going to swirl away to another planet if Francine didn’t return soon. “I wouldn’t dream of —”

  “Okay.” Inca sighed heavily. “If you swear?”

  Mackenna gave a half-hearted nod.

  “It’s Susie. Ugh! Gross, huh? Not even Susan or Susanne, or just Sue, ya know? Just boring old Susie? I guess I could’ve pretended it was Susan? Or Sue,” she continued, “But… Anyway? I chose Inca myself. Because in a past life? I used to be an Incan,” she said matter-of-factly. “Really! You know about the Incans? How they just disappeared? Right?” she said, slowly leaning toward Mackenna as she dragged out the word.

  “Hey! You know what? We’ve been talking all this time? And I don’t even know your name?” Inca fired off her questions in such rapid-fire succession that Mackenna wasn’t sure if she was supposed to answer until she realized Inca, for the first time since she swooped in on her, had stopped talking and moving, and was actually waiting for an answer.

  Mackenna answered hesitantly, wondering if she should lie but didn’t. “Uh, um… Mackenna Martín. I… uh… just Mackenna.”

  “Mackenna Marteen?” Inca responded, emphasizing the last syllable of Mackenna’s last name. “That’s cool—kinda different? That your real name?”

  Mackenna nodded.

  “Huh.”

  Mackenna shrugged uncomfortably, unwilling to share something so intimate with a veritable stranger.

  “Never mind… Huh. So what’d ya think about Lily? Isn’t she great? I think she’s a genius? And doesn’t she just have the greatest ass? Y’know I’ve written her a letter every single day since 1975? Yeah… About once a year? She sends me an autographed picture… Hey! Wanna see my tattoo?” Inca hoisted up her big shirt and quickly began to unfasten her baggy pants.

  “Your wha… gee, I don’t think I…” Mackenna looked around in a panic as Inca fumbled with the oversized belt holding up her large men’s trousers.

  “It’s… an exact… replica? I took a picture of it? And was… gonna send it… to her? But I thought it might freak her out? You know? Like I was some… kind of nut or… something?” Inca yanked her pants down and bent over to expose an eight-inch square tattoo of Lily’s face on her right buttock. “There!”

  She continued to talk to Mackenna over her shoulder. “Isn’t it great? I think the artist did a great job? Don’t you? Much better than my other tattoos? I’ve got seven altogether?” Still bent over, Inca’s hands flew up above her head displaying seven digits causing her pants to fall down around her ankles. “Oops, oh well…” she said and pointed to the large tattoo on her rear end. “This is the biggest one I got? Cost me a fortune, too, but it was worth it! See? It’s from her program cover? But mine’s in full color!”

  Looking up at Mackenna from upside down, Inca literally beamed with pride as Mackenna hesitantly inspected the woman’s exposed derriere. Inca’s skin was stark, blinding white in contrast to her black clothing; and there, skillfully imbedded in the fish-belly white of Inca’s right butt cheek, Lily Tomlin’s face smiled up at Mackenna with that same smile of sheer joy that smiled down on all of Times Square. Was it her imagination, or did Mackenna detect a trace of humiliation in Lily’s smile? Or was that a grimace? It was so hard to tell in the dim light of backstage.

  “Yes… that is stunning,” Mackenna replied hesitantly. “You must be… uh… proud. I’m sure… um… Lily… would be… uh… proud as well…” Mackenna began to silently pray for someone to save her before the fanatic began to disrobe completely in order to share all of her tattoos—and whatever other surprises she might have.

  “You think so? Wow! Hey! You know what? I’m gonna go show her right now. I mean… I’m totally in love with her? Hey… just between me and you? I hear Lily…” Inca lowered her voice conspiratorially as her eyes darted in search of eavesdroppers as she continued, “…and you-know-who? Are having some troubles? It’s true! I’ve got a reliable source? Maybe she’ll see how much I love her? When she sees this? God, wouldn’t that be great? Me and Lily, lovers?”

  Mackenna was still trying to figure out who you-know-who could be when Inca’s last statement grabbed her attention. “What did you say? Did you say you and Lily—lovers?”

  “Yeah… sure… why not?” Inca became momentarily defiant, jutting her modest chest out, but then relaxed and careened back into her rambling chatter. “Hey! It can’t hurt… to show her? Do you think? Whaddya think? Think she’ll mind?”

  Visibly excited, she hopped from side to side, hindered somewhat by the pants around her ankles, from one foot to the other creating a cacophony of metal against metal less than a foot from in front of Mackenna.

  “No! She’ll love it… really. I’m sure of it,” Mackenna encouraged somewhat disingenuously.

  “Cool!”

  7.2

  Mackenna felt a hand on her right arm as a low, British-accented voice simultaneously interrupted the inane conversation between Mackenna and Inca. “Mackenna?”

