Deranged

by Lonni Lees

  It was matinee time.

  “Let’s get down to business,” Sidney Newhouse said with an impatient Cockney accent. “I ’ave a schedule to meet.”

  He sniffed some white powder into his nostrils, a chubby finger rubbing the residue across his gums as he leaned back in his burgundy-leather desk chair. Like he was the fucking king of the world. But he was far from regal, despite his efforts to lose the Cockney accent that screamed out his humble origins. Even here, in the United States, an accent was a dead giveaway. Ask anyone from the Bronx. Or Jersey. Or the backwoods of Kentucky for that matter.

  Hell, the audiences had laughed out loud when a young and handsome Tony Curtis had opened his mouth to speak in Spartacus. It was Bernie Schwartz from the Bronx in a toga! The film was a biblical epic complete with New York gangster, accent and all.

  That particular casting choice certainly did not fly well with the critics.

  But somehow that leading man face and bright baby blues got him through just fine.

  Welcome to Hollywood.

  Breeding always shows, Meg thought with scorn as her mother’s words wedged their way into her mind. Her mother had been right about a few things after all.

  This fat man repulsed her.

  He always had.

  He was nothing but an overstuffed pig with an over-inflated ego.

  But he had the power and the connections and that was why she was here. She did not have to like him.

  Sidney buzzed his secretary on the intercom and ordered her to hold all calls, then motioned impatiently to Meg.

  The bastard.

  Meg approached him where he sat behind the teakwood desk. Posters of his movies hung on the paneled walls along with awards and autographed photos of the movie stars that played in them, taunting her. She belonged on that wall too, not the floor, even if it was plushly carpeted!

  She eased herself to her knees and unzipped the pants of his expensive suit.

  It was time for work.

  Meg’s mind wandered as she gave Sidney what he expected. Her end of the bargain. At one time she had wanted to be an artist. She was good, too. No one knew better than she how bad choices alter the course of a life. By the time she started figuring things out everything she had ever dreamed seemed out of the question. Priorities had shifted with a thud. Oil and canvas and art supplies cost money. And money was scarce. This cost her nothing—except her pride. So here she was—waiting for the big break that would vindicate her being on her knees in this room.

  Blow-jobs for bit parts.

  It got her foot in the door.

  It paid the bills.

  It was a trade-off.

  And it was a hell of a lot better than where she had been.

  She looked up as Sidney shoved more coke up his pudgy nose. You Cockney bastard, she thought as she quickly finished the job.

  He groaned as his body tensed and jerked, then relaxed.

  The business transaction in the office of the Producer’s Building at Trans-Galactica Studios was completed. It had taken Meg two minutes to satisfy Sidney Newhouse but she knew the degradation would cling to her much longer. She told herself that she was surviving. She salved her soul by saying that she was buying a better life for her daughter Sabrina and herself. Truth was, she didn’t know what else to do.

  She was lost.

  Sidney wiped off his cock with a silk handkerchief, shoved the limp flesh into his pants and zipped. Meg wished that he would catch his skin in the zipper as he used his other hand to push the intercom button, then ordered his secretary to get Angelo in casting. But he didn’t catch it, not today. Instead, he thumbed through a script on his desk as he waited for the call. He flipped through white and pink and yellow and blue pages, each colored sheet representing word changes in the dialogue of an ever-changing story.

  The intercom buzzed and Sidney picked up the phone.

  “The Boston Beane’s, Episode 36009,” his staccato voice began. “Page twenty-three, scene fourteen. There’s a two-line bit about ’alf way down the page. I am sending over Meg Stinson…yeah, she’s the one…see that she gets it. Got it?”

  At least I don’t have to blow Angelo, she thought. He prefers his people with penises, thank God. I got what I came for, she told herself as she wiped the acrid taste of Sidney from her lips. He caught her eye as she was turning to leave, scrawled something on a piece of paper and held it out, waving it impatiently in her direction.

