Strut

by Susan Diplacido

  Mom may not have ever hit it big as a singer, but her love of music has never faded, and I’m mildly relieved when I push open the door, with Rick right behind me, and the music lilting through the house is Bobby Darin.

  “I’m home,” I holler out to her so that she’s not startled. I motion for Rick to follow me to the kitchen where I open the fridge and let him pick for himself. Once he cracks the top off his soda, I reach in and pull out some turkey and mustard.

  “What would you say to a sandwich?” I ask him.

  “I’d give it a happy introduction to my stomach.”

  That’s when the Bobby Darin song ends and on comes Ludacris, and I can’t help but cringe inwardly. I smile bashfully, though and say, “My mom has an eclectic playlist on her iPod.”

  “I guess so,” he agrees.

  “She was a musician, like you.”

  He just raises his brows, so I continue smearing mustard on a slice of bread and try to backpedal. “I mean, not like you, of course. She wasn’t a drummer, she was a singer.”

  “I didn’t know you knew I was a drummer,” Rick says.

  “Well, yeah. I know you play around town a lot.”

  “You’ve never come to see us.”

  “I always mean to. I have some things at night, too, though.” I would like to go hear him play sometime. It’d be polite to show him support like that. And I am curious. But I’m also always trying to be careful to draw the line at being professional. I made a mistake today by pulling him in the pool, but I do control myself and don’t play the TWSS game. Going to hear him play would only be cordial, but I wouldn’t want it to be mistaken for me being all groupieish, either. And I do have a few commitments in the evenings, even if they are mostly silly.

  That’s when my mom enters the kitchen, rapping along with Ludacris at the most explicit lyrics in the song until she notices Rick. Her eyes light up and she sets her highball glass on the counter and extends her hand, shaking and graciously introducing herself.

  “Rick is on our crew,” I explain to her. “And he’s a musician. A drummer.”

  “Really?” Her eyes go wide with interest. “And why hasn’t my daughter taken me to any of your shows yet?”

  “I’m not sure,” he answers her. “I can’t seem to convince her. Maybe our music isn’t your style, though.”

  “Nonsense,” my mom answers him. “I love all kinds.”

  “I can hear that.”

  “Did she tell you that I was a singer?”

  “She just started to. Why don’t you sing any more?”

  “I’m afraid my day has passed.” She shrugs.

  Rick, again with his rogue charm, he goes, “Nonsense. You still look like you’re in your prime.”

  “Mmhmm. And you’re a very charming liar.”

  I can actually see Rick’s face redden as Mom says that, but he smiles, too. I hand him his sandwich and a napkin and start packing away the rest of the lunchmeat in the ‘fridge.

  Turning to me, Mom asks, “Good day at the pools, Lisa?”

  “It’s not over yet. I have to go back to the Smithton-Moore place tonight.”

  “Smithton-Moore? As in the director and producer?”

  “That’s the one.”

  “You know, I heard something interesting about her at bridge just last week.”

  “Mom,” I sigh. “You ladies and your gossip. You get together and suddenly everyone’s affairs are up for scrutiny.”

  “That’s because in this town, everyone is having affairs,” she answers me.

  “I can’t picture Mrs. Moore having an affair. I really can’t. And I don’t want to,” I add quickly before my mother can throw someone’s name out there and place an indelible mental image in my mind.

  “Actually,” Mom says, “the chatter about her wasn’t like that. It was of a more sartorial nature. Kind of interesting, too.”

  “Sartorial? The only thing interesting about her clothes are those damn shoes she’s always wearing.”

  Rick now, “I know. Right?”

  “You’ve noticed, too?”

  “How can you not notice them?”

  “I knew it!” Mom nearly shouts. “It is about her shoes! Miriam’s cousin’s fiancée works in the costume department at Fox and she’s known about the shoes for years. She says Mrs. Moore got hold of them six months ago and she won’t take them off. It’s driving tons of studio execs and even some stars bonkers because no one can figure out how to get them away from her.”

