Flavor of the Month

by Olivia Goldsmith

  The young officer in the corner was staring at her, she realized. She ducked her head back down, but she knew he could still see her face.

  “Haven’t I seen you someplace before?” he asked. She kept her hand from shaking and filled the last cup with coffee, then tried quickly to clean up the spill she made.

  “You sure have, every time you been in here,” she joked.

  “No, I mean before, outside of here.”

  Sharleen felt her face go white, but dared herself to raise her eyes and look directly at him. Now she needed to spread a little grease to move him right along to another idea. “No, handsome, I don’t think so. I’d remember you.”

  The other man at the table whistled and one stomped his feet. She turned to go, but the cop reached over and held her round her wrist. “Yeah, I seen you before. You’re wanted by every police officer in the state.”

  Sharleen felt her hand turn cold. She tugged it away. “Me?” she said weakly. “I think you’re thinking of someone else.”

  “No, I’m not, honey, I’m thinking of you. All the time. And so are all the other cops in Bakersfield. We all want you.” The other two officers began to laugh.

  “He’s in love, honey,” the fat one told her. “Can’t you tell?”

  Sharleen let her breath out. “Well, then, fellas, that makes two of us. I’m in love with my husband,” she said, and walked through the swinging doors to the back.

  She leaned against the greasy wall inside the overheated kitchen. Carlos, the cook, looked up at her, raised his eyebrows, then looked away. She went to the sink, poured a glass of water, and drank it in a gulp. Get a hold of yourself, she thought. Forget about Lamson. It was already a long time ago and far away.

  She walked back through the swinging door, pushing her damp hair up off her neck, and picked up a napkin at the counter to wipe away the perspiration, unaware that her upraised arms lifted her breasts and pushed them invitingly forward. As she lowered her arms, she noticed a man at the end of the counter staring at her. Oh, Lord, no more today, she prayed. Why am I such a target for trouble? She sighed, dropped her eyes, picked up a menu, and walked toward him.

  She saw that he watched her as she approached. But he’s not like the other guys that come in here, she thought. This one was fifty, plain, with little eyes behind thick glasses, but he didn’t look used up the way most men his age did. Thinning hair combed straight back, deep, cultivated tan, a white linen jacket crumpled loosely over a gray silk T-shirt, white pants. He wasn’t a businessman, and he wasn’t a salesman. Sharleen couldn’t describe what the guy was, but she knew he was not your run-of-the-mill Bakersfield truck driver.

  “Menu?”

  “No thanks, I know what I want. Two scrambled eggs, no toast, no potatoes, sliced tomatoes on the side, black coffee.”

  “Sure,” she said, and began to walk back to the grill to give Carlos the order. But she’d already forgotten it. She turned back to the guy quickly and noticed his eyes still on her. “How did you say you wanted your eggs?” she asked. With a tremor, she heard Jake sigh from behind the register. Jesus, in your mercy, make me a better waitress, she prayed.

  When Sharleen had placed the food down before the new guy, she turned to filling the sugar pourers now that the diner had started to quiet down. The guy ate quickly and called out for more coffee. While she was pouring it, she noticed him reading the nameplate on her breast.

  “Sharleen,” he said. “Pretty name. You an actress, Sharleen?”

  Sharleen half-turned to him. She laughed. “Actress? Oh, no, not me. I’m just a waitress.” She put the coffeepot down on the counter and went on. “But I’ve worked in the rodeo once. Went all over the Southwest. That’s kinda like show business, isn’t it?”

  The guy laughed, but not unkindly. “Yes, I suppose it is. But I meant, have you ever acted on the stage?”

  She laughed again and turned back toward the kitchen. “Nope.”

  “Never made a commercial, been in a movie?”

  “Dream on.”

  “Never even had your picture in a magazine?”

  “Once some guy at the rodeo took my picture, but he never sent me one. I never done nothing like that.”

  “Would you like to, Sharleen?”

  Sharleen paused. She didn’t want Jake to get on her again about how she talked too much and didn’t pay enough attention to her job, but this guy was interesting. He was different. He talked different. Soft, like he was a money person. But best to be careful.

