by R. T. Jordan
Finally entering the hallway between the living room and the kitchen, Dana and Tim walked down the hallway until they came to the small formal dining room, into which Dana pulled Tim. “I was here for dinner a couple of weeks ago. I know that Missie’s mother keeps the good hooch in the hutch,” Dana said letting go of Tim’s hand and heading straight for the liquor. “Here we go,” she said, opening a door in the bottom of the cabinet and withdrawing a bottle of Chivas Royal. “Hand me a glass,” she said in a tone that was more a command than a request. “Behind you.”
Dana had already opened the whiskey bottle and was waiting impatiently as Tim turned around and discovered a highly polished mahogany buffet on which crystal rocks glasses were arranged upside down on a silver tray. He lifted one and handed it to her. She filled the glass more than half way. “How about you, mister sexy?” she asked, still holding the bottle, expecting Tim to join her for a drink.
“Can’t mix my alcohol,” Tim said. “But I’d kill for another glass of champagne.”
Dana took a large swallow of her Chivas. “The wino keeps gallons in the fridge,” she said, cocking her head toward a swinging door. Dana smiled and allowed her eyes to take another grand tour of Tim’s physique. Then she reached out to Tim’s shirt and with one hand maneuvered another button from its hole, exposing the cleft between his strong pecs. “Mmm. Hurry back,” she purred. “I need more than a stiff drink.”
Tim walked backward, pushing through the swinging door and entering the kitchen. There, he took a long moment to recover from Dana’s aggressive attempt at entrapment, then looked around the room. It was a small kitchen. In fact it was more of a galley in desperate need of renovation and upgrades. Many of the white tiles on the countertops were chipped, and the grout was gray and cruddy. The cupboards were midcentury faux country and coated with layer after layer of heavy robin’s egg blue paint. The lighting was a sallow yellow. The windowsill above the sink was crammed with plastic prescription medication bottles. He surreptitiously examined the labels: Tegretol. Eskalith. Xanax. All were prescribed by a Dr. Richards for Elizabeth Stembourg.
Tim stored the information in his memory with the intent of Googling the medication names and cross-referencing the symptoms for which they were prescribed. Then, as promised, when he opened the refrigerator door, it was practically a warehouse for Mum’s and Piper Heidsieck. He withdrew a chilled bottle and reluctantly returned to Dana in the dining room.
“She’s got quite a stash in there,” Tim agreed as he caught Dana swallowing the remains of what he presumed was a refill of whiskey.
“You’d self-medicate too if you had only minimal talent and that albatross of a mother hanging around your neck constantly pushing you to be a star while confirming the worst fears about your insecurities,” Dana said. “I kinda—but not really—feel sorry for Missie. But thank God for psych drugs! She and her mom are both total whackos without their meds. And don’t let Mama’s blindness crap fool you. She’s like all stage mothers—a natural born killer.” Dana refreshed her glass again and slowly circled Tim like a shark around surfers, ready to feast on a Leg McMuffin.
To divide his attention, Tim ripped the leaded foil wrapper from the champagne bottle and untwisted the wire bonnet that secured the cork. He gently eased the stopper out of the bottleneck and smiled at the sound of a light pop. He then poured the bubbly into another rocks glass. “Cheers,” he said, raising his glass to Dana’s.
Dana took another long pull of her whiskey and stood before Tim. As she reached out and passed yet another of his shirt buttons through its loop, she touched his flesh with a long, manicured index finger and said, “I need a strong man in my life. I’m tired of sissy actors.”
Tim took a swig of cold champagne and immediately changed the subject. “Um, back to work on Monday, eh,” he said sidestepping her overture. “Got your lines down?”
Dana snort laughed, as if she’d just heard a stupid question. “That wuss of a screenwriter is still hammering out the notes I gave him before our forced hiatus. I swear, every little shit in this town claims to be an actor or a writer—or both. I have yet to meet one so-called writer who can follow simple instructions, for Christ sake.” Dana was beginning to slur her words. “How ’bout we go upstairs. Missie’s bed?”