  “Party tonight at Tony Savage’s. A little celebration over the mini-series deal we just closed. Here’s the address.” He waved the paper at her again as his other hand wiped the blood and mucous that dripped from what remained of his sinus passages. Hollywood plastic surgeons made a fortune rebuilding the insides of all the industry coke-heads’ noses and Sidney was just about due for another visit.

  Meg took the piece of paper and smiled sweetly at the producer, masking her contempt for him as she turned toward the door.

  She was a good little actress.

  The past ten minutes had just proven that, had they not?

  There was a well-practiced, quiet dignity to her exit. She was on the other side of the door when the tears came, catching her off guard. A quote by Albert Schweitzer crossed her mind, probably something she had heard in a high school class years ago—“The tragedy of life is what dies inside a man while he lives.”

  She pushed the thought away and pressed forward.

  Meg Stinson avoided eye contact with the secretary in the outer office as she tidied her hair and headed toward Casting.

  CHAPTER SIX

  Both lawns were mowed, Mr. Owens’s and her own, and Sabrina sat at the small flower bed of geraniums at the corner of her lawn—the geraniums she had stolen slip by slip from her neighbor’s yard. She loved geraniums. They were tough flowers that survived the snails and neglect and the heat of a Hollywood summer. She liked Mr. Owens’s crocuses too, but her mother had warned her against digging up his crocus bulbs. Common old geraniums were one thing, they grew with the ferocity of unwanted weeds in California, but crocuses were another matter altogether. They were nurtured.

  Sabrina pushed the hair from her face with a muddy hand. The grit streaked across her perspiring nose. Three freckles marched like fire ants across its bridge, and, but for the color of her hair, looked out of place against her olive skin.

  She looked up from where she sat as she heard her mother’s car pull into the drive. The old Volkswagen sounded as if it was dying of emphysema. She stood and watched as Meggie bolted from the car and ran to her.

  “Sabrina, it’s just too great!”

  Sabrina followed as her mother flew into the house, catching the door before it closed in her face. She had not seen Meggie so animated in weeks as she related the news of the Tony Savage party to her daughter, then asked Sabrina to help her pick out a dress. It would be an easy task. There were limited wardrobe options.

  After sorting through Meg’s few good outfits, Sabrina settled on a simple black crepe jumpsuit that would set off her mother’s pale skin and soft honey tinted hair. And a simple string of fake pearls. Classic simplicity. Like Grace Kelly or Audrey Hepburn or Dina Merrill.

  “I am so sorry sweetie, I know you like it when we can be together, but this could be important. New connections, you know? And it’s Tony Savage!”

  “Tony Savage? How utterly hot! Of course I understand. It’s okay, really.” She said. “Besides, I already made plans.”

  “But I cannot understand why I was even invited. I’m a nobody and I’m sure there will be even more big names there than Tony. Why would he ask me?”

  “Probably because he knows you’re going to be a big name too.” Sabrina shifted her weight before adding: “Meggie—I guess I forgot what day it was, but Saturday morning I need a huge favor. All the moms are getting together with the other girls in the Troop. We’re going over to Safeway to get rid of the rest of the Girl Scout Cookies. This is our last weekend to get them sold and they’ll sell like crazy
in front of the store. And besides, I would really like to show you off.”

  Meg agreed to Saturday morning. Partly out of guilt and obligation, but mostly because she wanted to spend some time with her daughter.

  “Meggie, I was over at Mr. Owens’s this afternoon. He told me something really weird. Why would someone change their name from Solomon to Owens? I just don’t get it.”

  “Fear, maybe. The poor man has been through a lot. Maybe he’s afraid they might find him again.”

  “Who?”

  Meg hesitated. Sabrina was not old enough to know about such things. She tried to chose her words carefully. “Terrible things were done to people during the war. By some miracle he managed to survive, but it’s unlikely that he will ever feel safe again. Wars leave deep scars.”

  “How sad.”

  Then Meg changed the subject before Sabrina could ask any more questions.

