Fifty Cents For Your Soul

by Denise Dietz

  “I’m scheduled to work at the restaurant,” I fibbed. “Big church crowd. Italians eat humongous meals after church. Mussels Marinara, calamari…that’s squid, Mother…cannelloni, veal parmigiano, yum!”

  Mom exhaled her martyr’s sigh. “I’ll tell Daddy tonight, after pot roast and marzipan, when he’s relaxed and his blood pressure’s not too high. He canceled his business trip so he’d be home. He’s getting older, Frannie. Soon he’ll retire and we’ll move to Florida.”

  Shit! Four guilt zingers in four sentences. “Maybe the manager will change my shift,” I said.

  “Daddy said to tell you he’d pay for Long Island Railroad tickets and pick you up at the station.”

  “Mom, did you…” I hesitated, the question on the tip of my tongue. Did you have another child? Stillborn? But I couldn’t ask. It would be like one of the Brady Bunchers asking Florence Henderson if she’d ever had an abortion. “I’ll, um, see you Sunday. Bye.”

  Andre watched me wait for a dial tone before I slammed down the receiver. Then he said, “Why do you do that?”

  “Do what?”

  “Purposely irritate your mother. She hates it when you talk about waiting tables and, eventually, you cave in.”

  “You’re a WASP from Wisconsin, Andre. What do you know about Jewish guilt?”

  “I’m learning.”

  “We could make my mother happy and get married.”

  “Do you want to get married, Frannie?”

  “No. If we were married, she’d start nagging about babies and job security.”

  “Speaking of job security…” Andre returned to his chair and script.

  The phone rang. My mom has a habit of calling back a few minutes after hanging up. Usually she says something like: “Did you dead-bolt the door, Frannie? I don’t want you getting raped in your sleep.”

  I’ve heard that getting-raped-in-your-sleep crap at least a million times, and I’ve always wanted to tell Mom that I’d definitely be awake.

  Pressing the phone’s receiver against my ear, I said, “Andre and I are talking marriage and two-point-four children. We’ll name them all after Grandpa Irving, even the girls. Then I’ll finish college and teach junior high, just like my stupnagel cousin Charlene. Okay?”

  “If you plan to be a teacher, cookie, you won’t be interested in my news,” said a male voice. Harris! My agent!

  “What news?”

  “They want you to audition for The Exorcist.”

  “They’ve already filmed The Exorcist. Is this a re-make?”

  “Did I say exorcist? I meant Forever Asmodeus. They want you to audition for the part of a double.”

  “A stunt double?”

  “Not a stunt girl, cookie, a --”

  “Stand in? No way!”

  Harris exhaled my mother’s patented martyr-sigh. “If you’d just zip your mouth shut and let me explain. Forever Asmodeus is about a young teenager who becomes possessed by a demon. They’re testing a thirteen-year-old girl for the role, but they don’t think she’s capable of performing a certain scene. They want someone her size and shape to play the scene. Are you following me?”

  Ignoring his discourteous thirteen-year-old shape clarification, I said, “What a funny coincidence. I found that book on a bus and planned to read it tonight. Maria Shriver and Barbara Walters both interviewed the author. Sex, religion and exorcism…yum!”

  “Want to hear another funny co-inky-dink, cookie? I didn’t even know the part was up for grabs until this African American lady delivered a memo to my office.”

  Harris always calls white women “girls” and black women “ladies,” as if he’s afraid a black revolutionary will picket his office while holding aloft a signs that says YOU CAN’T RUN FASTER THAN A BULLET.

  “A memo?” I said.

  “Yeah. A casting memo. Straight from the horse’s mouth.”

  “Whoa! You’ve lost me, Harris.”

  “Maybe you met some big shot at one of your bars and --”

  “One of my bars?”

