by R. T. Jordan
“Ouch!” Placenta said, holding her own nose.
“It didn’t go very deep. But if she bleeds while descending that ridiculously high staircase, you’ll know it’s not the altitude. And Mr. Ped-Xing needs to know that some people don’t want to see that every body part has the potential to be pierced.”
“I’m with Placenta,” Tim said. “Ouch, indeed! No piercing stories, please!”
Katie waved at Tim. “I only looked for a nanosecond. Yawn. Not terribly exciting. I need this job, so I’ll probably have to return to that den of insanity after all.” She turned to Polly and smiled. “Let’s get started. As I said, you’re stunning! I have just the thing for that gnarly mustache!”
The afternoon moved swiftly. Soon, Polly was escorted to the set and her seat at the judges’ desk, while Tim and Placenta were ushered to their reserved front row seats in the audience. Polly could feel the excitement coming from everywhere in the studio. The set reminded her of what she imagined the main deck on an alien spaceship would look like: a vast, open, oval, raked stage with an enormous and steep stairway leading down from a height just below the ceiling. Billows of smoke and fog issued from the top of the stairs.
Laser lights sliced through the air, scanning the audience, and splitting into green cones and blue tunnels and magenta fans. Eerie metallic music that sounded like anvils being struck by hammers echoed through the studio’s sound system.
As Polly took her seat, she nodded to Brian Smith and Thane Cornwall, who seemed to be enjoying the chaos. “The noise level is insane!” she shouted into Brian’s ear.
She studied the audience. Collectively, they looked like they’d all been bused in from the Snake Pit. The age spread appeared to be a slender sixteen to twenty-one. Polly suddenly realized that she wouldn’t be critiquing Julie Andrews or Johnny Mathis wannabes.
Instead, she would probably be witnessing some primordial toxic material that had evolved from the death of pop music in the 1970s. “Dear John Denver! Where are you when the world needs you?” Polly yelled, but her voice was drowned out by the commotion.
At exactly 5:55, a spotlight hit the stage, the music was muted, and the audience roared and pounded their feet on the floor. Steven Benjamin stood under the bright lights as a half dozen steadicam operators maneuvered around the stage and covered the audience. Overhead, three large cranes with cameras mounted on them glided through the air ready to capture every aspect of the event for the television-viewing audience.
At precisely six o’clock, the cheering from the audience became explosive, and Steven Benjamin lapped it up. His wide smile offered brilliant white teeth, and his hand seductively rubbed his two-day growth of beard. He welcomed the audience.
Not wanting to lose a moment of I’ll Do Anything to Become Famous airtime, he plunged into his rehearsed introductions.
Within five minutes, Steven Benjamin had explained the rules of the game, introduced the judges, and individually called to the stage the five contestants—who, one after another, cautiously descended the staircase. The crowd was eager for the entertainment to begin. And Steven was equally excited as he introduced Miranda Washington.
Miranda, a beautiful, young, African-American woman swathed in a chiffon dress of deep rose, with a ruffled neckline that exhibited her ample bust, walked down the stairway and smiled for the audience. She sang Road Kill. Although Polly had never heard the song, it was obvious from the ovation that not only was the audience familiar with the music, but it seemed to be an anthem of unrequited love.
Miranda’s voice was sensational. Polly was as impressed as the first time she heard Linda Ronstadt. By the end of her song, which suffered only from the repetition of the lyrics—”Road Kill! Road Kill! Tires down your front and rear. Road Kill! Road Kill! I still want you back, my dear”—Polly was again reminded of why she had never given contemporary music a fighting chance.
When the applause died down, Miranda took her bow and was escorted by Steven Benjamin to face the judges. “We’ll start with the legendary Polly Pepper.” He beamed as Polly wildly applauded Miranda and put her hands to her heart.
Polly smiled warmly. “Such a big voice and such a pretty young woman. I loved every moment of your charming performance. If I still had my old variety show, I’d have you on as a special guest! That’s how much I enjoyed your work, dear. I think you’re going to be a great big star! I’ll drink a toast to you after the show. I award you a hundred points!”
