Flavor of the Month

by Olivia Goldsmith

  Go know.

  This was Marty’s mantra in show business. It was the punch line from an old borscht-belt joke. A guy goes to the doctor for a complete physical. After a thorough exam, the doctor, an old Jewish type with an accent, says, “Mister, you are in top condition for a man of your age. Lungs, heart, colon, all in great shape. You’re a lucky man, in peak physical condition. You could live another hundred years!” The guy thanks the doctor, gets dressed, walks out the door, and drops dead of a thrombosis on the doorstep. The doctor looks at the corpse, shrugs, and says, “Go know.”

  Go know.

  Hollywood marveled at Marty’s unbroken string of hits. They wondered what the secret was to his magic formula for picking them. Marty knew the secret.

  There was no magic formula.

  If bankers wanted to believe this wasn’t the biggest crapshoot on the face of the earth, let them. But Marty knew how dangerous a game it was. Still, no matter how dangerous, he was getting tired of it. He’d always been a thrill seeker, and putting out another movie, getting another Oscar nomination, or even winning one was beginning to pall. So he’d started gambling in Vegas. But that thrill had died, too.

  So then he’d thought of TV. The vast wasteland. The thing called a medium because everything on it was so very average or below. Yet watched. Watched and watched. What if he, single-handedly, could help one of the dying networks, the dinosaurs that were having the living shit kicked out of them by MTV, by cable, by home videos? He could be a hero to Les Merchant, but, more important, he could have autonomy and a vehicle that didn’t have to prove itself every fucking time it came out of the gate. He could take hours developing characters over seasons, instead of minutes in that precious 120. What if he put together something that had never been seen, never been done before?

  The idea had intrigued him, and when he ran across the remaindered copy of Three for the Road by that obscure woman Grace Weber from Jersey, he knew he had his stepping-off point. He’d bought it for a song, and now, for the first time in years, he was excited by a project. Excited and scared.

  He reminded himself that all he had to do was concentrate. He had the scripts, the cast, the crew. Still, he was frightened. Because, if he fell flat on his face, all the jealous bastards in town (and they were all jealous bastards in this town) would dance on his grave. But frightened felt alive; he was in the game.

  He reminded himself that he had everything he needed for another huge hit. And then he reminded himself of his mantra.

  Go know.

  Jahne and Pete arrived at the studio separately. He had been grateful for the job, and accepted her explanation that it was best to be discreet about their relationship because Marty seemed concerned.

  But was that really her reason? she wondered. With excitement and nerves churning her stomach, she knew that having Pete on the set was just an extra complication, one she wished she did not have to consider. Her relationship with him was BTN—better than nothing—but little more than that. He was a warm body in the dark, a generous sex partner, a nice kid, but no one who could ever know her.

  In a way, now. the relationship made her more lonely than if she had been alone. Because how could she explain how she felt? How could a young kid like Pete, honest and clean and simple, understand what she was going through? There was no way to explain it to him. To be honest, she could barely explain it to herself. There were so many feelings that swirled through her, minute by minute, that she couldn’t keep up.

  Right now, on the first day on the set, she knew what she felt. It was a single feeling, strong and deep, and it left a metallic taste at the back of her tongue.

  She had never been so frightened in her life.

  Sharleen stepped out of the trailer she had been assigned as her dressing room and placed her hand on the director’s chair that had her name stenciled across the back; her other hand held her mother’s small Bible. Until this moment, none of it had been real to her: the contract, the publicity-photo sessions, meeting all those important people. Not even the dressing room. But this was real. She tried to remember; no, she had never seen her full name printed out, except in her own handwriting. She wished Dean could see it, but she couldn’t have him come to the set. She’d have so much to tell him about tonight.

  “Miss Smith,” the man with the headphone said. “Mr. DiGennaro would like to see you at the cast meeting.”

  She realized she was being spoken to. “Oh, am I late?” she asked, jumping up.

  “No, Miss Smith. Miss Kyle hasn’t gotten here.”

  Sharleen walked gingerly across the floor, stepping over lighting cables and electrical tape, afraid to put her feet down for fear of upsetting something. There was a lot of bustling, and people with clipboards, and other people with headsets on, but they weren’t listening to Walkmen. Everything looked confusing to her, but she was sure it made sense to somebody.