  “-- and made a good impression, because the part fits you like a glove. They even want your color hair. Look, cookie, that Asmodeus book is trash,” Harris said, as if he ever read anything except Variety, BackStage, and an occasional Jackie Collins excerpt. “But they’re looking for a good actress and it could lead to other roles.”

  “Who is they, Harris?”

  “Victor Madison.”

  Victor Madison! The most famous horror film director in Hollywood!

  “First,” Harris said, “you have to get past Suzanne Burton.”

  Suzanne Burton! The most famous casting agent in Manhattan!

  “You have an interview with Burton tomorrow, cookie, at three o’clock. Don’t be late.”

  The appointment had already been set. Like my mother, Harris knew I wouldn’t say no.

  I hung up the phone and turned to Andre. “That was my agent.”

  “I’m not deaf, Frannie.”

  “I have an interview with Suzanne Burton for a Victor Madison film. What do you think of that?”

  “I think you promised to make me a tuna sandwich.”

  “I mean Mrs. Carvainis, Andre. She mentioned demons and Bonnie dreamed --”

  “Can’t we discuss demonic conjecture after lunch?”

  “It’s way past lunchtime, and why are you so cranky?”

  “Because it’s just an interview, Frannie. But you’ll get your hopes up, buy something stupid, brag to your mother, and crash big-time if they cast someone else.”

  “The interview is tomorrow, Andre. I don’t have time to buy something stupid.”

  “When you make my sandwich, don’t cut the crusts off the bread.”

  “And I won’t call my mother!”

  “Not too much mayo, please, and no celery.”

  “Hey, I’m not Wendy!”

  “I said please.” Andre grinned. “If you make my sandwich, I’ll sew your shadow back on.”

  “Okay, deal.” Scooping up Snow, I headed for our kitchenette. Then, dicing celery, I thought about Andre.

  He knew everything about me, including my Mother Goose debut. But he was reticent about his background, and I would have discovered very little had it not been for his soap opera contract celebration. He had become roaring drunk and talkative, repeating what his father (roaring drunk and talkative) had once told him. Later, I wove together the bits and pieces.

  The first of seven children, thirty-one-year-old Andre had been born and raised on a Wisconsin dairy farm. His mother, a farmer’s daughter by the name of Joan Cunnings, had succumbed to a traveling salesman named Henry Vaughn. Joan Cunnings would cover her calendar with a big red X’s, marking the days until “Hank” would visit the farm and lead her up into the dusky hayloft. One month Joan’s period never came and Hank, unfortunately, had…and did.

  With regularity. Soon seven little Vaughns, like seven little Foys, were performing inside the barn, underneath the hayloft where Mommy had been screwed. The infamous hayloft became Andre’s casting couch for any pretty neighbor who wanted a starring role. When the prettiest married his brother, he packed his bags and fled to New York.

  “Where’s my sandwich, woman?” Framed by an archway, Andre gave me a smile that would melt Oscar.

  “Almost finished, man. I just have to cut the crusts off.”

  “Frannie, I like crust. Is sandwich circumcision a Jewish tradition?”

  “No, Andre, my mother always made me eat my crusts.”

  I took a bite of leftover tuna, thoroughly enjoying the gobs of tart mayonnaise and the satisfying crunch of celery. “Andre,” I said, “did you know that Clark Gable made love to Carole Lombard in a duck blind? Gable also bragged that he had made love in a canoe, phone booth, swimming pool, and on top of a fire escape.”

  “Frankly, my dear, I don’t give a damn.”

  “Do you think they named Clark candy bars for Gable?”

  “Frannie, you ask such stupid questions.”

/>   “Let’s find a duck blind, or a canoe, and you can teach me how to fly. Do you think Wendy Darling wore panties underneath her sedate nightie? Disney’s artists have no guts, no chutzpah. Don’t you think Peter Pan’s green tights should have flaunted an animated penis?”

  “Grow up,” Andre said, spitting pieces of celery into his hand as if they were cherry pits.