Tim shuddered. “This place is getting crazy crowded,” he made excuses. “People are probably going in and out of that room. Plus, if Missie or Jack finds us…”
Unbuttoning her own blouse, Dana said, “It would kill Sedra if she found us,” she laughed. “She can’t bear that I get all the men she likes. They used to howl at her door every night. Now they howl under my window. She resents my youth.”
“And then you’d have to find a new co-star,” Tim chided. “Anyway, you really want to be with Jack. He seems like a very nice guy. We’ve met at a couple of parties.”
“Ach! Screw Jack,” Dana said. “He’s not really into…” She stopped herself. “I just want to get this freakin’ movie over with, and bury these misfits.” Then, for a moment, Dana appeared to lose focus. She returned to her earlier thoughts about the power she wielded on the set of Detention Rules! “Sedra says she’ll help me handle the writer. And the director. And the producer.” She began to snigger. “And the costume designer. And the composer.” Dana seemed to think she was being funny. “I’ll take care of a few people. Just as Sedra did on Monarchy.”
“Sedra was a pretty big star in her day. I’m giving her a chance to make a comeback,” Dana said. “Two decades is a long time to be out of the public’s eye. Heck, she hasn’t really worked since before I was born.”
“Cheers to you!” Tim said raising his glass. “Sedra’s a star. At least in gay drag clubs.”
Dana laughed out loud. “I can totally see that,” she said. Then, smiling conspiratorially, Dana whispered, “Tell you a secret. Sedra wasn’t the first choice for Trixie’s role. Hell no. She wasn’t even the second or third or tenth. Nope. Not at all. I wanted Cher to play my grandmother. But Cher said no. Then I demanded that lady on that old show, ‘Raymond.’”
“Doris Roberts?” Tim said. “She would’ve been great.”
“Hell yeah, she would have been great. But she said, ‘No-way Jose.’ Then I had a fight with the producer ‘cause he wouldn’t even contact Sandra Bullock or Angelina Jolie. Said he wouldn’t insult ’em. Sheesh, what a jerk. He insulted me by making me feel less of a star than those old women. Sedra and I have plans to bite his butt, too. But he finally got me Sedra. Which was totally my idea ’cause she’s been writing me letters for a couple of years. Said she could tell that I came from a long line of talent. Said she was a fan and wanted to know me better. No line of talent, trust me. My parents are boobs who believe in the resurrection of Elvis. Anyway, I’m adopted.”
“Maybe it’s time you produced and directed your own films,” Tim said. “You’ve had two back-to-back blockbusters. I’ll bet if you asked politely, the studio would say, ‘You go girl! Make us buckets of dough!’”
Dana was suddenly a bit more alert. “I wouldn’t even have to be polite,” she said. “I’m not as dumb as people think. Even Sedra treats me as though I’ve got mostly air between my ears. Thinks she’s teaching me about life.” She rambled, realizing that she was offering too much information, but was unable to stop her wagging tongue.
Tim said, “Don’t let Sedra suck too much of your power. You can do very well without her help. I don’t believe that anybody thinks you’re dumb.”
“Well, my producer’s too dumb to think I’m dumber,” Dana giggled.
“You were smart enough to think of Sedra Stone for the role of Catharine and to build it up with more dialogue,” Tim said.
“Smart. Not dumb,” Dana parroted Tim, and nodded her head in a wobble. “I would have thought of Sedra eventually, if she hadn’t thought of herself first. Matter of fact, Sedra’s dumber ’cause she wanted that stupid role when it only had one line. Said she wanted to be close to me. Oh, not like a lez or anyth
ing. Said she felt maternal pride…even though we’d only e-mailed each other.”
“Now her character has pages of dialogue,” Tim said. “She was damn smart to find another meal ticket. But I can tell that you see through her. She’s always been transparent to me, too, and to anyone with an ounce of intuition.”
Suddenly feeling vulnerable, Dana pulled her blouse closed and fumbled with the buttons. “I should be directing my own work,” she repeated Tim’s ludicrous suggestion as if she’d just thought of it herself. “And what’s this about your mother and a Hall of Fame? She’s not like someone that important, is she?”
Tim slowly nodded his head. “Used to be,” he said. “Did you ever hear of Carol Burnett?”
Dana shrugged.
