by Denise Dietz
Cottage cheese dribbled down my chin.
“No, no, no!” screamed the Assistant Director, Sheldon Giglia, who had clothed himself from head to toe in plastic. “Don’t you know how to spit, missy?”
“A’course,” I said. Of course I knew how to spit. What baseball addict doesn’t know how to spit? But spitting through Sol’s latex mask was more difficult than whistling through a mouthful of crackers.
Instantly hating the Ass. Director, I spooned all three ingredients between my lips and launched cottage cheese, marmalade and peach preserves at Giglia and the prop man. I tried to grin, but my mouth wouldn’t stretch that far. Missy would never miss again!
With an enthusiasm once reserved for childhood excursions to Jones Beach, I re-dug my spoon into the bowls and shoveled the test materials between my lips until my cheeks pooched like a chipmunk.
Victor Madison walked onto the set. I swallowed, and knew how it felt to ingest a cheek full of tobacco.
Although the soundstage overflowed with filming apparatus, there was no orchestra. And yet, an imaginary musician issued forth an imaginary drum roll. An imaginary spotlight seemed to follow Madison, blending his face and form into the room’s shadows. The crew watched his every move. So did I. He possessed a magnetic charisma. In other words, Victor Madison could easily play Asmodeus, the devious demon.
He greeted me, then turned to Sheldon Giglia, who was trying to shed his plastic without touching it. “Stand in for the preacher, Shelly,” Madison said. “I want Francine --”
“Frannie, sir. Francine’s my stage name.”
“Okay, no problem,” Madison said. “I want you to slap Shelly’s face, Frannie, just like Robin does in Chapter Thirteen.”
Okay, no problem, I thought gleefully, hauling back and hitting Giglia the same way I’d once clobbered the school bully. Giglia reeled to the wall of the set and fell, butt first. After several repeats, he began ducking before impact.
“Take a break,” Madison told his crew. “We’ll shoot the screen test in fifteen minutes.” Leading me toward a small bed, he said, “Do you remember the segment in the book where Robin holds a crucifix aloft, then drives it viciously between her legs?”
“Yes, sir.”
“She screams obscenities, her parents come running, and they discover her transformation.”
“Yes, sir, I remember.”
“Christ, don’t call me sir. In the film, the camera will pan in on Lynn Beth’s contorted face, supplemented by an insert shot…your hand plunging the icon beneath a bloody nightgown. Right now, I want you to play both parts. The girl and the demon. Go as far as you can with it, push the envelope, and don’t worry about overacting. The audience has to feel disgust, but they must also feel empathy. Do you understand?”
“Yes, sir…uh…”
“Madison. Not Mister. Just Madison.”
Ten minutes later, a prop man handed me a papier-mâché crucifix, a foot long and maybe three inches thick.
“Ready,” I said, gripping the prop.
“Action,” Madison said.
First, I used all the animal sounds I had practiced. Then…
“You’re a pig, a sow, a glutton!” I shouted, playing Asmodeus. “Please leave me alone, p-p-please,” my Robin sobbed.
I drove the crucifix between my thighs. Rather than sexual, I made the motion angry, triumphant. My demon was trying to mentally destroy the young girl and reinforce his possession.
“Help me. Won’t somebody help me?” my Robin pleaded. “No one can help you,” my Asmodeus said.
I didn’t need an unseen presence in a mirror.
I didn’t need click-beetles or icy fingers.
I was performing good. And good meant bad.
Evil!
Tears brimmed as I altered my inflection for each character: high-pitched, frightened shrieks; low, demeaning growls that included every profanity in my vocabulary. I scurried across the bed on my knees, crawling from side to side, tossing pillows toward my demonic adversary. Stiffening my arms and shoulders, I held the papier-mâché crucifix at arm’s length.
“No! Please! Oh my God! Nooooo…”
“Cut. Okay, Frannie, cut,” Madison said.
