Remains to Be Scene

by R. T. Jordan

  In every Bedpan Bertha sketch, nitwit Bertha confused doctors’ orders on a patient’s chart. The unprepared and unlucky sick person (played by such guest stars as Burt Reynolds, Liberace, and Gavin MacLeod) endured extensive body examination procedures that should only be performed by master plumbers on hair clogged drains. The AMA blamed the “Bedpan Bertha” sketches for a sharp decrease in elective surgeries, whereas the network rewarded her ratings with a bigger promotional budget for the show.

  Polly stared at herself as Bertha for a long moment, and then glanced to the right and found another classic character captured on canvas. “Madame Zody,” she whispered and couldn’t prevent a small smile from spreading across her lips.

  Dressed in a colorful caftan that was embedded with rhinestones and beads in patterns of stars, crescent moons, hexagrams, and dollar signs, Polly, as Madame Zody, wore the same maniacal grin as Bertha, and had a distorted Picasso-like third eye smudged in the middle of her forehead. In the palm of one hand she clutched a cracked crystal ball. In her other hand she held a Ouija board.

  Polly’s memory reached back twenty years and fused together a dozen episodes of her show starring such popular guests as Roddy McDowall, Bill Bixby, Anne Francis, and the Muppets. At one time or another during the run of “The Polly Pepper Playhouse” every star of the day had entered Madame’s fortune-telling emporium. The predictable scenarios of each “Madame Zody” sketch found the guest star terror-stricken as he received the dire warning of a long journey—to the sand dunes of the Gobi desert where he would be stalked by something ominously called the Mongolian Death Worm. Another seeker of things yet to pass was destined to be snatched up by Hydralike aliens. In the worst of all fates, however, a predicted hell was to be stuck for eternity in an elevator with Paul Anka singing “You’re Having My Baby.”

  Polly began to look at the other cherished images along the wall of the long corridor. Among the Hershfeld caricatures, the photos from state dinners at the White House autographed by several presidents (for whom she hadn’t voted, but wouldn’t say no to a party), she discovered a forgotten treasure. Half hidden behind a floral arrangement centered on a hall table was a framed handwritten note from Lucille Ball. Polly gently pushed aside the petals of a Casablanca Lily and read the fading message. “What’s good for Polly is good for the planet. L.B.”

  Polly stared at the message for a long moment, recalling how frightened and excited she had been the day when her idol, the week’s special guest, arrived for rehearsal. She remembered that during lunch break, Lucy had pulled her aside and offered words of advice. “If a sketch like this one isn’t working, make the writers work all night to change it,” she had said, “Grab their cojones and squeeze ’em tight, sweetie!”

  Polly took Lucy’s advice. She delegated to her then producer/husband, Tim senior, the nasty business of torturing her writers until they came up with the famous “Miss Midas” sketch. In that popular series of routines, Polly portrayed the bored wife of a billionaire who thinks it might be a hoot to switch places for a day with her servants. The role reversals all end with dire yet comical consequences for Miss Midas, of course. But those with whom she traded places realized their own potential and ended up accomplishing something that made them rich, too.

  Now, all these years later, Polly thought about Lucy’s counsel and the handwritten note she’d received from Miss Ball following the taping of the show. Polly suddenly realized that although she no longer had the equivalent of a bad cop/husband to do her bidding she still didn’t have to take crap from anybody, especially her agent.

  “Damn right, ‘What’s good for Polly is good for the planet,’” she quoted aloud, and then turned and walked with renewed purpose to her bedroom. There, she removed her clothes, drew a hot bubble bath, turned on a CD with the calm voice of Deepak Chopra telling her that she had the power to fulfill her desires, and withdrew a bottle of Verve from her bedroom wine cooler. She popped the cork, poured a flute, checked out her still slim and supple body in the bathroom mirror and raised her glass. “To Lucy!” she said. “To Trixie, too! But most of all to Polly Pepper!” she declared. “You guys are gone, but I’m still here!”

  Polly took a long slug of champagne and savored the cold effervescence as it frothed over her tongue. She forgot about the Xanax as she stepped into her bath, glass in hand, and submerged herself up to her neck in lilac scented suds. She took a deep breath, sighed in blissful satisfaction and made another toast. “To Sedra Stone,” she said. “Break a leg, honey. Or a hip. While you’re stuck in a few frames of a film that’ll have Roger Ebert sharpening his tongue for new ways to slash a bad performance, Madame Zody foresees a more important career change—for Polly Pepper—somewhere.”

