by Denise Dietz
Was there a grain of truth in Randy’s revenge remark? Was she trying to get back at Jacob? No. She loved Randy, plain and simple. Well, maybe not so simple.
“Randy,” she said, lowering her face, “aren’t you afraid of being recognized?”
“Do you mean people will ask for my autograph? Or discover that I’m gay?”
“Yes. Both.” She felt her cheeks flush. “Gay.”
“My darling jackeroo, everyone knows.”
“I didn’t at first,” she said, smiling at the nickname. Randy had several pet names for her. Before leaving their duplex she had donned a denim vest and boots, and a jackeroo was an apprentice cowboy.
“I don’t broadcast my sexual preferences,” Randy said. “On the other hand, I’m not a leading man like Rock Hudson.”
“Are you serious? Rock Hudson’s gay?”
“Anissa, please forget I said that.”
“Said what?”
“Thanks.” He tweaked her nose. “I just do my own thing and try to get along. Hold on, stop sign.”
She admired the play of his thigh muscles as his feet hit the clutch and brake pedals. Calvin Klein double pleated, cream linen slacks hugged Randy’s lean hips. A carefully cultivated tan enhanced his face, emphasizing the blue of his eyes, and his hair was sun-bleached, as if the golden-beige undercoat and brown stripes of a tiger had merged. His voice was masculine, his body athletic, his style heroic. What a waste, she thought, although it wasn’t a waste to Randy, and anyway, who was she to judge?
“Once upon a time, I attended this celeb-studded Hollywood bash,” said Randy, maneuvering his Volks around a sleek white Cadillac. “Among the guests was Pat Huxley, that viperous bitch who considers herself an entertainer. Do you know who I mean?”
“Of course. Pat Python. But I’m not famous enough—”
“Just wait, roo. When you win your Emmy she’ll add you to her roster.”
“If I win, when I win, I’ll quote Helen Reddy’s wonderful Grammy speech. ‘I’d like to thank God because She makes everything possible.’ ”
Randy laughed. “That particular night, the night of the party, I walked through the room and heard Huxley talking to another guest, a woman with so many wrinkles in her neck she looked like she wore chains of flesh. They were nattering about character actor Christopher Coombs.”
“I had such a crush on ‘Topher’ when I was a kid.”
“So did I. The wrinkled woman asked Huxley if Topher’s companion was a fruit, her word, because he wore an earring, spoke in a high voice, and fluttered his wrists.”
“I didn’t know Christopher Coombs was . . . is gay.”
“He’s not. He’s bi. Topher has eclectic tastes. A prostitute friend of mine says she has to dress like a little girl before he can make it with her.”
Anissa shuddered. “Okay. Sorry. The woman asked Pat Huxley if Topher’s mate was gay. Then what?”
“Huxley smiled and smirked.” Randy raised his voice a couple of octaves. “ ‘That just proves how appearances are deceiving,’ she said. ‘I know a young actress who swore she was intimate with Coombs and he performed quite well. Topher’s friend played college football and he’s married with two kids. You can’t tell a book by its cover, my dear.’ Shit, Anissa. Topher’s mate was a raging queen. Huxley’s such a bloody nit.”
“One more question. Don’t they mind at the studio? Earlier you said gays didn’t exist in Soapland.”
“I exist discreetly off camera, so they don’t mind. As a matter of fact, they’re moving me over to Morning Star. I’m being written out of Children of the Night. Maxine is aware of my past, present and future, yet she requested me for a new character.”
“Randy McNeal, why didn’t you tell me?”
“I was saving it as a surprise. There’s a bottle of special wine stashed at The Playground.”
“What’s the part?”
“Adam, the manager of a health club. My love interest is Charl.”
“Me? The script has been leading toward Charl boffing Cal. What a slut!”
“I believe they plan to exploit our off-screen relationship. Naturally, there’s a slight hitch. Maxine says that Adam will also be naughty with Hannah.”
“And Charl doesn’t like that, huh?”
“We’ll have to wait and see. No advance scripts, remember? Maxine wants more bloody Australian accent, after years of trying to lose it and sound American.”