His loud voice perforated my focus, my intensification, and I forced my body to relax. The set was very quiet; you could hear the proverbial pin drop. Then the crew applauded and I started to cry ‑‑ Frannie tears, not Robin tears. The crew, the film world’s toughest audience, and Madison came out from behind the camera and kissed me on the forehead…very good…very evil…you betcha.
Lynn Beth Sullivan arrived, wearing identical makeup, and we tested together. They shot us duplicating each other’s facial expressions. Eyeing Lynn Beth, I felt as if I stared into Alice’s looking glass, only I knew that Hell’s demons, rather than Wonderland’s allegories, prowled behind its smooth, polished surface.
For some dumb reason, I assumed the makeup removal would be fairly simple. Wrong! Each piece had to be lifted as gently as possible. Greens and purples merged, solvent ran into my eyes, and my poor skin resisted the tug of latex. Sol Aarons kept sneaking sips of Tsingtao. Still tense and stiff, I wanted to drink a six-pack, with tequila chasers.
Bonnie entered the dressing room, Madison’s arm around her shoulders. She looked beautiful. Her blue-black hair had been plaited in one long braid, thick as a Sumo wrestler’s wrist. Sooty lashes framed violet eyes. Straight white teeth nibbled at her generous lower lip.
I raised one latex-free eyebrow. Bonnie shrugged and nodded, which in Rosen-Sinclair shorthand meant she’d be considered for the role of Martine. The way she glanced up at Madison’s face meant all kinds of interesting suppositions.
She and I left the studio together. Timed street lights glared yellow, their sparkle reflected in muddy, guttered rain water. Soon Broadway’s neon marquees would disguise decadent glitz. Carriages would glide through Central Park, leaving horse shit in their wake. The Knicks would host the Celtics, and pickpockets would work the crowd. Greenwich Village would put on a show for tourists, then count profits. At least two suicides would leap from the Brooklyn Bridge.
New York City, my city. I felt alive, full of hope and promise. I was so damn happy to be a part of it. If I could make it here, I’d make it anywhere, thank you Liza Minelli and Frank Sinatra.
Bonnie had “positive vibes” about the part of Martine, and a dinner date with Madison. But it wasn’t a casting-couch date, she quickly explained. Her agent was supposed to call Suzanne Burton immediately if not sooner.
“Be careful, Bon,” I said. “I think Suzanne has a thing for Madison.”
I told her about the S&M lighter and the way Suzanne had verbally caressed Madison’s name. “I wouldn’t mention the dinner date,” I said. “What’s the matter? Why do you look so funny?”
“Victor told me not to mention our date, too. Emphatically.”
Victor? A stab of jealousy entered my brain and exited just as quickly. I had Andre. Last month Bonnie had severed her “forever and ever” relationship with what my psychic would have called an “ecktor.”
An eclectic ecktor, no less, who believed that performing Camus for zero dollars was more spiritual ‑‑ and visceral ‑‑ than paying his share of the rent. But what really bummed Bonnie out, the straw that broke the carnivore’s back, so to speak, was his dogmatic insistence that fast-food hamburgers were not only cheap, but healthy.
Forever love, I thought. Forever Asmodeus. Both fiction!
Shit, another brain-glitch. Andre was my forever love. Wasn’t he?
So why did a stupid childhood verse supplant my mental faux pas?
Fuzzy-Wuzzy was a bear, Fuzzy-Wuzzy had no hair, Fuzzy-Wuzzy wasn’t fuzzy, was he?
Chapter Thirteen
A storm cloud followed me home, then headed for Canada.
Less than an hour ago I’d felt euphoric. Now, as I trudged up the stairs, all I felt was the stress on my calf muscles.
Inside the apartment, a clean-shaven
Andre sat on the couch. Bare-chested, he wore denim cut-offs. Our goose-neck lamp’s 75 watts bounced off his shoulder, traveled down his pectoral muscles, halted briefly at the concavity below his rib cage, then pooled near his groin. Had he heard my footsteps in the hall? My key in the lock?