  “What are you doing in Bakersfield?” she asked him. “Out looking for actresses?”

  “As a matter of fact, I was, but I had car trouble. I’m waiting for a tow.” He turned, and she saw a white Mercedes convertible, one that Dean would give ten bucks just to touch, parked out in the dust. “But this must be your lucky day.”

  “Yeah?”

  “My name is Milton Glick, and I’m trying to cast actresses for a TV show. I think you might be right for a part. Interested?” He waited for it to sink in.

  He must think she was dumber than Dean. Next he’d tell her he’d make her rich. “How much does it pay?” she asked.

  Milton leaned back, but almost slipped off the stool. He seemed to be enjoying himself. “A lot,” he said. “More than you ever dreamed of.”

  Sharleen stepped closer to him. “What do I have to do to get this job?” she asked, her head tilted slightly to the side, her arms crossed over her chest.

  “Nothing,” he said, moving away from her, standing up to pay his bill. “All you have to do is come to this casting office next week and meet some people for an interview.” He continued placing bills down on the counter from his wallet. “No guarantees, but you really could get a part on a TV show.”

  He handed Sharleen his card and said, “This is for real, Sharleen. And there are no strings attached.”

  She accepted the engraved card and said, “Okay, Mr. Glick. If I decide I want to be a TV actress, I’ll give you a call.” She walked away quickly as Jake, frowning, started over to her.

  “Do it, Sharleen,” Glick said to her retreating back, “if you want to be very, very rich.”

  5

  Jahne moved out of the Star Drop Inn with Pete’s help. Not into his place, though. She’d found an apartment to share with two girls. It had been a tiring move, and after she and he got her new bed in place and made up, she fell into it gratefully. She slept—alone, for Pete had an early call the next morning—the sleep of the justly tired.

  The next morning Jahne opened her eyes, stared at the sunny, cracked blue ceiling, and smiled. Oh, yes. California. Her new place, off Melrose Avenue, to be precise. And the room in the apartment she was sharing with the two other actresses in the troupe.

  It had all been so easy, but it was so very odd: everyone’s birthright on the whole planet since time began was a face, a body, and a name. She had changed all three. In a way that could never have been done before. It was audacious, painful, risky. But it had already paid off.

  She smiled and stretched. Everything was different now. Not just her name and her face and her body, but everything. Each morning, she woke up with a smile on her pretty face. She jumped out of bed. Dressing was a pleasure. Everything, anything looked good on a beautiful girl who was five foot six and weighed 121 pounds. Jeans slid over her thin, long thighs. T-shirts clung to her perfectly rounded breasts. Looking in the mirror was a gas, but being looked at was even better.

  Men stared at her. Her every movement seemed to fascinate and delight them. She’d taken to tossing her head, arching her back in a stretch, all those bits of body language that she used to despise in other, pretty women.

  But it was irresistible now. It got such a reaction, how could she refrain from crossing her legs and pointing the toe, enhancing the leg line? Or just licking her now beautifully pouty lips? She knew how to play sexy. And she knew that now it played.

  She also knew that women watched her. Not so directly, but they watched her just the
same. Now she was actually in the contest, not just an observer. In fact, she might be a major contender, and they sized her up out of the corners of their eyes. Better hair, better nose, better breasts. She could feel their cataloguing, weighing, judging.

  Always before, the Bethanies of the world had simply written her off, choosing to ignore her or befriend her, but in either case the choice was a condescension. Jahne didn’t mind if now some of the women hated her for no reason other than the potent one of her appearance. She felt it was an honor, an acknowledgment, and she’d live with it.

  Because, for a woman, being beautiful—a real knockout, which she was—opened more doors than Aladdin’s lamp or a trust fund the size of Onassis’. Look at poor Christina, for chrissakes. Killed by her homeliness and her father’s and the world’s view of it. Too bad she hadn’t met Dr. Moore.

