Remains to Be Scene

by R. T. Jordan

  Judging by his mother’s imitation of a zombie, Tim knew that Polly was disappointed and ticked off. He picked up the script and began looking for the character name, typed in bold letters. “You’ll make a wonderful Catharine. Whoever she is,” he said, still searching for her dialogue.

  Polly looked up, reached for her glass, and drained what remained of her Bloody Mary. Then, in a crescendo of anger she snapped, “Catharine’s a god-damned freaking grandmother, that’s who Catharine is! The role is nothing more than a frigid old biddy who gives rotten lonely hearts advice to sextavert Dana Pointer!”

  Placenta anticipated Polly’s need for a drink refill and deftly removed the glass tumbler from the table. As she headed for the poolside bar she wickedly sang out, “Will you still need me, will you still feed me, when I’m sixty-four.”

  Tim looked up from the screenplay and agreed with Polly. “Yeah, there aren’t many lines. It’s a Trixie Wilder role, through and through.”

  Polly was crestfallen. “I don’t know whether to feel insulted that my name came up as a replacement for Trixie in the first place for this piece of crap movie, or to be furious with J. J. for leading that pisher producer to think I’d consider such an insignificant role.”

  Placenta returned to the table with Polly’s Bloody Mary. As she set the glass down on the table she said, “I think you should at least read the entire script before rejecting it outright. It might be a good part after all.”

  “Might be good for Michele Lee,” Polly scowled and picked up her glass. “Michele still looks decent, but she’s a hell of a lot older than she lets on.” Polly picked up the tumbler, but immediately set it down—on top of the script cover. Condensation from the glass began to bleed a ring on the paper. “I’d rather die and move to Florida than play a loveable, blue-haired—Republican!”

  Except for the sound of a leaf blower at the far end of the property, and the gentle ping of wind chimes colliding in a slight breeze that issued through the gazebo, there was silence around the table. Tim and Placenta both felt pangs of sorrow for Polly. It didn’t take an empath to know that she was deeply disappointed by the turn of events.

  In a somber voice, Polly whispered, “This is every Christmas morning of my childhood, when all that was under the aluminum tree was a box of new underwear, wrapped up as a present.”

  “Perhaps if they rewrote the part so that Grandma Catharine has an affair with Jack Wesley…,” Tim joked, trying to ease the tension.

  “It’s worth discussing with J. J. and the producer,” Placenta agreed, lifting Polly’s glass off of the script cover. “Take the screenplay into your office and read it from beginning to end. It can’t be that bad if it’s being filmed by a major studio,” Placenta said.

  Tim agreed. “Mom,” he said, “Sterling’s sinking a gazillion dollars into this project, so there’s gotta be something of value here. Plus, strong actors in small roles often get noticed by the critics…and the Academy. Hell, Judi Dench was only on screen for a lousy eight minutes and she nabbed an Oscar for Shakespeare in Love.”

  Polly slowly nodded her head in agreement. “Meet the Fockers was rubbish, but it was a megahit. Gave ol’ Babs a leg up again.”

  As Tim and Placenta continued agreeing about the possibility that the screenplay had potential, they hardly noticed that Polly had raised herself up and out of her chair and was retreating into the house. Before she reached the door, she tightened the belt around her robe, then turned and said, “Spank me for being such an ingrate. I may be aged out, but I’m still a star. My charity work does not include making Dana Pointer and Missie Miller look as though they’re the next Meryl Streep and Joan Cusack. I covered for Laura Crawford all those years on my TV show. ‘The lovely and talented Laura Crawford,’ I used to say and audiences never caught on that I use ‘lovely and talented’ as a euphemism for anyone I actually loathe. I’m going to make-up and then pay a visit to J. J. The ‘lovely and talented,’ J. J.”

  On any other day the forty-five-minute traffic-congested drive from Pepper Plantation in Bel Air to J. J.’s office in the old Playboy building on Sunset Boulevard in Los Angeles would have irritated Polly as a waste of valuable time. This morning, however, as she sat behind the maple steering wheel of her Park Ward Rolls-Royce, Polly gently braked at yellow traffic lights, maintained the legal speed limit, and felt no imperious need to curse at inconsiderate and impatient drivers of less ostentatious cars.