He knows exactly what he looks like, I thought. He’s posing for me, giving me his gee-I’m-so-sensitive, Daniel-Day-Lewis-in-The-Last-of-the-Mohicans façade.
Then I saw the paperback clutched in his fingers, which should have dispelled my cockeyed notion ‑‑ except, Andre never reads books.
Ella Fitzgerald sang from our stereo speakers, coating the furniture with layers of blue. Louis Armstrong joined her for one duet, and my guttered candles, still decorating the room, dripped waxed tears.
I sniffed, but all I could smell was incense sticks. Andre, bless his intuitive heart, had dispatched the noxious, chicken-blood-soaked Styrofoam to the basement. At the same time, he’d trashed my demon pictures.
Snow looked very black against the white baseboards. Casting a humpbacked shadow on the wall, he slept, a cat grin and slight undulation of his tail implying that his dreams included memories of an un-neutered Snowball and nights of free pussy.
I walked closer to Andre, who wasn’t precisely reading; who hadn’t suddenly converted to Judaic Literaryism; whose brow was still low; whose spots remained unchanged. Feeling cranky, not knowing why, I watched him flip through the pages of my Forever Asmodeus paperback, a bottle of Sterling Chardonnay at his elbow, a bouquet of thorny red roses near the wine.
“Those flowers are for you,” he said, still looking down at the book.
“Andre, that’s so sweet.”
“They’re from your friend, Mickey Roebuck.”
I read the card. “All it says is ‘Thanks.’ Why on earth would Samson send roses?”
“Supper’s in the crock pot,” Andre said, looking up from the book. “Damn, this Joe Bob Lancaster role is terrific.”
“Do you think the author named him for Burt?”
“Huh?”
“Burt Lancaster, who won an Oscar for his role as Gantry…Elmer Gantry…in 1960. No, 1961. Hey, I just thought of something. If you turn 1961 upside down, it’s 1961.”
“Frannie, what the hell are you babbling about?”
“I’m not babbling, Andre.”
Actually, I was babbling, yes siree Joe Bob. Because if I rattled on long enough, I might banish the foreign sentiments that splintered my brain. Love wasn’t fiction! Andre hadn’t been posing! And just out of curiosity, what the fuck had happened to Fuzzy-Wuzzy’s hair?
“Victor Madison wants Jeremy Glenn for Joe Bob Lancaster,” I said.
“Sure. That makes sense. A TV supercop playing a presidential evangelist. I suppose Glenn wants to broaden his scope or something.”
Christ, I didn’t need Andre’s petulant sarcasm. I was so tired my bones ached, so I didn’t say the role would broaden the scope of a soap star too. “Hi, Frannie, how did the screen test go?” I said, instead.
“Sorry. Hi, Frannie, how did the screen test go?” Andre gave me his melt-Oscar smile, and I couldn’t help wondering if he practiced that smile in front of Nana Jen’s genuine, hand-carved, French beveled mirror.
“I’m fairly certain the part is mine,” I said. “It’s only a double, of course, but the crew applauded and Madison kissed --”
“Great. That’s great, Frannie.” He nodded toward the Chardonnay bottle. “Have some wine.”
“Hair of the dog, Andre?”
“What? Oh. Christ, I’ll never drink again! This morning I felt as if I’d swallowed rusty razor blades, and a wine hangover is not my idea of a fun time. Then, while brewing coffee, I detected a gross smell. Following my nose, I looked underneath the sink. I thought there was nothing left in my stomach, but, well, the last of our potted palms, the one you named Elvis, has left the building.” Andre’s thaw-ice grin reappeared. “I opened that Chardonnay for you, babe. And, to be perfectly honest, you look as if you could use it.”
“I look tired, that’s all. I am tired.”
“The wine will perk you up.”
