P.J. Morse - Clancy Parker 02 - Exile on Slain Street

by P. J. Morse

  Harold leaned over my shoulder to read the missive. “Well, she’s not much of a poet, huh?” He sniffed the envelope and wrinkled his nose. “And she is heavily perfumed. Methinks you will find her by her eau de psycho.”

  “Who’s this guy?” Kevin asked, pointing at Harold.

  “Harold Cho. My landlord and spiritual advisor.”

  Kevin shook Harold’s hand. He was about a foot taller than Harold and three times as wide. Harold said, “Take good care of her, will you?”

  Kevin stepped back and looked from Harold to me. “He might be good on camera.”

  “Ooooh!” Harold clapped his hands.

  “Hold your horses, Harold,” Kevin told him. “I just know an interesting personality when I see one.”

  “You are not kidding,” I said.

  Kevin stroked his black goatee. “We haven’t gone after the over-60 demographic, but everyone loves a naughty elderly person. Look at Betty White! Cloris Leachman!”

  Harold asked Kevin, “Should I swap my AARP card for a SAG card?” Then the two nudged each other like old pals. Harold said, “Me and the Marquee Idols are betting on Andi for the runner-up and Lorelai for the win.”

  “What? Not Clancy for the win?” Kevin chuckled, but he looked at his cell phone.

  At that point, Harold’s face turned serious. “Just get her home safely.”

  “You got it, buddy,” Kevin said. “We’ll call you if we need you.”

  Kevin and I got in the car, and I saw Harold standing, waving and watching as the car took off. I waved back, turned to Kevin and explained, “Harold’s worried. Those drops on the bottom of your little purple letter look like blood. You sure you don’t want to bring in the cops? The real deal?”

  “And ruin the show? The network is heavily invested in this one, and it’s high-stakes for us. The crazy shit in this letter just confirms I was right to hire you.” Kevin started cutting through the city traffic toward the Golden Gate Bridge.

  “So, who is going to know about me?” I asked.

  Kevin said, “No one but me. You need anything, you tell me.”

  I asked, “But what if you’re not there?”

  Kevin had an answer for that. “If it’s an emergency, go to Wolf. Tell him what’s up, and he’ll help. You can’t miss him.”

  “Who’s Wolf?” I asked.

  “Patrick’s body man. His cousin.”

  “Oh!” I finally remembered Wolf from watching the first season of Atomic Love. He was indeed a body no viewer could miss. He was shaped roughly like a slab of beef, he had a short black faux-hawk, and he wore gigantic plugs in his earlobes. If Patrick was grunge, Wolf was punk. On the show, he had been presented as a combination of a bodyguard and philosopher, like Henry Rollins, only Wolf was more caffeinated and didn’t make as much sense. I was worried I couldn’t speak his language, which appeared to be Zen. “How’s Wolf going to know I need help if you’re the only one who knows who I really am?”

  “All you have to do is say the word ‘Sean,’ and he’ll get me. That was our panic word last season. Wolf will be a big help to you. He spends much of his time making sure the ladies don’t kill each other.”

  “Has that been a problem?” I asked, cracking the window slightly. I could still smell what Harold called the “eau de psycho” from the stalker’s letter, and I thought that the scent smelled like one of those floral, drugstore-knockoff perfumes that preteen girls tend to wear.

  Kevin shrugged. “We’ve had a couple of lawsuits in our time… other than one settlement, we beat ‘em all.”

  “What about rest of the crew? Shouldn’t they know about me?”

  Kevin twitched the wheel slightly, almost scraping a MUNI bus going parallel to him on Van Ness. “No. Some of the crew… I don’t trust them. A few of them just want to trash the show. You’ll probably get an earful of this — the crew wants a raise. They have a low pain tolerance.”

  “For what?”

  Kevin shrugged. “Long hours. But it’s television. You wanna succeed, you better make it your life.”

  “Reality television makes a lot of money,” I said. I didn’t add that the crew probably just wanted a fair cut. The only people on reality television who made money were the networks, the producers, and the rare individual who somehow broke into a legitimate career or married a famous person. The existence of a single success story was enough to give all the other contestants hope.