  Confused, I ask, “Why would anyone want to get her shoes away from her?”

  “Because, Lisa, they aren’t a pair of shoes. They’re the pair of shoes.”

  “I’m not following.”

  “They’re legendary,” Mom says, as if that explains everything. Then, after a beat, with both of us still looking at her for more explanation, she simply says, “They’re Hollywood magic.”

  “Yeah,” I sigh. “That clears everything up.”

  “Really?” Mom asks. “You’ve never heard this story?”

  “Rick?” I ask, to see if he’s following this at all.

  “Sorry,” he says. “No clue.”

  “You young kids,” my mom sighs. That’s a definite advantage to hanging out with your mother. Even if the rest of the world thinks you’re getting a little long in the tooth, you’ll always be younger to your mom. Mom, she just picks up her cocktail, turns and starts talking over her shoulder, so Rick and I follow her into the living room and take seats.

  “They’ve changed over the years,” Mom says. “In fact, they haven’t always been shoes. I think Miriam said that once they were a fancy hairpin, even. Maybe that was for Hepburn, I can’t recall exactly. But it’s always for women. Never for men. The costume designers keep reusing different elements and fashioning them into updated shoes or maybe I think they said a brooch once, too. Doesn’t matter what it is. Just that it’s always for a woman, and it always works. Maybe it was the hairpin for Hepburn. I think Miriam said that Vivien Leigh had it first and that’s how she landed the role of Scarlett, which, of course, Hepburn was also being considered for. And after that, she passed it along to Hepburn and that’s when Hepburn landed The Philadelphia Story. Yes, that’s exactly how it must’ve happened. Then, after that, oh, I forget who Miriam said had it next, but it’s passed along through many of the greats. And now, your powerful Mrs. Moore has it in the form of shoes. Word is she needs it, too. Her husband was philandering on his last set and her last two movies got crap reviews and the one got panned at Cannes. She’s in big trouble, so she needs the help. Personally, I’ll bet that whole old boys club is gunning for her to fail. Actresses are one thing, but it’s still not easy being a producer in this town if you’re a female, so she can use any help she can get.”

  “Mom,” I interrupt her. “What the hell are you talking about?”

  “Seriously, Lisa. You can’t tell me that you don’t think there’s still rampant sexism in the business out here, do you?”

  I shake my head and glance over at Rick, munching on his turkey sandwich, quietly listening to my mother’s babble. He probably thinks she’s had several cocktails already. I’m starting to wonder if she didn’t start happy hour at about noon by the way she’s talking all this nonsense. “I know there’s sexism in this business, Mom. That’s not what I meant. What’s this with the shoes?”

  “Oh, right. Right. I thought I just told you.”

  “Not really.”

  “Simple,” she says. “The woman who’s got the shoes, or the hairpin, or the brooch, whatever, she’s got the power and success.”

  I laugh out loud and see Rick smirking.

  “Listen,” Mom says. “I’m not saying I believe it. But it is an interesting story. I guess you’d have to hear Miriam tell it. She knows all the details and she’s really good at explaining how everything happened over the years. She fits it all together and it’s just so clever how it all works out for all the women who have possession of the shoes.”
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br />   “Or the hairpin,” I add.

  “Exactly,” she says, as if it’s all settled. “Boy, I would love to get a look at those shoes on that producer! And you know, there’s been a whole lot of positive buzz about her latest project. Despite the previous flops, she personally secured a huge star on this new movie she’s working on, and Variety is always raving about it already, and it’s not even finished! I bet Miriam would flip if I could bring those shoes to bridge and show her!”

  “Forget it, Mom. I’m not stealing Mrs. Moore’s shoes.”

  “No, no,” she agrees. “Of course not. That probably wouldn’t be good luck anyhow. Miriam said that one time a couple of gals had a nasty fight over them, and they both ended up failing miserably anyhow.”

  “I think Miriam needs to get her medication checked, Mom.”

