“All right, Tabitha,” I said to myself as the computer began to dial up George. “Game face.”
The computer made an exaggerated ringing sound. I inhaled. I smiled. Then George’s face appeared on the screen. His eyes were looking off, like they were looking past me.
“I only see my own face,” he said, his head bobbing around. “Fix this.”
“Yes sir,” I heard another voice say. The video of George shook around until my screen revealed a young nerdy guy’s bespectacled face. He looked into the screen, typed, clicked, and then his eyes brightened from behind his glasses.
“Hi Ms. Bloom,” said the young man. He was one of our IT minions from the office.
“Ben,” I said. “I can see and hear you just fine. Can you hear me?”
“Yes,” he said. “I’ll put it back down in front of Mr. Madison.”
“Thank you, Ben,” I said. I really hated video calls. I hoped they were just a fad.
“Tabitha?” I heard George say as the screen juddered and his face appeared. “Ah, there you are. These things confuse me.”
“Why are we having a video call, George?” I asked. “I hate them, too.”
“We paid too much money for this to not use it,” he said. “And you said you wanted to speak of something important. I thought, let’s have a video.”
“Okay,” I said skeptically. “All right.”
“How have you found LA?” he asked. It wasn’t really like George to make small talk. I think there was something off-putting about the video conference thing that flustered him.
“It’s lovely,” I said. “And working with Adam on the movie was a lot of fun.”
“I’m happy,” he said with a straight face. “You can thank me for the opportunity.”
“You?” I said, adjusting my screen the slightest bit.
“I’m a producer and I told him to get you out there,” he said evenly.
“You’ve really got your hands in everything, don’t you George?”
“I’m a busy man,” he said.
“Listen,” I went on. “I won’t keep you long.” As I said this, Corinne sauntered back into the living room, still topless and wearing only her white towel. She sashayed over to me with a little espresso demitasse cup and saucer, bending over to set it down on the table. As she bent, her breasts dangled down, swaying slightly back and forth, causing me to stare at their hypnotizing movements.
“Tabitha?” said George on the screen. “Are you still with me?”
“Uh, yeah,” I said. “Yes, sorry.”
“Please continue.”
“Yeah, all right,” I said, my eyes still on Corinne. She gave me an innocent smile as she stood there for a moment. Then she turned and again exited the living room to the kitchen. “So, George, I have a proposition for you.”
“You have my full attention,” he said.
“I have an idea for a show,” I said. “A half-hour comedy.”
“Oh, you’re pitching me,” said George casually with a hint of disappointment. “Lovely. Go on.” The flippant way in which George said this gave me pause, feeling a bit of nervousness bubble up inside.
“Yeah, I’m pitching you,” I said. “But it’s a good idea and I think you’ll like it. See, the show is about… well, it’s about me.”
“Of course it is,” he said.
“I mean, it’s about the writer for a live sketch comedy show, like This Saturday,” I said. “It’s about all the backstage stuff. So the characters are me and the writers, the cast and crew, you—“
“Me?” said George skeptically. “Not me.”
“Okay,” I said. “But, you know, you’ve got a lot of good comedic elements to you.”
“But I don’t have a sense of humor about myself,” he said calmly. I wanted to burst out laughing. George had great comedic timing.
“You’re just shy,” I said. “But, okay, if you don’t want a character in it based off of you, we could do one on the head of the network. There needs to be a boss character, you know?”
“I see where you’re going with this Tabitha,” said George. He offered a pregnant pause, a long beat of consideration. I couldn’t quite tell from his face which way he was leaning. He was always a difficult read. “I think it has potential.”
“Really?” I beamed. “Oh my God, yes! Doesn’t it sound like a good idea?”
“So who do we get to play you?” he asked solemnly. “Perhaps Zelda DeCarlo is available, the cute brunette with bangs. The bubbly personality. She can sing, as well.”
“No, George,” I countered. “No, I would play me.”
“Oh my,” he said.
“Not ‘oh my,’” I said. “Oh yeah! Like the Kool-Aid Man busting through a wall! It’s just that good.”
“Tabitha,” mused George. “I think you’re going off the rails.”
“Look,” I said. “I can do this. I can write, produce, star in it. I can do it all.”
“Does that mean I’m going to lose you on the Saturday program?” he asked casually. I think sometime in the 80s, as a joke, George had begun referring to This Saturday in passing as ‘the Saturday program’ and it always made him crack the tiniest smile.
“Well,” I said, taking a deep breath. “I think Bernie would make an admirable replacement.”
“Tabitha, I will have to think this through quite thoroughly,” said George. “You know we’re starting production back up shortly.”
“I can do it all, George,” I argued. “I won’t leave you hanging. I won’t disappoint you.”
“Please work up a treatment,” said George, giving in. “I’d like to look at it within the next couple of weeks, before the new season begins. Is that fair?”
“More than fair,” I said, feeling joyful at George’s acceptance. “I think we can really make a hit show here, George.”
“Of course you do,” he said. “You’re trying to build your star.”
“Maybe I am,” I grinned.