“When Polly Pepper—Mom—was working on television, she was a bigger name.”
Dana looked around, unable to find her whisky glass, which was immediately in front of her. For a long moment she sat and starred at the paisley wallpaper, which only helped to make her dizzy. Then, in a defeated voice born from too much alcohol, and way too many surprises, she said, “I think I knew that. I don’t feel so great.”
Dana folded her arms on the table and laid her head down. She instantly fell asleep.
Tim smiled when he looked at the scene—the mean girl undone by her own gluttony. He took another sip of champagne, buttoned his shirt, then picked up the champagne bottle and left the room.
As he made his way back through the house a sea of twentysomethings were drinking and dancing. (Billie Holiday had been replaced on the CD carousel by Beyoncé). He caught sight of Sedra and Jack Weasley seated side by side on the piano bench, engaged in an animated conversation. As he got closer he heard fragments of their discussion above the din. Sedra was saying, “…She’s dead…Missie too…Have to be discreet…So deserve their fate…”
And Jack was saying something that included, “…Bloody hell! Don’t get me involved…”
Just as Tim thought he was going to hear words that would connect into a full-fledged thought, Polly and Placenta were at his side. “Let’s blow,” Polly said. “I can’t bear these people. But I’ve gathered enough dish to make Billy Bush’s hair turn Anderson Cooper gray!”
“I’ll send her a note in the ay-em,” Polly said, not bothering to say a proper good-bye to her hostess. She led Tim and Placenta through a crush of party crashers and out the front door. Finally ensconced in the car, silence filled the space as they made their way down the narrow lane and out onto the serene streets of Fryman Canyon. As Tim guided the vehicle onto Laurel Canyon and up toward serpentine Mulholland Drive, Polly yawned. It had been a long day and a seemingly endless evening. Their thoughts were all bottlenecked somewhere between their brains and their tongues, and letting one word escape felt risky. But by the time they reached the crest of the Hollywood Hills, one by one they began to volunteer comments on the party.
“Cute house,” Tim said, finding something positive to say.
Polly agreed. “Missie has lovely instincts for interior decorating,” she said. “Her mother seems to have adapted well to her near blindness. Did you notice how easily she found the champagne flute that—if I’m not mistaken, Missie intentionally placed at the far edge of the table beside her chair? It was practically balancing and waiting for the slightest vibration to fall.”
“Missie seems very attentive toward Elizabeth,” Placenta said. “But what was that banshee scream from the kitchen?”
“And it was fun to meet Dana Pointer,” Tim said. “We had quite a chat—before she passed out. She wants to take over Hollywood.” He took his eyes off the road for a second and looked at his passengers in the rearview mirror.
“Now there’s a troublemaker,” Polly quickly added. “She came right out and said she was glad that Trixie Wilder was dead!”
“She’s a pit bull, alright,” Placenta said. “It doesn’t surprise me one bit that she and Sedra are so close. Birds of a feather.”
Their barbed comments began to overlap. “Perhaps Missie and Dana have bloodstained hands,” Polly said.
“Sees a shrink ’cause she hates her mother,” Placenta said.
“Mom’s on a ton of meds. The kitchen looks like Rush Limbaugh’s personal pharmacy,” Tim said.
Polly denounced Missie as a social climber, while Placenta dismissed Elizabeth’s near blindness as an attention grabber, and Tim expressed skepticism over Dana’s bluster that she had the power to have a role rewritten expressly for Sedra.
By the time they arrived back at Pepper Plantation, they were no longer tired. What they wanted to do was continue to tear apart the young people who were now running Hollywood, and to contemplate the fireworks that awaited the cast and crew on Monday when Dana Pointer, Missie Miller, and Sedra Stone showed up for work.
Chapter 8
Monday morning arrived with clear California skies, mild summer temperatures, and an ominous rumbling of the earth beneath the Detention Rules! film location at Gary High School in Santa Clarita, California. The good will and enthusiasm that had accompanied the cast and crew on their return to work was short-lived from the moment Sedra Stone’s hired stretch limo rolled into the parking lot and the diva emerged.