  “Oh,” she waves at me. Then, her eyes go wide and she focuses on me intently. Saying, “I’ve got it! The shoes! They could be your ticket!”

  “I am not stealing the shoes, Mom!”

  “No. No no no! You don’t have to steal them. You should write about them! You could write that story! It’d be Hollywood gold, Lisa!”

  “Oh Madone,” I sigh.

  And that, unfortunately, brings Rick back into the conversation. His head swivels from my mother to me as he asks, “You’re a writer?”

  I shrug and say, “This is L.A., Rick. Everyone’s a wannabe something else.”

  “I just assumed you wanted to be an actress.”

  I laugh out loud at that, and so does my mother. “No,” I answer him. “I don’t want to be an actress. I do some writing. That’s where I go at nights. I go to screenplay classes and a workshop a few times a week.”

  “That’s really great,” Rick says, sounding genuinely impressed.

  “Not really.”

  “Have you ever finished anything yet?”

  “Has she?” Mom says with enthusiasm. “She sold an option for a movie!”

  “No shit!” Rick says, and then, realizing he just swore, he apologizes to my mother.

  “Don’t you fucking worry about it,” she reassures him. “We’ve all heard the words before.”

  “That’s...that’s just impressive, Boss,” he tells me.

  “Not really,” I explain. “It was a long time ago, and it never panned out. The option has even expired. That’s a dime a dozen story out here.”

  “It’s further than I ever got,” my mom reminds me. I’m not so sure of that, though. “I’m telling you, Lisa. A story about those shoes, it’d be a huge hit. I’m sure you could sell it.”

  “Sorry mom, but charmed shoes have been done already. Cinderella.”

  “But that’s why this is better! This story has fifty Cinderellas in it. Everyone loves those movies with the big casts and all the stars these days! You should sit down with Miriam and have her tell you all about it!”

  “We’ll see,” I tell her, mostly to appease her. I’ll probably do it. Even though Mom’s big Hollywood dreams have passed her by, she still clings to a few threads of hope for me, and I hate to disappoint her. But even more than that, I make the effort because I know my dad always wanted a little more for us. He always said we were wonderful and talented, and all he wanted was for someone else to realize that, too. And more than anything, I’d like to make my dad proud of me.

  “What do you think, Rick?” Mom asks him.

  “Sounds like a good idea. I’d love to read something of Lisa’s.”

  “Sure,” I tell him. “Someday.”

  “Go get him that one script, Lisa. You know the one!”

  “Mom, really. He’s very busy. He doesn’t need to be reading my rejected scripts.”

  “It was optioned!” she insists.

  “I’d really love to read it,” Rick says.

  I sigh, but I relent and get up and go back to my bedroom slash writing room to look for a copy of the almost famous script. When I find it and get back to the living room, Rick is sitting at the piano, with my mother behind him.

  “This really is a beautiful piano,” he tells her.

  “Thank you. My husband bought if for me. Do you play?”

  “A little,” he says as he starts noodling around. First he tinkers out a little Scott Joplin, and then, surprisingly, I catch a few bars of Billy Joel. Then, he looks up at the sheet music in front of him and asks, “What’s this?”

  “Oh, that’s one of my old songs,” my mother explains.

  Rick looks it over, and then his fingers quickly follow. He has a false start, and then begins again and starts playing it through. After a few uninterrupted bars, Mom jumps in and starts singing. Her voice doesn’t have all the subtleties it used to, but she still has a great range and a unique raspy quality to her tone.

  “It seems to me I think I know. Why I’m high and why I’m low,” she croons.

  Rick looks at her briefly, approvingly, encouraging, and she continues.

  “It’s in your eyes, it’s on your clothes,

  It’s no surprise it’s all for show

  So young.

  Turn around it’s a brand new scene,

  It’s like a dream or in between

  On the run, so much to see,

  I’ll never die, I’m always free,

  So young.”