“Concentrate on being funny, Tabitha,” he said levelly. “As long as you’re funny, I will continue paying you.”
“You’ve got nothing to worry about, George,” I said. “This is gonna be awesome!”
“So is that all?” said George, raising his brow, peering at me through the video.
“That’s all.” I said. “Thank you so much, George. You’re not going to regret this.”
“I’ll see you when you get back to New York,” he said. “Okay Ben, we’re finished.”
“Goodbye George!” I called happily into the screen. But George had already stood up from his seat and wandered out of frame. I saw Ben’s face for a quick moment and then the video chat window went black.
I excitedly squealed and shut my laptop lid, tossing it next to me on the couch. I couldn’t help myself as I began to kick my feet. It was very uncharacteristic of me, very difficult to get me this worked up, but I was the most charged I’d been in a long time. I was buoyant, I was enthused, I was totally amped up. I screamed out again.
Corinne slipped back into the room with a cool expression on her face and leaned against the wall arch at the room’s entrance, crossing her arms over her bare chest but barely covering up.
“What did I tell you?” she asked serenely.
“George is interested!” I cried out. “This is amazing! This is all I ever wanted!”
“You always try to play it so cool,” grinned Corinne, shaking her head. “Congratulations.” She just stood there smiling.
Whether I was totally prepared or not, all these things that were happening to me signified the next stage in my life and my career. It was really happening. I was going to get my shot on television. And in my own show, no less. It felt like I was leading a charmed life. And I was open to it. Destiny, synchronicity, fate. Whatever. I wanted it. Give it to me!
*
Back when I was just starting out my career in comedy, I would never thought I’d make it this far. I began at Improv City in Chicago, taking classes, lea
rning to get comfortable on stage, trying to find my voice in my writing. I worked my ass off at it, though. I was there at the theater almost every night either performing or just sitting in the audience and thinking. Thinking, “how could this be funnier? What’s funny about this? Where is the joke?” I found the trick was to always be tightening, always be cutting words to try to boil a joke down to its essence. It’s a lot easier said than done, of course, but it’s pretty much the foundation of my style. Find the funny element, trim the fat.
And somehow that lead me to be one of the main stage players at Improv City. I was performing all the time, performing with a number of people who actually made it to This Saturday with me, people who’ve made it in Hollywood. You’d know all the names if I began listing them. I felt like I was on top of the world when I was performing at Improv City, almost like it couldn’t get much better. I was doing what I loved and was getting paid. I was surrounded by my funny friends. Sure, I had dreams of more. I had dreams of getting on This Saturday (I mean, we all did), dreams of going to Hollywood and being in movies. Or just getting on some stupid sitcom so that I could really make some cash. But those days at the theater were really special to me.
When George came in with a few of the other producers that one night, I had no idea that my life would be so irrevocably changed. George literally changes lives. He changed mine. He plucked me from regional obscurity and set me down on the world’s stage. And while he didn’t think I was cut out to be a featured cast member on the show, he gave me a writing gig which, as you know, evolved into me being head writer. Head writer of This Saturday. Can you imagine? Younger Tab couldn’t even fathom that. We all wanted to make it to the show but as competitive as it was to get featured at Improv City, it was even harder to gain George’s attention and trust.
But me. I ended up as head writer for the show. Head flippin’ writer.
Now George was doing it again. He was giving me an even greater opportunity. George was truly a career maker… or breaker. Giving me the chance to cradle This Saturday as though it were my baby for a couple years was a pretty big leap of faith. But giving me this crack at my own show, a show that I both write and star in, I mean, this could absolutely propel me to something even huger. And I had Corinne to thank for giving me the courage to talk about it. Not just the courage, really, but giving me the self-confidence to even dream that it was possible. When you had someone as perfect as her telling you that you could do anything, you tend to believe it.
It’s important to have someone by your side who believes in you. Sometimes I miss sight of that. I’m not the most emotional lady on the planet and I don’t often give the encouragement I should to the people I love. And maybe that’s screwed up, I don’t know. But I do know that a lot of amazing people in my life have bolstered me up and I haven’t given them as much credit as they deserve. I’ve worked hard, definitely, but without a handful of cheerleaders, people who’ve given me huge opportunities, put their faith in me, I wouldn’t be where I was and I certainly wouldn’t be on my way to where I was going.
I wanted to be there for Corinne in a way that I hadn’t been available to a lot of people in my life in the past. I wanted to somehow figure out a way where we could be together, out in the open, so that she didn’t have to pretend to be someone she wasn’t just for the sake of some close-minded people who might not support her. I mean, we had to be past that as a culture, right? I knew it wasn’t going to happen overnight, but maybe there was something I could achieve with my new show that would help the both of us. Something to meditate on.
Man, I could cry reading this stuff I just told you. But I won’t. Because I’m funny, not sappy. Toss a glass of water in my face and let me get back to clowning. I knew everything was going to continue being awesome. I knew that I had made it.
And to have Corinne along side me, that was just the icing. The icing was my favorite part.
