Soap Opera Slaughters

by Marvin Kaye

  I pulled off Township Line and headed south towards Garrett. Traffic was unusually heavy for a suburban Sunday. I had the ominous impression that most of it was headed exactly where I wanted to go.

  I was right. A block away from the main parking lot entrance, the line of autos came to a bumper-to-bumper standstill. It took a good ten minutes to inch close enough to see the actual turnoff. The holdup was chiefly caused by a few inept lot attendants trying to direct the arriving vehicles to the rapidly disappearing spaces within.

  I managed to make it inside, though not many behind me did. I found a space in the last, furthest row from the long, low line of the exterior mall. Switching off the ignition, I locked up, got out and set off for the main entrance.

  It was a warm afternoon, with a sky the color of the water of Provincetown. The clouds were shy and scant, and the sun gloried in puckering up my eyes against its glare.

  As I drew closer to the quarter-mile-long main el of the complex, I realized that, despite the crowd, I was in a much better mood, partly because I was doing something instead of sitting at home staring at the calcimine, partly because the clement weather brightened me. But mainly because I enjoy visiting shopping centers, department stores, supermarkets—they evoke in me that sense of Carnival which is an apt metaphor for America itself, glamorous and tawdry and wonderful. Even roadside Howard Johnsons charm me with their vulgar array of coin machines that I can never pass without dropping in a quarter just to witness the mechanical mysteries of some worthless trinket’s chuted delivery.

  In the parking lot, adults and children of all ages streamed towards the mall’s main entrance, bottlenecking before its thick Lucite portals like dreamers asked to choose between the Gates of Ivory or Horn. Their eager shining faces were mostly Caucasian, but with a generous sprinkling of other ethnic groups. Some talked and laughed, but mostly it was a curiously quiet crowd, tense with a charged anticipation that was palpable in the air of early afternoon.

  When still some distance from the entry, I observed a riptide of countermovement about twenty feet to my right An eddy of autograph-seekers waving papers, books, pens and pencils converged on a young blonde vainly attempting to push through the knot of people.

  My breath caught. I immediately recognized Lara Wells’ silky hair, tied severely back, her trim figure, her lustrous blue eyes. But how in hell could Security permit her to walk unescorted across a thronged parking lot? It was madness. The fans would strip and smother her in the name of adulation.

  I white-knighted to her side, elbowing, sidling, shoving and trampling, skipping sidesaddle. Her distressed voice wailed above the crowd’s gabble. Middle-aged women shook crimson-leather autograph books in her ; hands dipped into Lara’s purse and the dossier she carried beneath one arm, emerging with photographs, lipstick, rouge, even wadded tissues. A teenager with acne used the press of the mob as an excuse to familiarize himself with her contours. She huddled in a defenseless ball, her eyes wide with panic.

  Muscling in next to her, managing to accidentally on purpose knock aside the kid and a few of the more rabid souvenir seekers, I shouted for her to stay close, I was going to help her break through.

  Gratefully, she turned to acknowledge the aid. Then her eyes widened, and so did mine.

  “Gene!” Hilary exclaimed, throwing her arms around my neck.

  Every action has an equal and opposite reaction, and Hilary was running true to form. Yes, she thanked me for the cosmetics I purchased to replace what her “fans” filched. But it bothered her that I knew all her brands and shades.

  We sat across the table from one another exchanging cool trivialities while elsewhere in the mall’s third-floor press room half a dozen daytime celebrities told polite fictions to journalists. The first “star show” was scheduled for 1 P.M., the second at four. Because Lara Wells was in the early lineup, she was downstairs getting ready and I had not yet set eyes on her.

  The large, chilly room was filled with white linen-covered round tables that bore small bowls of potato chips, popcorn, pretzels and peanuts. A much-frequented bar was stocked with all the basics. Against one wall was a long banquet table laden with great trays of cold cuts, naked shrimp ringing reservoirs of cocktail sauce, cherry tomatoes and celery stalks and stuffed olives, wilted lettuce beds cradling diced fruit assortments, here and there a crabapple included for shape and color. But one of them graced the platter I brought to Hilary.

