by Denise Dietz
Laser beams darted across the empty, darkened stage. “I’m going to explore downstairs,” Delly said.
“When you’re finished, we’ll drive you home,” Randy said.
“Why don’t you spend the night at my place?” Anissa winked. “We can have an old-fashioned pajama party and confess our sins. They say confession is good for the soul.”
“Jonny says confession can be turned into a bestseller, especially in L.A. and Washington. Thanks, you guys, but I’ll taxi home.”
Delly wrote down Anissa’s phone number. Then she descended steps and entered another dimly-lit room. A few couples glided across the small dance floor. One overworked waitress serviced tables. At least a dozen women lined up in front of a mahogany bar.
“Can I buy you a drink?”
May I, thought Delly, staring at the woman whose cap-toothed smile gleamed. “Thanks. I appreciate the offer, but—”
“No obligation, sweetie pie. I’m not a man who has to get laid after putting out for a couple of cocktails. What are you drinking?” She signaled the bartender, who scurried toward them.
“Scotch,” said Delly, “with a splash of soda.”
“I’m Judith Pendergraft.” The woman swept bleached hair away from her forehead. Her perfectly round blue eyes were fringed by stubby, mascara-caked lashes. A black silk dress, bloused on top, was gathered at her waist by a multi-hued belt.
Delly introduced herself. “Your name sounds familiar, Ms. Pendergraft. I know. You’re the head writer for Wishing Star, the soap opera.”
“Morning Star, and we prefer daytime drama. But I seldom talk business when I’m having fun. Come with me to my table and join my friends, Delly Diamond.”
“People, uh, my friends are waiting upstairs.”
“I understand. It’s been a pleasure meeting you.” Judith signaled the bartender. “Have one more drink, sweetie pie.”
Delly felt the first drink hit like a bolt of lightning. “I’m not a pie, sweetie,” she said. “Pies are easy. They always say easy as pie. What does that mean?”
“I guess it means that pies are easy to eat.”
“Hey, smarty-pants, why do they say drunk as a skunk?”
“I’m not sure,” Judith said, giving Delly’s question serious consideration. “Skunk means an obnoxious person. Drunk as an obnoxious person makes sense, doesn’t it? Won’t you please join my party? No skunks allowed.”
Delly’s mind raced. Judith Pendergraft was a professional contact. No obligation. No skunks. She looked down at the liquid swirling in her glass, the same color as the golden glints in her sister Samantha’s eyes. Sami would never let an opportunity like this pass.
Defiantly, Delly finished her drinks and staggered toward Judith’s table, even though she felt drunk as a skunk, easy as pie, cold as hell, and was afraid she’d have to pay through her freckled nose.
Chapter Twelve
Blinking open her eyes, Delly found herself on top of a strange bed. I will not say where am I, she thought. “Where am I?” she said.
“You fell asleep,” replied the blonde, cap-toothed woman who reclined next to her.
Delly glanced around the room and saw herself reflected in the mirrored walls and ceiling. On top of an end-table was a crystal lamp with a pleated shade that diffused pink light. The blonde woman’s bed, if it was her bed, had a padded crimson heart-shaped headboard and purple satin sheets.
“How did I get here, Ms. Pen . . . Pender . . .”
“Judith. You don’t remember?”
She smiled and Delly thought she looked like the Gold’s family cat, Southern Comfort.
Squeezing her eyes shut, Delly let images whirl. She had met Judith’s friends and downed glass after glass of Chivas. They had all left The Playground together. Judith’s friends had helped her into a white Cadillac, then supported her up the walk toward Judith’s Brentwood home.
She recalled drunkenly reciting her monologue from Duck Pond Sonata. She had sung the South Pacific and Bye, Bye Birdie scores. She’d been a goddamn Gold star! Everybody had praised her, hugged her, petted her, especially one tall woman with red hair, who looked like Woody Woodpecker.
Then what?
She couldn’t remember because the click had finally arrived, along with a dark void. “Did someone carry me upstairs, Judith?”
“Yes.”
“You?”
“Yes.”
“I’m sorry.”
“It was my fault, Delly. I felt responsible. I shouldn’t have plied you with Chivas. But even drunk you were so friggin’ cute. And very talented.”