  Kevin wasn’t showing any sympathy for those who worked for him, and his anger accelerated along with the car. “Blah, blah. A gig on Atomic Love is a starter job. Either you work your way up, or you go back home and make movies in mama’s backyard. I started on a show where we shot in the Amazon. Every day, the heat, the sweat, the bugs. I shot footage until I could not walk. They hospitalized me for dehydration. And these guys work in a mansion full of food and hot women, and they bitch?”

  After that rant, he changed the subject. “So, what’s your cover?”

  “I’m from Patrick’s hometown, Gardenia,” I replied.

  “That’s cute. Patrick will like that. Make it more of a reason we picked you.”

  “Exactly.” Since Muriel was from Gardenia, it made perfect sense to borrow her life. And, the more I thought about it, the more I thought Muriel should have been on the show, not me. Even if she didn’t know Patrick personally, she absorbed whatever rock ‘n’ roll spirit Gardenia had left over once the Nuclear Kings left.

  When I told Muriel I was planning on stealing her past and asked her what Gardenia was like, she laughed. “That’s a genius choice, Clance. Gardenia is like all the other small towns in California — Fresno, Stockton, Bakersfield. Smaller, even. And the Salton Sea, so you gotta talk about the smell. And how awesome Sonny Bono was when he was their representative. My family loves Sonny Bono. Oh, and the Kovacs Tanning Salon and Video Rental. Mention that, if you can. My parents still own that.”

  “Kovacs Tanning Salon and Video Rental? I didn’t know you could mix the two. Is that even legal?” I asked.

  “They sold popcorn, too. They looked at what the town needed, and they provided. Patrick Price rented videos from there, I swear. He came in once when I was working the counter. Wow. Hotness. I gave him a free box of popcorn, and he blew me a kiss.”

  I laughed at the idea of Muriel leering at Patrick and told Kevin, “I’ve done my research. My bassist is actually from Gardenia.”

  He nodded. “I am already thinking of ways to reach the nostalgia angle. This will fit into the story arc nicely.” He smiled, and I bet that he was fantasizing about manipulating footage in the editing room.

  Chapter Five:

  Hair and Makeup

  We drove over the Golden Gate Bridge and past Sausalito, eventually pulling into the parking lot of a Travelodge off the 101 in Mill Valley, which was evidence of the show’s shoestring budget. Kevin circled around until he found a space in a distant corner. Then he went all CIA on me, leaping out of the car and telling me to run to the door of room 112. He kept up with me, moving with a surprising amount of grace for such a big guy. Then he unlocked the door and shooed me inside.

  Once we were in the cool of the room, I tried to open a window because the room smelled moldy, but Kevin jerked the curtains closed. He started pacing and shaking out his hands. “OK. OK. Gotta call Hair. Gotta call Sound. Gotta call Legal.” He then turned to look at me. “You ready? You on? What’s your name?”

  I flipped an imaginary switch. “Katherine.” That was my first name, Clancy being my middle name, and a protection in the off chance that anyone besides Kevin had ever heard of the Marquee Idols.

  “Where are you from?” he asked.

  “Gardenia.”

  “Who do you go to when you have an emergency, and what do you do?”

  “Wolf. I say the magic word ‘Sean.’”

  “Good. Good. Be safe, and we’ll talk.” He slipped out the door.

  About five minutes later, someone rapped on the door. I opened it to a tall, ski
nny guy with a large nose, a mopey face and a budding mullet. “You Katherine?”

  “Yeah,” I said.

  “Well, don’t look so scared.” He had a paper grocery bag, and he looked at a clipboard. “Katherine? From Gardenia?”

  “Yes,” I replied. I had already practiced answering to “Katherine,” which was easy since it was my given name, but I finally realized how difficult it would be to maintain a cover when cameras would be on me every moment.

  “So, I’m Greg, and I’m the head of production. I need your cell phone, planners, headphones, the works.” He threw the paper bag on the bed and made a move to go through my duffel.

  “Hold up. I want to search my own bag.” I stepped in front of him and started looking for the offending items myself. I pulled a book out of the way so I could give him my headphones.

  “Is that a book?” Greg asked, horrified. “You gotta give me that.” He immediately reached for it.