Anissa burst out laughing. “Since I met you . . . dear lord, Randy, since I met you . . .” She caught her breath. “I don’t go to the bathroom, I go to the loo. I flog instead of sell, hire instead of rent. I wave to nippers rather than small children. I wear gear, not clothes, flash gear if I’m dressed up. I have mates rather than friends. I get buggered, which does not mean covered with bugs, and I sing ‘Waltzing Matilda’ in the shower. Lose your accent? Hah!”
“Be fair, Anissa. I’m bloody well Americanized.”
“Oh, yeah? Prove it.”
“I eat fast food. Does that mean the food is firmly loyal, as in fast friends? How about fast asleep? Maybe the burgers and chips are wild, for example they run around with a fast crowd. Or maybe they’re merely promiscuous. Never mind, we’ve arrived.”
They left the Randy’s car in an overflowing parking lot and walked toward the portal of a large complex. A sign above the door read THE PLAYGROUND and the entrance was guarded by a pair of winged gargoyles. One of the grotesque stone images sported a June Allyson pageboy. The man who collected cover charges stamped the back of Anissa’s hand with a red star. On the wall near the turnstile, a painted arrow indicated the way downstairs to The Merry-Go-Round and The Swings.
“The Merry-Go-Round is primarily for women patrons,” Randy explained. “The Swings is a room that can only be opened with special keys purchased by Playground members. Inside, X-rated movies are played continually on a large screen.”
“Are you a member?”
“Yes, but I don’t care for X-rated movies.” Randy shrugged. “On the other hand, my mate David has this thing for Stallone.”
“Oh, my God! Don’t tell me—”
“No, Anissa. Stallone made a porn flick once, that’s all. We’re keeping to the main floor. It’s called The Seesaw.”
“Merry-Go-Round? Swings? Seesaw? They’re not awfully subtle, are they?”
“Why be subtle? Look at this toney crowd. I had Chris reserve my usual table.”
“Who’s Chris?” Anissa asked. But her question was lost in the crush of bodies as Randy guided her toward a small round table in front of a raised stage.
He signaled a waiter, who soon arrived carrying a bottle of Tyrrell Red and two goblets.
The waiter wore cut-offs and a black sleeveless T-shirt. His biceps bulged. “You picked a good night for your celebration, McNeal,” he said. “The Countess is due to appear.”
“Thanks, Chris.” Randy shoved a ten dollar bill inside the handsome waiter’s tight denim pocket.
“Countess?” Anissa stared at Randy.
“Soon there will be a show on that stage. The Countess is its star tonight, and he’s world famous.”
“World famous? We never heard of him in Milwaukee and Madison. Did I ever tell you that I’m the niece of a Countess?” Raising her glass, she gulped wine.
“Slow down, roo. Are you jumpy about being here?”
“No. Yes. Maybe a little.”
“Relax. Half the mob is straight. They come to dance, act toney, or gawk.”
Anissa glanced around the room, her eyes adjusting to the dim lighting, emphasized by black walls with red trim. Randy was right. Several tables included mixed couples. Near them sat a man and woman, sharing hugs and kisses. The girl was cute rather than beautiful, but she had incredible eyes, a color somewhere in between her dark green corduroy slacks and lime blouse. Damn, I’ve been staring and she’s caught me.
“Are you gay or straight?” asked the girl.
“Delly, shut up,” her partner said.
“I just wondered, Jonny. She’s so pretty.”
“My friend here has had a few too many,” said her companion.
“My name’s Delly Diamond. Can . . . may we join you?” Without waiting for an answer, the petite girl maneuvered her chair next to Anissa. “This sourpuss is Jon Griffin. I know it’s a cliché, but you look familiar. Are you moo-vee stars?”
“I’m Anissa Cartier and this is Randy McNeal. We both have roles on daytime dramas.”
“You talkin’ soap operas? I don’t watch soaps. Junk.”
“Christ, Delly.” Jon groaned. “Sorry, folks.”
“Don’t apologize for me, Griffin, and don’t tell me what to do. This is my celebration, not yours.”
“Celebration?” asked Anissa.
“Yup. Just lost a part in a moo-vee.” Delly made a pair of horns with her thumb and pinkie. “Moo, moo, moo-vee.”
“She’s drunk as a skunk,” said Jon with an embarrassed grin.