  I take a seat and listen. I’ve heard Mom sing thousands of times, but I never get sick of it, and I always did like this song. And Rick, on the piano, he sounds good. I know he’s a drummer, but he plays it smooth and easy, hitting the keys like it’s perfectly natural to him. That’s a musician for you. I can see the tendons in his deeply tanned hands and forearms flexing as he hits the keys, the music seemingly coming right from his hands.

  When the song is finished, Mom smiles. She’s got a generally sunny disposition, but there’s an extra happiness she exudes when she’s been singing. Dad loved to sit and listen to her sing. I think that happiness is contagious or something. Even Rick says, “You still sound great.”

  “Think so?”

  “And I love this song. You wrote it?”

  “A few years after we moved here to L.A.”

  “It is a very L.A. song,” he agrees. “You never recorded it?”

  “I never even got to sing it. I used to sing around town at some of the clubs for a short time, but I wrote this after my performing days were done.”

  “That’s too bad.”

  Mom sighs, looks a bit wistful. “I always wished an audience could’ve heard it.”

  Then, turning to me, he asks, “Is that your script?”

  I had forgotten I was holding it, and now I’m suddenly embarrassed by it. I know it pales in comparison to Mom’s talent. I don’t have resentment about that, but I also don’t feel like flaunting it. So I try to discourage him, saying, “I know you’re really busy. You really don’t have to read all this.”

  “Looking forward to it,” he says as he rises from the piano bench and takes it from my hands, his fingers nonchalantly brushing against mine.

  And then Mom goes and really does it. Asks, “When is your band playing again, Rick? I’d really like to go hear them.”

  Jesus.

  “Tomorrow,” he answers. “I’ve been trying to get Boss here to a show for quite some time now. You should both come.”

  And then, before I can stop them or defuse the situation, he’s telling her where the club is and that he’ll have us put on the VIP list.

  I knew inviting him in for a Coke was a bad idea. Suddenly he’s leaving here with my script and we’re committed to going to a rock show on Sunset Blvd. There you go. There are a couple of the disadvantages to living in L.A.

  Chapter Three

  Later that evening at my writer’s workshop when it’s my turn to read, instead of going over pages, I give them a pitch. Lord help me, it’s for a story about shoes that are supposedly inanimate incarnations of Hollywood magic. A couple of people in the group help me sharpen the pitch, while a few others just give me looks of disdain. This g
roup I’m currently in, they’re all the hard-boiled type—people who wish they were Tarantinos and Nolans—so women’s footwear isn’t going to trip many triggers. After all the pitches and reading, and after we’ve all effectively gang-banged the snack table, as I’m wandering out into the warm evening air, a really thin, pretty young girl named Erica follows me. Asking, “So where’d you get the idea for this shoe story?”

  “I don’t know,” I shrug. “Modern twist on Cinderella.”

  Looking down at my sneakers, she shakes her head and says, “No.”

  “What do you mean, no?”

  “I mean, no. You’re not the type.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Lisa. Don’t try and shit a shitter. I’ve never seen you with anything fancier on your feet than Chuck Taylors. You are not a shoe girl.”

  “So? Maybe I’m a fashionista on the inside.”

  “No.” She says it flatly.

  “Erica, listen. I just had this idea. It’s like Mark in there with all his gangster stories. He doesn’t have to be a gangster to write about them.”

  “And you don’t have to be a shoe to write about them. But you have to like them,” she insists.

  Silence.

  “You saw them, didn’t you?”

  “What’s that?”

  “The shoes,” she says. “You’ve seen them. I’ll bet I even know how. You do pools in the fancy neighborhoods. I bet Mrs. Smithton-Moore is a client of yours.”

  I nearly choke on the girl’s perceptive detection skills. But I’m even more curious as to how she knows about these supposed shoes. I must give her a look, because she answers me before I can ask the question aloud, saying, “Bitch, please. Everyone knows about them, and everyone knows she’s got them. It’s just that no one can figure out how to get them away from her.”

  “You must be joking,” I say. “This is the most ridiculous urban legend I’ve ever heard.”