  Upon arrival at the building that housed her agent’s headquarters, Polly eased her classic vehicle into the subterranean garage and stopped before the valet attendant. She alighted from the Rolls, and with a gracious nod and a cheerful smile Polly appeared to be as benign and serene as a New Year’s Day Pasadena Tournament of Roses Parade queen perched on her float of turnip seeds and rhododendron petals. When Polly breezed into the building’s marbled lobby, she greeted the inflexible security guard with a disarming smile and recall of his first name. One of Polly’s greatest talents was her ability to enchant. She used her wiles effortlessly and charmed the guard into allowing her to pass to the elevator without first signing the guest book or announcing her presence to J. J.’s office assistant.

  Polly postured a star’s not-a-care-in-the-world persona as she entered the elevator and turned once again to face the guard, whose countenance had morphed from Mike Wallace granite to Van Johnson affable. Polly pushed the button for the penthouse and before the doors closed she once again radiated a generous smile at the guard and gave a wink of her eye, and a wiggly finger wave good-bye. Now, alone in the car as it moved with its hydraulics, pulleys, and weights up through the shaft in the center of the building, Polly took a deep breath—and prepared for battle.

  Moments later, when the elevator doors parted, Polly stepped out of the car and into the museum-quiet foyer of Jason James Norton and Associates Theatrical Agency. The heels of her shoes clicked on the polished and bleached hardwood floor as she strode with confidence halfway to the receptionist’s desk. Polly quickly assessed the age of the young man who presented the company image, and intuitively presumed that although she had once been the agency’s star client, and a floor-to-ceiling black and white photo of her still dominated the wall behind the desk, she couldn’t expect to be groveled to.

  Then, in a burst of aggressive but joyous enthusiasm, meant to position herself as the dominant force in the room, Polly called out in her most theatrical voice, “I’m he–er!” With a gleaming smile and the hands-on-hips, head tilted skyward pose that she usually reserved for the paparazzi along a red carpet, Polly achieved the desired result: immediate attention. The sentry at the desk looked up from his computer monitor and was taken aback by the presence of a glamorous woman his mother’s age dressed to the nines and sparkling as if she were entering a cocktail party given in her honor.

  Polly continued her advance into the room. When she reached the desk and got a closer look at the swarthy, beard-stubbled face of the young man she thought, J. J. and Tim have the same taste in sweets. “Honey,” she smiled, veering off toward the frosted glass doors that led to the executive offices, “Don’t bother to announce me. I know my way. I’ll just tippy-toe in and surprise J. J. It’s his birthday.” She lied.

  “Wait!” the receptionist said, and stood up from his chair.

  Polly stopped. “Not to worry,” she said, evading her rival’s obligation to keep the unwanted within the quarantinelike confines of the closed-circuit-TV–monitored reception area. “I know how much J. J. hates to make a fuss about these things. But this is a big one. Guess the number that precedes the zero! It’s too horrid!” She winked conspiratorially. “You can score major kiss-ass points by bringing him a cruller with a single candle when you get his mocha frappuccino. Oh, and darling, since it’s a special occasion, and God knows we all have to fake liking the boss, have the Starbucks counter man add coconut syrup, whipped cream, and chocolate sauce. Don’t forget the little coconut flakes sprinkled on top! J. J. can worry about his diabetes tomorrow
. So shush. Not a word about me. I adore surprises. Don’t you?”

  Polly switched her famous smile up from Sylvania fluorescent to Times Square neon, then turned and continued to walk toward the doors. “Just buzz me in, dear heart,” she called over her shoulder as she reached for the handle.

  “But you…!” she heard the sergeant at Checkpoint Charley cry, which again stopped Polly in her tracks. With her back to the receptionist, she rolled her eyes and pursed her lips, preparing for a verbal spar. “Not to worry,” she sang out, still holding on to the door handle and trying hard not to turn around and pummel the kid. “If ol’ J. J.’s not in I’ll just leave his little prezy on his chair.”

  “You’re not…,” the young man started to speak but Polly interrupted him.

  “…Exactly expected?” Polly said completing his sentence. “I know, sweetums, but this is a special occasion. My little diversion will only take a sec. Be a love and push the little buzzer thingee to unlatch the door,” she said, an edge creeping into her voice.

