Glamourpuss

by Christian McLaughlin

​Nori was soon captivating her end of the table — they were touching her shoulders, shaking their heads at each other, open-mouthed with glee. My closest neighbors were an elderly woman studying her program and a young black matron engaged in heated conversation with the girl next to her about the civil service exam. Since everyone was ignoring me, I started looking around the banquet room, hoping to establish sarcastic eye-contact with Phalita or Allison. Whoa — Babs Flanagan was holding her iced tea below table level and pouring an unidentifiable liquid into it from a little silver flask she promptly deposited in her purse. This was almost as good as Megan DuBois whipping out a gold-lame Versace bib and tying it around her porcelain neck without the slightest twinge of irony.

  ​But were there any hot guys here who weren’t part of the cast? There we go — at the Megan/Reggie Van Wyck table, in the Jurassic Park baseball cap. So what if he had his arm around his fluffy blonde fiancee? He was like a slightly WASPier Robert Beltran from Eating Raoul. He was looking at me. He’d caught me staring at him. How humiliating. I smiled and nodded my head as non-predatorily as possible. A neutral elevation of the eyebrows, then he whispered something to Fiancee/Girlfriend/Whatever. I pretended to be looking past them to the next table but saw her check me out then whisper something back to him and giggle. I caught her eye and waved. Christ.

  ​Waiters served a pale, flaccid salad garnished with inferior, bleachy-tasting cherry tomatoes. I rescued a green pepper slice from a pool of house dressing and felt a tap on my arm. It was the old lady. “Excuse me,” she said, “but will Anna Ford and Brent Bingham be here later?”

  ​“I don’t think so,” I told her.

  ​“Oh,” she said. “You’re the one that put my little Cyrinda in the hospital. The fruity one.”

  ​I looked at her, amazement canceling out offense. These people ultimately paid my salary. Maybe she didn’t know I was fruity in real life — granted, the intertextuality of it all was rather sophisticated. “I like you. You’re a talent. Give me an autograph, will you please?” She handed over her program and Holiday Inn souvenir pen.

  ​“Sure,” I said, signing it to Vonda, per her name tag.

  ​“You’re a good bad guy,” she continued. “Remember that one on Young & The Restless… Shawn? He buried Lauren Fenmore alive.”

  ​“I missed that…” I stupidly began, resulting in a full recounting of the mid-Eighties storyline in question by Vonda during the entree, a classically uninteresting piece of hotel cuisine involving chicken a la king in some sort of pie-crust dumpling contraption. After coffee and green Jell-O (I swear) with Cool Whip, the fans started to fidget and Naylene adjourned everyone to the lobby and adjacent patio area for “mingling and autographs.”

  ​Allie and I gravitated toward each other as the majority of fans thronged around Megan, Phalita and Cary Rietta. “I never want to do this again,” she said in my ear. “These people are wackos. They sit and grill me about episodes I don’t even remember taping. You know how they all blend together. And then they want nasty gossip about the other stars. It’s just like being at my biological mother’s.”

  ​“You better get really busy doing something before that lady comes back,” Ivan advised her.

  ​“What lady?” I asked.

  ​“The one who wanted to read our palms,” he said, scuttling off to the men’s room.

  ​“How was your little weekend getaway?” I wanted to know.

  ​“He read the whole time. A book. It’s my own fault. I bought it for him. Let’s sit down.” She pulled me onto a round sofa with bonsai trees planted in the middle and we stayed there while she chatted with a limitless supply of adoring viewers and cracked me up by using expressions like “God bless you” and kissing everybody on the cheek.

  ​I wasn’t entirely forsaken. A couple of tawdry record company receptionist-types asked me to take pictures with them, and I had to spend several minutes convincing roly-poly look-alike marrieds that I’d never been on Guiding Light… under any hair color. For the most part, though, I stood around, neglected. I decided the reasons were, in order: 1) Villainous character off-putting; 2) Eclipsed by more stellar castmates; 3) Homosexual character off-putting; 4) Actor’s homosexuality off-putting. I spun a resentful glance toward Rutherford’s recurring secretary, who actually had a line queued up to pay tribute. The only thing worse than being harassed and picked over by gibbering, starstruck couch-potatoes was being ignored by them. And I didn’t even have a boyfriend to go home and commiserate with. I wandered over to the bar and ordered my seventh seltzer of the afternoon.