“Why didn’t you call a cab? I mean, before I passed out?”
“You couldn’t remember your address.”
“Oh, God. I’ll never drink again. What time is it?”
“Late, early, it doesn’t matter. You have a beautiful body. Wouldn’t you feel more comfortable without your clothes?”
She shook her head. “I know we met at The Playground, Judith, but I’m not, I’ve never—”
“Made it with a woman. I understand.”
“I’d better go home now,” she said, sitting up. Her motion caused the sheets to slide down and she saw that Judith was nude, her body large, well proportioned. Delly felt the room spin. “Oh, God, I think I’m still sort of drunk.”
“Do you feel sick, sweetie pie? The bathroom’s right there, behind one of the mirrored doors.”
I’ll die before I throw up in front of a famous screenwriter. Delly gritted her teeth. “I’m so embarrassed, Judith. Maybe if you help me to a guest bedroom where I can lie down for a while until everything stops whirl—”
“Turn over on your stomach.”
“Why?”
“Turn over, pet. I won’t hurt you.”
She complied, and felt Judith’s strong hands massage her neck and shoulders. The dizziness settled into a distant blur. Instinctively, she drew closer to the comforting strokes. “That feels good,” she said, “but anything else is wrong.”
“Tell me why it’s wrong.”
“I don’t know. It just is. I couldn’t—”
“Of course you couldn’t. Leave everything to me.”
“I think—”
“Don’t think. Perhaps this is unfair, Delly, but I want you very much, and I can help you. I’m respected at my network. It’s true. Don’t look at me like that. In my business it’s drive and talent, not sexual preference. Earlier tonight, before you drowned yourself in Chivas, you said something about letting a movie role slip through your fingers. Have you considered daytime drama?”
Reaching into an end-table drawer, Judith pulled out a cold-capsule-shaped pill. Snapping it open, she held it under Delly’s nose.
“Oh, please, don’t.” Delly felt a new wave of dizziness and everything went spinning again. “Hey, I’m a swan,” she cried, clambering to her feet and standing on the mattress. “Wheee, I’m flying, just like Peterfuckinpan.” She saw colored lights reflected in the mirrored walls and heard firecrackers sizzling.
Had she really said Peterfuckinpan? She hardly ever swore. Samantha was the one who swore. Delly Diamond was drunk as a skunk, stoned as a skunk, dizzy good, not dizzy bad. Wheeeee.
Judith laughed and clapped her hands.
Delly sank down onto the mattress and lay on her back. Judith’s face swan into focus. Delly zeroed in on Judith’s eyelashes, caked with mascara. The lashes crept forward until all Delly could see were—
Spiders! Hairy spiders!
Pushing Judith away, turning over on her stomach and wriggling toward the edge of the bed, Delly had a clear image of Samantha. Once upon a long time ago, Sami had tripped over a cobblestone and allowed Jim-with-the-pimples to fondle beneath her sweater.
Sami had traded breast for Dick—Dick Clark.
Delly’s head stumbled over cobblestones. “I want,” she managed.
“Anything,” Judith said. “Just name it.”
“I want a part on Morning Star.”
Chapter Thirteen
>
“Presenting Miss Wiggy. She’s a virgin . . .” The emcee paused for titters. “This is her first time, so let’s put our hands together and make her feel welcome.”
The hazy beam from a spotlight hop-scotched across an empty stage.
“Okey-dokey, here she comes. Misssss Wiggy!”
As if playing hide-and-seek, the spotlight darted left and right, up and down, and the emcee’s toupee began to sweat. “Miss Wiggy, where the fuck are you?”
His last five words rebounded off a ceiling that leaked when it rained.
“Miss Wiggy’s kinda’ shy, folks.” Distant thunder sounded like a stomach growl as the emcee turned his face toward the wings. “We won’t bite ya, kid.”
A man from the audience shouted, “Speak for yourself!”
Maryl just stood there, her heart slamming against her chest.
Speak for yourself was the reason why she stood there, half hidden behind the side curtain. Because her modeling career and marriage to Jonah Wiggins had become too perfect, irksomely idyllic. Because she wanted to use her brains rather than her body. Because a second career as a stand-up comic was ludicrous. Because she’d rejected the insane notion then become obsessed by it.
