I know you ain’t about to stand there and let that white girl get away with spittin’ on you. You forgettin’ what Grandma Jones told you ’bout her great-grandmother havin’ her bottom lip pinned to her shirt for lookin’ up at some so-called mistress of the Big House and how ’bout the time . . .
I glared at Emmy, who was obviously delighted by her little stunt, and slowly unclipped my earrings.
“What are you doing, you freak?” she nervously asked backing up. “Nobody likes you here, you know. I personally hate you.”
I said nothing as I stalked her every step, kicking off my lava lamp Lucite heels.
“What’s going on that’s got you watching the show?” Randall asked his wife as he emerged from her bathroom zipping up his pants.
“I think your crazy plan finally worked. Take a look at the monitor,” she responded. “Calysta just took off her earrings and her pumps. What do you think that means?”
“Oh shit,” said Wilson Turner, still in his preacher’s robe. He knew all too well what it meant when a black woman took off her hoops and heels.
“What do you think you’re gonna do?” Emmy asked snidely.
“This,” I replied, rocking back on my haunches, balling up my fist, and punching her in the face.
“Oh my gawd! She hit me!”
Before a stunned Emmy could get away, I grabbed the back of her bleached hair, spun her around, and slapped the taste of today out of her mouth and into tomorrow, wrapping my fingers around her neck.
“Help . . . Phillip, Randall . . . ! Calysta’s trying to kill me!”
Phillip, coward that he was, scurried off-set the moment his name was mentioned.
Emmy struggled to grab my do but couldn’t get a grip thanks to my Inglewood glam squad; they’d sealed it to last for at least a week with the new and improved Stay-Forever platform hair lacquer hair spray.
“Ohmagod,” Alison cheered, singing, “Calysta’s snaa-apped, Calysta’s snaa-apped!”
“Emmy!” Randall exclaimed, rushing out the door for the set.
“Wait, where are you going? Let’s watch this catfight together,” Alison said suggestively, disrobing again.
“I better break it up before someone gets hurt.”
Attempting to rescue Emmy, Randall and Ethan were soon dragged down into a pile of crinoline and triple-tiered butter crème frosting. The bottom two layers were Styrofoam.
Taking an enormous fistful of cake, I stuffed it into Emmy’s mouth, saying, “Here, bitch, how’s that for improvising? Try to spit that out at me.”
“That’s enough,” Randall said, pulling me off and tossing me to the side.
“Oh my gawd, your face!” he said in horror. Declawed, Emmy was cowering on the floor in the fetal position, smeared head to toe with icing.
“Someone call an ambulance!” Randall ordered.
“I’m bleeeeeeeeding, Snuggle Bunny. Calysta tried to kill me.”
“It’s going to be all right,” he assured her. “Ethan, carry her over to the couch.”
“Snuggle Bunny?” Alison asked herself as she continued watching the fiasco from her monitor.
* * *
“Randall sure was willing to go out there and risk a clawing to protect that tramp Emmy,” Edith cackled to Auggie Jr., who was sitting in her office. “I wonder if he would’ve been so ready to respond if his wife were the one out there being mauled? In a small way, I kinda feel sorry for her.”
“Yeah. I gotta real big lump in my throat,” Auggie said sarcastically. “Who cares? They’re all idiots.” He yawned.
“I’ve already called Calysta’s rep,” Edith said with an evil grin.
“Who can we axe next?” a salivating Auggie asked. “Let’s rake out all the riffraff, except for Shannen, I like her.”
“The highest paid, of course, or cut the bubblers’ salary down by half.”
“Can we do that?”
“Where else are they going to go?”
“Way cool!”
“By the way, your sister was on the set yesterday asking a lot of questions, which I found odd.”
“Aw, she’s just getting antsy ’cause she’s worried about Dad. Don’t worry. I know how to handle Veronica.”
From her dressing room, Alison could tell by the look of compassion her husband had on his face for Emmy that it was more than a producer/actor relationship. She had seen that look too many times before.
Edith isn’t the one Randall is having an affair with, it’s that tramp Emmy, Alison thought.
Back on set Randall declared, “Calysta, your behavior is outrageous.”
