Flavor of the Month

by Olivia Goldsmith

  Now she stared at the bank balance on the latest monthly statement. Two hundred and seventeen thousand six hundred and sixty-three dollars and forty-seven cents! It was unbelievable. And, Jahne knew, it was only a start. Even though the series hadn’t yet begun running on the Network, Sy Ortis had already forwarded her several new scripts for future consideration: they were lousy made-for-television quickies, but not one of them paid less than $250,000. A quarter of a million dollars for five weeks of work! She shook her head. With all of her New York scrambling, Mary Jane had never made more than thirty-five thousand in any year of her life.

  Ortis also wanted to talk to her about authorizing a line of leather goods, jeans, and wallpaper, of all things, along with Three for the Road dolls—sort of biker Barbies, as she understood the deal. All of it, tawdry and ridiculous as it was, meant a lot more money. And though she had no intention of doing any of this proposed crap, she understood that she had fallen—or climbed—into a money stream that wouldn’t stop flowing for some time. Look at Jaclyn Smith or Kate Jackson—since their first TV hit, they’d always had at least a TV-movie-of-the-week or a sitcom gig. Even Suzanne Somers and Farrah Fawcett at least had exercise-equipment ads to fall back on. What had Mary Jane ever had to fall back on but bedpans? And both nursing and New York acting had been hard work. This stuff was insultingly easy. And lucrative.

  It was all unreal to her: just as she had felt the unfairness of never being able to live off her craft in New York, she felt the unfairness of receiving the gigantic amounts of cash for very little craft here in L.A. Was it simply her looks that had entitled her to this enormous windfall? It was ironic that she had bought them for about 15 percent of her income so far. Not a bad return on investment, she thought, smiling to herself.

  Well, at least I’m not burdened by much financial guilt, she thought. After all those years of famine, she supposed she could deal with some years of fat, although not of the physical kind.

  But what must it be like for those actors who never went through the struggle she had? Those who hit it big, fast, and early. No wonder they so often drifted into drugs, excess, and bankruptcy. The guilt would be difficult, the burden of responsibility too unmanageable. Even she, with years of experience, stared at her bank balance now, feeling both helpless and exalted, and wondered what she would do with all the money.

  Of course, she could simply blow some of the money. She could finally afford nice clothes and had the body to wear them well. She could have another spending spree. But was that what she wanted to do? She probably would need to find a nicer place to live. But she didn’t want to buy a place out here, and she wouldn’t spend a lot on a rental. She stared again at the bank balance. Maybe she should give some to charity, or use some of it to help actors and playwrights? But how could she do that? I mean, you just don’t send a check in the mail to Molly and Chuck or the latest off-off Broadway writer.

  Well, she could send a check to Father Damien. His church had given shelter and an outlet to a lot of New York actors. And ten thousand dollars would mean a lot to him and almost nothing to her. She decided she’d do it. But should she give money to individuals? Endow the arts? As she continued to stare at the bank statement, she realized that, though she had suffered when she chose to live that way herself, she had chosen to live that way, and it made all the difference. As Mary Jane, she had never much felt that state-supported arts programs and private grants were good things. No, she wouldn’t become a philanthropist to culture. What she would do, she decided, was find herself a pleasant little bungalow in Birdland. The Hollywood Hills was an area where the streets were named for birds—Oriole Drive, Robin Lane—and, since a lot of gays had moved there it had another nickname, the Swish Alps. They had converted middle-class two-bedroom houses into chic, tiny shangri-las. She’d rent one, furnished. For her it would be total luxury. And let’s face it—things with her two roommates were getting tense. Although both girls spoke only of their pride and happiness for her, both had also already asked for loans and guest shots on the show. She felt that each one looked at her and asked herself. Why her and not me? She felt she was a constant goad to them, and she knew resentments would flare at any moment.

  She put down the bank statement. That was it, then. She’d get a nice place of her own. And she’d put some of the money into a money market—nice and safe. But what about the rest?

  Then she thought, unbidden, of what she could do, what she had to do.