  Startled, Mackenna automatically answered, “Yes?” as her head snapped to her right. She was surprised to find that the luscious voice that uttered her name and the hand that so intimately caressed her upper arm belonged to a stunning, though completely unfamiliar,
woman.

  “It is you!” The stranger exclaimed with a delicious accent that was sending chills through Mackenna, then briefly addressed Inca, “Sorry to interrupt your tête-à-tête,” before she turned her attention back to Mackenna. “I thought that was you, and I just had to come over and say hello. It’s been how long… well, never mind… it’s just terribly good to see you again.” The woman winked at Mackenna. “What have you been up to, my darling?”

  Dumbfounded, yet so relieved at the interruption, Mackenna could not find any words with which to respond; and instead, stood stock still with her best fake smile frozen in place, while her eyes darted from Inca to the mystery woman and back again to Inca.

  Inca swiftly yanked up her pants from her feet and began to fasten them. “Hey!” she said, temporarily interrupting the immediate connection between the two taller women. “You know what? Thanks! Hey… it’s been nice talkin’ to you? Maybe I’ll see you around sometime? Eh? Later!” With a jingle, a clank and a wave she was gone, disappearing into the throng with an uncanny John Wayne gait, fighting her way to the front of the crowd of admirers surrounding Lily and Jane to complete her mission. Mackenna decided Inca was off to woo her idol away from “you-know-who”—whoever that was—by showing Lily her naked, tattooed, butt. Her Lily-white butt? Mackenna wondered, slightly amused.

  Poor Lily, thought Mackenna as she watched Inca plow into the mob. She still wondered who the ‘you-know-who’ was that Inca had so oddly referred to and said out loud, “Fame is a scary thing,” and silently hoped she never achieved such a level of notoriety that would attract the Incas of the world.

  Mackenna’s attention then abruptly shifted to the woman standing beside her, and she was immediately overcome with goose-bumps. The mystery woman stood slightly taller than Mackenna and was dressed in what looked like a black silk designer pant suit—Ellen Tracy, perhaps, or Donna Karan—and under the beautifully tailored jacket, an off-white, low-cut silk shell gave evidence to ample cleavage that seemed to jump out, rather invitingly, at Mackenna.

  Despite the strange interlude with Inca, Mackenna found herself still heady from having been in the company of the literary greatness of Jane Wagner and Lily Tomlin, Jane’s equally talented muse and messenger. While she drank in the details of the woman next to her, however, Mackenna decided right then and there the sexy good Samaritan was, without a doubt, the crème de la crème of the evening. She was movie star gorgeous, slender and tall with shoulder-length ash-blonde hair. Soft waves of the silvery blonde gently framed her slightly tanned, angular face and tumbled loosely, yet perfectly, around her shoulders.

  “Hello. So sorry about that, but you looked like you needed a bit of a rescue.” Her voice was low and throaty… sensual… with just the barest hint of an indistinguishable British drawl. “My name is Deeerdrah,” the stranger said, drawing out her name in a way that caused Mackenna to catch her breath. She offered her hand to Mackenna. “Deirdre Collier-Gunn.”

  Mackenna almost mechanically stuck her hand out, struck by what she would later describe as Deirdre’s classic “cover girl glow” and the exquisitely tender manner with which Deirdre extended her hand to Mackenna’s upon introducing herself. British? Mackenna wondered. Hmmm… and what about that double-barreled name… married?

  Drawing Mackenna close to her body, Deirdre embraced Mackenna’s hand with both of hers and gazed directly into Mackenna’s vivid green eyes with her own, their soft hazelnut color practically hypnotizing Mackenna. “It’s such a pleasure and an honor to finally meet you, Mackenna,” she said in that luscious throaty voice, almost as if she were sharing a treasured, private thought. “I saw you from across the way and I just had to find out who you were… imagine my delight to discover you’re ‘the’ Mackenna Martín. Or should I say, Mary-Mackenna Martín? I know your old chums call you Em, but if you don’t mind, I prefer Mackenna. It’s so classy, don’t you think?”

  Her emphasis on Mackenna’s full name and the reference to her former nickname caused shivers to run from Mackenna’s heels to nape. “How did you know that… that that’s my…”

  Deirdre interrupted Mackenna, “Let’s just say I’m… mmm, well connected, shall we?” She laughed a deep, sensual laugh. “Actually,” she admitted, “I’ve had a chat with some friends of yours over there…” She waved in the direction of Francine who was huddled with a group of women. “But, those little vixens left out certain, shall we say, crucial details?” She smiled demurely at Mackenna. “So I’m left to assume you’re not married… either.”

  “Uh… no, I’m not.” Guess that answered that question. Mackenna smiled.