“My behavior? That heifer called me a nigga’ and spat on me.”
“What I saw was an actress trying to enhance a scene before you viciously attacked her. I’m sure Edith’s already called your rep. Clear out your dressing room and get off the WBC premises immediately! You’re done here, Calysta.”
“What are you talking about? You ain’t got no power.” I dismissed him, smoothing my wedding dress and slipping my heels back on. “Fight or no fight, one monkey don’t stop the show. I still have two more scenes to do and after that? Trust, I’ll be more than happy to get up outta here. That bitch,” I said, pointing at Emmy, “is just a scratch in the groove.”
“You won’t be taping those scenes,” Randall said confidently as he rocked Emmy in his arms. She was still trembling like a wet cat. “We want you off this set and off the WBC lot at once or we’ll have WBC security throw you off!”
“That won’t be necessary,” I replied.
The sick smile forming on Emmy’s malevolent face read, Mission accomplished.
As I stormed off the set for what was likely the last time, the cast and crew stared. A grip pulling cable said, “Hang in there, Calysta, you deserve better.”
Out the sides of their mouths, the cameramen growled. “Nice left hook.”
“Yeah, you gave her one for a lot of us.”
“Thanks guys.”
They’d been promised a show and I’d more than delivered one, fifteen years in the making.
Meanwhile, Edith, in her office, urgently texted Randall:
“Brilliant! Emmy just earned herself another Sudsy! Destroy all tape w/her spitting ASAP. Have her loop any dialogue we lose. Use Calysta’s pitiful reaction as the tag. Remember divided we fail. And good work making Calysta redo her scene from last wk. You wore that loudmouth down to pulp. Have to say, the original was friggin amazing. Too bad the fans will never see it.”
A memo was already taped to my dressing room door when I reached it.
VACATE AT ONCE!
YOUR SERVICES ARE NO LONGER NEEDED ON
THE RICH AND THE RUTHLESS.
Edith Norman,
Sr. VP of Daytime Programming
I ripped it off, slammed the door, and slid to the carpet; tears of pent-up frustration and bittersweet victory streamed down my face.
Needing a friend, I dialed Derrick.
“Yo, sexy, wassup?”
“Everything’s a mess. I finally beat that bitch up.”
“Which one?”
“Emmy.”
“Listen, babe, sometimes you think things are bein’ done to ya when they’re bein’ done for ya. Try to look at this as an opportunity to spread them lovely velvet wings of yours and fly. Remember what you told me your Grandma Jones said when I was rasslin’ with them fools when they didn’t wanna pay me right? ‘There ain’t no testimony without a test.’”
“I remember.”
“Now get ready, I’m on my way. And don’t worry ’bout your car either, we’ll get it tomorrow. I’m gonna scoop you up and we’re gonna talk about your future over some Slippery Shrimp at Yang Chow’s and put a smile on that pretty face, and then I’m gonna take you over to Club Seven-forty.”
The first time Derrick took me to Club 740 I’d had no idea where I was going.
“Sit back and relax, I’ve got a surprise for ya,” he’d said.
Driving down a gritt
y street peppered with food vendors and crackheads inhabiting cardboard boxes, we pulled up to a valet sign, a splashy “Seven Forty” painted on the façade of the building.
“Good evening, Mr. Taylor.” The brawny bouncer greeted us as we glided through the red velvet stanchions, past the rowdy snaking line of partygoers waiting to get in.
Once Derrick and I were through the door we never stopped drinking or dancing to the pounding hip-hop beat of Bobby Valentino. Derrick was the type that always attracted a crowd, whipping off his shirt, driving everybody wild, and I mean everybody, before going into his freestyle; so smooth, graceful even. The only problem was, some diva who was done, done, done, and on the fringe pressed up against my man and I had to tell Miss Thang to back it up.
Batting her lashes, she asked, “Aren’t you Ruby Stargazer?”
Hearing her baritone, I asked, “But I thought you were a . . . ?”
“No, diva, I’m a boy, but tonight I’m a girl just like you. I ain’t after your man, all I wanna do is dance. So do you think we can share and get this party started?”