“Why are skunks drunk? Why do we pay through the nose? Why do we say cold as hell?”
“Okay, Delly, that’s enough. We’re leaving.”
“We can’t leave yet. I haven’t found the click.”
“The click?” Randy raised his eyebrows.
“That line from Cat on a Hot Tin Roof. Paul Newman says it to Burl Ives or Elizabeth Taylor or somebody. I forget.”
“ ‘The click that I get in my head that makes me peaceful,’ ” said Anissa, then quoted the entire passage.
“That’s it!” Delly shouted.
“Isn’t she a beaut?” Randy smiled. “You’re a bloody wonder, roo.”
Anissa felt her cheeks bake. “I seem to have this thing for Tennessee Williams.”
Delly raised her hand to her head and curled her fingers into a the shape of a gun. “Let’s play Russian roulette. Click, click, bang. Peace.”
“C’mon, honey,” Jon pleaded, “let’s go home.”
“No. I wanna chat with my new friends here and we haven’t even danced.”
“You’re too tipsy to dance.”
“Am not.” She stood up, swaying, and turned toward Randy. “Will you dance with me, Mac? Is that your name? I forget.”
Randy started to rise, but Jon had already jumped from his seat, sending his chair to the floor with a crowd-muted crash.
“We’re leaving right now,” he said, “even if I have to carry you out.”
“Don’t you dare!” Delly sat down and grabbed the edge of her chair tightly with her hands. “You go home, Griff. I’ll celebrate all by myself.”
“She’s really a nice girl, but she tends to act nuts when she’s had too much scotch, which doesn’t happen very often.” He turned to Delly. “Let’s go, before you make a total ass out of yourself.”
“No! You wanted to come here. You thought it would cheer me up. I wanted to slash my wrists.”
“With what? The sharp edge of your teddy bear? You’re acting like a baby.”
“Baby is something you have between your legs. That’s from Jonny’s play,” she told Anissa. “Only the line goes, ‘Baby is something born between your legs, quack, quack.’ ”
“I’m leaving, Delly.” Jon turned toward the exit.
“Adieu, mon cher monsieur.”
As Jon walked away, a tall, bearded man asked Randy to dance. Then there was silence.
Delly stirred the ice in her drink with her middle finger. “I’m sorry,” she finally said. “I should have left with Jon. I’m screwing up the evening for you and Mac.”
Poor thing, thought Anissa. She looks so vulnerable. In a town where a woman could freeze yogurt with one frigid glance, Delly’s vulnerability stood out like a sore thumb, and the phrase wet behind the ears came to mind. “Don’t fret, kiddo. I’ve had one too many myself. Want to talk about it?”
“Not really,” Delly said, then suddenly found herself telling a sympathetic Anissa the story of her life, starting with her move to Manhattan.
“After I turned twenty-one, a trust fund from my father came due and I didn’t have to worry about money. I continued my acting lessons while attending auditions. Then I got a call-back and a second call-back and was cast in an original drama, produced by the legendary Joseph Papp, directed by Mike Nichols. A ‘small but pivotal role.’ ”
“Good for you.” Anissa patted Delly’s shoulder.
“Jon and I celebrated. I got drunk that night, too. You know what? I can count on one hand the number of times I’ve been drunk, actually half a hand. There’s this warning thing inside my head, the click I guess, that tells me I should quit or I’ll become sick or whatever. My whatever that celebration night was a patch of ice. I slipped and broke my leg. Badly. Plaster cast and crutches. Naturally, I lost the pivotal role—the part was very physical and couldn’t be rewritten to include crutches. I grit my teeth whenever I hear the expression ‘break a leg.’ ”
“You poor baby.”
She reminds me of me, thought Anissa, except I didn’t break my leg. I broke my heart, even if Randy says hearts don’t break.
“Jon found some investors and had his play Duck Pond Sonata produced,” Delly said. Then she told Anissa how Jon had insisted that a brand-new actress, an unknown named Delly Diamond, perform the lead. She was familiar with Jon’s script so her audition had been unstressed, even though the director said she’d have to act stressed in her role as a marginally retarded girl named Virginia. After try-outs and multiple revisions, they’d finally opened on Broadway and the reviews had been outstanding. One critic even compared her to Julie Harris.
