Survivanoia

by Baroness Von Smith

  Her own retort surprised her. “Ex-wife. Please get your facts straight, sir, if you’re going to heckle people.”

  “You’re a cock-sucking bitch!”

  She blinked at him, then snapped her fingers. “Which is precisely how I got into porn!”

  The audience let out a wave a laughter. It rolled through the club and broke against the stage and Vonnie suddenly understood why TJ liked being up there.

  “Speaking of Bag of Chips,” the enunciation earned some giggles, “do people think that’s his real name? Like, on his birth certificate?” Louder giggles. Roll with it. “Like his mother, after sixteen hours of hard sweaty labor, looked down at this squirming bundle of life in her arms and said, ‘Bag of Chips! That’s my boy! Welcome to the world, Bag!’ ”

  Solid laughter, but shorter than I’d hoped. “His real name, all right? His actual name name,” it’s all about delivery. She paused, put a finger to her lips. Then glanced at the audience. “Well it isn’t any better, really.” More solid laughter, yeah it’s all about delivery. “It’s Thaddeus Jude.” A lot of scoffing, punch it up. “That’s a great name. For a monk! Or even a pro golfer. But for an angry, hardcore rapper? Not so much, huh?” Again that wave. Ride it.

  “That’s such a lie anyway, his whole urban image. He sings about being from the projects? He’s from New Jersey, all right? The Garden State? How about the Boondocks State? The projects, that’s rich. The Blair Witch Projects, maybe! Baby, you’re from Newark. Yo?”

  Another amazing wave of delight. A few more jokes and then a small red light beside the spot and suddenly the MC stood next to her, looking pleasantly surprised. “I’d say Vonnie definitely needs to come back! Let’s give it up for Vonnie Upchurch, ladies and gentlemen!” And they did.

  She fumbled her way back to the table where Chloe squeezed her nearly to death. “Ohmigod that was amazing!”

  “I need a drink!”

  “I figured you would,” Chloe pointed at the pale green concoction in a martini glass, of which Vonnie promptly swallowed half.

  “Was it cathartic?” Chloe asked.

  “The drink or the show?”

  Chloe smiled. “That guy that yelled at you? The bouncers came and got him!”

  “For real?”

  “Yeah, these two guys about—”

  “Excuse me.” A man no taller than Chloe stepped next to the girls, offered his hand. “Nice bit just now.” He was dressed like his tie had gone missing and his salt-and-pepper hair was way too neat, given the late hour.

  Vonnie shook his hand. “Are you mocking me? Because they make you go on stage.”

  “Mocking? No. I see to it that people get on stage, actually.” He handed her a business card, crisp and elegant, matte navy-blue words against a cream background. Barry Brownstone, Talent Representative.

  Chloe peered over Vonnie’s shoulder at the card. “So you’re an agent?”

  “He sure is.” Vonnie suddenly felt quite sober.

  “You’ve heard of me, good.” His cell phone rang, sounding like an old rotary phone, and he held up a finger to pause and detain them. “No, no, Eddie, I’m not pressing charges. I haven’t even called the police. I’d just like it back.” He uttered more reassurances and hung up, tossed an arm in the air. “Tell me: Who steals books!”

  Vonnie suppressed a grin. “Bored people?”

  “Screw books, they need funny. That’s why I need you.”

  She gave a nervous little laugh. “I’m flattered, Mr. Brownstone. But you’re out of my league. I’m not sure what you want.”

  “I’d like to exploit your schtick in ways you’d probably never think of on your own and make us both obscene quantities of money. Fifteen and eighty-five percent, mine and yours, respectively.” Barry’s bluntness was hilarious.

  Vonnie stared at him for a long moment, until she felt Chloe’s elbow in her side.

  “Yeah!”

  “Great.” Barry stuck his hand out again. “Call me and plan to come in Monday. Early afternoon. One-thirty, two-ish.”

  CHAPTER 4

  “And you need an image.”

  “An image?”