Grandma Jones was right, I thought, coming out of the memory. Only freaks and strange folk wanted to be on stage and TV.
I was finally free of The Rich and the Ruthless. Not that I knew exactly what that meant. But as sure as the sirens I heard in the background, the second act of my life and career had to get better.
SIX MONTHS LATER
BLIND ITEM: Which daytime exec and her partner-in-crime executive producer are set to do the unthinkable, recasting one of their most beloved heroines? When the daytime diva who created the legendary role first announced she was leaving the soap, they both swore a recast was absurd. Apparently slumping ratings, a financial tsunami, and a disgruntled leading man sick of being paired with reality-show rejects has them thinking otherwise. Will this soap actually be stupid enough to go there? Talk about jumping the shark! Keep checking back for more updates at SecretsofaSoapOperaDiva.com!
The Diva
CHAPTER 22
Girl, When You Coming
Back to the Stories?
Whoever came up with the advice “Never go to the grocery store hungry” was a smart, smart man. Wait a minute, who am I kidding? It had to have been a woman. Guys don’t worry about tracking calories or counting carbs. A heavyset man could still land a hot girlfriend or wife. If you don’t believe me just look at every network sitcom green-lit since 1998. Scarfing down three monster burgers in a sitting, dudes have no problem burning it all off with an afternoon game of golf and a secret rendezvous in the rough.
Meanwhile, it took me Pritikin, The Hollywood Diet, and most effective The Eleven-Day Lemon-Cayenne-Pepper-Garlic-Honey Cleanse/Fast, plus three full decathlon sessions with Anvar, my demanding Swedish trainer, to work off just one extra piece of Sweet Lady Jane chocolate cake at my friend Bill’s baby shower.
I reluctantly put down the pint of ice cream I’d been contemplating and guided my shopping cart, which I clearly didn’t need, in the direction of the produce section to the piped-in elevator music. If I was ever going to fit into the size-four Carolina Herrera gown I’d been eyeing for the premiere of Jamie and Brad’s new movie—I’d gone up two sizes since leaving the soap—I’d better leave the sweets alone and stick to organic fruits and veggies.
I’d stopped off at Whole Foods to pick up a few things on the way to Ivy’s lacrosse game. The plan was get in and get out before heading to my daughter’s elite private school in Santa Monica.
Pushing my cart up to a towering Red Blush grapefruit display, I began the ritual Grandma Jones had taught me. First, I squeezed the succulent orb, scrutinizing its skin for the right color and texture, finally inhaling it to detect any whiff of decay. This might seem over-the-top for the purchase of a simple grapefruit, but honey, if this was all you were gonna eat all day you’d make your pamplemousse your best meal too.
Out of the corner of my eye, I saw a pleasant-looking black woman staring at me from her motorized shopping cart. Her hair was styled in a lacquered French twist with a swoop. She was wearing a peach St. John knit pantsuit with fringed cuffs and matching pumps.
Realizing I’d caught her staring, she quickly looked away, only to resume a few seconds later.
I glided over to the blueberries and pomegranates. Been consuming way too much sugar and was desperate for antioxidants.
“Excuse me?” came a voice from behind.
I turned to find the same woman, close enough to warrant breaking out the keychain pepper spray Derrick had given me.
“Yes?” I asked looking down at her, knowing full well what would follow.
“Aren’t you . . .”
Here it comes, I thought, smiling.
“No”—the woman changed her mind—“it can’t be. You look so much darker on the stories and thicker too. Besides, Ruby Stargazer would never be doin’ her own shoppin’.”
“It’s me,” I confirmed, putting the woman out of her misery.
“Lord have mercy, Ruby it is you,” the woman exclaimed, grabbing her heart-shaped mocha brown face in her hands.
“Yep.”
“Ruby Stargazer,” the woman gushed. “You’re my biggest fan.” A few shoppers began to stare at the spectacle.
“Come again?”
“I mean I’m your biggest fan,” the woman corrected. “I just love you on The Rich and the Ruthless.”
“Why thank you.”
“Girl, when you coming back to the stories? It just ain’t the same without you. You know you represent.”