*
It was the last day of shooting Throttle Punch and it felt like that day at school just before summer vacation. I mean, stuff was getting done, of course, but my job was essentially over. I wasn’t sure why I was actually still there, to be honest, but I enjoyed collecting the paycheck. I think maybe Adam and George had conspired to keep me working and paid throughout the This Saturday off-season. I don’t know. But I was doodling up something fierce when Adam busted in to my little makeshift office at the soundstage.
“Tab,” he said, sliding in with a dopey grin on his face. “What are you doing?”
“I’m drawing myself as a chef,” I said, holding up my notebook to show a poorly drawn rendition of me in kitchen with a chef outfit on. “Not bad, huh?”
“Not bad,” he said, saddling up next to me to appraise my artistic skills. “Glasses and all, huh?”
“I think the glasses really inform the admirer that this drawing is, in fact, Tabitha Bloom,” I said, tilting my head slightly.
“Okay, enough about you,” he said. “I just wanted to come in here and tell you before you found out online or something.” He looked quite excited so I knew that the news was good, not bad.
“Enough about me,” I mused.
“Right, so,” began Adam. “I’m not returning to This Saturday.”
“What?” I said, flabbergasted. “Adam, are you serious? Oh my God, but you fill so many character rolls that I need. I already have sketches written for you. Damn it, I have this really good one where you’re a life coach. Aw, Adam…”
“Tab,” he said. “I said enough about you. It’s me! Because this movie went so great, they want me to begin work on another.”
“But dude,” I said. “We’re finishing shooting today. It could totally bomb in the theaters.”
“Oh, whatever about that,” said Adam, flipping a hand at me. “These things are just a good way to move money around. Hollywood accounting,” he said.
“Hollywood accounting?”
“The movie doesn’t have to make money,” he said. “Otherwise, why would crap like this movie get made?”
“I think I’m regretting attaching my name to this,” I murmured.
“It’s not like that Tab,” he said with a smile. “But look, none of this matters. What matters is that I’m staying in LA and I’m gonna make me some more movies!”
“That’s great,” I said, standing up. I thrust my hand out to him and Adam theatrically shook it. “Congrats.”
“Ah, thank you,” he said, bowing his head. “It’s just an Adam Sperry kind of day.”
“You’ve just given me an incredible amount of work,” I said, taking my hand back from him. “And you’ve got clammy hands.”
“Yeah, my hands get clammy when I’m jazzed up,” he said. “And c’mon, work schmerk,” said Adam. “You’re Tab Bloom, the hardest working woman in showbiz. Nothing you can’t handle.”
“Right,” I said. I knew that this news was going to put George into a scramble, possibly even convince him that now wasn’t the right time for me to try to wiggle into my own television show. Adam’s announcement really couldn’t have come at a worse time. He was one of our comedic rocks. The guy you could always lean on to toss into a scene and make it hilarious. And all those hits we had with him and Justin Trumbull, all those viral music videos. That was all over. I have to admit, Adam had helped make my job pretty easy and now that was coming to an end.
“Okay Tab,” he said, clapping once. “Good work on this script stuff. Look me up next time you’re in LA, cool?”
“Cool.”
Adam lurched forward, gave me a compulsory hug, grinned, and then rushed out of the room just as fast as he’d entered.
“God damn it,” I cursed. Reaching down to the table, I picked up my drawing of me as a chef, gave it one final look and then crumbled it up and tossed it toward the garbage bin.
It totally missed. Like, it didn’t even come close.
*
“Just don’t worry so much,” said Corinne with a comforting smile. “It’ll all come together.
” Corinne and I laid in her bed together, darkness spilling in from the windows, low orange lamp light offering the two of us a glimmer of one another. We were lounging, basically naked with both of us clad only in our panties, and Corinne hung lower on my body, lightly stroking my stomach, as I melted back into the pillow.
“I know,” I cooed, tenderly combing my hands through Corinne’s blonde hair. Our eyes met and held onto the gaze for a wonderfully intimate moment.
“Think back on all the amazing comedians that the show has lost,” said Corinne. “And it still soldiers on.”
“Yeah, but it’s not like when Mike or Chris left,” I said. “Or Bill or Gilda. It’s different because, you know, I wasn’t the head writer then.” Corinne laughed gently and then kissed my stomach.
“I guess you’re right,” she said. “But it’s only going to make it difficult on you the first couple of weeks. And besides, you’re going to be kept busy working on your own show.”
“If it even happens now.”
“Stop,” said Corinne. She was so ultimately supportive. Such a positive beacon. “You know this is all going to go your way. Just keep working hard.”
“Thank you,” I hummed. She offered me a simple smile as her hand moved down my stomach and her fingers began to play with the elastic band on my panties, pulling it up just the slightest bit to test the tensile material.
“You’ll be fine, babe,” Corinne said, once more kissing my stomach.
“I’m going to miss you when I head back to New York in a couple of days,” I mourned. “Our time out here in LA has just been so awesome.”
“Don’t remind me,” she said, nuzzling her face against my skin. I felt a tightness in my tummy, an eagerness, a desire. “I’m going to miss you too.”
Sweetheart Starlet: A Sweet Lesbian Romance Page 15