  “…Polly Pepper?” the receptionist finished his own sentence. It was more a statement of open-mouthed wonder than a question.

  Suddenly Polly felt as if Homeland Security had just cleared her through Customs despite finding a Ziploc bag filled with enriched uranium in her purse. She straightened her posture, turned around, and for the first time since Placenta had handed her the script for Detention Rules!” she produced a genuine smile. “I’m so ashamed,” she said. “I should have properly introduced myself.” Polly walked back to the receptionist. “Don’t you just hate it when living legends think we’re above common manners?” She reached out her hand. “I’m Polly Pepper. Of course. And you are?”

  “Michael,” the young man said. He was grinning with excitement, as he accepted Polly’s hand and gave it a quick shake.

  Polly recognized a fan when she met one. But, she thought, Michael is too young to have seen the original broadcasts of my shows. She also suspected that anyone bright enough to know her name must, by virtue of a gene reserved for her favorite ten percent of the planet’s population, sing in the choir with Tim.

  “We studied you in college,” Michael said with pride.

  “An anthropology major?” Polly joked, trying not to appear irritated that she was suddenly being made to feel like something viewed under the magnified lens of a microscope.

  “We examined your complete oeuvre,” Michael said.

  Polly blinked. “Only my gynecologist is supposed to have that much fun,” she laughed.

  Michael looked askance at Polly, not getting her joke. He recovered. “You were a required subject,” he said, trying to explain. “‘Icons: Critical Thinking and the Myth of the Value of Celebrity in Global Society.’ AFI.”

  “Myth?” Polly repeated, awkwardly.

  “I got so hooked on you and your work that I even bought bootleg 16 mm prints of the horror movies you made in Mexico. You were the best in Crawling Eyeball II: The Vision Returns!”

  Polly emitted a giggle of self-satisfaction. “Mary Kay Place and I had a scream making that one,” she said. Polly was so completely charmed by Michael’s attention that she temporarily forgot the reason for her visit to her agent’s office. “Film school,” she said, finally making the connection to the AFI. “Perhaps your thesis script—you did have to write one, didn’t you—has a role that requires my talents?” she cooed. “I’m not one of those horrid golden calves who only accepts material submitted through my agent.”

  “J. J. would fire me. We’re not even supposed to talk to clients,” Michael said, looking around to ensure that no one was watching. “But I guess it’s not like you’re Diana Ross, or someone.”

  “Or someone,” Polly repeated. “Oh, screw J. J. And Diana,” she declared. “Until this morning, he hasn’t sent me anything to read in over a year!” Polly caught herself slipping into J. J. bashing mode. “I mean, there’s so little material out there for a star of a certain age.”

  “For a star with a certain comic brilliance, you mean,” Michael corrected.

  “You’re such a transparent toady,” Polly said with a lascivious smile. “You’ll go far.” She wanted to wrap her arms around his youthful body and physically express her appreciation for his obvious intelligence and sophisticated taste. Then Polly looked at Michael and pouted. “How can a young man of your elevated sensibilities be working as a mere receptionist?” she said.

  “A college degree doesn’t mean anything in Hollywood,” Michael said. “Here it’s all about nepotism, and who you put out for. But you know all that.”

  “There are exceptions,” Polly said, eliminating herself from Michael’s generalization.

  “I’m paying my dues,” Michael added. “J. J.’s promised to give me a hand.”

  Polly stopped herself from making the obvious comment.

  “By the way,” Michael added, “I think you would have been awesome in Detention Rules!”

  Polly continued smiling for an awkward moment. “Would have been? I haven’t exactly made up my mind yet about the role,” she said, suddenly feeling uneasy. “Perhaps with a bit of a rewrite,” she said. “But I’m such a wuss. And J. J.’ll probably talk me into doing the damn thing before I have a chance to discuss changes with the producer.”

  Michael stepped backward several paces to the desk and blindly reached behind himself until his fingers connected with the morning’s edition of Daily Variety. He brought forth the paper, and without saying a word he held it up for Polly to examine.