  “Well, that’s jolly good news.” Deirdre flashed her movie star smile. “I’m just so terribly sorry I couldn’t make my way over sooner—I could see you were a wee bit gobsmacked, even from across the way.”

  “Well, yes… I think,” Mackenna answered awkwardly, not entirely sure what gobsmacked was. “A bit, I guess.”

  “You know, darling, I’ve read your book and I think it’s really splendid… quite beautiful… you’re an extraordinarily talented woman, Mackenna. And,” she added, “I understand you’re having a play produced in town?” Deirdre’s eyes were practically devouring Mackenna.

  “Uh… yes. Yes I…”

  “Brilliant. You must be very proud and excited! You must tell me all about it… Will you be in town for very long?”

  “Um, uh… actually, yes… probably another week or two. I have a meeting with my editor next week… so, um… yes… I’ll… be here.” God, Mackenna thought, she was stammering. “For a week… or two… probably two.”

  “Smashing!” Deirdre exclaimed. “I’d love to take you out to dinner while you’re here talk to you about your work.” She gave Mackenna’s hand—moist with nervous perspiration—a firm, knowing squeeze. “And you… if you could make time for me, that is.”

  Gazing directly into Deirdre’s velvety eyes, Mackenna’s reply was semi-coherent and stuck somewhere between her groin and the sudden lump in her throat. She was shocked and stunned at Deirdre’s overwhelming affect on her, and after several years of off and on dating, was eventually seduced into a five-year romantic relationship.

  7.3

  A dance of mutual lust and attraction began between Mackenna and Deirdre that continued long into the evening and through to the next morning. Although Mackenna had no trouble remembering the details of her strange encounter with Inca, it was nearly impossible for her to recall the particulars of her fateful meeting with Deirdre. Deirdre referred to it as “Mackenna’s Blackout,” which became quite the amusing story, told by Deirdre at many dinner parties throughout their five-year relationship.

  Back on the West Coast and six months after their first encounter in New York, they were the item du jour in and out of the gossip mill, and it was through their relationship that Mackenna finally made it onto the exclusive and extremely underground Hollywood A-list. The Brentwood party was her first foray into the rumored underground, which unintentionally turned into her “coming out” debut.

  From the moment they arrived at the party, Mackenna marveled at the constitution of the guests: dozens of women, all appearing fit and trim, ranging from somewhat homely, to ordinary, to gorgeous, to handsome. Ranging in age from early twenties to seventies, they were short, medium and tall, with tans ranging from healthy pale glow to wrinkled leather and wearing every “in” designer from Calvin to Gucci to Polo and Pucci to Vanderbilt and Versace. Nearly each and every one of them was an important cog somewhere in the vast Hollywood wheel.

  In addition to actors of every stripe from the daytime soaps, nighttime dramas and sitcoms, as well as actual movie stars and television commercial divas, there were musicians of every discipline imaginable in attendance as well. Agents in every form and description were there, along with producers, directors, lawyers, writers and every title in-between rounding out the eclectic gathering. It was an amazing, eye-opening evening for Mackenna.

  Over the years she
had often heard whispers about the elusive A-List, but she never imagined the scope of it until that evening. Could all these women be lesbians? was the foremost question in her mind during the whole party. It was a turning point for her and her career with invaluable introductions made throughout the evening—not to mention the heaps of material she managed to gather for future fictional endeavors.

  Deirdre first introduced Mackenna to Riley Landau. Riley was Deirdre’s former lover, who also happened to be the writer-producer of the popular sitcoms Maisey ’n Me, Housesitter, It’s A Racket, and The Love of It. Riley was known as a heavy-hitter in the television industry. Looking for any excuse to escape from the clutches of Delores Braddock, the casting agent for The Braddock Agency, who was already drunk and putting the moves on her—again—Riley quickly dragged Mackenna across the room and introduced her to her friend Camille.

  A mere five-foot-four in three-inch heels, Camille Barton was a woman who left a striking impression. With another six or seven inches in height, she could easily have been a supermodel. On that night, however, she was merely a successful literary agent looking to branch out into the entertainment market. As always, she was on the prowl for the right property to catapult her into the thick of the business. Camille was a regular at the A-list parties and it showed—she was very, very good at it.

  When Mackenna and Riley approached Camille, she was practically dripping with attitude and literally posing for the room—everything about the woman was just so trés chic and she knew it. From the Beverly Hills salon hair, subtly colored with black and mahogany highlights and spiked a good four inches high, and held in place with at least a whole can of super-hold mousse; to the Rodeo Drive boutique ensemble that looked as if it could have been plucked right off a runway model, to the long and beautiful nails, sculptured and painted blood red to perfection, Camille was a sight to behold. And then, there was her face—absolutely flawless bone structure and perfectly made-up as if she were ready for a glamour magazine photography session.