  As I glanced across the table at her, I marveled at how much lovelier she was in person than memory painted her, even though my recollection kept her likeness in cameo. Her light golden hair shone with dazzling highlights and her blue eyes seemed to hint at things her lips refused to utter.

  Earlier, Lara herself loaned Hilary a pair of slacks and appropriate blouse to replace the dress that the mob rumpled and ripped. Meanwhile, I shopped in a variety store downstairs and found the irritating cosmetics.

  Hilary was determined to minimize my rescue. “I could have handled those animals,” she said, “but they all seemed to think I was Lara, and that meant I had to keep my temper. Otherwise, whatever I did would have been blamed on my cousin, and ugly rumors would get into the fanzines.”

  “Uh-huh,” I agreed drily, nibbling at a Saltine. If that’s how she chose to play it, okay, there was no need for me to edit her own personal filmtrack of events the way she wanted to remember them. And if she didn’t wish to bring up Harry, that was all right, too. For the time being.

  “So Lara Wells is actually your cousin Lainie.”

  “Mm-hmm. On my mother’s side. We grew up together, but she was Laraine Adler in those days. We’ve been out of touch nearly ten years.”

  Laraine Adler. Cousin Lainie. I’d often heard the name. Hilary doesn’t talk much about her girlhood, unless to complain about her father. But on those infrequent occasions that find Hilary in a rare nostalgic mood, she usually mentions her cousin Lainie— Laraine—with a mixture of affection and envy. Lara née Laraine was a breezy, outgoing, assertive young woman; everything Hilary wasn’t and wished she could be. Hilary constantly argued with her mother, but Lainie got away with lots of things without ever being caught or scolded. Oddly, Hilary never considered it unfair; she loved her cousin and secretly vowed to be more like her when she grew older. I had no idea if she’d succeeded, but I always thought it’d be interesting to meet Lainie and compare her with Hilary. Nothing ever was said about Lainie being an actress, so it didn’t dawn on me that Lara’s uncanny resemblance to Hilary was anything but coincidence.

  Sipping at her Kirin beer, Hilary told me she got a phone call from Lara several weeks after I took a job at Buder’s Djinn Investigations in Philadelphia. “The two of us got together and talked over ancient history. I agreed to handle Lara’s PR, but that wasn’t till after I helped get her work on ‘Riverday.’”

  “How’d you manage that?” I asked, amazed. Soap casting is very much of a closed-shop affair.

  “Do you remember Abel Harrison?”

  Trim-Tram Toys? Sure.”

  “He left Trim-Tram and formed his own ad agency. Recently he diversified into talent.”

  Harrison was a wispy nebbish who kept his tenure at the toy firm because he was the president’s brother-in-law. Otherwise, he was a family thorn, a genius at botching every assignment. But then Hilary got mixed up in a small problem of industrial thievery at the company, and by the time she unraveled things, Harrison inherited the ad department He surprised everyone, himself included, by showing remarkable eptness for the field.

  “Harrison Talent,” Hilary continued, “is the new name of Maggert-Axel, which Abel bought out. Now he supplies extras for a lot of East Coast films and does all the casting for ‘Riverday.’ I called in an old debt and got Lara her part”

  I suppressed an urge to ask whether she also helped Harry onto the show.

  The press room door opened. A dapper man entered. Trim, dark, with close-cropped curly brown hair and a narrow nose supporting black spectacles, he wa
s, according to Hilary, Barry Clover, publicity coordinator for, and partner in CloverLeaf Shows, the major producer of soap festivals throughout the country—specializing in anything from ticketed bruncheons accommodating perhaps a hundred hard-core fans to free monster rallies like the one I was attending. The latter events, I was told later, draw anywhere from six thousand to ten thousand people in a single day.

  Clover stepped to the floor mike, gently tapped it to make sure it was live,” then said, The one o’clock show begins in ten minutes. I’ll lead anyone who wants to see it to the reserved press section in front. Those of you in the middle of interviews don’t have to rush if you don’t want to. The press room’s open all day, the food’ll keep coming and the bar won’t run dry.”

  An audible sigh from the working press.

  Hilary finished her beer and stood. “I have to watch the show. Want to see how Lara does?”