  Polly drained her glass and placed it on the bath caddy that held her seaweed therapy oils, moisturizing syrups, and other bottles of antioxidant products, the labels of which boasted ancient secrets for maintaining soft virginal skin. She laid her head back on the built-in cushioned headrest of the tub and let the alcohol flow through her bloodstream. As her anxiety poured out into the warm, womblike bath, her eyelids became heavy and she fell asleep.

  At precisely five o’clock, Tim and Placenta looked up from the television and their heated argument over who murdered the publishing heiress in the evening’s old rerun episode of “Matlock,” as Polly, dressed in bright red drawstring pants and a kaleidoscopic floral silk jacket with cuff sleeves, shoulder pads, and a belt tied in front, made an elegant entrance into the Great Room of Pepper Plantation. “The romance writer did it,” Polly said without seeing more than a few frames from the show. Time for champys,” she sang out, striding toward the ice bucket.

  “Miss Punctual,” Tim said as he turned off the television and happily poured a flute of bubbly and handed it to his mother. “Sit down and tell us every little detail,” he insisted, like a best girlfriend sharing secrets during a sleep-over. “Dish about the flick! When do you start shooting? Need me to approve your wardrobe? Saw some divine Dolce at Neiman’s. Ferretti and Cavalli, too,” he teased.

  Polly ignored her son’s questions as she accepted the glass from him. She cleared her throat and said, “I have an announcement. I’m throwing a party!”

  Tim and Placenta looked at each other and nodded mutual approval.

  After a small sip of her Verve, Polly continued. “Timmy, my most precious and brilliant party planner slash co-host, it must be bigger and splashier and more decadent than the Nuclear Winter theme you did so brilliantly for the second Bush inauguration party we gave for all our friends on Homeland Security’s list of enemy combatants.”

  “Mass extinction of humankind is sorta hard to top,” Tim smiled hesitantly, suspicious of Polly’s sudden interest in entertaining.

  With a nod and an earnest look, Polly said, “But maybe this time we do something like….” She thought for a moment. “…Like extraterrestrial colonization of Hollywood and enslavement of petty vain stars, egomaniacal non-entity B celebrities, agents, managers, and publicists.”

  Stone-faced, Placenta said, “You didn’t get the job.”

  Polly leaned down to Placenta and gave her a peck on the cheek. She then turned to Tim and offered the same expression of affection. “I know how supportive you’ve both been about me taking over Trixie’s role, but I’ve decided against accepting the part,” Polly said. “J. J. and I had a mind-altering exchange this morning. It occurred to me that another actress of a certain age would be more appropriate for the role. Somebody like Kathy Bates—she doesn’t show up on screen much these days. Or, Swoozie Kurtz. There’s a goodie. I also suggested Sedra Stone.”

  “Sedra Stone?” Tim repeated. “Why would you be magnanimous to the woman who keeps ruining your life?”

  Polly became defensive. “I’m not being in the least bit charitable; not by any stretch.” She feigned indignance. “Catharine’s a crappy part in a crappy movie and Sedra will be crappy playing her. It’s perfect. Anyway, it was practically your idea,”
she added. “You accused me of wanting something vile to happen to Sedra, which I didn’t, and don’t—and now it has. She has to work with those two opportunistic Hollywood whores.”

  Placenta eyed Polly suspiciously. “Why a party?” she asked. “You’re celebrating what, the fact that you can’t get a job?”

  “As a matter of fact,” Polly said, “that’s exactly what I’m doing. When you’re out of work, throw a party! Invite everybody in the biz. It reminds them that you’re still alive. Some of my best gigs have come after a fabulous soiree.” She turned to Tim. “That’s why you’ve got to pull all the stops out for this one, hon!”

  Tim nodded his head. “Show the world that you don’t need to work, and that’s when more work comes along, eh? I’ll start brainstorming,” Tim said, sinking comfortably into the sofa next to Placenta. “What’s our time frame?”