  “Sharleen,” Mr. DiGennaro said, coming toward her. “I’m sorry we kept you waiting. I’d like to introduce you to everyone.”

  “Oh, that’s all right. I was just sittin’ back, like a hog on a barrel, looking around. It’s kind of like a circus I seen back home once. Everything happenin’ at once. ’Cept in the circus, at least they had a ringmaster keeping that organized.” She turned back to the chaos she had just passed through. “Does everyone know what they’s supposed to do?” she asked.

  Marty laughed. “Yes, that’s my job. I’m the director—a lot like a ringmaster—and I’d better know what everyone’s supposed to do, or I’m out on my ass. This is Ted Singleton, he’s in charge of special effects; that’s Dino, my right-hand man; and Bob Burton from Wardrobe; Jim Sperlman, lighting technician; the tubby one is my new AD, Barry Tilden; over that side, Charley Bradford, technical consultant from Harley-Davidson…”

  “Whee, Mr. DiGennaro, please! Give me a minute to catch my breath. I don’t know what any of them jobs is, so, if it’s okay with y’all. I’ll just try to memorize your names for now. Heck,” she said with a laugh, “I don’t even know what my job is yet, but I’m here to learn. I’m Sharleen,” she said to the group, and took a seat at the conference table. “Howdy.” She wondered why Lila and Jahne weren’t here yet. She had met them already, of course, but she was a little afraid of seeing them again today. They were really beautiful. Lord, she asked herself, how have I been picked to stand beside them? Sharleen looked around at the sea of faces and smiled. She was very pleased to see them all smile back. They’re all so nice over here in Hollywood, Sharleen thought. Much nicer than in Bakersfield.

  Jahne Moore didn’t have to be called to the opening meeting twice. She knew that today’s first impression was very important. It would set the tone with Marty, with the other two leads, and for how she would be treated by the crew for the duration of the show. Marty was already there, and, Jahne was sure, so were all the other departments, but the last people to arrive at these meetings were usually the stars. Costars, she corrected herself. Jahne wondered about Sharleen Smith and Lila Kyle. She hadn’t seen either of the girls since they had met at the publicity party that announced their signing. She had liked Sharleen, and knew instinctively that Sharleen was no threat. Lila, she was afraid, might be another story. But maybe I should wait and see, she told herself, before I form any opinions.

  The meeting was held on Soundstage 14. Marty DiGennaro met her halfway across the floor of the huge hangarlike space, took her by the arm, and escorted her to the table. “Sharleen, you’ve met Jahne Moore, your costar?” Then he introduced her to the rest of the crew, and Jahne made it a point to shake each one’s hand. She knew how much any production was a team effort. And how much she’d depend on them. She might be a costar, but if these people didn’t do their jobs right, no one looked good. Pete was there, sitting behind Jim Bert, head cameraman. He smiled at her, but was discreet enough not to do more.

  Jahne joined the group at the meeting. “Hi, Sharleen,” she said, sitting next to her. “How are you doing?”

&nbs
p; “Jahne,” Sharleen leaned to her and whispered, “how I’m doin’ ain’t the question. The question is, what am I doin’? And here? Don’t tell anyone, but I think I’m asleep and dreaming this.”

  Jahne laughed and touched Sharleen’s arm. Yes, she liked Sharleen. If she was sincere. Sincere or not, she was breathtakingly beautiful. She was to play Clover, the Texan, to Jahne’s Cara, a New Yorker. Jahne listened to Sharleen chattering comfortably away to a couple of the lighting guys, as if she’d known them all her life. I just hope she keeps that innocence, Jahne thought, then laughed to herself. Fat chance. This is Hollywood. The girl was going to need more than the little book she was clutching to protect herself. Especially with that body.

  Jahne looked over at the only empty chair at the table and saw who it was everyone was waiting for. Lila Kyle. She still hadn’t come out of her dressing room. Jahne had heard Lila arrive on the set, but where was she? It’s not as if there were costumes and makeup today. It was just a preliminary meeting, to get to know everybody. She saw Marty lean toward his assistant and whisper something to her. Clare nodded her head, stood up, and walked in the direction of the dressing rooms. Give me a break, Jahne thought. Lila isn’t playing “star,” is she? Not this soon? And not with Marty DiGennaro?