  She remembered her own agony at her adolescent reflection back in Scuderstown. And she’d been normal, if unlovely. But all that was coming her way now was coming because she was beautiful. What must it be like, how deeply damaging, to be born deformed? It was unimaginable, yet tears sprang to Jahne’s eyes as she felt herself an imperfect infant in Lima, Peru, or a monster-faced toddler in Guatemala. Well, then, this was something she could do.

  She stood, walked to the desk, and pulled out writing paper. The burden of the money had lifted. She took out her checkbook, and scrawled a check for one hundred thousand dollars. “Dear Dr. Moore,” she wrote, and smiled as she added the dash and “Brewster.”

  I remember you once estimated that $20,000 was the cost for a mobile Interplast unit for a month. I enclose five units, which I hope gives, by my reasoning, about fifty kids their faces back. Try not to make them all look like me.

  Your grateful friend,

  Jahne Moore

  18

  Sharleen looked down at the light-green check in her hands and blinked. She had to be careful counting all these numbers. It was hard to imagine how much was hers. She looked up at Mr. Ortis. “Just for wearing some lipstick? What do I do with it?” she asked.

  “Put it in the bank.”

  “Which bank?” she asked.

  “Your bank,” Sy Ortis answered.

  Sharleen laughed. “Mr. Ortis, I don’t have no bank.”

  She and Dean had moved around so much, and they’d never had much money. Banks and schools and police stations—official places like that—made her nervous. She kept their money tucked in Momma’s Bible.

  She noticed Mr. Ortis lean back in his swivel chair, his eyes on her, then lean forward again and lift the phone.

  “Tell Lenny to come into my office.” He hung up and looked at her. “Honey, we’re going to fix you up. I got a guy who’s going to take care of everything—bills, investments, taxes—everything.”

  There was a polite knock at the door; then a tall, thin man with a serious face came in. He looked over at Sharleen, and his face didn’t move a muscle. Sharleen smiled anyway. “Sharleen, this is Lenny Farmer. I’m making him your business manager.” Sy looked up at Lenny and indicated the check in Sharleen’s hand. “Set up a business account for Ms. Smith and draw up the necessary papers. Get power of attorney. And have Anita give her a cash advance.” Sy turned to Sharleen and smiled. “So you can do some shopping for yourself today,” he explained. “And now that the money is coming in, we’ll find you a house, lease you a car, set up charge accounts at some of the better stores, arrange for credit cards. Whatever you need. You tell Lenny. You won’t have to give another thought to money. All you have to do is spend it.”

  It was a load off her mind. For a moment, Sharleen wondered if it was really okay to trust Lenny Farmer—or anyone—with all that money. But, after all, there would be more paychecks. More than she and Dean could spend!

  Sharleen walked out the door of Mr. Ortis’ office building and across the parking lot toward Dean, who waited patiently in their Datsun. The brown manila envelope that Anita, the bookkeeper, had given her felt heavy in her hand as she swung herself in next to Dean. Before speaking, she broke the seal on the envelope and looked inside. “My, my, my,” she murmured.

  “What’s the matter, Sharleen?” Dean asked. Sharleen had already explained to Dean how she was making a television show, just like Andy Griffith. She was never sure just how much Dean understood about what she told him. Of course, Sharleen was not understanding
much of this herself, she admitted.

  “What’s the matter?” Dean asked again.

  “Nothin’, honey. Not one dang thing.” Sharleen patted Dean on the shoulder and smiled. “I just got myself my first couple of paychecks, so let’s go shopping. It’s a lot of money, Dean. So what would you like more than anything else in the world?” She sat facing Dean, watching him search for an answer to her question.

  “I don’t know, Sharleen. I don’t want anything. I got you, and a car, and we got a real nice apartment now. And I ain’t hungry no more.” He paused. “I don’t know, Sharleen, I guess I don’t want nothin’.”

  Sharleen urged him on. “Sure you do. I know there’s something you’ve been wanting for a long time. Think, Dean.”