  ​I never really believed that crap about knowing someone was watching you. It was a device from early Eighties slasher movies with Jamie Lee Curtis. Besides, my own voyeuristic experience with the always-naked rowing team member in the next apartment building the first two months of my junior year had proven it false in utterly rewarding fashion. Still, he’d ultimately installed window shades… and standing by a huge potted plant, wondering if I could possibly evade both Linda Rabiner and the dreaded Naylene while making an early getaway, I felt a paranormal creepy sensation I traced directly back to a dark thin guy at the other side of the bar.

  ​He was all in black — hair, van dyke, button-down shirt, jeans, Doc Martens — and if this were What’s My Line? I’d guess “arsonist.” Or Melrose retail clerk. He was maybe 30, holding a manila envelope. He was also coming toward me with too-quick strides, causing him to have to stop abruptly, as if encountering a force field, to avoid smacking into me. “Alexander,” he said. His eyes were so dark they almost seemed pupilless. The heavy patchouli smell reminded me of the pasty misfits in my film classes at UT.

  ​“That’s me,” I said, stepping back into the foliage like a dumb-ass. He continued to stare at me. His lips parted and his tongue flicked out to moisten them. “Do I know you?” I finally asked.

  ​He nodded. He had some kind of silver talisman in his left earlobe, but I was getting too agitated to take a closer look. “I’m Astaroth,” he said.

  ​Astor Roth? The only Roth I knew was the cinematographer who’d lensed my second movie, a straight-to-video Roger Corman phone-sex comedy. I shook my head. “I’m sorry. I really don’t remember…” These people killed me. You say hello to them once because they’re visiting the studio or you bumped into them at Book Soup and they expect you to retain names.

  ​“Ray Lanville,” he muttered intensely, placing a long olive-skinned hand inappropriately on my forearm. “You’ve been writing to me. You signed my movie poster. Raymond Lanville, from Eagle Rock. Astaroth.”

  ​Oh, God, that nut. The one with the nipple-ring and witchcraft poetry and big “endowment.” I slid my arm out of his grasp under the pretext of shaking his hand. “Oh, hi. Nice to meet you. I’m glad you found me, ‘cause I’m just about to leave,” I smiled, setting the stage for an immediate exit while involuntarily scanning Raymond’s narrow chest for protruding jewelry.

  ​“I’ve got something for you,” he told me. Yeah, I bet. He handed me the manila envelope. “I think you should open it upstairs.”

  ​“Huh? What’re you talking about?” In the corner of my eye, I saw Allie and Ivan talking to Phalita as they all headed this way. Thank Christ.

  ​“I reserved a room for us here. Come. Let me show you.” He was practically on top of me. I felt his breath on my ear and recoiled.

  ​“Look, Ray… this isn’t really the time for that. Isn’t there anyone else from the show you’d like to meet? Why don’t we circulate a little and, uh…” You can find a toilet cubicle and beat off a few times, horndog. “I’ll see you again later.”

  ​“Yes, Alex. You will.”

  ​He gave me one last Charlie Manson stare and was gone. Literally. I got tapped on the shoulder and turned to find Allie standing beside me. “Who the hell was that? And where’d he go?” I glanced around to see. He’d vanished. I untensed.

  ​“I can’t believe I never told you about him,” I said. “He’s like a war
lock… from Eagle Rock, who’s sexually obsessed with me. Let’s see what this is.” I slit open the envelope with a fingernail (Hardest part of being a TV star? Not biting them) and pulled out a pen-and-ink sketch of me, naked and apparently suspended in space, getting fucked by a winged creature that — surprise — bore an uncanny resemblance to Raymond Lanville, or Astaroth, as he’d signed this particular original.

  ​Allison took it from me and regarded it gravely, shaking her head. “You’re enabling this,” she said, mock-stern.

  ​Ivan appeared, casting a critical eye on the depraved drawing. “Not bad,” was his professional opinion.

  ​“Shame he didn’t leave a business card,” Allie remarked, smacking him. “You could make him your apprentice.”

  ​“If you’re interested, I have his address,” I teased Ivan.

  ​He continued to peer at it. “Astaroth?”

  ​“That’s his underworld name, I guess,” I said. Allison thought it sounded familiar.

  ​“Yeah… it’s the wizard in Bedknobs & Broomsticks,” Ivan informed us.

  ​“Hey, you’re right! That was my favorite coloring book in nursery school,” I confessed.