  Polly raised her glass high above her head. “Yesterday,” she said. “Not a moment to waste. I want to invite the entire cast and crew of Detention Rules! before they resume shooting next week!”

  “Whoa!” Tim shot back. “Impossible! I couldn’t even get decent cater waiters without at least two weeks’ notice. Remember how long it took to plan our Titanic party? That chunk of glacier in the swimming pool didn’t just slide out of Ann Coulter’s veins. It took three months to arrange shipment from Alaska! And don’t forget the penguins.”

  “Those damned penguins,” Polly said testily. “They were guaranteed to be alive on arrival. I’m still mortified about having to explain to PETA what their stiff little bodies were doing in the deep freezer chest under the frozen pizzas.”

  Placenta said, “You were too cheap to pay hush money to that petty wait staff person who ratted on you.”

  Tim was adamant. “If you’re serious about a last-minute party, we only have time for a plain and simple cocktail crush,” he said. “Look, I can arrange for a really chic evening here at the house with a tent and a small chamber orchestra. But on such short notice for entertainment we’ll be lucky if we can hire the Amazing Kreskin. Although maybe he can tell us where you left your sanity.”

  “No, no, no,” Polly protested. “You can wave your magic fairy wand and do absolutely miraculous things for parties. You’re a pro. Those Queer Eye guys would have lasted longer if they’d had you on their dream team.”

  Placenta spoke up. “Polly, your parties are legendary. You can’t lower your standards for the sake of trying to prove something to beastly Sedra Stone.”

  “Polly Pepper has nothing to prove.” Polly faked astonishment at the implied suggestion that Sedra Stone was at the root of her plans. “I’m only thinking of myself, as usual, and my stalled career. I need a little lift, and a party is the solution. Black tie will be fine,” she said to Tim, relieving him of the burden of having to devise an elaborate theme worthy of Donald Trump’s overproduced birthday celebrations.

  Chapter 5

  Evening arrived and for the second night in a row, dinner at Pepper Plantation was cancelled—due to lack of appetites following another stomach-churning telephone call from J. J.

  “Aneurysm, anyone?” Placenta deadpanned, before announcing that Polly’s agent was on the line. “Says that Someone owes Someone an apology,” she said, handing the handset to Polly.

  Polly Pepper rolled her eyes and reluctantly accepted the telephone. Broadcasting a phony smile through the microphone she cheerfully said, “Twice in as many days, eh, J. J.? Going for a personal best? Jeeze Louise!” Polly shook her head and shot a look of exasperation at Tim.

  “I can’t talk long, J. J. Madonna and little Lourdes are due here any minute,” Polly lied, and paused for a moment listening to J. J.’s comment. “I do too know her! We go way back. Long before Sean. And Sex. The book, I mean. She’s in town doing the talk show circuit. Promoting the latest reinvention of her career—wife, mother, mistress of the manor in England, and children’s book author. Title? Um…” Polly was temporarily stumped. “The Little Virgin Who Could? Humpty Dumped Me? Beats me. Probably a collection of nursery rhymes all of which begin, ‘There once was a man from Nantucket’.”

  An expression of annoyance crossed Polly’s face. She couldn’t bear it when she was trying to be clever and the joke soared over someone’s head. As Polly half listened to what J. J. had to say, she tapped her toe, pursed her lips, and made a wrap it up gesture with her free hand. She raised a finger to attract Tim’s attention and pointed to her empty champagne flute. Polly mimed knocking back a drink, then looked to Placenta and force-whispered an accusation. “Never answer the phone during Lush Hour!”

  Returning her attention to J. J., she listened for half a minute then held the phone with both hands and pretended to choke the device. “J. J.!” she said, her frustration racing toward meltdown. “J. J.! I’m not interested in a voiceover role for a toenail fungus infection commercial. But you owe me big time, mister. At least find me a job as a judge on one of those freaky bottom-of-the-barrel reality shows—‘Who Wants to Marry a Bankrupt Former Child Star Turned Death Row Inmate.’”

  J. J. apparently took her seriously because Polly spat, “I’m not an idiot, J. J. I just played one on TV.” Polly looked at Tim and swirled an index finger in the air next to her temple.

  “Fungus infections aside, just explain to me about Catharine, and why I wasn’t even allowed to audition!”