  I nodded, though my feelings were mixed. I would have liked to be alone with Hilary. But I wanted to meet my dream girl too, preferably without Hilary hanging over me. That, of course, was now impossible. As Lara’s PR agent, Hilary would be right at my elbow. It also occurred to me that Hilary wouldn’t much like it if she knew my reason for coming to the mall. She’d assumed my fortuitous arrival to be nothing more than a geographical coincidence. She has the typical New Yorker’s Lilliputian concept of the size of Philadelphia.

  Clover led us to the parking lot and beyond to the far end of the mall, where we came upon some enormous bleachers set up in front of a bunting-draped platform. The seats were jam-packed. Clover turned us over to the ushers, who took us to a reserved VIP section down front. As I sat, I felt the hostile glares of the VIPs directly behind me.

  The platform was empty except for a long table bearing name cards that corresponded to the six as-yet-unseen celebrities. The second sign from center stage read LARA WELLS.

  A fortyish woman with just enough weight on her hips to render her Kewpie-doll squeezable climbed onto the platform, smiled nervously at the audience and crossed to the down-right microphone, audibly clearing her throat. She wore a simple floral-print frock, had frosted blond hair and deep dimples and clutched a seed-pearl purse beneath her left arm. She looked like an elementary school librarian browbeaten into addressing a mothers’ workshop on her day off.

  Speaking with a vaguely midwestern twang, she introduced herself as Honey Leaf, hostess of the festival.

  “Some actress herself, n’est-ce pas? » Hilary whispered.

  I nodded. I’d met Mrs. Clover briefly in the press room: a highstrung articulate woman, smartly dressed and without a trace of accent. The person onstage looked dowdy and thoroughly ingenuous, a comfortable interlocutor that the women in the audience could identify with, and perhaps feel slightly superior to.

  Honey (actually Helen) welcomed everyone and explained that the tickets they received upon entry were their chances “for a real special bunch o’ door prizes!” Then she began her first introduction. “Ladies, y’all seen his rugged good looks for a couple seasons on ‘The Edge of Night’ and lots o’ commercials, but today he’s better known as Dr. Ellis Peters on ‘Brighter Morrow’—Alan Emoryl”

  Thunderous applause. Cheers, whistles. Women screamed. Before the ushers could stop her, a young girl in jeans ran forward and scattered rose petals in the air. A trim, tall man with wavy light brown hair stepped onstage and acknowledged the ovation with an ease that showed he fully expected and deserved such adulation. He said hello in a voice that none of his fans loved half so much as himself. More ecstatic squeals.

  As he sat, Hilary murmured a line of Dickens, “‘As for bowing down in body and spirit, nothing was left for Heaven.’”

  I didn’t comment. I was listening to the second introduction.

  “—exciting new daytime star, an adorable little lady who brings special glamour to Women’s lib with her portrayal of Roberta Jennett on ‘Riverday’—Ms. Lara Wells!”

  Another round of applause, less overwhelming than the first, chiefly due to the absence of distaff histrionics, though Lara garnered her share of wolf whistles. La belle dame of my dreams appeared. Her resemblance to Hilary really was remarkable: the same light silken hair, the same sky-blue eyes, similarly petite but amply curved figure. Lara wore a sedate green tweed suit, a scratchy material I’ve never seen the use of, but on her it looked good, it clung.

  Four other soap stars were subsequently introduced, but I didn’t pay much attention to them, I was too busy glancing back and forth between Lara and Hilary.

  “Yes, I know,” Hilary said with sardonic amusement, “but turn around, you’re not at a tennis match.”

  So I focused on Lara, which was no hardship. It was easy to get lost in the depths of her wide, gentle eyes. There was a quality about her, a vulnerability that Hilary fought to cover up in herself. As Honey Leaf asked warmup questions of the celebrities, Lara fielded hers ably, but with a diffidence that was a pleasing contrast to the forthright manner of the part she played on “Riverday.” Hilary perfected: the charm without the emasculatory instinct.

  Honey turned the probing over to the audience. Ushers took up posts in the bleachers, each equipped with handheld mikes which they directed at spectators waving hands in the air.

  Some of the things they asked were rather personal, but the stars remained affable, probably afraid of the press they’d get if they allowed themselves to be flapped by the prying. But most of the questions were of the harmless “slambook” variety: “What’s your favorite color/song/TV show/movie/food/sport/ etc.?”