  When Sabrina left for the movies she knew that her mother would be the most beautiful woman at the party. Her Meggie was just about the most gorgeous lady in the whole wide world, but she really needed someone to take care of her. She deserved that. Maybe some day a man would come along whom her mother could trust. But until that person comes along, Sabrina thought, I’ll just keep taking care of her myself. She felt like a mother to the woman who had become a lost child in her eyes. Looking after her was important to Sabrina and she didn’t mind. Not one bit. After all, artistic people needed someone to worry about the mundane things in life.

  Meg had more important things to think about than making grocery lists or checking if the old Volkswagen was low on oil. Sabrina found those chores rather fun and it made her feel grown up.

  And come Saturday she could show off her beautiful mother to her friends.

  She was proud of her Meggie.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Hallelulia brother! Thank you Jesus! the voice bellowed from the radio. Silence and static followed for longer than it should have…then a choir of heavenly angels began to sing Amazing Grace.

  The atmosphere in his room was dark and ominous, a lingering sense of doom hovering over the claustrophobic corner that Charlie Blackhawk called his own. He was only ten the first time his mother crawled into his bed. She reeked of whiskey fumes as she invaded his sanctuary and defiled him, robbing him of one of the few things he possessed in his ugly world—his childhood—his innocence. A cigarette dangled from her lips as she straddled him, the long ash falling down and sifting into Charlie’s bewildered eyes. He blinked, squeezed them tightly shut. He turned his face from her rancid breath as she exhaled.

  “You just be a good boy now and mind your momma,” Wilma Blackhawk had said to her Charlie. Charlie knew to mind his momma—NOT minding was a dangerous thing. He had the scars to prove it. This was what mommas and sons were supposed to do, she had told him. What momma and the reverend revealed to him was all the truth he ever had to know. The reading she had taught him was for knowing the bible and the word of God and God said his children must mind their mommas!

  He had lain silent in the dark room, surrounded by the aromas of liquor and sour perfume and enveloped by the onrush of new sensations she aroused within him. He was terrified. He was excited. He dared not speak. She rocked back and forth atop her son, moaning in her drunken pleasure, then stopped abruptly.

  The darkened room cowered in silence.

  Charlie cowered in fear.

  She grabbed his small penis and squeezed it tightly.

  Confusion.

  Contradiction.

  “You been a bad boy! You brought the devil into our home,” she said. “You been really bad Charlie boy and God says I gotta punish my children when they’re bad.” She slurred the words as she pulled the hot cigarette from her frowning mouth.

  Clouds the color of licorice whips streaked across the evening sky as Sabrina walked up Gower Street. By the time she crossed Fountain Avenue fat droplets of rain splattered abstractly upon the sidewalk beneath her feet. She quickened her pace, pulled the collar of her ragged sweater to her chin, and turned left onto Hollywood Boulevard. She hated this stretch of the Boulevard. It depressed her. Empty people with emptier eyes wandered the night and unnamed dangers lurked in the shadows and unlit side streets. The bag people and the street musicians were okay, they called her by name, and when she was in no hurry she enjoyed visiting with them. She had made friends here. Old Black Raven, always clutching his beat up clarinet, had taught her about Dizzy Gillespie and Al Hirt and Paul Desmond. Desmond might be white on the outside, he had said, but scratch below the surface and you would find a soul as black as a Louisiana bayou. Gene Krupa played drums like he was possessed. And there was John Coltrane. And Miles Davis. And Eubie Blake. Raven told her wonderful stories about the French Quarter in New Orleans and he had taught her far more than “music appreciation” had ever done at school. Old Black Raven had been a famous jazz musician in the Big Easy—before the heroin had become more important than the music. But he carried the clarinet as if it was an extension of his being and played the notes he could remember and pretended he was still whole.

  So many broken people with their broken dreams and broken lives were scattered along the sidewalks. They walked like zombies. Or they stumbled like awkward children. Or they cowered in the alleyways, cringing at the dark unknown.

  The Boulevard was a mine field for a young girl, with its pimps and addicts and outright crazies, but Sabrina had learned to sidestep the dangers with the grace of a cat and this place had become her favorite playground.