  Best of all, the audition Pete’s sister had gotten her had been worth the trouble. It was a bit dicey, she knew, to bother with stage acting here in L.A., where the camera was king. But the Melrose Playhouse in West Hollywood was hip enough to have an audience that included agents, casting directors, and even a few producers and directors. And what could be better for her, a stage actress, than a Hollywood debut on stage? It wasn’t as if anything else had come her way.

  And she’d easily gotten the part. It was the lead in a revamped version of A Doll’s House. The characters had been updated to a successful Hollywood producer and his dependent starlet wife. Oddly enough, Ibsen’s old themes of male domination and female dependency still worked. Sad, really.

  The irony was that she, a woman who had never had the luxury of depending on a man, would get to play Nora. Well, it was a part to kill for, and she was delighted that she had snagged it, even if it only paid $175 bucks a week. Less than New York unemployment. But if she was lucky, it could bring her to the attention of people who mattered.

  Jahne stood, throwing off the crumpled sheet. She slept in a long, shapeless white cotton nightgown, and had a cheap white terry robe that she used as a bath towel as well. The one thing she was having trouble adjusting to was the scars, and she intended neither to expose them nor to look at them much herself. In the shower, she simply faced into the spray, and the rest of the time she kept clothed. She continued putting on the vitamin E and was grateful that she’d never developed keloids. But even now the scars itched. Sometimes she felt they must glow in the dark. She always kept the lights off with Pete, and if she ever wanted to sleep with another man, she’d figure out how to cross that bridge when she got to it But it didn’t seem likely. Because right now she was, despite her thirty-six years, behaving like an adolescent. She liked the game far more than the scoring.

  Hector, the artistic director of the playhouse, was gay, thank God, and not the slightest bit interested in her except professionally. But he appreciated her, and not just her looks. She’d been cast after her first audition. Hector was not a genius, and listening to his lame stage direction was painful—it made her miss Sam.

  Well, to be honest, everything made her miss Sam. That was the only other fly in the ointment: the memories, the things they had done together, came back, replaying like an endless loop in her head. Weirder than that, now that she was here in California, where he was, new things made her miss him. She shook her head. Here is an orange tree. I’m standing under it, and I could pick one right off that branch. Maybe, right now, Sam is standing under an orange tree. Those were the stupid kind of thoughts that ran through her mind continually. She had to laugh at herself. Yeah, and I hope an orange the weight of a cannonball falls on his head. But she did miss him, and the idea that they’d never stand under an orange tree together brought tears to her eyes.

  “God, I am an incorrigible masochist,” she said aloud.

  The thought that plagued her most was…Well, she hated to think about it. If she’d looked then as she did now, would Sam have left her? If he wouldn’t have, does that mean that he’d still love her? Or, since he left her, did it mean that he never had? What would he think of her looks now? Was her beauty enough to keep him from wandering, to keep him forever satisfied? Would he even know her?

  Oh, it was ridiculous to think about! Yet the thought kept coming back. And behind it another, even more insidious one: When people liked her now, when Pete pulled her to him, when other men smiled, and women submitted to her beauty, did they want Mary Jane Moran or Jahne Moore? If the world hadn’t liked her before, should she like it back when it responded now? She groaned, and pushed the thoughts from her mind. She’d gotten exactly what she wanted, but she still knew how to make herself miserable!

  She finished dressing and, now clothed, looked in the mirror. Her new looks stared back at her—long, lithe, perfect. She was smart enough to know that she didn’t know how to dress—after all, when had she the time, money, or motivation to learn?—so she kept it simple. Her wardrobe consisted of three pairs of long-legged, slim-cut Levi’s and a few white shirts, a couple of turtle-necks, and a great hot-pink cashmere sweater. It and her boots had been her only splurge. She’d bought the softest, most supple pair of brown, tall leather boots, with three-inch heels. When she slipped those on, she got the perfect height and tilt. She buckled a brown leather belt around her waist and was ready for makeup. Not that she really needed it. But she wore it, always, because looking her best was part of her role, and she was always onstage. She was playing the part of a beautiful young girl, and she never stepped out of character.

