by J. J. Murray
“It might as well be,” Lauren said. “Miss Smith, this is a dated script. It is not relevant to today’s world. I keep hearing Martha and the Vandellas and Marvin Gaye in the background. Unless we all wear bell-bottoms and platform shoes, no one will take this show seriously. No one.”
Miss Smith stared at Lauren. “You think you’re the shit, don’t you?”
Is she serious? Of course I still am! Lauren stood, the iron chair squealing behind her. “Yes.”
“You ain’t done shit in years,” Miss Smith said.
“At least I can write about this century just fine,” Lauren said.
“Lost your man, didn’t you?” Miss Smith said. “Had to get a job because your sugar daddy’s gone.”
“I actually lost him to men a long time ago,” Lauren said. “What’s your point?”
Miss Smith blinked. “Chazz Jackson is gay?”
So everyone doesn’t know. Lauren nodded. “He’s heavily bisexual, yes. So what was your point?”
“Damn.” Miss Smith shrugged. “I never would have thought that.” She smiled at Lauren. “I didn’t have a point. I was just pissed off, you know. I had to fuss at someone. You understand. It’s what we ladies from my generation do when we’re angry.” She turned to Randy. “Is she going to rewrite everything I write?”
“No,” Randy said. “She will not.”
“Yes, she will,” Miss Smith said, and she sighed. “Isn’t that why you asked for her to play this role, Randy? To make my script better?”
“No,” Randy said. “I didn’t. She wasn’t my first choice, anyway.”
“That Erika James is a mess, Randy,” Miss Smith said. “You should be glad she didn’t take the part.”
Lauren bristled briefly but regained her composure.
“Randy, I have told you a hundred times that my script was from the late sixties and early seventies, but did you listen?” Miss Smith asked. “You didn’t. I told you it was a slice-of-life piece. That’s the way we talked back then. That’s the way we talked about white men back then. We weren’t trying to be politically correct. We were just telling it like it was. I told you it wouldn’t work for a modern audience, but you’re as stubborn as your father was.”
Lauren looked from Miss Smith to Randy. Wow. There’s a strong resemblance. I only thought he was extremely tan, like every other director in Hollywood. That’s his mama? Well, no wonder he’s fighting for her script!
“You’re . . .” Barbie whistled. “You’re Randy’s mother.”
Miss Smith nodded. “My son is trying to break me into show business.” She smiled. “The entire first season is true, and it ends with me. That’s your character, Lauren. It ends with me meeting Randy’s daddy and having Randy.”
“You met Randy’s daddy at a flea market in Hell’s Kitchen,” Lauren said.
“No, at a Jimi Hendrix concert, actually,” Miss Smith said. “The Hollywood Bowl, nineteen sixty-eight. I take a few liberties with the truth here and there.”
What is going on? Lauren thought. How does a Hendrix concert at the Hollywood Bowl turn into a hookup at a flea market in Hell’s Kitchen, New York? “So . . . you have a full-length movie script from the late sixties and early seventies that Tumbleweed is trying to pass off as a modern sitcom.”
“Essentially, yes,” Randy whispered. “I’ve helped Mama modernize it somewhat, but it obviously still needs some work.”
“You helped modernize it?” Lauren said. “I thought that she was the expert.”
“I made that part up,” Randy whispered.
“Wow,” Lauren said, and she started to pace. “Let me get this straight. You want me to play the part of your mama in a modern television show that actually takes place in nineteen sixty-eight.”
“Right,” Randy said.
I wasn’t even born yet! “And I wasn’t your first choice,” Lauren said.
Randy shook his head. “I originally wanted Erika James.”
“Why?” Lauren asked. “She can’t act.”
“I know,” Randy said, “but she would have stuck to the script.”
Which is true. Erika James can’t think for herself. “Erika James couldn’t read the script. So why was I your second choice?”
“Well, after all that’s happened,” Randy said, “I assumed you’d be desperate.”
“What?” Lauren yelled. “I’m not desperate.”