  More than anything, Jahne was a professional. In the past, someone might criticize her talent, her appearance, her interpretation of a role, but never her commitment to a project. She prided herself on always being on time, knowing her lines and her blocking, and believing that the director had the final word.

  The murmuring died down slightly, and Jahne looked toward the approaching figure. Lila Kyle was walking slowly across the set, through the taped-down cables and lighting apparatus, every movement choreographed, Jahne could tell. Lila wore tight black leather pants, black high-heeled boots, and a black leather jacket with zippers and enormous shoulders. The boots and the shoulder pads didn’t seem excessive on Lila’s six-foot frame. On the contrary, in a strange way, Jahne felt that Lila’s height and bone structure demanded them. And she was certainly in character for her role: Crimson, the runaway rich girl from San Francisco.

  Lila came to a stop at the end of the big table as Marty stood to greet her. Before he could make any introductions, she kissed him on the cheek and turned to the rest of the crowd. “Hello. I’m Lila Kyle,” she said, her voice resonant. She paused and took a beat. Jahne looked around. Every man had stood. Well, I’ll be damned, Jahne thought. Now, how did she get them to do that?

  Lila sat down, her mother’s favorite famous movie line echoing in her ears: “Don’t fuck with me, boys.” Okay, they got that straight, she thought, watching the men take their seats. It was one of the tricks she had learned from Theresa, coming to the sets with her when Lila was a child: how to make an entrance. Be the last to arrive. And let them know you’re a lady. It makes them drop their guard. And their jaws.

  Marty was introducing everyone at the table by name. Lila didn’t look around, just kept a small smile on her lips. She had met Sharleen and Jahne before, but hadn’t seen them in street clothes. Lila let her eyes fall on Jahne, who was sitting on one side of her, listening to Marty like he was God. She knew Jahne had real New York acting experience behind her, but, besides her looks, nothing else. And she was short—despite the boots she wasn’t more than five six or seven. The blonde didn’t even have acting experience. A waitress, for chrissakes, but definitely another beauty.

  I don’t have anything to worry about, Lila assured herself. Because while Marty insisted they were three costars, Lila intended there to be only one star, no matter what Marty DiGennaro said.

  Lila felt Sharleen’s hand on her arm, and turned, coolly, to look at her. “Those pants are beautiful. Where’d you get them?” Sharleen asked.

  “I had them made. They’re from Florence,” Lila said. It didn’t hurt to be a little friendly.

  “Maybe you’ll give me Florence’s phone number,” Sharleen said. “I’d like her to make me a pair, too.”

  Lila blinked, then forced a smile. This one’s too good to be true, she thought. Her eyes fell to the Bible on the table in front of Sharleen. Puh-leeze.

  “Florence, Italy,” she said, and Sharleen blushed. Lila looked around at the table. “What do you call three blondes sitting in a circle?” she asked. All the faces looked at hers expectantly. “A dope ring,” she told them, and was rewarded with a big laugh.

  Only Jahne Moore didn’t join in. She turned to Sharleen. “Florence, Italy, is a city that’s famous for its leather,” she explained to the blushing girl. “But most people pronounce it the Italian way: Firenze.”

  Well, fuck her, Lila thought.

  Marty DiGennaro sat back and looked around the table. The meeting was going very well, very well indeed. He smiled to himself. Everyone he talked to in the business tried to give him advice. The biggest problem he was going to have, they said, was trying to direct three gorgeous women who had never worked television before. There was no way, they said, he was going to be able to maintain the right balance that would keep them all happy. Now he chuckled. He wondered if they had said the same thing back in the thirties to George Cukor when he was filming The Women. If Cukor could direct Joan Crawford, Paulette Goddard, Rosalind Russell, and Majorie Main in the same film, for chrissakes, he knew he could direct these three.