  A handful of queries were more sophisticated. One woman wanted to find out how far ahead the actors know what’s going to happen on their respective programs.

  Alan Emory, next to Lara, said, “About three weeks. That’s the usual taping schedule, right?” The rest of the panel agreed. “The head writer, the producer, and maybe the sponsor, if there’s one powerful enough, work up a projected storyline, or ‘Bible’ for the next six months or a year. It’s top secret, the actors don’t get to see it”

  “It’s better that we don’t,” Lara put in.

  “Right,” he nodded. “Our job is to make it look as if things are taking place for the first time. With the crazy work schedules we have, that’s almost how it works out, too. Anyway, what happens is the head writer is in charge of the ‘Bible’ storyline, which he breaks down, week after week, into daily synopses which episode writers turn into the actual shooting scripts. The producer’s staff stats these and passes them out to the cast.”

  “If you play a major role,” Lara added, “you have to learn so many lines nearly every night that you don’t find time to read anything but the scenes you’re in. That’s why we often don’t know what’s happening to other characters in the story. It’s a lot like life.”

  The Q-A session lasted most of the hour. At ten of two, the drawing was held for merchandise donated by various mall shops, but the prizes proved of secondary importance—for as the guest stars fished the lucky numbers from a big bowl, the winners bustled onstage and collected, along with their loot, a romantic embrace from whichever celebrity he or she preferred. It struck me as odd that a kiss could be so important to one person and nothing more than a public relations gesture to the other partner.

  The jerk who hugged Lara too close looked a little like Harry Whelan.

  Back upstairs in the press room, the questions flung at the performers were more incisive. I stood behind Lara and listened with Hilary as the actress wound up an interview with a reporter from Grit.

  “There’s an enormous difference,” she told him, “between our viewers’ fantasies of the world we move in, and the actuality. There’s not much day-to-day glamour in acting on a soap.”

  The reporter skeptically asked her to expand on her remark.

  Lara brushed a strand of blond hair from her forehead. “I have to be in the studio by seven A.M. to start on my makeup. By eight or eight-thirty, we’re in the greenroom rehearsing, after wh
ich we go downstairs for camera blocking. I get my hair done for the dress rehearsal, and then we tape. Late lunch, I stop in the office for the next day’s script, which averages forty or fifty pages of lines to learn on a heavy day. I go home and study, eat dinner and go to bed no later than nine-thirty because I’ve got to get up at five A.M. to be ready for the studio limo. Sound glamorous?”

  The reporter allowed it seemed pretty grim. He wondered why anyone would want such a life.

  Lara shrugged. “Security. If I worked every week of the year on Broadway at Equity scale, I’d barely be able to survive. Soaps pay well, and they’re steady work.”

  “Except when they decide to kill off a character, right?”

  She wrinkled her nose. That’s a subject I’d rather not think about.”

  If you had to do something other than ‘Riverday,’ what would it be?”

  A smirk. “Skydiving. The risks are similar.”

  Before the next interview, Hilary introduced me to her cousin. Lara rose, clasped both my hands and stared at me, amazed, as if I’d just materialized from insubstantial air.

  “Gene? The Gene? You actually exist?”

  “Lainie,” murmured Hilary, “behave...

  Her cousin ignored her. “Gene, it’s really you?”

  “Last time I looked.” I didn’t know what she was getting at, but it was the kind of arch teasing I generally dislike. I didn’t mind it as much, though, coming from Lara.

  “You see,” she said, “I thought you were a figment of Hilary’s imagination.”

  “Sometimes I am,” I admitted, nodding at Hilary, who granted me a frosty twitch of the lips. It was strange standing between them, like talking to both images in a looking-glass. They could have been mirror twins.

  “Hilary constantly chatters about you, Gene—”

  Lara ignored the nudge in her ribs.

  “—but after all these months, I couldn’t decide whether she made you up, or just wanted to keep us apart I steal all her boyfriends, you know.”

  A harder nudge. Paying no attention, Lara gave me a peck on the cheek. “Welcome to the family, Gene.” That did it. Hilary pivoted on her heel and walked away. Lara smiled at her retreating back. “I never could resist.”