Behind dark sunglasses, and dressed in a suit of black, Sedra’s couture business attire seemed to broadcast her grim aura as she walked with an air of superiority toward the school’s gymnasium. As she reached for the door handle, however, Duane, the chubby, red cheeked and cheerful uniformed security guard, dutifully intercepted her and politely asked if he could be of service. A big mistake.
“You know how it is, ma’am,” Duane tried to joke. “Although I’ll bet that you’re probably a big, important, famous rich person, ’cause you sure look and act like it, if your name’s not on the list you’d have to prove to be the Virgin Mary before I could allow you onto a Dana Pointer film set.” He chuckled good-naturedly. His harmless form of levity usually disarmed even the most arrogant personal publicist or film producer. “It takes divine intervention from the omnipotent one herself to reach her inner sanctum.” He rolled his eyes as if to say, “Get her!”
Sedra removed her sunglasses and with a steely gaze instantly transformed Duane into a wiggly mold of Jell-O. “Sedra Stone hasn’t been a virgin since age ten,” she said with a tongue that had decapitated more heads than the French guillotine. “And the only Mary I see is you.”
Duane’s eyes watered and his cheeks turned a deeper shade of cherry. He had “issues” when it came to women—especially women who emasculated what little was left in his nearly depleted Y chromosome pool. Duane swiftly made a call to the production assistant. “Someone named Sedra Stone’s not on the list,” he panicked. After another ego-shredding attack from the PA, he added Sedra’s name to a column on his clipboard then groveled an exaggerated apology for not knowing who she was. He chased his servility with a silent wish that Sedra would be sucked into a black hole—along with the PA, his mother, his landlady, and every girl who never sat with him in the cafeteria in high school.
Sedra dismissed Duane without further acknowledgment of the fat boy’s existence, and entered the building.
Most people mask their insecurities when they begin a new job, and only reveal their true natures incrementally over time. Sedra, however, made it clear from the start that she didn’t give a damn whether anybody liked her or not. As far as she was concerned she was a star, and that meant behaving like royalty. With a bearing of entitlement, she stood just inside the gymnasium doorway expecting to be retrieved. And she was. Almost instantly another production assistant arrived and escorted her to a luxury dressing room trailer.
En route, Sedra reeled off a list of food items she wanted delivered to her, pronto: A case of Cristal, a platter of foie gras, and a box of Twinings peppermint teabags. “And a proper nameplate, for Pete’s sake,” Sedra said when they arrived at her Star Waggon and she ripped from the door a strip of masking tape with her name printed in black Sharpie.
&nbs
p; “The production wraps in five days, Miss Stone,” the unflappable and impossible to impress PA said. “You won’t be around long enough to enjoy the engraving.” The PA opened the door to Sedra’s trailer and stepped aside, allowing the star to enter first. She handed Sedra a folio containing the cell phone contact numbers for each of the cast and filmmakers. “In case you need to reach anyone,” the PA explained. “Someone will be along shortly to take you over to wardrobe. Oh, and there’s the laptop you requested,” she said, pointing to the latest model iMac notebook sitting on the coffee table. Then the PA left the trailer with a curt, “Ciao.”
Sedra removed her black suit jacket and laid it on the back of a chair. She settled in. Feeling quite satisfied with her life at the moment, she examined her accommodations and nodded approval at the accouterments: a flat-screen plasma television, video and DVD equipment, a stereo system, wet bar, microwave oven, and sleeper sofa. As she had only worked sporadically since the end of her television series, she was inwardly thrilled by the way she was being treated. She moved to the computer and pushed the power button. The tinny announcement sound that issued from the speakers reminded Sedra of a cyber orchestra tuning up before a concert. She then retrieved a floppy disk from within her purse and pushed it into the disk drive. She clicked on the disk icon and a document filled the screen. Sedra scrolled to the bottom and began to read aloud. Then she typed:
INTERIOR: DRESSING ROOM TRAILER ON MOTION PICTURE SET LOCATION.
Director Adam Berg, having heard about the old star’s grand entrance tantrum, decided it prudent to pay an early morning courtesy visit to Sedra. He would apologize for the mistake and any inconvenience the security guard may have caused her. Surely, he thought, this gesture would make an ally of the woman referred to as “The Tetanus of Television.”