  Barry glanced up from his jotting, ran a hand through his hair. It framed his face like a mane. “I’m assuming you don’t want to spend your entertainment career as Mrs. Bagga Chips. I suggest you get a stylist and go back to your maiden name.”

  “Upchurch is my maiden name.”

  “Good, I like a client who’s responsive.” His deadpan delivery, like always, made Vonnie laugh. Everybody found Barry funny except Barry. He never understood why people found him amusing, but he was happy to be a source of happiness.

  “Do you just happen to know a stylist?”

  “Of course.”

  “Of course.”

  “A number of them. Or pick somebody you like and we’ll find their stylist.”

  Vonnie grinned, embarrassed by her suspicion and taken yet again by her agent’s authenticity. She sat back in the big round chair that sat opposite his desk and tucked her legs under her. Her Mary Janes rested on the soft shaggy carpet in front of her.

  Barry’s office reflected its occupant; sparse and utilitarian, yet somehow inviting. A window made up the entire front wall, and from it Vonnie could see Wilshire district from 27 stories above the street. The fluffy carpeting matched the dark grey drapes. Everything else was some designer shade of white; even his desk, made from blonde wood, same as the bookshelf. Only his bright red phone broke the pattern, like a cherry in a sea of soothing vanilla.

  He jotted things into a notebook, had been doing so for nearly 45 minutes now. The pen, Vonnie noticed, carried the Rotring initial, but the notebook cost maybe a dollar at any drug store.

  “Alright, maiden name, check. Here’s Nike’s card, she seems to be the favorite with the girls.” He slid a colorful business card to her across his pale desk. “Next: Which talk shows do you want, which ones will you refuse, and which ones will you do but act like a see-you-next-Tuesday about?”

  “Do you really care?”

  “Of course I do. I’ll try to get more money from the last category.”

  “And the ones I refuse?”

  Barry looked up from his notebook, pen hovering mid-word above it. “You have some you’d refuse?”

  “Sure.”

  He placed the pen alongside the metal spiral of his notebook, folded his hands and blinked at her. “Who?”

  “Bob O’Lie-Lee for one.”

  “Alright. He’s politics, but I see you’re expressing your principles. Go on.”

  Vonnie unfolded her legs, slid her stockinged feet back into her shoes. “Hugh Stoic.”

  “He only does radio now.”

  “I know, and I don’t want to be on the radio with him.”

  “All right. Because?”

  “I’m a woman.”

  “So is his head writer. You’re also not a stripper and definitely not a victim. I don’t handle victims. Hugh is actually quite charming. He’s smart like you can’t imagine. And he’s fond of you. Go on.”

  “Tarzan O’Doyle.”

  “All right. Because?”

  “His face is made of wax.”

  “Not his fault.”

  “It’s still creepy.”

  “Anybody else?”

  “I guess not.”

  Barry gazed at the desktop for a moment. “Do you know anybody else?”

  Vonnie laughed. “Yes. I have cable.”

  Barry unfolded his hands and picked up his pen. “Just checking.”

  Hugh Stoic’s radio show was the first talk show Barry booked her on.

  “You’re a real prick,” she told him.

  “Which is why I’m real rich. Trust me.”

 
The entire experience buzzed past her like a roller coaster ride, a good one, the Whooo! one.

  “Okay,” Hugh told her, “when I say, ‘You’re kind of a see-you-next-Tuesday’ you say, ‘Well you’re kinda dead, bee-octh!’ And punch this meat. I’m gonna pretend you punched me.” He grinned like a shark, gently hitting the giant red rump roast that sat on the console.

  Vonnie scowled at Barry and at the Bagga Chips lyric. “Is this gonna be funny?”

  “Trust me.” He then demanded of Hugh, “Is this going to be funny?”

  Hugh’s eyes widened and his mouth fell open. “Barry! I’m scandalized!”

  “That meat,” he pointed at it, “is too thick to get a sound out of.”

  “My head is thick!”

  “Now that, I’ll give you.”

  “Barry. You know what I mean.”

  “Did you sound-check the meat? That’s all I’m asking.”