  Dean’s brow knitted in thought. “Well, I always wanted a dog. A puppy. You know, a Lab. Maybe like Dobe’s.”

  They had gotten a cat—a fat black stray that Dean had already named Oprah—but Sharleen wasn’t sure about a dog. Still, why not? “Well, let’s go then. What are you waiting for?” she asked, waving them forward with her hand.

  Dean’s eyes opened wide. “You mean it? We got that much money?”

  “Dean, since I started playin’ this part of Clover, we got more money than the richest man in Lamson.”

  Dean stepped on the gas and screeched out of the parking lot. “Wheeoo!” he screamed, as the sudden acceleration pulled them back into the bucket seats, the squeal of the tires quickly fading in the wind behind them.

  The pet shop was not unusual for Los Angeles, Sharleen realized. Everything in this city was the best. The salesman—dressed in a gray suit, a white coat like a doctor, sleeves rucked up to his elbows, shirt collar buttoned, no tie—came from behind the desk. “What may I show you today?” he asked.

  “We’d like to get a puppy,” Dean blurted out.

  “We’d like to see maybe a black Lab, if you got any.” Sharleen looked around the showroom as she spoke. Nothing in here except those pictures on the walls of dogs all brushed up. Bet they even smell pretty, she thought. “Where do you keep the dogs?” she asked.

  “You’re in luck. Our collection is usually shown by appointment, but since we had a last-minute cancellation, we can present several to choose from today.” He pushed a button on the desk telephone. “Lisa, please bring in the black Lab we were going to show Mary Tyler Moore.” He looked at Sharleen appraisingly. “And also the setter, and the golden retriever,” he added, sotto voce.

  Moments later, a young woman in another spotless white doctor’s coat opened the door and pushed in a cart holding a basket of three puppies. Good Lord, Sharleen thought as she noticed the huge blue satin bows on each of them.

  Dean hunkered down beside them. She watched him as he breathed carefully on the face of each puppy, closing his eyes as they licked at his mouth and cheeks. “Please, mister, take them bows off them. That ain’t natural,” he said. “Kin I touch them?” he asked.

  “Sure!”

  He dipped his hands into the basket. “Hey, Sharleen, look at these guys. They’re all beauts.” He looked up at her wordlessly. “I can’t choose one and leave the others.”

  “Oh, Lord,” Sharleen said to the salesman. “Why did you have to bring out all three?” She patted her purse crammed now with her mom’s Bible and the manila envelope of money. It felt good, reassuring, and Mr. Ortis had promised her another one, just as big, next week. She looked down at Dean, who had the setter on his lap and was holding the Lab, while the retriever was on the floor, pulling at his sleeve. Dean laughed. “We’ll take all of ’em,” she said, and took the manila envelope from her bag.

  “All of ’em, Sharleen? Can we? Really?”

  “Surely can. But what will we name ’em. Dean?” She looked at his face, so happy. It made her want to cry. Neither of them spoke about the pup their daddy had killed.

  “Can’t name her Oprah now,” Dean said, patting the black Lab. “But let’s name the blonde one Clover!”

  “That’s it. Dean,” Sharleen said, and began to laugh. “She’s Clover, the black one is Cara, and the red one is Crimson. Just like on the show!”

  Back in the car, Sharleen spoke over the yapping coming from the boxes in the back seat. “We got one more thing to do, Dean. Let’s go to the supermarket, get some puppy chow, and fill that fridge and freezer at home. What do you say?”

  The store was almost the size of the football fields they’d seen on TV. “Where do we begin?” Dean asked, bewildered.

  “With an empty basket,” she said. “Then we go up and down the rows and take anything—you hear me, Dean?—anything—we want from the shelves, as much as we want. Like that TV show where contestants have to fill their baskets in five minutes, and the one with the most wins? Let’s do it like that. I’ll take one and start at that end. You take the other and start here. I’ll meet you in the middle. Okay?”

  “Okay!”

  “Ready, set, GO!”