  STONE GETS DETENTION

  Polly squinted at the banner headline. The words meant nothing to her. “Stone gets Detention,” she read aloud. “So? Stone gets…Detention,” she read again. Then, as if finally getting the punchline to a joke, Polly snatched the paper out of Michael’s hand and looked more closely at the article. One name, repeated several times, jumped off the page: Sedra Stone. Sedra Stone. Sedra Stone.

  “Sedra Stone got my role? I’ll kill her!” Polly said. As her anger set in, her wrath poured out and was reflected in the escalating volume of her voice. “I swear I’ll absolutely slap that minor talent, scene-stealing, home-wrecking, wicked bitch of the west into an early grave. And where the hell is that lousy J. J.?” she snarled.

  The last thing that Polly remembered before driving down Sunset Boulevard was the security guard from the building’s lobby forcibly dragging her out of the reception area of J. J. Norton and Associates Talent Agency.

  Chapter 4

  Polly’s Rolls-Royce slowly glided along serpentine Stone Canyon Road until it reached the ornate monogrammed black wrought-iron dual swing gates that secured Pepper Plantation. Reaching for her electronic door opener clipped to the sun visor of the front passenger seat, Polly pressed the button and waited for the entryway to clear. She then languidly drove onto her estate and gradually made her way down the cobblestone lane. She rolled the car under the shelter of the front portico, where, between the pillars and porch, she parked, turned off the ignition—and sat in dazed silence.

  For a few numb minutes Polly replayed in her head the scene of hysteria that had unfolded in J. J.’s reception area. She felt embarrassed and stupid for allowing Sedra Stone to once again trump her life and make her feel inadequate. Then, with great effort, Polly opened the car door and stepped into the warm afternoon.

  Although there were only two granite steps up to her front entrance doors, Polly ascended them as slowly as if she had exhausted all her energy running a marathon while simultaneously fighting the bird flu. When she reached the massive Gothic double doors, she pushed the keypad on the security alarm system and waited for the release sound made by the deadbolt disengaging. With a torpid nudge, she urged the left door open.

  Stepping into the foyer and lethargically closing the door with her hip, she leaned her back against one massive panel to rest for a moment. Polly heaved a heavy sigh, grateful to be home at last. She was safely away from the harsh world of professionally impotent Hollywood agents, du
plicitous has-been TV icons, and inordinately young and inexperienced film stars who wouldn’t recognize a decent script if it were written by Dorothy Parker, typed by Robert Benchley, and handed to them by Nancy Meyers.

  At Pepper Plantation, cocktail carts stocked with a variety of liquor bottles were in nearly every room. But for the good stuff, the Bombay Sapphire London Dry, Polly had to raid the kitchen freezer. She automatically headed in that direction. Prescription meds, however, were stored in her bedroom suite. As this inconvenience occurred to her Polly changed course and moved instead toward what was affectionately referred to as the “Scarlett O’Hara Memorial Staircase.” She decided that a couple of antidepressants and a champagne chaser would be the best temporary antidote for her misery. With as much exertion as she employed entering the house, she now depended on the banister to help her tired body ascend to the second floor of the mansion.

  At last on the landing, Polly stepped out of her high-heel shoes and abandoned them in the corridor. She felt a vague sense of guilt that Placenta would have to pick up her mess, but her contrition was fleeting. “‘Maid’ is your job description,” she heard herself say, as she slogged barefoot down the long carpeted hallway toward her room in the east wing of the house.

  Along the way she began to pass a gallery of framed oil portraits and memorabilia. They were mostly visual images of herself, and represented various phases of her career, and particularly memorable characters she played on her television show. Although the art had been hanging in the same location for years, Polly seldom paid any attention to the artifacts unless there was a houseguest (especially her mother) with a nose she wanted to rub into the sweet smell of her international success; however, today she was drawn to review the displays.

  She stopped in front of a large, ornately framed illustration of herself dressed in a white, starched nurse’s uniform, and wearing a cap emblazoned with a red cross that was dripping blood. “Bedpan Bertha,” she said to herself, remembering the countless times she practically killed her audiences when she played the role of the klutzy R.N. The artist had depicted her with a goofy freckle-face buck-toothed grin, Marty Feldman bug eyes, and stretching a latex glove over an exaggeratedly large hand.