  From out of the corner of her eye she saw The Magic Man sidle up to her. He was a horrid little creature, no bigger than Sammy Davis Jr. on his best day, but he was a destructive force to be reckoned with. Every boulevard denizen knew who The Magic Man was and unless you were looking for him to fill your needs, everyone avoided him. He was the lowest of the low, even by street standards.

  “Good evening you pretty little thing,” he said, bowing as if he were a gentleman, doffing his purple pimp hat like a weak caricature of Sir Walter Raleigh. But there was nothing noble about him, Sabrina had that figured out the first time she had crossed paths with him.

  “Get lost.” Sabrina spat the words at the pimp.

  “I takes good care of you, sweetness. Be your man. Buys you pretty clothes. I be truthin’ you, sweet thing. What you gots is worth mountains of gold on these here streets.”

  “That’s not as much as it’s worth to me, slimebag!”

  The scenario with the pimp always played out the same, similar to her banter with Mr. Owens but far deadlier in their intent, although he never pushed too hard. It wasn’t necessary. There were always plenty of desperate victims in his feeding ground—so many that were either dumb enough or willing enough or hungry enough to swallow his pathetic promises.

  The Trailways bus turned the corner and pulled into the terminal. Air brakes hissed as it came to a stop. The Magic Man whipped his head around like a weasel picking up a scent. “Next time, baby,” he muttered as he slunk away.

  “Sure, next time ass-hole,” she said.

  Sabrina wondered how many runaways would be on the bus tonight. Their hearts would be full of hope. Hope for a better chance at life than the places they had left behind. Dreams were here for the taking, weren’t they? Hollywood drew them like a magnet then filled their heads with lies. The city promised them carousels but instead fed them misery and unmarked graves. They were the flotsam and jetsam that fed men like The Magic Man. He would take care of them. He would take such good care of them that they would wonder why they had ever left home. But by then it would be too late. By then their eyes would be dead and the Magic Man would have a new pair of alligator boots.

  It was depressing.

  Sabrina imagined The Magic Man running to the Trailways, slipping and falling under the wheels as the big bus pulled into the terminal. His pimp hat would fly into the air as the giant tire crushed his skull. She would applaud and Old Black Raven would play at his funeral.
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  But it wouldn’t happen.

  Creeps like The Magic Man went on forever.

  There was no line in front of the movie theater. Sabrina bought her ticket and went inside. She sat in the darkness waiting for Steven Seagal to come on the screen. Today there was no money for popcorn drowned in the stench of fake butter or a hot dog that had rotated on a grill hours longer than it should have. No loss. She sat there, knees pressed against the back of the seat in front of her, and daydreamed about the father who never was. Chuck Norris’s face always appeared when she thought of a father. She had told his story to the kids at school so often that she almost believed it:

  Dad had been a real hero. She and her mother still missed him. And her mother knew that there was no man good enough to ever take his place. He had been a Soldier of Fortune and a fighter of noble causes and she still remembered hugging him goodbye for the last time as he left for that fateful mission. He had entered Vietnam via Cambodia to rescue some MIA’s in a camp sixty miles north of old Saigon. Only this time the gooks were waiting for him. His name was legend in this part of Asia and they all feared the great American warrior. The cowardly bastards had outnumbered him a hundred to one—but he had managed to kill nineteen of the slant-eyes before they finally got him. They tied him up and tortured him for hours. Her father had died a heroes death out there in the humid, overgrown jungle. But even dead the gooks were afraid of him, so they had whacked him to bloody little pieces with their machetes—just to be sure—and scattered pieces of him along a five mile radius of the spot where he had died. He had no grave but he would never be forgotten. Sabrina’s father was a legend—

  and sometimes it was nearly real.

  The curtain opened, exposing the screen. Sabrina counted the gashes where empty popcorn boxes had been hurled against the screen. To the lower left, some cola had left a long streak of drying drool where a cup had been tossed by some disrespectful punk. The theater lights slowly dimmed until the room was enveloped by darkness. The projector started up with a tsch, tsch sound, lighting up the screen. The scars hardly showed once the previews started, and once the movie began to play she didn’t notice them at all.