by Rick Copp
This floored me. It downright knocked the wind out of me. Cappy Whitaker was an adorable moppet who hit the audition scene right about the same time I did. He had this cherubic face dotted with freckles, big twinkling brown eyes, and bright orange hair, and he made a lasting impression on the American public in a Disney adaptation of The Prince and the Pauper, which led to a situation comedy as Debbie Reynolds’s grandson. The show lasted six episodes, but Cappy’s TV Q rating was high enough to win him a memorable series of Kraft commercials, where he stood next to a ten-foot box of macaroni and cheese and wailed, “Hey, I’m supposed to be the big cheese!” The catch phrase caught on for a bit, and made the front of a few million T-shirts. It was bigger than that cute old lady screaming, “Where’s the Beef?!” for Wendy’s Hamburgers, but didn’t have the lasting impact of my very own “Baby, don’t even go there!” It did, however, become an instant footnote in eighties pop culture, and further endeared Cappy to the viewing public as well as Wendell Butterworth. He decided that Cappy, like me, was also his soul mate, and it was grossly unfair that they be kept apart. He staked out the apartment complex where Cappy lived with his grandmother, who was raising him after his alcoholic mother died in a drunken traffic accident. He made one botched attempt to snatch Cappy when his grandmother took him to the beach in Santa Monica one gloriously sunny Sunday afternoon, but he failed miserably when a gaggle of buff lifeguards beat him to a pulp when Cappy screamed for help. It caused quite a stir, landing the wholesome heroic hunks on the cover of People in their tight red swim trunks and holding life preservers. Some believe this story was the inspiration for the popular waves and babes show Baywatch. Days later, Wendell was quietly released for lack of evidence. He convinced authorities he was simply asking Cappy for directions to the Santa Monica Pier. That’s when Wendell turned his attention back toward me.
I cleared my throat, gathered my thoughts, and addressed the three members of the parole board. “I can understand why Cappy Whitaker no longer believes this man poses a serious threat to society. He wasn’t attacked in his home while eating breakfast. Mr. Butterworth didn’t press a gun to his head at a traffic light and pull the trigger. I don’t mean to compare emotional scars here, but I believe my experience with Wendell Butterworth was far more harrowing and has haunted me a lot longer. I respect Mr. Whitaker’s opinion, but where is he? Why isn’t he here? Because he didn’t care enough to make the trip. I did.” I pointed a finger right at Wendell’s face. “Because this man is with me in my nightmares every time I go to sleep!”
Finally I had gotten to them. The parole board members sat in stunned silence. The corpulent one started making notes. The gray-haired lady stared at the floor. And the cute one, well, he looked at me with sympathetic eyes, and gave me an understanding nod. He opened his mouth to speak when suddenly a chirping sound pierced the air. Everybody sat up and looked around. Where was it coming from?
I frowned, annoyed. It was obviously someone’s cell phone, and I was offended it had interrupted the impact of my speech.
The gray-haired lady looked up at me. “Mr. Jarvis?”
“Yes?”
“I think it might be yours.”
She was right. The aggravating chirping sound was coming from my back pants pocket. I had planned on leaving my cell phone in the car, but I was expecting a very important call from my manager /best friend Laurette Taylor. I had been cast in one of the lead roles in an NBC comedy pilot some months ago that insiders predicted would be sandwiched in between the network’s two biggest hits on Must-See Thursday. I played a lascivious massage therapist with designs on all the girls in a hip twenty-something apartment house. As a proud gay man in his early thirties, I had to congratulate myself on my ability to stretch as an actor. And the suits loved me. The networks were in the process of selecting their new series for the fall TV season. Laurette had promised to call me the minute she heard something. I checked the small screen on my cell phone. Sure enough, it was Laurette. I had to take the call. This could be one of those life-altering moments that could shift the entire trajectory of my career as an actor.
I sheepishly looked up at the bemused parole board. Even the cute doctor wasn’t smiling anymore. “I’m sorry. I really have to take this.” There was an audible huff from the gray-haired lady as I hastily slipped out of the room.
Outside, the drab, sterile hallway was even more depressing than the room where the parole board was conducting their hearing. It was empty except for a two-man cleaning crew mopping the floor a few feet away from me. I pressed the talk button and took a deep breath.
“Laurette?”
“Hi, doll face. Where the hell have you been? Haven’t you gotten any of my e-mails?”
“I haven’t been online today. I’m in Vacaville.”
“Where in God’s name is that?”
“Up north. Between Sacramento and San Francisco. I drove up for my stalker’s parole hearing.”
“I really need to get you a job. You do the strangest things to keep busy.”
“They want to release him, and I’m here to make sure that doesn’t happen.”
“Do you know how many actors would kill to have a stalker? You can’t buy that kind of publicity.”
Laurette was always thinking of my career.
“Listen, I have to get back inside. They’re going to make a decision soon,” I said. “But I didn’t want to miss your call.”
“Good. Because I have exciting news.”
This was it. After years of struggling to shed the baggage that came with being a former child star, I was about to land my first significant series role as an adult. I had worked so hard for this moment. I sat down on a hard wooden bench to savor the news.
“I’m getting married,” Laurette said.
That didn’t sound like, “The network picked up your pilot.”
“I’m sorry. What?”