  “What? No.” I held the book out of his grasp. I expected him to take some of my things, but not the book. Harold gave me his copy of Pynchon’s Mason & Dixon and said it would fill up my time “in admirable fashion,” as he put it. “I want to keep my book, at least tonight,” I said.

  “No. Because I won’t remember to get it in the morning, and if the other women find out you got to keep a book — total shitstorm! Give it to me.”

  Reluctantly, I handed him my book. Greg held it out, looked at it as if it were radioactive, and peppered me with questions. “You were planning on reading this? Someone here reads? A book this thick? How the hell did you get cast? Did they tell you this was ‘Reading Rainbow’? Did you think Patrick was LeVar Burton?”He took the book and lifted it up and down a few times, as if he were pumping iron. If Harold had seen that, he would have been pissed.

  “Well, what am I going to do when we aren’t shooting?” I asked.

  Despite his sad-puppy face, Greg grinned. “You really are from Gardenia! We’re shooting all the time. Every second. How exciting would it be if we filmed you reading this book?”

  I had to agree, unless the audience had a high proportion of librarians and grad students in its demographic. “Okay. You have a point. But what do we do when there aren’t challenges?”

  Greg cracked up. “You’re too much! Don’t take it personally, but you are not going to get very far. Listen, when there aren’t challenges or you aren’t trying to make out with Patrick, you drink. And, if you don’t like that, there’s always the stripper pole.”

  “Stripper pole,” I repeated quietly. If novels were foreign to Greg, then stripper poles were even stranger to me. I wondered what my parents would think of me spinning around a stripper pole on basic cable television.

  Greg placed his hand on my shoulder in an awkward attempt to soothe me. “Don’t worry. If you make friends, the others will teach you. Everyone who lasts a few weeks leaves the house schooled in Stripper 101. Just be sure to do some stretches tonight, and you’ll be fine.”

  Now I realized why people quickly became ridiculous on reality shows. They took away our hobbies and everything that made us distinct until we were blank canvases who didn’t have anything else to do but drink, fight and strip.

  Once Greg took my book, I gave up and let him start digging in the duffel. He filled up his paper bag with all my contraband, which also included a magazine, a canned soda that he referred to as “off-brand” and a pair of flannel pajamas that he deemed “totally unsexy.” I had already given Kevin my cell phone so the production crew wouldn’t snoop in it, and I was glad I did so because Greg was like a bloodhound.

  As he walked toward the door, he said, “If you’re into the whole media thing, I strongly suggest that you get your fill of television tonight because there won’t be any more once you make it into the house.”

  “So, being on television means we can’t watch it anymore? That’s weird,” I joked.

  Greg looked at me sideways. “How the hell did you get cast again? Did anyone tell you what you’re getting into?”

  I made my eyes go blank. Pretending to be Katherine from Gardenia, the not-too-bright Atomic Love 2 contestant with a raging crush on Patrick Price, was going to be harder than I thought. I sighed. “I’m just going to miss watching Letterman.”

  What I said hit the spot, and Greg smiled. “Don’t worry. You’re going to be seeing yourself on TV soon enough.” I thought I heard him laughing as he walked out the door.

  Chapter Six:

  Supporting Actresses

  In the morning, I received an automated wakeup call from the Travelodge. I started psyching myself up to be Katherine by teasing my hair like it had never been teased before. Once it looked like a red Chihuahua was sitting on top of my head, I thought I achieved the right style.

  Someone banged on the door, and I heard Greg’s voice. “I’m rounding everyone up,” he yelled. Once I opened the door, he took a look at my hair and poked at the pouf I had created. Apparently it wasn’t high enough for him. “Do they not have hairspray in Gardenia? Eh. I’ll have somebody work on it when we get to the mansion. Now, we’re going to have a car up here in five minutes. Look for the black Cadillac. We drive each of you separately to the house, and then you…” he snickered “… mingle. OK?”

  I nodded. “Got any hairspray?” I asked.

  “Hairspray. Tampons. Condoms. You name it. I have no pride.” He reached into his satchel and pulled out an aerosol can of Aqua-Net.