  Vonnie watched the men like a tennis match. “That really wasn’t what I meant. Really.”

  Riding back in the town car, Vonnie played with the radio and left it on some whacked-out call-in show discussing the secret breeding of a mad race of dog-men.

  “What do I say on the other talk shows when they asked me if I really hit Hugh?”

  Barry didn’t look up from his scribbling. “You heard the broadcast, right?”

  “I was the broadcast.”

  “No. I mean that’s what you say to them.”

  Vonnie frowned, but he didn’t see it. “And if they push it?”

  “Be vague. Nobody’s going to ask you specifically, ‘Did you punch a chunk of meat?’ Also, Hugh said he’d corroborate. His people are telling him it’s a good idea. Also, he’ll be addressing it before you do.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “He’s got Bagga Chips on tonight.”

  “TJ?”

  “Yes. Same person, yes.”

  “You didn’t tell me that!”

  Barry looked up. “Yes. I just told you right now.”

  “You know what I mean! You should have told me before.”

  “All right. Because?”

  “‘Cause I wouldn’t have gone on! I would have said no! That’s like…entrapment.”

  Barry slid his pen inside his notebook’s spiral. He balanced the notebook on his legs, folded his hands and rested them on the notebook. “Entrapment is the act of tricking somebody into committing a crime and then arresting them. I fail to see how that applies here.”

  Vonnie smiled despite her frustration. Barry: perpetual straight man with the world as his foil. She rolled her eyes. “You know what I mean.” But she smiled because she realized she really didn’t care.

  * * *

  Chloe frowned at her car stereo. “Okay, but Barry was the one who said you shouldn’t live in the shadow of your former self.” She punched a button on the stereo. “You see me pressing the button here, right? And how the station is not changing?”

  “Actually, Frankie said that about the shadow. And I think it was more of a boxing analogy. But yeah, Barry is sending me to this Nike so that she can transform me—oh Chloe, I hate this song!”

  “Yeah. It’s stuck on the classic rock station.”

  “I’m sorry!”

  Chloe punched it off, blew air through her lips. “Anyway, sorry. Transform you…”

  “Transform me into someone other than Mrs. Bagga Chips.”

  “So why has he got you in this face off with TJ?”

  “I dunno. But the most aggravating thing? Is that it’s working.”

  “If it’s working so well, how come I’m still driving you around? And you moved out of the big house and into a little condo? You sure this Brownfield guy—”

  “Brownstone.”

  “Is he ripping you off?”

  “How would I know?”

  “Wow, a spot right on Ventura!” Chloe pulled the car against the curb. “What kind of a name is Nike, anyway?”

  “Are you kidding? This is Los Angeles.”

  A bell rattled pleasantly on the glass door when they entered. The chilled air made both women sigh with relief, and a petite woman of their age greeted them smiling.

  “Hi, I’m Nike Kwaad, named after the Goddess, not the shoe, my parents are from The Netherlands and didn’t know any better.”

  “I guess that answers your question, Chloe.” Vonnie watched her friend turn subtly red.

  Nike smiled, tucking a piece of her purplish-silver hair behind her ear. “Everybody asks, believe me.”

  They followed her down a hallway of closed doors that reminded Vonnie of her chiropractor’s office. Nike’s pine-green dress and black suede boots combined with her hair to make her look like a fairy. Vonnie found this delightful and said so.

  “Thanks!” Nike laughed, like a wind chime. “Your friend’s got a good style, too.”

  They entered a well-lit room that felt something between a massage parlor and a psychiatrists’ office.

  “What’s so great about her style?” Vonnie pointed at Chloe’s green plaid Doc Martens, told Nike: “If it’s plaid, she’ll wear it.”

  Chloe shoved her into a big leather chair. “Don’t hate.” She took the couch, dangling her plaid feet over the edge.

  “It’s definitive,” Nike explained. “That’s what we’re going to do for you.” She sat in the matching leather arm chair.

  “I’m not definitive?”

  Nike made a cute, apologetic face. “Not really. No.”