“You’re not?” Randy said. “Your agent sure made you sound desperate.”
I need to talk to Todd again. “What exactly did he say?”
“Just that . . . ,” Randy said. “Well, that you might not be thinking straight, because of what happened with Chazz, and that maybe, you know, you—”
“Wouldn’t care or notice if the script was straight pus, as a result,” Lauren interrupted.
“Um, something like that, yeah,” Randy said.
“Wow,” Lauren said. She sat on the edge of the table. “Miss Smith, no offense, but your son and my agent must share the same brain cell.”
“I tried to get him to sell my script to Sony,” Miss Smith said, “but he was so sure it was a better fit for television.”
It isn’t even a better fit for fiction, Lauren thought. It isn’t a better fit anywhere. She looked at Barbie. “What do you think?”
“What do I think?” Barbie said. “I don’t feel qualified to judge any of this.”
“But you’re a pro,” Lauren said.
“Thank you, Miss Short,” Barbie said, “but I have only ever done toilet paper and J. C. Penney commercials until this, so I don’t feel qualified to give my opinion.”
Lauren laughed so hard, she nearly split the size 7s. “Am I being punked?” She looked at the camera operators. “Are you all still filming?”
“No one’s filming,” Randy said.
“I must be out of my mind,” Lauren said. I should have quit after the first reading. “I, uh, I have to go now.”
“Yeah,” Randy said. “It’s been quite a day. We’ll start fresh tomorrow. We’ll postpone the promos until tomorrow.”
“You misunderstand me,” Lauren said. “I have to go, as in go away from this place forever. That kind of go.”
“Why?” Randy asked.
“Well, for one, my agent actually thought I needed to do this show,” Lauren said. “I don’t. I don’t need to do anything at this point in my ‘career.’ And I definitely don’t need to do this . . . bad joke. This show is like backed-up sewage waiting to be sucked down a drain.” Even Patrick would agree with me there. He’d even appreciate the analogy. “It has a literal stench about it. I also have to go before anyone can connect me in any way to this show. You aren’t seriously still thinking of putting this disaster on the air, are you?”
“We’ve got a full green light,” Randy said. “Or we did when you signed on. I’m not so sure now.”
“What?” Barbie shouted. “I gave up a Windex commercial for this show!” She jumped to her feet. “Now I bet I can’t even get a mouthwash commercial. Thanks a lot, Miss Short.”
“I’m the only one leaving, Barbie,” Lauren said. “You could inherit my part.”
“You just heard him say that if you leave, the show’s off,” Barbie said.
“He says he’s not so sure,” Lauren said. “That means—”
“I know what it means,” Barbie interrupted. “I have a master’s degree, you know. I dropped over eighty grand on my MFA at USC, I got a few commercials, and now this is what happens when I finally break out. Thanks a lot.”
I need to control some damage here. “Randy, I think Barbie should have my part. In fact, I think Barbie could carry the entire show. She certainly has talent. And I don’t think she’ll need a friend to advise her at all.”
“I told you, Randy,” Miss Smith said. “I told you that I didn’t have any best friend like her in sixty-eight. I was one of the few sisters testing the waters on the other side, so to speak.” She turned to Lauren. “And you know what my son tells me? ‘Well
,’ he said, ‘just talk to yourself while you’re writing, then.’ Is that crazy or what?”
Everything about this day has been crazy, Lauren thought. From the three-layer white makeup to these tight-ass jeans to the surreal, time-warped absurd drama going on in this room. “Before I go, may I make one last suggestion?”
“You’re really leaving?” Randy asked.
“Yes,” Lauren said.
“The first time I get to direct something big, I lose the leading lady,” Randy said. “I’m doomed.”
“Let me make my suggestion first, okay?” Lauren turned to Mike, who was the last remaining sound technician. “Have you been recording all this from the beginning?”
Mike nodded. “I’ve been testing all the mikes. I heard some stomachs rumbling.”
Barbie smiled. “That was me. Wanna get lunch?”
“Sure,” Mike said.