  Since I was all packed, I spent my five minutes trying to spray my teased hair into place, but I wasn’t getting any of the Brigitte Bardot effect that I assumed Greg was looking for. I looked a little like myself, but with a showgirl twist.

  I heard the rumbling of the car, followed by a honk. The Cadillac rolled in front of my door. A middle-aged driver who resembled a black Santa Claus, complete with a round tummy and a white beard, took my bags and threw them into the Cadillac’s trunk. Once we got in the car, I realized that I had no idea where we were going until he started driving along the water, past Tiburon and toward Belvedere, where the neighborhood was elite and the houses were spectacular.

  “We’re going to Belvedere?” I asked.

  “Oh, you know it? Yeah. It’s the real high life there, except for the cameras. And the liquor,” he said. Then he paused. “And the throw-up. I don’t like that at all.”

  “Let me guess. Did you do this last season?”

  The driver laughed. “I did. My employees help drive the women up to the house. And then I’m the one who drives them home when… well… you know…”

  “They get eliminated?”

  “Yes. That’s the bad part. Some of them cry, some of them drink, some of them speak in tongues. One of them kicked out the rear window last time. They had to pay my company extra for that!”

  “I promise I won’t kick out your window,” I said, raising my hands in the air.

  “You’re the first woman to make that promise. What’s your name?” He looked at me through the rear mirror. He had the eyes of a guy who had probably seen a few too many shenanigans in his back seat.

  “Katherine.”

  “I’m Fred.”

  “So, Fred, what’s Patrick like?”

  “A limo driver never tells.” Fred laughed. Then he proceeded to tell. “He’s a sucker for the ladies. But he’s a good guy. He means well, or at least as well as a guy can when he’s thinking with his… uh… He’s smooth. You ladies, you all tell me how smooth he is. I could learn from him. He just blinks those baby blues, and you all fall like dominos.” He took his right hand off the wheel and made a sweeping gesture.

  I giggled and asked, “Do you think I’m his type?”

  Fred paused. “All of them are Patrick’s type. Good thing you ladies are tested for VD.” He then realized he had been too honest. “I’m sorry!”

  I tried not to laugh. “It’s okay. Thanks for sharing. It’s good to know what to expect.”

  “Look, Patrick will probably break your heart, but i
t’s TV, so everyone gets over it if it’s on TV, right? If I were you, I would worry about some of the crew and some of the women. I’m not as thrilled about them.” He paused like he was getting in a good eye-roll.

  “Why?” I tried to ask it like I really was a little girl from the country, and Fred was clearly having fun dishing about the show.

  “Well, one thing I learned from last season is that some people will do anything to be on camera, and the crew pretty much lets them do anything to be on camera. If it can be done legally on camera, it will be done upside down and backwards. You seem real young, so I’ll say this to you. Before you drink, ask yourself if your parents are watching and ask yourself if what you are about to do will embarrass them, okay?” Then he wagged his finger.

  Then Fred turned off the 131 and drove along Beach Road until we reached the part of Belvedere with the best views. I instinctively leaned up against the window. If I could escape the house and the cameras, maybe I could catch a few sunsets over the Golden Gate Bridge.

  We went higher up in the hills, where the homes became more and more isolated. Fred pulled up in front of a set of red brick stairs. I saw people dressed all in black carrying equipment up and down the stairs. One person stood out among these ants, a woman with jet-black hair and a tight denim mini-dress lugging a red suitcase. Cookie from Houston. It was hard to miss that hair, which was so long that it hung down to her waist.

  “I’m sorry, but the main driveway is full of the crew’s equipment, so I can’t take you to the door. But, up the stairs is your destination. Good luck.” We stepped out, and he handed me my duffel and winked.

  Then I was on my own, with only Kevin as my connection and the magic word “Sean” at the back of my throat.

  I heard Greg yell “Cookie!” as soon as she reached the top of the stairs. She took a path to the left along the back of the house. When she turned, I could see that she had teased and sprayed the front of her hair even higher than mine.

  Greg was stationed behind the house, along with a crew of minions, all of whom were hard to tell apart since they were in the same black outfits as the people working on the stairs. “Hey, Katherine! You c’mere, too! Time to mic up!”