  ​Allie gave the picture a final once-over. “I guess a Disney warlock is the best kind to have stalking you,” she said, passing the sketch to Phalita, who’d just grabbed a Diet Coke.

  “He sent me a charcoal rubbing of his penis a couple months ago,” I told them.

  ​“Ooooh, honey. When I was doing the Dreamgirls national tour, this crazy dude from Cincinnati left me two dozen roses backstage, along with a full-color, blown-up, buck-naked self-portrait with his phone number written across his face,” Phalita recalled, oblivious to the permed chubbette fan in smoked bifocals standing a few feet from us, transfixed, her snake-print autograph book dangling from one charm-braceleted paw. “Well, next weekend we were in Dayton, and he sneaks his obstreperous ass into the hotel laundry and steals my bra and panties.”

  ​“How’d you know it was him?” asked Allie.

  ​“‘Cause the next day I get another two dozen roses, this time with a nasty new picture of him — wearing a real cheap wig and my goddamn lingerie! Baby, I was fit to be tied. Mick Jagger gave me that bra. Obviously he wanted to do my part in the show more than he wanted to do me… which is all kinds of tacky. Don’t be shy, sweetie-pie — hand that li’l ole book over,” she purred to Bifocals. Phalita of course had her own autograph pen uncapped and ready for action. What a pro!

  ​A short time later I was heading south on the 101, disturbed by the whole afternoon. Most soap fans disturbed me, and not just the certifiables like Astaroth. They shattered any drama school pretensions I might’ve entertained about how an acting career meant connecting on a higher level of emotion or consciousness with one’s audience. My audience moved their lips while reading Harlequin Temptations. They saw no reason to argue with a Bible that forbade homosexuality. They volunteered their names and addresses on Sally Jessy Raphael’s voicemail when the upcoming topic was “Spouses Who Won’t Shut Up.” They thought Dino & Muffin was “cute.”

  ​Being a professional actor was about making enough money at it to not have to wait tables or sell health club memberships or kiss ass in customer-service hell at the Beverly Center. It had about as much to do with artistry as grocery checking, and was way less reliable.

  ​Ray Lanville disturbed me for different reasons, like the fact that he reinforced the stereotype that all gays were perverts who’d have sex with a stranger at the drop of a Boy London cap. Moreover, it was depressing that out of all the eligible bachelors in the area who might’ve had a peripheral interest in Hearts Crossing, Raymond was the only one who'd made an effort to meet me today.

  ​And the freeway had slowed to a fucking crawl. On Saturday afternoon. I’d been compulsively checking the rearview mirror for weeks since seeing a news expose about criminals who bump up behind you in traffic, then carjack you when you pull over to investigate possible fender damage. No matter how rich I became, I’d never drive any car in L.A. flashier than my current Honda. I made a mental note to order the darkest window-tint allowable by law on Monday morning, then spared myself further torture by taking the next exit, which happened to be adjacent to a Gelsons supermarket. Out of seltzer and toilet paper, I stopped for a quick jaunt through the 12-items-or-less lane.

  ​I kept my sunglasses on to skipper my cart through the upscale aisles, enjoying the impulsive, list-free shopping afforded by my generous paycheck. I’d paused, trying to decide at what point certain brands of granola bars insidiously cross over to full-blown candy status, when a cart clattered into mine, displacing two bottles of grapefruit-flavored zero-calorie sparkling water, which somersaulted out of the child-passenger compartment onto a bed of dry pasta at the bottom of my cart. I reflexively slipped off the shades and found myself face-to-face with a freckled girl with a haphazardly barretted cascade of brown ringlets wearing a one-piece leopard-print swimsuit and hot-pink jams. “Ohmigod!” she screamed. “Simon! I can’t believe this — holy God almighty! Mom, get over here! Oh God, hurry! I’m sorry — you must think I’m outta my mind,” she said to me, extending her hand over two lengths of shopping cart. I shook it, inwardly thrilled at this relatively wholesome ego-boost.

  ​“Hi, I’m Alex,” I said.

  ​She turned around and hollered, “Mom, it’s Alex Young from Hearts!”

  ​“For crying out loud, Tina. I know who he is.” A Linda Evans-type Valley mom had joined us. “We just love you. You’re a wonderful villain. I hope they keep you on forever.”

  ​“I cannot effin’ believe you’re shopping in this store,” Tina panted. “Do you live around here?”