  Only at night, after she made love with Pete and lay quietly in his arms, could she, just before she fell asleep, relax. Their lovemaking was athletic. Pete lacked the subtleties of an older, more experienced lover. He rammed himself into her, and didn’t really seem aware of what a woman needed. But he made up for his gaucherie with his enthusiasm. After the first orgasm, he’d get hard again quickly, and then he gave her all the time she needed. She rode him to exhaustion. There, in the dark, with his delicious young body beside hers, she could wonder at who she was, and where unhappy Mary Jane had gone.

  In the daylight, she had no time for that. She’d developed a simple, easy-to-apply face, as well as theater makeup and some more extreme maquillage for evenings or events. Not that she had anyplace to go. She found the crowd at the playhouse both dull and clannish. But, after all, they were all fifteen years younger than she; though she looked the same, she was not what she appeared. She watched the pretty girls date the wrong guys, do the wrong things, set the wrong goals.

  She knew now what she’d needed to know then. She could see through the bullshit the way a thirty-six-year-old in sheep’s clothing could.

  6

  Sam looked up from the storyboards that were splayed across his desk. It was dark. The L.A. twilight had quickly turned an inky, smoggy mauve. His light was probably the only one on in the long, low building.

  Seymore LeVine, one of April’s flunkies, had given him this production office and Rita, his secretary. While he worked on the picture, this little bit of Hollywood real estate was his. He looked around at the low ceiling, the whitewashed wooden walls. Once this had been the Writers’ Wing at International Studios, back in the days when dozens of writers had been employed turning out three films a week. Who had worked here? Benchley? Agee? Had Bill Faulkner dropped by for a sip of bourbon and branch? What had been written in this room, and, more to the point, would he ever write anything here?

  Sam shook his head, trying to concentrate. Only halfway into production of his first film, and he was already worried about his next job. That way madness lies, Sam told himself, but he couldn’t help but worry. He had already pitched two of his plays to April, and she had passed on both of them. Sam could see what happened to a director and a producer here at the studio after their job was through: they gave up their offices, the parking spots with their names stenciled on, they packed up their tents and moved on.

  But Sam didn’t want to move on. In the almost two years he had spent getting Jack and Jill through development hell and
into production, he had come to want to be a part of this town. And what was there to go back to? The thought of New York, its coldness, its grayness, chilled him. The pretensions of the troupe, his little off-off-Broadway productions. Could he settle down to that very small life, writing alone in a dark room for hours every day? What would he write about? The story of a neophyte in Hollywood, in over his head?

  Sam Shields knew he was in over his head. Even though he finally had the screenplay for Jack and Jill under control, and even though he was doing the best he could to learn the technical part of movie producing, he was. And it wasn’t just the film. Women were driving him crazy, and he wasn’t coping well.

  The fact was that he was more than scared. He was terrified. Since they’d begun principal photography on Jack and Jill, there hadn’t been a night when he could sleep without waking up at three-fifteen, in the morning darkness, fear gripping his belly. He had been running over budget and behind schedule almost since the first week, and April had twice come down on him fast and hard.

  Her first angry phone call had shocked him. After all, they had been, briefly, lovers. But then he had started sleeping with Crystal, during the first week of rehearsals. When April called, he expected a scene over that, not the budget.

  “What the fuck do you think you’re doing?” April’s voice had asked coldly. Sam was ready with his excuses: he and April had no commitment; this new affair had simply happened, a chemical thing between him and the actress; he was wrong and he would apologize. April Irons was not a woman to offend. In fact, Sam could admit to himself that he was afraid of her.

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to hurt you, April. This thing just happened.” It sounded lame, even to him. He’d have to try harder, to…

  “What the fuck are you talking about?” she demanded.

  Was it possible she didn’t know about the affair? Sam was not that naïve. Everyone on the set except Crystal’s husband knew, and April never missed a trick. And if she had missed this, Seymore LeVine would be sure to fill her in. Seymore was officially associate producer, but “corporate snitch” would be a more accurate title. His father was chairman of International, and April’s boss. April had to know about him and Crystal. Wasn’t that what this call was about? But perhaps she wanted a confession. Some women were like that.