  Lured by the smell of tuna, Snow jumped up onto the counter, pressed his furry face against Andre’s palm, nosed each discarded leafstalk chip, then gave me a haughty cat-glare.

  “I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” I said, first to Andre, then Snow. “I always forget how much you hate celery.”

  “Maybe when you grow up you’ll remember,” Andre said, cranky again.

  Low blow! I’d show my WASP lover how ageless I could be, after I auditioned for the part of a thirteen-year-old.

  Chapter Six

  Suzanne Burton, head casting director for one of the most exclusive agencies in New York City, was in her early fifties. She looked forty. I had a feeling she had always looked forty, and always would. She wore black-and-white plaid slacks. A chrome-colored blouse rode over the slacks, cinched about her waist by a Sterling belt. Her short hair had been frosted silver. Her eyes were squirrel-gray. I wondered if she color-coordinated her hair and eyes to match her clothes.

  Her office surprised me.

  I had anticipated a testimonial wall, cluttered with autographed photos. I had pictured phones galore, blue-penciled scripts, and an open window for the occasional swan dive.

  Instead, her carpet was salmon, and her beige walls boasted one Wylie Jamestone painting. Across from her computer desk, atop a Lucite desk, were CD, TV, VCR and fax machine. And her picture window ‑‑ closed ‑‑ had no sill.

  She studied me for several moments, taking in my tweed jumper over thin white turtleneck, my black tights and Capezio slippers. My hair, in one thick braid, fell to my shoulder blades, and I’d shunned makeup, except for mascara and pale pink lipstick.

  Had I overdone the teenage bit?

  “Sit down, Ms. Rose,” she said.

  “Please call me Frannie, Ms. Burton.” Sinking into a gray leather chair, I hoped she’d tell me to call her Suzanne.

  “How tall are you, dear?”

  From Ms. to dear ‑‑ a good sign? “Five three,” I said, adding a half an inch.

  “We’re looking for a small actress. Your agent…uh…”

  “Harris, first name T. Murphy,” I supplied.

  “Yes. Of course.” She looked as if she was Rolodexing the name, filing it sequentially ‑‑ Harris Julie, Harris T. Murphy, Harris Tweed, Harrison George. “I’ve seen quite a few young women, Ms. Rose, but they didn’t have the strength to play our demon-girl.”

  “I’ve got strength, Ms. Burton. I’ve had horseback riding and ballet lessons, and I belong to a health club.”

  “The young woman we cast will probably do two scenes, but the scenes are very important. Have you read the book, dear?”

  No. Last night I shunned the Laundromat, re-read The Secret Garden, and doodled a patio greenhouse. “No,” I said. “Not yet. I wanted to audition cold. I mean, fresh. Without any preconceived notions. I mean, um, impressions.”

  Shit, I sounded like a stuttering thesaurus. Darting a glance at the window, I wondered if it opened. Maybe I could make a quick exit and hit the pavement.

  “Read the book and come back…” Suzanne Burton consulted her appointment book. “I’ll squeeze you in tomorrow, same time.”

  Whereupon, she dismissed me via the door.

  * * * * *

  Forever Asmodeus recounted the story of a fat and frumpy teen who strikes a bargain with a demon. Physical transformation occurs, and Robin, the protagonist, possessed by Asmodeus, sets out to be promiscuous. The deal includes an heir, and the demon isn’t choosy.

  After her metamorphosis, Robin looks like a pretty teen, unless she’s near a mirror. Her reflection is grotesque. Naturally, she tries to avoid mirrors. This is difficult in places like the school locker room (cheerleader is a given) and a shopping mall’s boutique.

  Her parents discover the transformation. They get in touch with a TV evangelist who is being touted as a Presidential candidate, and beg him to exorcise the demon. After approximately five hundred pages, Robin’s parents are satisfied, never realizing that Asmodeus ‑‑ sneaky devil! ‑‑ has possessed Robin’s infant sister, paving the way for a sequel.