“Girl,” Lauren said, “I’m trying to save the show. Flirt later.”
“Sorry,” Barbie said.
“Call me crazy, but . . .” Lauren shook her head. “Okay, I am crazy.” She sighed. “I want you all to listen to the entire recording of everything we said here today, because that is your show—including this last little exchange between Mike and Barbie.”
Lauren looked at several sets of blinking eyes. “I’m serious. I don’t know where you go from there, but trust me, the show we put on in here today was insanely funny. It was even smart. The comedy was intelligent. Can you imagine what just happened as the pilot for a new show? The critics won’t know what to do with it at first, and then one of these critics will write something like, ‘It’s so out there that it’s cutting edge. They’re breaking new ground. They’re on the cusp of a new comedic art form.’ ” She laughed. “And I expect to get a writing credit for it, because I just ‘wrote’ at least half of the pilot.”
“She’s right,” Randy said. “It is kind of funny.”
“And edgy,” Barbie said.
“Yeah.” Randy turned to Miss Smith. “Mama, how would you like to be on television?”
“Will I get to meet your daddy again?” Miss Smith asked.
“Sure,” Randy said. “You know, we could have you narrating the show, and we could even film your first meeting with Daddy at the Hollywood Bowl, too.”
Oh, now they get a budget. “And whatever you do, Miss Smith,” Lauren said, “do not, I repeat, do not wear any other hat than that one. That hat will be your trademark. You’ll start a new fashion trend.” Or set fashion back fifty years.
“So I can stay?” Barbie asked.
“Of course,” Randy said, drifting over to Mike. “Start it from the beginning.”
As the “real” show began, Lauren slipped away, put on her own clothes in her dressing room, kicked the size 7s into a corner, and left Tumbleweed Studios.
Patrick is never going to believe what just happened.
He can’t.
Even I can’t believe what just happened.
When she returned to her apartment, she raced to boot up her laptop, found Patrick’s e-mails among the hundreds, and read his letter with amazement, talking back to the screen.
“Oh, Brooklyn can’t be that bad, can it?” she said. “It’s a shame about that dolphin, though. Maybe it wanted to see Brooklyn once before it died, and Brooklyn was on its bucket list.” She laughed. “A dolphin with a bucket list. I am losing my mind.” She smiled. “I was an awesome mime. Oh, and you left me a smiley.” He has me feeling like a teenager! “The Brooklyn Academy of Music didn’t hire you because you were too manly, Patrick. Oh, and you want to decipher my lips. You think I’m young! I don’t have a secret, and I’d never do a mud bath. Aha! I was a writer today, and the world did fall apart. I felt like ripping out my teeth today, too. Why hasn’t anyone ever winked at you? And here you are, winking at me!”
She immediately replied.
Patrick:
Of course I don’t mind if you wink at me. I may turn shy on you, though.
What am I saying? I have never been shy. I am an actress. A shy actress wouldn’t make any money, right? Not that I’m making any money now.
You see, well, today I sort of . . . quit. But I have a perfectly logical explanation. I didn’t intend to quit, but you will not believe what happened at Tumbleweed today. . . .
10
Patrick didn’t believe it at first, but because it involved Hollywood, he eventually accepted Lauren’s story.
He didn’t, however, believe Lauren would be interested in hearing about his day. “ ‘How was my day?’ she asks,” he whispered. When’s the last time anyone ever asked me that?
Patrick wished he had an exciting story to rival Lauren’s, but there wasn’t much to tell. It was another typically dysfunctional day in the life of an underpaid, overworked handyman.
Lauren:
I wish I had been there to witness that . . . show? That circus? That sham? That comedy of errors? I can’t wait to see it on TV, though I’ll be sad not to see you in the title role. At least I might get to see your name in the writing credits.
You asked about my day. I doubt this will be funny or interesting. But since you asked . . .
I found water pooling on the floor in the basement of my own apartment building. This has happened before, and there wasn’t much water. I tend to keep my own building in better shape than the others. Don’t tell anyone, okay?