  Dean won. He was in the middle first, with the most. He had three baskets in tow. He even had stuff crammed under the baskets on the frame. “Sharleen, I never knew supermarkets could be so much fun. It was hard work, but let’s do it again.” He was puffing, trying to catch his breath.

  “Sure thing, honey. Tomorrow, if you like. But that’s not all yet. Now comes the real easy part. Paying for it.”

  19

  Hollywood has always been a town where PR rules, where even the slickest operators will sometimes buy not only their own PR but the PR of others. I—Laura Richie—certainly know it and benefit from it every day: invitations to parties, press junkets, gifts, and even the always-tempting “consulting assignment”—just a legal bribe to help in the successful launching of a bum movie or a new TV show. Most publicity is bought, one way or another.

  The strangest thing about the way Hollywood operates is perhaps the way PR (which everyone buys whenever they can) is so often believed by Industry suits and producers when it’s bought by someone else. Once there is buzz about a film or an actor, the buzz seems to take on a life of its own. It is sometimes strong enough to create a success. Is it because the suits have no judgment? Is it because everyone is always desperate for a success? To steal the mantra of Marty DiGennaro, go know.

  There was certainly the beginning of buzz about DiGennaro’s Three for the Road, or 3/4 as it was being called by the insiders. Of course there were a lot of angles: three fresh faces, the revival of the sixties, and, most important, DiGennaro’s debut on television. Twenty years in Hollywood had led me to believe that in this case the buzz was the real thing: not purchased PR but real excitement over something that could become the biggest hit of the season or any season. And that Lila Kyle, Sharleen Smith, and Jahne Moore were stars in the making.

  Making a TV show was hard work. Jahne thought she knew about hard, from her off-Broadway and repertory work, where she’d sometimes been her own wardrobe mistress, run lights, and even had to move scenery from time to time. But this weekly TV show had a killing pace that made off-Broadway look like a day at the beach.

  The weeks took on a pattern. She got her script only the night before taping began, read it, and began learning lines. The next day, she was on the set and in makeup by 6:00 A.M. Then Marty liked a run-through, and scenes were blocked, but there was almost no time for rehearsals. By the evening of the first day, a few scenes had actually been shot. She had to know her lines, make her marks exactly, know where the camera was: then, and only then, if she had any energy left, she could act. By seven each evening, she was wrung out, exhausted, and grateful for the limo and driver that got her home most nights by eight. Then she had a little (very little) something to eat, worked out, and fell into bed, only to start again the next morning. Each week, it went on for six days straight. On Sunday, she collapsed to rest, but Sunday evening she had to learn the new script. Try emoting after a couple of weeks of that schedule! Jahne had a new respect for the TV actors she and Molly and the gang at St. Malachy’s used to mock.


  She still saw Pete on the set, and he seemed to have become like all the other crew members: helpful and pleasant but standoffish. Well, she told herself, she couldn’t have it both ways: to use him for affection when she wanted it, and to keep him in the background all the rest of the time. She supposed it was just as well that they had split: she had no energy except what she marshaled for work. In the evenings, she lived like a nun, and if she was often bored and lonely on the set, his presence there would not have helped that.

  Then, one evening, she tuned in Entertainment Tonight. They were doing a segment on 3/4. But before it came on, they led off with a shot of Crystal Plenum and Sam Shields. She sat, paralyzed. Jack and Jill was on location. She sat, and watched them interviewed. She sat, and gaped as Crystal Plenum played Jill in a clip from the movie.

  And it was as if a vacuum opened up in her. A vacuum that sucked all she had gained right through her and left nothing: nothing but jealousy and emptiness.

  In the vacuum, dreams and memories of Sam continued to haunt her. He rejected you, she told herself. He lied to you. He broke promises. But though all that was true, he had been passionate, fascinating, intense. He had really listened to her, really looked at her, really known her. He’d been capable of producing art, of discussing acting, theater, films, and of making her laugh. When she had free moments—on the set, or at home—the thought of Sam’s laughter, their laughter and jokes, crept up on her. It robbed her of her concentration. It distracted her. But thoughts of Sam kept her company.