Miranda’s smile grew wider and she wiped away a tear. The audience completely agreed with Polly’s assessment.
Steven Benjamin turned to Brian Smith.
“Oh yeah, what a voice!” Smith said. “Everything about your performance was exceptional. Love the outfit! The glitter in your hair is divine! And it’s good to hear the old songs given a new interpretation!”
Old songs? Polly thought. I have the entire Rogers and Hart catalogue, Noel and Cole, too. “Road Kill” isn’t on any record I own.
“A hundred points from me, too!”
Again the audience roared with approval of Brian Smith’s comments and whooped it up in the stands. Steven Benjamin then brought Miranda to stand before Thane Cornwall.
Thane was poker faced. He sat with his arms folded across his chest and offered a loud sigh. “You’re very clever,” he said.
Miranda smiled with relief.
“Did you deliberately select a song for your debut that perfectly describes where your career is headed?” Thane asked.
Miranda cocked her head and knitted her eyebrows.
“I mean, your voice sounds like a seriously injured little forest creature that wandered onto the motorway only to be pulverized by an eighteen-wheeler,” Thane said.
Miranda rolled her eyes, set her jaw, and put her hands on her hips. “Anything else, Mr. Think-You’re-Such-a-Hotshot-With-A-Phony-English-Accent?”
“As for your lack of stage presence, you’re not even as interesting as the carpet under your feet. Zero points. Dismissed.”
The crowd booed Thane, while Miranda stared at him like a cobra at a mongoose. Steven Benjamin uncomfortably announced that the show would return after a series of commercials. As Miranda was escorted off stage and back to her dressing room, Polly and Brian looked at each other. Thane picked up a book he’d brought to the table and leaned back to read.
In a matter of minutes, Steven Benjamin was back before the cameras and welcoming the next performer. “He’s a hip-hop and rap master with as much star quality as you’ll find anywhere on the planet. Please welcome Ped-Xing!”
The audience was enthusiastic as a swarthy, barely out of his teens young man came out from the wings. Ped-Xing wore long black sideburns, a soul patch, fly fishing bait dangling from his earlobes, and a leather vest under which was nothing but muscles, more piercings, and a large tattoo of a NO PARKING sign over his ripped stomach. As his music began, Ped-Xing started to move with the rhythm, and strutted around the stage.
The audience felt the rhythm and could not help moving to the beat. Although Polly couldn’t understand the lyrics, she was enamored of the way he seemed to own the crowd. He was in command and one couldn’t take their eyes away from him. Sexy? Yes. Talented? Polly was a good judge of those who had something special, and although she wasn’t sure what Ped-Xing’s talent was, she was very much impressed with what she saw.
At the conclusion of Ped-Xing’s performance, Polly and Brian joined the audience in wild applause, while Thane sat with his arms crossed and his legs stretched out under the judge’s table. When the cameras were fixed on her, Polly exhibited genuine excitement. “You were absolutely marvelous, dear!” she exclaimed. “Your dancing reminds me of the brilliant Ken Berry’s or even Michael Jackson’s. And your confidence tells me that you’re a very secure young man. I suppose anyone with a body like yours would be confident, but I think you have something extra special. Even if you weren’t so sexy I’d give you high marks! One hundred points!”
Ped-Xing didn’t s
mile, but he nodded to Polly as if in agreement with her praise and the appropriateness of his score.
“Absolutely sexy!” Brian Smith echoed Polly’s observation. “Not only did you deliver a first-rate performance, but your No Parking sign tattoo should be your trademark. Bravo! Well done! One hundred points!”
Ped-Xing nodded and moved on to Thane Cornwall. For a long moment, Thane seemed to be examining his fingernails.
“What’s your problem, dude?” Ped-Xing said, which brought a wave of applause from the audience. That anyone would blithely take on the notorious Thane Cornwall, especially when it could make or break his career, was exciting.