I checked the first-, second-, third-, and fourth-floor apartments for leaks under sinks and around toilets, showers, and tubs and didn’t find any. I am a pretty decent plumber. No plumber’s crack jokes please—I wear coveralls.
I went up to the roof and crawled on my hands and knees, looking for holes in the tar. Yeah, the building is that old. I found numerous small holes, most likely made by pigeons looking for bugs. I pondered the possibilities. If I let the pigeons continue to peck, I wouldn’t have to spray as much insecticide this spring. But if I didn’t patch the hole, I’d have a bigger hole and more water in the basement.
I patched the hole.
The end. Roll the credits. Watch the blooper reel. See the previews you skipped at the beginning of the DVD. Write a one-star review at Amazon.com.
I told you it wouldn’t be that interesting. I learned, however, that sometimes problems come from the top and trickle down, and if you don’t fix the top, you lose your bottom.
Or something like that.
What will you do with your free time now?
Patrick
11
This man is a trip, Lauren thought. I wonder how old he is. He sounds . . . older. Should I bust out and ask him? He has to know how old I am already. It’s only fair.
Patrick:
I’m sure you know that I’m 38. In Hollywood years, I’m around 64, and after what happened today, I’m feeling at least 98. I don’t believe the hype that “40 is the new 20.” 38 is old and pushing ancient in this town, especially if you don’t believe in getting body work done. Every part of my body is my own from the day I was born. I contain no additives or preservatives.
How old are you?
I know that was kind of random, and I had originally planned to trick you into telling me, but the direct approach won out. I’m just curious. If you don’t want to tell me, that’s okay. I’m going to guess that you’re . . . 45. I hope I’m wrong! : ) And if you’re, say, 30, I am really, really impressed at how wise you are.
I suppose you know a lot about me already. My bio is all over the Internet, so I won’t bore you with any of that. I will tell you a few things that NO ONE KNOWS ABOUT ME. Don’t you feel privileged? (Sorry I shouted. It was a tension breaker. I feel better now.)
1) I have a waiting problem. Not a weight problem (yet), though those size 7s were like anacondas on my booty. Can you get a blood clot from pants that are too tight? I don’t like to wait. At all. I am the most impatient person I know. I have to know things up front, and I can’t stand suspense, even in the movies I made. I have to know how things end before
I get there. You don’t EVER want to watch a suspenseful movie with me, especially if you’ve already seen it. I will question you to death until you tell me what I demand to know, and after you tell me, I still have to watch it to the end to see if you were telling me the truth.
2) My favorite color is brown. Don’t ask why. It just is. I used to have an old brown Porsche. I like wearing brown, too. A fashion consultant once told me not to wear brown, because of my skin tone. She said it made me look bigger than I am. I still wear brown. Again, don’t ask me why. Maybe I just like my clothing to blend in with my skin.
3) I am addicted to crime shows, and not because I was briefly in one. I know it makes no sense. Why would I, who am extremely impatient, watch shows full of suspense? Why would I watch shows that usually have surprise endings if I hate to wait for the ending? Maybe I’m trying to teach myself to be patient by watching these shows.
4) One more: I am a terrible judge of character. Obviously. Thank you for not asking how I could have been so clueless about . . . you know who. I haven’t even begun trying to figure that one out myself. I may never figure it out. They say love is blind, and I’m beginning to believe it. I was blind. I saw in him what I wanted to see and only what I wanted to see. The media have been kind to me so far because he has even fooled them. But when they find out the truth, I don’t know what I’ll say. I can plead insanity, can’t I?
What will I do with my free time? I have no idea. I haven’t had much time to myself for many years. I’ll probably veg for a few weeks. Or months. Maybe I need to do as much nothing as I can for a while.
Who am I kidding? I can’t sit still for very long. The suspense would kill me. I’ll do something eventually. After I get my results back . . . and I don’t want to think about that right now, so I won’t.
If you have time away from your dangerous, exciting life with the pigeons, I would like to know more about you.
Don’t keep me in suspense. : )
Lauren