Flipping through various newspapers, she’d read about the comedy club that had supposedly launched Pat Python.
Tonight was Amateur Night. The audience wouldn’t expect perfection, so why did the stage seem a million miles away? Why did the spotlight look as if it might burn her skin, or at the very least give her skin cancer?
She had disguised her slender body with a padded pink dress that probably added seventy-five pounds to her bust, waist and hips. She’d covered her flaming mane with black Cher-hair that fell below her butt. It was Monday, August twenty-fifth, and Marilyn Monroe Bradley Florentino Wiggins, model model, model wife, was gone with the wind. Pre-senting Miss Wiggy.
“Speak for yourself,” she said under her breath.
Stomping center stage, she met the emcee’s angry glare with a timid smile. Then turning toward the audience, she immediately forgot every single joke she’d memorized.
Get a grip, Miss Wiggy, she admonished, silently. Use your brains. Improvise.
“Last night I saw a movie with a happy ending,” she said, gripping the microphone stand. “Everyone was glad when it was over.”
She heard a few embarrassed coughs and her stomach-knot tightened into a hangman’s noose.
“My lover and I weren’t compatible,” she said. “I’m a Capricorn and he’s a jerk.”
Silence. Maryl wanted to run away but her low-heeled pumps felt as though they were nailed to the floor.
“I read in the paper where Xerox merged with Wurlitzer,” she said, “so I guess they’ll soon be selling reproductive organs.”
Did she hear a few snickers? Yes. Briefly, she thought about telling her old slut-bitch joke, but she had a hunch dirty jokes wouldn’t fly. How about dirty politics?
“There are two sure things in life,” she said. “Death and taxes. Except death doesn’t get worse with each session of congress.”
Laughter? Yes! A few people even applauded.
Encouraged, she said, “Last February President Reagan called for deep cuts in domestic spending, but proposed an increase in the defense budget. I guess it’s the fathead not the overhead that makes government so costly. A few weeks ago . . .” She paused and waited until the laughter died down. “A few weeks ago Reagan authorized production of the neutron bomb. Have you ever stopped to consider that government regulations are like catsup? You either get none or a lot more than you want. Patrick Henry ought to come back and see what taxation with representation is like.” Then, just for grins, she said, “My lover and I weren’t compatible. I’m a Democrat and he’s a jerk.”
Democrat worked while Capricorn didn’t. Maryl filed that information in the back of her mind, even though she knew she’d never use it. Even though, by the time she’d finished her routine, she had experienced baptism. She’d been initiated, sanctified, purified. She’d confirmed that she had brains.
No. Not really. Miss Wiggy could speak for herself.
The club owner waited in the wings. “That was great, Miss Wiggy.” He gazed at her critically. “This is just a suggestion, but you might consider fat jokes. Can you come back next week?”
“I’ll think about it,” Maryl said, thanking her lucky stars that she’d given him a fictitious phone number.
“I loved your reproductive organ joke,” he said with a smirk.
“Thanks.”
Her padded bosom moved toward the backstage exit. Her padded waist, hips and butt followed. She probably looked like the mongrelization between a ship and a tugboat—the Titanic and Little Toot.
Maybe she should forget this second career bullshit and have a baby.
* * * * *
Perched atop the cab’s roof, a rectangular placard advertised Raging Bull. Robert DeNiro flaunted bird doo-doo. No wonder he clenched his fists.
With that thought, Delly dug her nails into the seat as the cab careened around a corner. Her body adjusted to the jouncing motion, but her head felt as if it had been severed by huge teeth. Dinosaurian whiplash. What a great idea for a horror movie. “The Raging Tyrannosaur Taxi Who Ate Hollywood.” Jon could write the screenplay.
She squinted at her watch. 10:30 A.M. America had already received its weather report from Today-Good-Morning. She didn’t need a weather report. It was Tuesday, Aug-twenty-sixth, and it was smog hot. It was the morning after the night she’d grabbed the merry-go-round’s gold ring and discovered it was brass.
“Third house on the left,” she said, wincing when the dinosaur’s tires lunged through a puddle as big as Poland.