  Harris was spot-on. Trash.

  One could almost say Forever Asmodeus was a rip-off of The Exorcist.

  Based on a “real life” case of demonic possession, The Exorcist had presented a credible account of the modern urban world ripped apart by an obscene, ancient evil. The evil in Forever Asmodeus was 100% modern, and urban, but if I had to describe the writing, I’d say a Harlequin author had scheduled a lobotomy and chickened out halfway through the operation.

  At least, that’s my professional opinion. If asked my personal opinion, I’d say that ‑‑ despite the blend of romance clichés and sophistic, sinister fantasy ‑‑ Forever Asmodeus was a page-turner, and the author had struck at the heart of this adult’s childhood fantasy. During my overweight, insecure youth, it would have taken me less than the blink of an eye to accept Asmo’s demands. Internal possession for physical beauty and popularity? You betcha!

  * * * * *

  Suzanne Burton’s receptionist greeted me like a long-lost stranger. Her expression fairly shouted “Gate-crasher.” Obviously disappointed that I wasn’t Russell Crowe, Cameron Crowe, or even an animated crow in Dumbo, she handed me a script and returned her myopic gaze to her computer screen.

  Suzanne had meant it when she said she’d squeeze me in. I waited five, ten, twenty minutes, then began to compose rap lyrics. The receptionist’s fake fingernails-on-keyboard made great background music. I rapped three verses and was working on the fourth. I want this job, I need some dollars, I bought something stupid, and Andre will holler. I want this freaking job, I need the bucks, I called my mother…

  “Thank you for your patience, Ms. Rose.”

  This time Ms. Burton wore a gray dress and matching suede boots. “I want improvisation,” she said, once we had entered her office. “Use the dialogue if you wish, but focus on action.”

  Tossing the script sides toward her desk, I fell onto the salmon carpet. Inside my head, I heard a real rap song, a song The Spa often used for aerobics sessions. I twisted, turned, writhed, grunted, and the pain was real. Playing Robin-Asmodeus, I gave Suzanne two-for-one: a shy, giggly teen and a growly demon. Then I looked up, craving strokes, having just given the best audition in my so-called career.

  “That was fine,” Suzanne understated. “Monday I need you to meet with Sol Aarons at the CBS studios, inside the makeup room. Have you heard of Aarons?”

  Sol Aarons! The most famous makeup artist in the world!

  “Who hasn’t?” I said.

  “I’d like you to lose a few pounds, dear.”

  “Lose a few pounds,” I parroted.

  “We’re considering a nude scene for Robin. Do you have a problem with that?”

  Oh my God! Mom would plotz. Or else she’d nag Daddy into early retirement and move to Israel; a desert kibbutz with no movie house.

  I shrugged, playing it cool. At the same time, I wondered what Andre would say. He’d probably say, “Forget Jewish inhibitions.”

  Suzanne gave me a have-a-nice-day smile. Then she said, “Next Thursday I’d like you to audition for Victor. Victor Madison.”

  The name wafted through her office on gossamer wings. Vic-tor Mad-i-son. The name floated like a helium balloon. No. A kite. No…

  I scratched my brain for the perfect interpretation. How about syllabic light beams sculpting symphonic cobwebs?

  In other words, Suzanne verbally caressed Victor Madison’s name.

  Weren’t cobwebs sticky?

  “Frannie, you ask such stupid questions,” I said, after I’d hit the pavement.
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br />   Chapter Seven

  Makeup artist Sol Aarons, 50-something, looked so rogue-ish, I imagined him as the kind of kid who drew caricatures of his teachers and pulverized the school bully. I hadn’t sketched my teachers, but I’d pulverized the school bully. And for one brief shining moment, around age twelve, I’d seriously considered a career as a fashion designer. To that end, using lined notebook paper, I’d tried to turn Little Lulu and Sluggo into Archie and Veronica, complete with avant-garde wardrobe.