  All of them were gorgeous, and all of them would look great on screen. But he also knew that one of them was born for the camera, not only because of her beauty, but also because of that certain way she looked back at it. Monroe had had it; she could look into a camera and into the eyes behind it, into the eyes staring back at her on the screen. She saw into the future and men’s souls at the same time. And didn’t seem aware of the gift.

  Marty looked at Lila now. She had the gift, but, unlike Monroe, she knew it. Which made her dangerous, and probably difficult to control. But oh so exciting.

  Cukor controlled his brood mares. Kept them in line, had them pulling as a team, but each stepping to her own beat at the same time. Like Clydesdales. And he had pulled off the coup of a lifetime. An all-female movie.

  And Marty would prove he could do it, too. After all, he was Marty DiGennaro, and this was only television.

  17

  After work, Jahne went home exhausted. Most nights, Pete called and asked to come over. Jahne hoped it wasn’t just snobbery that kept her from revealing their relationship, but, to be honest, there wasn’t much of a relationship. He was kind and cooperative. He made love to her and he held her close, and she needed that, but they shared very little else. Pete’s idea of conversation was to comment on the television shows that he always switched on for background noise. He was as comfortable as a warm bath, and about as stimulating. So different from Sam.

  She pulled her mind away from the subject. It was madness, an obsession with her. The fact was, she had slept with Pete for all the wrong reasons: out of boredom, loneliness, horniness, and need. She’d behaved the way men do, and now she had to make it right. Poor Pete would pay the price.

  When the phone rang, Jahne sighed. She knew it would be Pete. She hated to put him off another night.

  “Jahne?”

  “Uh-huh.” She tried not to sigh into the receiver.

  “Can I come over?”

  “I’m awfully tired, Pete.”

  “Me, too. Those tracking shots really take it outa ya. But I only want to see you for a minute. I think we have to talk.”

  It was such an unusual request from him that she agreed, and in less than ten minutes he was at her door. She moved to the sofa but, instead of following her lead, he continued standing, though he leaned against the wall. “Jahne, I’m no Einstein, but I think I got the picture. You don’t want to talk to me on the set, and I understood that. I’m grateful for the job, too. But my dad explained how it is. You’re going to be a big success with Three for the Road and you don’t need a techie hanging around your neck. You can date whoever you want now, and I can tell you
don’t want me.”

  Jahne stood there, silent. He was goodhearted and sexy and kind to her. How could she tell him that it wasn’t his job but his age that made him inappropriate? And how, in good conscience, could she string him along for her own convenience?

  For the first time it occurred to her that, in his inarticulate, young, California way, he loved her. It had been so long since anyone had that it was hard for her to consider it. But who, exactly, did he love? A reconstructed body? A beautifully designed face? Certainly he did not know who she was in any deeper way.

  “Maybe you’re right,” she said, and she let him go.

  Jahne had never thought much about money. Of course, she had never had much to think about, until after her grandmother’s death, and then all of that had been carefully earmarked for Dr. Moore, the hospital, and other expenses. She had worked in the theater, both for pay and for free, and had managed to eke out whatever else she required from nursing, when she had to.

  Back in New York, she’d always kept her expenses low: a rent-stabilized walk-up, Con Ed, the phone and answering service. She’d had a virtually empty savings account, a MasterCard she’d gotten when she’d opened her first account at Chemical Bank, but she’d never had binges on credit. She’d lived frugally, even marginally, and imagined it was fine, a part of la vie bohème. After all, she’d never known anything else.

  Now, for Jahne Moore, the money was rolling in in swells, each wave larger than the previous one. First the Flanders Cosmetics check had come. Jahne still felt uncomfortable about plugging a product, but she’d had to sign to get the part, though she’d only agreed to one year, not the three they wanted. And the money was glorious! She’d sent off what she owed to Dr. Moore, and, despite taxes, Sy’s agency and finder’s fees, and legal expenses, she’d had over ninety thousand left!

  Then, when Jahne got her first paycheck—almost fifty thousand dollars—and realized there would be another one in two weeks’ time, she was staggered. When she had signed the contract with Sy, she had seen that she was paid thirty-three thousand an episode, but somehow, in the excitement, she hadn’t had time really to focus on it. She’d just opened an account at California National and deposited it and the Flanders check. But as check after check came rolling in, she began to feel uneasy.