Finally, Thane shrugged. “Now that you’ve finished your so-called performance, I haven’t got a problem. However, if, God forbid, you return for next week’s show, I’ll have a huge problem because you’re what we call a triple threat: can’t sing, can’t dance, can’t act. Even if you had just one of those attributes, you probably wouldn’t find work in this town. I don’t think you could even serve me in a restaurant. Pretty boys are a dime a dozen here. But I’ll give you ten points. The No Parking tattoo makes a perfect statement: that you’ll be towed away if you don’t soon move on to another career. Dismissed.”
As the evening continued, Polly and the world were introduced to three more contestants. Amy Stout was a Miley Cyrus clone. Danny Castillo was a third-rate Zac Efron, and Socorro Sanchez was Ugly Betty, without the braces. Polly Pepper and Brian Smith continued to give each contestant one hundred points, while Thane Cornwall gave the others withering looks, scores of zero, and the deafening pronouncement, “Dismissed!”
With only twenty minutes remaining in the debut broadcast of I’ll Do Anything to Become Famous, the five contenders for the most votes reassembled onstage for the interview phase of the program.
As the music became less intrusive, and the laser light show augmented the vibrations in the studio, Steven Benjamin explained the process of this portion of the contest. Each of the three judges would be assigned contestants to whom they would pose a question about the lengths one might hypothetically go to make it in Hollywood. The novelty of the answers would be rated not by the judges themselves, but by the television-viewing audience.
Steven Benjamin looked at Polly Pepper. “Ladies first.” He then opened a sealed envelope and read the name Amy Stout. “Polly. Please pose a question to lovely Amy.”
Although Polly was a nervous wreck, she’d had much practice emceeing charity auctions and benefits, which required her to quickly come up with funny lines when things went awry.
Now Polly called forth all of her talents for ad-libbing. She smiled at Amy. “Honey,” she said, “I know that stardom is the most important thing in the world. If I could wave a magic fairy wand and tell you that you could make your dream come true, but that you only had until midnight to accomplish your goal, what would you do?”
The laser lights scanned the crowd, as the background music started to sound like the film score from The Omen. Amy put a hand on her hips, shifted her weight to one leg, and tossed her long blond hair over her shoulder. With a voice that sounded as serious as a hooker making a deal with a U.S. senator, she said, “Lady, wave that wand and get me into the Golden Globes dinner. I’d spike every actor’s salad with a dressing laced with cyanide. I’d be the only one left for producers to cast in their movies.”
Polly was appalled, but the audience cheered. She wanted to scold Amy for thinking such perverse thoughts, but was cut off when Steven Benjamin drew another envelope.
“This one is for Danny Castillo. Go for it, Brian.”
Brian smiled and nodded to the young man whose singing talent wasn’t actually worth a hundred points score, but Brian hadn’t wanted to hurt his feelings. “Okay, you’ve just arrived in Hollywood. You’re broke. You wanna be a star. What will you do?”
Danny gave Brian a sly smile. “So, it’s like this. I get a job with a producer. I hear they’re all jerks who brutalize their assistants with a lot of yelling and screaming over stupid things like salt not being salty enough. So I take the abuse for a while. But as I’m being held responsible for his French fries not being French enough, or his toilet paper not soft enough, I’m secretly taping his phone calls and keeping track of all the personal stuff he or she is charging to whatever production they’re working on. When the time is right, I show him the evidence and demand to star in his next flick. He agrees because he doesn’t want the world to know that the guy who makes fuzzy family films is subhuman scum.”
Steven Benjamin nodded in agreement. “Ah yes! Nothing says Hollywood like blackmail and extortion!” He then opened a third envelope. “Thane, you get to see how far Miranda will go!”
Thane smiled evilly. “Hypothetically, you’ve been hanging around Hollywood for years. You’ve never achieved anything because you haven’t got an ounce of talent, and you have a reputation for a nasty disposition. Finally you’re packing your bags and heading back to Nowhere, U.S.A. But a friend tells you that an old director, some hideously ancient man who used to be important, will try to open doors for you in exchange for sleeping with him three times a week for a year. Would you trade sex for fame?”