Anissa whistled. “That’s a real compliment. What’s the plot line?”
“Virginia shares her fantasies with the ducks who populate a pond bordering her sanitarium. She’s raped by a neighboring farmer, but nobody believes her story because the old codger’s one hell of a rich, powerful bastard. But she’s pregnant, so they blame it on one of the funny farm employees. Her mother is notified, takes her back to the city, and locks her up inside a small room. When she has the baby, Mommy dearest takes it away from her. Virginia escapes from the apartment and returns to the duck pond. She wades into the water, telling the ducks she wants to join them, become one of them. She has a long monologue and she quacks. That sounds funny, but it wasn’t. It was sad. At first we used live ducks, but they were a bitch to direct, so we played a tape instead. The theme music was the ugly duckling song from the movie Hans Christian Anderson. That was my idea.”
“Now I understand the baby is born between your legs bit.”
“Jon couldn’t decide if he should kill off Virginia, so he let the audience imagine the ending either way.”
“Wait a sec. I read about your play in the Times. Didn’t Paramount purchase the rights?”
“Yup. They hired Jon to script the film. That’s why we moved here. But this time Jonny couldn’t get me screen-tested for Virginia and they cast Amy Irving. Rats! I think I’m going to cry.”
“Go ahead. Be my guest, Delly. I don’t blame you.”
“No, I’m okay. I guess that long confession was my click. I’m soberer. More sober? Jon’s right, Anissa. I’m not usually like this, inviting myself to your table and acting so rude. I’m sorry. Which soap do you star in?”
“You don’t have to be polite, Delly.”
“I really want to know. Please?”
“Morning Star. I play Charl, a goody-two-shoes. Except I have a feeling the writers are planning to turn her into a first class bitch soon. We have a producer named Maxine Graham and a new head writer, Judith Pendergraft. Rumor has it that our esteemed producer doesn’t care for one of the women on the show, a character named Hannah. They’re adding a man named Adam, whom Charl becomes involved with, and Charl might try to kill Hannah. That’s all conjecture, the Adam plot. Damn, you can’t possibly understand what I’m talking about.”
“It’s fascinating. I thought Duck Pond was filled with evil, but it’s sort of introspective and there are some funny lines. Your soap sounds nas
ty.”
“I’m a second generation soap addict, Delly. The way Maxine and Judith Pendergraft work, we don’t get scripts ahead of time. So I’m in the dark about what’s supposed to happen, and I can’t wait to hit the studio and find out.”
“You get scripts the same day?”
“Usually a day or two before, sometimes a whole week. Fortunately, I have a memory like a sponge and—”
“Show time, kids.” Returning to their table, Randy sat next to Anissa, across from Delly.
The dance floor’s laser beams were eliminated. Spotlights directed at the platform illuminated a chubby announcer who introduced the first performer, Miss Olivia. Clothed in a long blue gown with a high cowl collar, the entertainer pranced on stage. Soundtrack music from Xanadu flowed statically from overhead speakers. Swaying in time to the music, Miss Olivia tried to lip-synch lyrics.
“He looks like a woman until he turns around,” whispered Anissa, watching Miss Olivia’s blonde wig flip with every hip thrust. “His back is definitely male.”
“You can’t disguise a man’s shoulders and back,” Randy said. “It’s a different shape than a woman’s.”
Each of the following entertainers had trouble lip-synching, but the audience didn’t seem to mind. Several men approached the stage and waved money as the songs played on without pause.
There was a fanfare. The Countess appeared from a corner entrance. He wore skin-tight black leather pants, a red sequined top and an orange Orphan Annie wig. The spotlight’s rays bounced off the ruby choke-necklace that adorned his ebony throat. Donna Sommer’s Last Dance blasted from the speakers as moist red lips mouthed the lyrics.
“It’s unreal,” Anissa said. “If I passed your Countess on the street, I’d think woman, unless I walked behind him. You’re right, Randy. You can’t disguise a man’s back.”
The Countess encored twice. His tight pants bulged with contributions. Finally, he dabbed at his streaming brow with a handkerchief, threw the handkerchief at the waiter, Chris, then exited stage left.