With a screech of brakes that reverberated inside her head, the cab finally stopped. She handed the driver the fare Judith had handed her. “Keep the change,” she said, oh so hung over.
Hangover city. Hang-ups hung out to dry like soiled laundry pinned to a dirty clothesline. Never again. Delly stumbled up the rain-slick path, unlocked her front door, took a couple of deep breath, and walked into her living room.
Jon was busy at the typewriter. Bare-chested, barefoot, he wore faded jeans with air-conditioned knees. His typewriter sounded like the click-clack of a runaway train. Delly pressed her hands against her temples. Three aspirins and a Bloody Mary hadn’t helped. Never again!
“That girl we met at the Playground invited me to sleep over,” she said, her voice oozing sincerity. Because Anissa had invited her. Without waiting for a reply, she showered. Then she pulled on a pair of jogging shorts and her favorite Superstar T-shirt.
“I should have called,” she said, re-entering the living room, “but I couldn’t remember our new number.” Another semi-truth. She’d forgotten her new address.
Jon turned his back on the typewriter. “I’m sorry about last night, Delly. We should have stayed home.”
“Home?”
“Don’t you consider this home, honey? We haven’t been here very long, but I think it beats our New York apartment. I suppose you could have stayed back East. After Duck Pond’s reviews, you’d have been cast in another play.” The corners of his mouth twitched. “But I need you to cook my meals.”
“Right.” Delly returned his grin. She hated cooking with a passion. Jon had once accused her of being the only domestic chef he knew who could fuck up Jell-O.
She glanced around the living room of their small rented house on Martel Avenue, not far from Paramount Studios and downtown Los Angeles. Last week they had unpacked the last carton and tried to make their new nest cozy. Two lovebirds caged in a strange city where gung-ho Disney disciples worshipped squeaky rodents and nasal ducks, not to mention Cinderella and Snow White—the ultimate con ladies. Especially Snow White, who had escaped reality by invading a cottage inhabited by a number of grumpy, bashful, happy, dopey, sleepy, sneezy, medicinal dwarfs. Employed dwarfs, no less.
Samantha loved Snow White. In retrospect, De
lly realized that her sister had been titillated by the thought of sharing her bed with seven lovers. Ménage a sept.
With a sigh, Delly wriggled her tush onto a royal blue canvas director’s chair with DIAMOND stitched in white. The chair next to her read GRIFFIN. In front of her, Daddy’s books rested on a coffee table. To her left, a teak wall unit held a TV, a stereo, record albums, and photos of her family. Mom and Samuel smiled from their wedding picture. A perpetually youthful William Gold looked like a perpetually youthful John Garfield. Next to Daddy’s picture was Samantha, surrounded by Jules and her gaggle of kids. Will and Juliet and the twins, Carrie and Nellie, named for Mom and South Pacific’s Nellie.
The other half of the living room had been turned into an office. Beneath a picture window, bordering one wall, rounding a corner, were a file cabinet and two steel desks: Jon’s area, organized with research books, pens, pencils, phone, typewriter, paper, colorful binders and paper clips.
“Do I consider this home, Jonny? Of course I do. It’s just that things are so different from what I expected.” Without warning, she began to cry.
Jon walked over to her chair. “Aw, Dell, don’t.”
“No, please, I can’t tolerate your pity.”
“Then how about dishing out some pity for me?”
“What do you mean?”
He sat, leaning against his embroidered name. “I didn’t tell you last night because it was ‘feel sorry for Delly’ time, but the studio is messing around with my play. Someone at the top has decided the last scene is too ‘down.’ Forget that Ali died in Ryan’s arms. Paramount wants a happy ending.”
“How can Virginia live happily ever after?”
“Easy. Remember the guy who never appears on stage? The one who was blamed for impregnating Virginia?”
“Our invisible male nurse. We used to make jokes about the size of his invisible penis.”
“He’s my hero now, played by John Travolta or Michael Douglas or Jeff Bridges. Travolta or Douglas or Bridges falls in love with Virginia.”
“What? Falls in love?”
“Yup. You see, Ginny’s not really retarded. Just an unhappy childhood, her bitchy mother, all revealed in therapeutic flashbacks during her escape from the city. In my new version, she’s rescued from the duck pond by Travolta. Or Bridges.”