“The wine will put me to sleep.” I yawned, then sniffed again. “Your stew smells yummy. I didn’t have breakfast, too nervous, and lunch was a spoonful of cottage cheese, marmalade and peach --”
“I thought you hated cottage cheese.” He placed my paperback face-down on the coffee table. “The wine’ll go flat if you don’t drink it.”
“What’s the deal, Andre? Do you want to get me drunk?”
“No, not drunk. Call it an experiment, Frannie. You might loosen up a little, inhibition-wise, if you’re relaxed.”
Lifting the bottle to my lips, I sampled a sip.
“That’s my good girl,” he said. “C’mon, drink up. I have another bottle on ice.”
“I’m drinking on an empty stomach, Andre. Forget loss of inhibitions. I’ll pass out.”
The wine, however, was beginning to taste good. It went down smooth, and soon I’d consumed a goodly portion. Andre retrieved the second bottle and a corkscrew. I giggled.
“What’s so funny, Frannie?”
“Corkscrew.” Pressing my hands against my mouth, I giggled into my fingers while tears squirted from my eyes.
“Jesus, maybe you’d better quit while you’re ahead.” Andre sat on the edge of the stuffed armchair and tapped his lap. “You sound --”
“Buzzed? Yeah. Ain’t got no tolerance for spirits.” I giggled helplessly, almost choking. Somehow, I managed to say, “Spirits, Andre, get it?”
“Sorry, Frannie, I didn’t get the corkscrew joke.”
“Oh…oh…corkscrew.” New giggles churned. I took a physical and cerebral breath, then tried to explain. “You want an uninhibited screw so you opened the wine with a…maybe it’s not all that funny,” I conceded mournfully. “I cannot tell a lie, Andre, or a joke, but I can spit. The ass director said I couldn’t, but I showed him! Want me to show you?”
“Maybe later. Right now I think you should put the bottle down and sit in my lap.”
“No, no, no! You want me to lose my inhibitions.” Defiantly, I took a slug from the second bottle. Then, to the tune of Bye, Bye, Blackbird, I sang, “Bye, bye, ‘bitions.”
“Frannie, put the goddamn bottle down!”
“Party pooper!” I put the bottle down carefully, the same way Sol Aarons had put his Tsingtao bottle down, only my table was Oscar-less, which made me shed a few melancholy rather than giggly tears. “Pack up all your cares an’ woe, here I go, flyin’ low…” I spread my arms, did a Peter Pan, soared through space, and landed on the floor. “Bye, bye, ‘bitions.”
Andre picked me up and returned to the armchair. “Speaking of Jewish inhibitions,” he said, “your mother called.”
“No shit. So how’s Charlene? Bet she’s havin’ tricklets.”
“Triplets were not mentioned, but your mother forgot my name again.”
“Anthony’s an okay name, Andre. You could do worse.”
“This time I was Artie.”
“I dated a boy named Arnie. In college.”
“Artie, not Arnie.”
“Arnie was cute, but very short. My breast used to hit his pocket protector. He was pre-friggin-med. Mom was ecstatic.”
“I’ll bet she wasn’t so happy when you ditched him.”
“I didn’t ditch him. I engaged him.”
“What?”
“We got engaged. Immediately, if not sooner, Mom booked the Rabbi, temple, mailed invitations…she was so afraid I’d chicken out.”
“Obviously, she was right.”
“Nope.”
“You’re married?”
“Nope.”
“Divorced?”
“Nope. We never finished the ceremony. I oh-deed.”
“On what? Frannie, you won’t even take aspirin.”
“On Midol. The night before the wedding I got my period. No one gets cramps as bad as a good Jewish girl, trust me, so
I filled a glass with tequila and swallowed a couple of --”
“Jesus, you overdosed on two Midol tablets?”
“Two bottles. Aunt Sylvia organized here comes the bride. I wobbled down the aisle, took one look at Arnie’s tuxedo pocket protector, giggled uncontrollably, and passed out.”