“I’m getting married. Can you believe it? After a lifetime of horrible dates and misfired relationships, I’ve finally found him. The one. Just when I came to accept the fact that he’d never show up, he’s here.”
“What about the pilot?”
“Oh, God, that loser? He hasn’t called in months. Last I heard he quit Delta after his divorce was final and moved back to Atlanta. Truth be told, he had this mole on his back I just couldn’t get past.”
“Not the airline pilot. The network pilot.”
“What network pilot?”
“My network pilot. On NBC. The one I’ve been waiting weeks to hear about. Did it get picked up?”
There was nothing but dead air. I figured the news wasn’t good.
“Oh, honey . . .” Laurette said, her voice filled with a motherly, comforting tone usually reserved for occasions like telling a kid his pet hamster died. “It’s not going to happen. They passed on it.”
Now I felt just like that kid with the dead hamster.
“Why? You said all the suits loved it.”
“They did. And then they tested it. I think it set a new record for low audience scores. Didn’t I call you? That was something like, four days ago.”
“No, you didn’t call me.”
“Oh, I guess I’ve been so caught up in this new romance, I forgot. So, back to me. Isn’t this wild? I’m finally going to walk down the aisle!”
This was a double blow. First, my best friend neglected to break potentially devastating news to me as early as possible, so I could grieve properly and move on to my next career disappointment. Second, this same best friend, who always insisted on relating every last detail of her life, was getting hitched to a man I had never even heard about.
“Who is this guy? And why haven’t I met him?”
“We just met two weeks ago.”
I opened my mouth to speak, but felt there was no way she would not detect a hint of judgment in anything I said.
“I know it’s fast,” she said, reading my mind. “But it was one of those moments when you just know. We ran into each other at
a screening at the TV Academy. It was some CBS Sunday night movie based on a true story about a little girl in Tennessee who was trapped in a mineshaft for eight days. The movie was crap. The kid they got sucked. But he played one of the firefighters, and believe it or not, he was quite good. He’s very talented. His name is Juan Carlos Barranco.”
Juan Carlos Barranco. The name sounded vaguely familiar, but I couldn’t place it.
Laurette had discovered a propensity for Spanish men on our nine-day trip to the coast of Spain last summer. But an actor? I love actors. I’m one myself. So I know that most of them are one big red flag for inevitable emotional distress.
“So he’s an actor, huh?” I said, hoping she’d pick up the obvious concern in my voice.
“Yes,” she said, choosing to ignore it. “They had a reception after the screening, and we both went for the last finger sandwich. It was chicken salad. Not bad actually.”
Laurette and I also both have to fill in complete food descriptions during any story we tell the other.
“Anyway, he graciously let me have the sandwich,” she said. “And I told him how impressed I was with his performance, and then we wound up back at my place. And he’s been there ever since.”
“He’s living with you?”
“Don’t tell my mother, but yes. That’s why we’re getting married right away. I don’t want to compromise my Catholic upbringing.”
“Sweetheart, you compromised your Catholic upbringing in 1986 on our road trip to Fort Lauderdale when—”
“Don’t say it. Just tell me how happy you are for me!”
I sighed. There was no way to slow Laurette down once she made a decision. She was a freight train and you just had to go along for the ride and hope you didn’t derail from the high speed.
“I’m really happy for you,” I said.
“Now get your ass back down to LA so we can start making plans.”
“I want to meet this guy, and make sure he’s good enough for you.”
“Wait until you see him! He’s gorgeous! And so sweet. He brought home takeout from Red Lobster because he knows how much I love their garlic cheese rolls. He hid the ring in one of my popcorn shrimp! I almost choked to death.”
Laurette was laughing at the memory. I was still hung up on the fact she was planning to marry an actor. If I could just get her to talk to my boyfriend Charlie, he’d certainly tell her to run screaming for the hills, having lived with me for three years.
I was momentarily distracted when the door to the parole hearing opened and the three members of the board filed out into the hallway. They were followed by the two prison guards, who escorted Wendell Butterworth down the hall toward the processing room.
“Laurette, I have to go,” I said. “Something’s happening.”
“All right, but call me when you get home. I want you and Charlie to be the first ones to meet my new husband. Can you believe I just said that? Husband!”
“I’ll call you from the car.”
I hung up the phone and approached the curly-haired cutie from the parole board.
“Excuse me, are we taking a short break?” I said.
The handsome doctor turned and flashed me his winning smile. “No. We’re finished.”
“Well, what happened?”
“We unanimously voted to grant Mr. Butterworth his parole.”
I felt as if someone had just slammed me in the gut with a fist. I staggered back, not sure at first if I heard him right.
“You’re letting him out?”
Eavesdropping, the gray-haired lady stepped up behind me and sniffed, “We asked if anyone else had anything to add, but you were out here on the phone.” With a satisfied smile, she marched off toward the exit.
My head was spinning. I didn’t know what to do. I thought I might pass out. That’s when the curly-haired doctor put a comforting hand on my arm. I thought he might offer some encouraging words, maybe a little advice on what steps I should take to protect myself now that Wendell Butterworth was free to start following me around again.
“I was wondering,” he said. “Are you seeing anyone?”
KENSINGTON BOOKS are published by
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Copyright © 2003 by Rick Copp
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ISBN: 978-0-7582-7463-2