There it was, the question that had followed me everywhere I went since my character Ruby Stargazer slipped off the honeymoon yacht and descended to her watery grave six months earlier.
When those fools on R&R learn how to treat people, I wanted to respond, but decided against it. I didn’t want to ruin the fan’s moment.
“I’m not sure,” I demurred. “No one on R&R has thrown Ruby a life preserver yet.”
“Makes no sense to me and my sisters.” The woman sighed, furrowing her eyebrows and sucking her back teeth. “T’h, you were the only reason we watched The Rich and the Ruthless. Cried like a baby when you fell off that boat. Shoot, it was bad enough when they replaced Dove Jordan with that other actor, but when they tried to replace you, I just about had a fit. Said that’s enough and went back to watching that other story. You know, the one with Angie and Jesse.”
“Love them,” I replied.
“Mmm-hmmm, yeah, they brought ’em back after twenty years, chile. You know Jesse died on-screen in Angie’s arms and we all saw the body. They haven’t found yours yet.”
“They haven’t?” I asked, playing along. I was well aware that Ruby Stargazer’s final scenes were played out by a last-minute recast from some reality show and Ruby was only presumed dead.
“Nope, we all believe you’ve dog-paddled your way back to land, rescued by a rare tribe that’s crowned you their African queen.”
“Wow, that’s good. Have you ever considered writing? We could use you.”
The fan bashfully smiled saying, “No. I’m just a receptionist and catch the stories on my lunch break.”
During my tenure on R&R, I rarely watched the air shows, reason being it drove me crazy seeing boom shots, entire walls reverberating when a door shut, or worse, Emmy Abernathy’s eyes frantically reading off cue cards. Since I’d sped off the WBC lot for the last time, especially since Phillip and Emmy threatened to leave the show if I returned, R&R had a Season Pass on my TiVo. I had become obsessed with knowing what Edith and Randall planned to do with my character.
“Wow, wouldn’t that be something if Ruby was still out there,” I said. “Well, it was nice meeting you . . .”
“Now Ruby, they did find traces of your DNA on a track from your weave off the coast of them Seychelles Islands where you and Dove went on your honeymoon.”
I grimaced. That asinine excuse for a plot point had been Felicia’s vicious way of still punishing me.
&nb
sp; “Listen,” I began, “I’d love to talk to you some more . . . what did you say your name was?”
“Etta. Etta Jean Paisley,” she proudly said, extending her hand.
“Nice to meet you, Etta,” I replied, taking it.
“The pleasure’s been all mine. Wait till I tell my sisters an’ ’em that I met Ruby Stargazer in the supermarket.”
“You do that, Etta. So long,” I said, waving as I slowly walked backward, building distance.
“Wait, Ruby!” Etta vroomed forward toward the Chiquita display. “Before you go, could you do me a big favor?”
“What’s that?”
“Would you sign a few autographs for me?”
“Uh, sure, but I don’t have anything to write with.”
“That’s okay; here you go.” Etta Jean whipped out a pen, handing it up to me along with a grocery pad that had been resting beside coupons in the basket attached to her cart.
“Who should I make this out to?”
“First one’s to Apollinaire,” she instructed. “She’s my oldest sister who lives out in St. Louis, never misses an episode. Oh, and can you add ‘Your sister Etta Jean is amazing’?”
To Apollinaire,
Thanks for watching The Rich and the Ruthless . . . Etta Jean is amazing!
Blessings,
Calysta Jeffries
“Here you go. Who’s next?”
“Oh . . .” Etta paused, scrunching her face in disappointment.
“Is something wrong?”
“I was just wondering . . .”
“Wondering what?”
“Could you sign them as Ruby Stargazer?”
No matter what else I did in my career, Ruby Stargazer would always be more famous than Calysta Jeffries or any other role I played.
Always grateful to a fan, I rewrote the autograph to Etta’s sister Apollinaire in St. Louis, and one to Lovey in El Dorado, Arkansas, to her specifications. Then Etta called her mother, Metra, holding her cell phone to my ear so I could say hello while finishing the final autograph to Etta herself, all signed, “Ruby Stargazer.”
Secrets of a Soap Opera Diva Page 13