  ​“No,” I quickly clarified. “Just driving by.”

  ​A Mexican-American woman with a tarted-up infant girl in a carseat strapped to her cart slowed to a stop and asked Tina’s mother, “Isn’t that the soap opera guy? Simon?”

  ​Mom nodded, beaming, then continued to ferociously butter me up. “You’re so wicked on TV it gives me the shakes sometimes, it really does. Lord, Tina, remember when he attacked Natalie and drowned her in the fountain?”

  ​“That was only a dream, Mom.”

  ​“I know it was a dream, dear… but the suspense — it was shocking!”

  ​“Oh, please, sir, can I get an autograph?” The Mexican lady had removed a marker from her purse and now thrust it at me. “Just sign this!” She handed me a box of Kix. “My girlfriends, they will be so jealous!”

  ​By now we were attracting quite a crowd. Two minutes later I was fielding questions from an all-girl traffic jam of shoppers I would’ve thought much too jaded to give a soap star a second look. But no, they wanted to ask me how they could get “tickets” to the show and didn't I see a future for Sean and Cyrinda and say they knew how hard it must be to play the bad guy and that the gay storyline was just so creative and different and sexy and was it true Brent Bingham had quit the show and we were using a lookalike?

  ​An assistant manager forced his way through to my side and asked if I was okay. I said everything was cool. “Because sometimes these situations can get ugly,” he told me confidentially as I signed the back of a woman’s checkbook. “Just a couple weeks ago that retarded kid from Get A Life came in for a bag of ice and we had to escort him out the back. Real mob scene.”

  ​Amused and mildly curious if he meant Chris Elliott or Chris Burke (from Life Goes On) — just not enough to ask — I said, “I’m going to be heading out in just a minute, but thanks.” A real mensch he could add to his figurative Rolodex of chummy celeb customers… if he cared enough to find out who I was. But before I could gently break up my own private little HC event, I observed something strange at the end of the aisle, by the dairy case. Was that…? A fan moved directly into my sightline, so I pulled Tina closer and said, “Can you do me a favor? Just check the end of this aisle and tell me if you see a thin guy dressed all in black hanging around? He’s this wei
rdo who’s been following me today.”

  ​“Sure, Alex!” she gurgled, zipping away, leaving me feeling pretty pompous and paranoid. I started to extricate myself — yes, in the opposite direction of where I could’ve sworn I’d seen Ray Lanville lurking.

  ​An older woman put a gnarled hand on my upper arm, saucily squeezing my biceps as she asked if she could have a kiss. I obliged, practically tasting the potion of face powder, Aspercreme and Avon sachet on her disarmingly over-rouged cheek. Tina was back. “I couldn’t see anybody who looked like what you said,” she reported. “And I checked three aisles over, both ways.”

  ​“Thanks,” I said, clapping her on the back. “And thanks to everyone for watching the show. It was great meeting you all,” I added truthfully. I gracefully resumed my shopping as the little knot stayed put, buzzing about Hearts Crossing and how un-loathsome I really was. They seriously ought to hold the next Fan Club Gala at a grocery store, I reflected. Maybe that huge Ralph’s at 3rd and LaBrea. Think of the money they’d save on a hotel rental. We could all just eat those self-serve bags of yogurt-covered raisins that were always conveniently consumed before they could be scanned and paid for. I’d have to send a memo to Naylene.

  ​In the express lane, I ran into Tina and her mother again. “We’re the only ones who didn’t get your autograph,” Mom mock-pouted.

  ​“So we bought these,” Tina said, displaying copies of every soap rag currently on sale that mentioned me. I dutifully inscribed all six issues after requesting paper not plastic.

  ​The one space in front of my apartment house was occupied by a Vespa so I had to park in my carport unit in back and make three trips upstairs with my dry cleaning, gym bag, a Book Soup haul from the night before and the grocery bags, the heaviest of which I used to prop open the front door and then forgot until I’d put away the frozen lobster mac and cheese and Ben & Jerry’s. I went down and got it, and when I came back Ray Lanville said, “Hi, Alex.”

  ​He was standing in the center of my living room. I dropped the bag of sparkling water but caught it before it hit the parquet. “What are you doing here? How did you…” But of course it was obvious how. And as for the what… flashes of Rebecca Schaeffer from the Hollywood Atrocity File went off in my head like crimson-tinted video-bombs.