  The retort wasn’t lost on Tim and Placenta, both of whom blatantly eavesdropped on the conversation. They looked at each other in bewilderment.

  “And now,” Polly continued, “because of my snake pit scene in your lobby, Thesmokinggun.com is probably boasting that Polly Pepper deserves a big fat nomination for The Russell Crowe Tantrum of the Week Award! My hard-earned reputation as the Gandhi of Hollywood is definitely in the crapper.”

  Polly became aware that Tim and Placenta were scrutinizing her every word and decided to end the call. “Oh, drats,” she said. “We’ll have to chat about this later. That Lourdes thug is pitching pebbles at my Rolls. Obviously, Mrs. Kabbalah Blah-blah didn’t pass on her Material Girl genes to her offspring.”

  But J. J. said something that made her give him another fraction of her life. “An unlikely story,” she said. “Speed things up here, J. J.,” Polly said, “I’ve got a cake or something in the oven.” She called out, “Lourdes, darling, that’s Lalique. Put it down and play ‘Find the Doggy Bone’ with Mommy’s sparkly lavaliere instead, dear. She can afford breakage better than I can.”

  Polly, an actor to her marrow, nearly believed her own fiction. “Sorry, J. J. Have to dash. Gotta throw these guests out of my house.” Then she unexpectedly smiled. “A party?” Her face just as quickly folded. “Missie Miller’s,” she said with an edge of scorn in her voice. “Yes, Little Mary Sunshine, indeed. Fax me the details.” And then Polly pressed the release button on the telephone and set the handset down on the glass coffee table. “That man is so full of hot air he should be tethered to a stake so he won’t drift away in a breeze,” she said, reaching for her champagne.

  Evading the questioning stares from Tim and Placenta, Polly tried to side step what she knew was about to turn into a sequel to the Spanish Inquisition. She forged ahead under the full-throttle pretense that J. J.’s call had been purely social.

  “The usual nonsense,” Polly said, intentionally ignoring Tim and Placenta’s unspoken questions. “A lot of smoke up my tushie about how much he respects my talents, that my best work is ahead of me, and he loves my new hair color. Yada, yada. Oh, and he said that a pharmaceutical behemoth wants me to pitch a pill that cures something so gross that they have to animate the TV ads to prevent viewers from upchucking their Lean Cuisines on their dinner trays. I’ve obviously graduated to Jane Powell’s rejects,” she grimaced.

  “He takes me for a fool,” she chattered on autopilot. “J. J. claimed that the reason I didn’t get to read for the role was because Sedra had already…um…. If you ask me, Sedra deserves…, er….”

  Polly realized she’
d blathered herself into a corner and exposed her disgrace. She clamped a hand over her mouth.

  “Mother, what happened?” Tim asked, leaning closer to her on the sofa.

  Placenta, with maternal compassion added, “You didn’t voluntarily turn that job down, did you?”

  A disconsolate Polly looked dolefully at her maid and friend and said, “Now look at who has the sharp intuition.” And then, with what began as a quiver of her lower jaw and rapid blinking of her eyelids, Polly began to tremble and cry. The combination of an exhausting and humiliating day, J. J.’s badly timed call, the weight of her own subterfuge—and the champagne—conspired to make her feel as vulnerable as an orphan in a Dickens novel. “You were right,” Polly admitted, squinting at Placenta through a blurred veil of stinging tears. “You called it correctly the first time you suggested that I didn’t get the job. I just couldn’t admit my failure to you two.”

  Rivulets of watery black mascara found wrinkle paths from the corners of Polly’s eyes and streaked down the side of her nose and cheeks. She made a soft sniffle, and then she gave a sigh of defeat. “I’ve become my worst fear—an old-timer.

  “The truth is, when I arrived at J. J.’s office this morning, I planned to tell him to take the job and shove it at Mitzi Gaynor. But then I learned that it wasn’t mine to blow off. It never was. The lovely and talented Sedra Stone had already seduced whoever makes the casting decisions.”

  Tim and Placenta were stunned. They offered nonverbal coos of sympathy and disbelief. Tim reached over and enveloped his Mother in his protective arms, while Placenta patted a comforting hand on her knee. “I don’t understand,” Tim said. “Yesterday J. J. insisted that they wanted you to read for the part. I figured it was just a formality.”