  “Survivanoia makes clothes, you know. None of the stars wear them yet. That’d make you definitive. Not to mention safe from bullets, mad dogs, and tsunamis.”

  Vonnie turned to the mirror, looked herself over. “I don’t understand why I’m not definitive, dammit.”

  Nike ran a hand through Vonnie’s shoulder-length locks. “Hair at this in-between length makes you look both older and non-committed.”

  “I was growing it out.”

  “I understand. But to project confidence, we need it either past your shoulders or no longer than your jaw.”

  “You mean extensions?”

  “Right. And we need to talk about colors. Again, this brown you’ve got going on here is indecisive.”

  “That’s my natural color! Nature decided!”

  Nike tilted her head and frowned, sympathetic. “I understand. I really do but.…lookit, this whole stylist thing? We are marketing you. And to be marketed, marketable, Vonnie Upchurch needs to be a recognizable brand. Like three stripes or an alligator or a bubble with eyes and…weird…centipede feet.”

  Vonnie’s mouth hung open but Chloe laughed and laughed.

  “What’s so goddamn funny?” Vonnie snapped.

  “I think it’s supposed to be a scrub brush. Scrubbing bubbles? Scrub brush? Not a centipede.” Chloe registered Vonnie’s expression. “Oh honey. Whatsa’matter?”

  “I don’t know if I want my hair long or short and I don’t know what color it should be! It used to be blonde and people liked it. Now it’s brown and apparently undistinguished. Or some shit.”

  Nike kneeled in front of her. “Did somebody tell you this would be fun? Cuz it’s not. People think that. They think makeovers are a fucking birthday present. Can I just tell you? Nothing will make you feel worse. First you walk away from the session feeling like a phony. Then right when you start to get comfortable with this ‘new you’ you realize, standing in your mismatched bra and panties on the threshold of your closet, that in order to look like that all the time, you have to spend five thousand dollars and have a make-up girl follow you around.” She smiled and Vonnie felt better.

  “So why do you do this?”

  Nike shrugged. “I’m good at it. And it’s what people think they want. And in t
he case of people like you, on their way to being famous, they need it. But it’s not fun. It’s like being asked what you want to be when you grow up. How the fuck should you know, you’re ten! Or for that matter eighteen. Like we learn so much in eight years. But you still have to pick something. And today,” she pointed a manicured finger at Vonnie, “you need to pick an image.”

  Three hours of interrogation later (Heels or flats, pants or skirts, colors or earth tones, reading or watching movies, a manicure or a day in the park, jazz, rock techno, or classical? If you could live anywhere where would it be? If you had a million dollars to give away where would it go? ) Nike knew more about Vonnie than Vonnie had ever realized about herself. “Okay. Anything else I should know?”

  “Yeah. I want my hair blonde. And long.”

  * * *

  Vonnie sat in her hotel room scribbling on the letterhead stationary and thereby reminding herself of Barry. She paused, swept her long honey blonde hair into a low ponytail and pushed up the sleeves on her pink and white jogging suit. The TV lit the room, its blue light glittering against the sharp S logo of her track suit. She’d muted the sound, but preferred the dynamic blue to the static, dismal yellow of light bulbs. She reread her notes, frowned, crossed out her punch line and reworded it. New jokes without a single reference to TJ.

  New York City and its greater area offered three weeks’ worth of club gigs, and Barry had booked her accordingly. Her second and third weeks had sold out before she’d even arrived in town, and Barry had made some mention of keeping her there and getting her into a bigger venue.

  “Sandra Silverfish is playing the Met and they need an opener. They want a woman.”

  Vonnie found Sandra simultaneously hysterical and depressing. The woman kept telling the same joke and nobody seemed smart enough to get it.

  “Also, Okra Winspear originally wanted you that same week, but they have a better-suited topic for you so you’re going on Tuesday.”

  “Which Tuesday?”

  “Tomorrow Tuesday.”

  Vonnie sighed. “Barry, I don’t want to go on Okra Winspear.” The whine in her own voice revealed how tired she was. Tired in every sense.

  “All right. Because?”