“The barter system is as much a part of Hollywood as power lunches at The Ivy,” she snapped. “You should know that better than most. When a girl’s got these”— she put her hands on her breasts—”she can get a lot of old men to do nice things for her. There’s only one old man in town who I wouldn’t sleep with. His name is Thane Cornwall. I hear he’s a snore in bed.”
The audience roared with approval.
Steven Benjamin smiled. “Polly! It’s your turn again.” He opened another envelope and withdrew a card. “Socorro!”
Polly looked at the young Latina. “Complete this sentence. ‘I’ll Do Anything to Become Famous because—’ “
“Because fame equals money, and money can buy happiness,” Socorro quickly said. “When I win this competition, I’ll be able to buy my mama a big house.”
Polly’s heart melted. “I’m sure that your mama’s already very proud of you. And you’re right, money does buy happiness. I have a lot of both.”
With one contestant left to interview, Steven Benjamin called on Thane to pose a question to Ped-Xing.
Thane folded his arms across his chest and tilted his head from side to side, as if inspecting Ped-Xing. “This show is about doing some ultimate act in order to become famous. Since we, the judges, probably hold your fate in our hands, which of us would you kill to win the competition?”
A collective roar from the audience erupted. They exhibited the same lust for blood that made jousting tournaments popular during medieval times, or attracted huge crowds to gladiator fights in ancient Rome, and created a media frenzy over movie stars on trial for killing their spouses.
“Go on,” Thane baited Ped-Xing. “You can do it. And I think everybody here is confident about who you’d pick. And guess what, it would indeed make you famous.”
Ped-Xing stood facing Thane Cornwall, his upper lip twitching, his fists clenched at his side.
The judges, as well as the studio audience, held a collective breath. Finally, Ped-Xing spoke: “Polly Pepper.”
Chapter 4
When Polly’s Rolls-Royce drove up to her PP-monogrammed iron gates at Pepper Plantation, Detective Randy Archer was already in the cobblestone car park waiting for her. Rolling down to the front portico, Tim eased the car to a stop by the front steps. Randy opened the rear passenger door of her car and offered his hand, first to Polly, then to Placenta. “That hip-hop dweeb threatened to kill you!” he said as Polly stepped out of the car.
“Isn’t live television exciting?” Polly said as she gave Randy a quick kiss on the lips. “You’re a dear for tuning in. Ach! I’ve had threats before. Nell Carter said the same thing when I deservedly won the Emmy the year that our musical variety specials were both nominated. Nell, bless her departed soul, couldn’t face the fact that the Academy unanimously
selected my superior PP with Elton John, over her mediocre Heaven and Nell.”
Placenta said, “The important thing is that Polly was the top story on news radio all the way home!”
As Polly and her entourage entered the mansion, they automatically headed straight for the great room. “Bub bles and Brie please,” Polly called out as her maid raced ahead to pop a cork.
As they entered their main play area of the house, Polly continued. “Forget Ped-Xing. I’m much more miffed with Brian Smith. Who does that brownie-baking ex-Pip think he is, copying me! I signed on to be the nice judge! I gave each contestant the full one hundred points and cooed lovely lies about their half-assed performances. He copied me exactly.”
“Being nice got you insults and a death threat from a lunatic gangsta with so many body piercings, he’d never make it through any airport security,” Randy said as he settled himself comfortably on the sofa.
“Ped-Xing is just a young blowhard and braggart. Of course, with a body like his …” Polly stopped and looked at Tim. “Did you get any vibes, dear?”
“Um, no,” Tim said, helping himself to a glass of champagne, and trying to evade the ongoing issue of his mother always being on the lookout for someone who might take him away from her.
Polly cleared her throat. “As I started to say, with a body like his, and all the work that goes into crafting such a sculpture of flesh, he’s won bragging rights.”
Desperate to change the direction of the conversation, Tim picked up the television remote and turned on the wide-screen television. “Let’s see how Channel Four spins the story,” he said.
Everybody focused on the honey-blond female reporter who was holding a microphone to Ped-Xing’s face.
Polly said, “That little twerp is stealing my limelight! Channel Four didn’t ask me to do an interview!”
