Soap Bubbles

by Denise Dietz

  Judith Pendergraft leaned against a wall, next to a window.

  Maxine was short, thin, fidgety, an electric wire searching for a socket. Black hair, frosted with silver, reached the tips of her sharp shoulder blades. She wore a transparent blouse that showed brief cleavage beneath a frilly slip’s bodice. The blouse had escaped the waistband of a straight black skirt. Several bracelets encircled her bony wrists. The bracelets jangled as she crushed out her cigarette and immediately lit another.

  “This is Echo Foster, Miss Diamond,” she said. “Miss Foster will cue you.”

  Delly recognized Tabby Cat.

  “Let’s get started,” Maxine said.

  Echo gave Delly a thumbs-up, then recited the first line. Delly, as Pandora, responded.

  “Do you have an agent?” Maxine asked, after the reading.

  “No.” Did I blow it?

  “Can we reach you at the number on your résumé?”

  “Yes.” Damn, I blew it.

  Maxine shook a new cigarette free from her crumpled pack. Vance fumbled for a lighter. Maxine huffed smoke rings toward Pendergraft.

  Judith coughed, and Delly suddenly realized that the writer hadn’t acknowledged her presence. In fact, Judith seemed downright bored.

  They’d probably offer the part to Amy Irving. Or someone named Irving. Or someone who looked like Amy. Or someone whose name started with the letter A.

  * * * * *

  For three days Delly wouldn’t leave the house. Why hadn’t she asked if they’d call, win or lose? Next time she’d pretend Jon was her agent, so he could nudge and end the suspense. “Sorry but your client didn’t get the part. She sounded sane and we need crazy.”

  The Platters were harmonizing “My Prayer” on the radio when Delly heard the front door close—Jon returning from a visit to his health club. In a desperate moment of domesticity, she was kneading a lump of raw hamburger meat. A box of bread crumbs and three eggs decorated her kitchen counter.

  She dropped an egg when the phone rang.

  “Hello? Hello?” Delly watched goopy yolk drip from the counter. She listened, said “Okay, thanks,” then replaced the wall phone’s receiver and stared down at the spattered squares of pebbled tile.

  “Aw, Dell,” said Jon, “there’ll be other parts.”

  She raised her head. “I got it. I got Pandora. They want me.”

  “That’s great.”

  “They offered a year’s contract. Five hundred and fifty dollars a show. Anissa said fourhundredtwentyfive’s minimum.”

  “Slow down, honey.”

  “They must have really liked me, Jonny. Vance promised I’d have one show a week for a full year. I start September fifteenth. Math has never been my strong suit. What’s five hundred and fifty times fifty-two?”

  Jon laughed. “Do you want to celebrate? Call Anissa and her new husband and visit that bar where all the soap stars hang out?”

  “The Polka-Dot Unicorn?”

  “Right.”

  “Are you serious? I’d probably get drunk, slip on a patch of ice, and break my leg.”

  Jon glanced through the kitchen window, at the sunny back yard. “Yup. I see what you mean.”

  “I want to celebrate,” she said. “Oh boy, do I ever. Let’s make mad, passionate love.”

  “I should shower first.”

  “I can’t wait that long.”

  “I didn’t shower at the club.”

  “I don’t care.” She unbuttoned his shirt and pressed her face against his damp chest. “Yum. You smell like Man.”

  “I smell like sweat socks. Speaking of enticing aromas, is that a new perfume? Eau de Toilette Ground Beef. I like it, Delly. Very basic. Very me Tarzan, you Jane.”

  “Anissa says they never used that line in the movie.”

  “When did you discuss our favorite jungle stud with Anissa?”

  “When I delivered a wedding present. It was from both of us.”

  “And what did we give the happy couple?”

  “Mark Twain, Nathaniel Hawthorn and Herman Melville.”

  “I thought they were dead.”

  “I found a quality edition of works by U.S. authors. The book cost a fortune, but what the heck, it’s only money. Anyway, Anissa has this amazing recall for movie lines.”

  “Yeah. The click thing. I remember.”

  “Weismuller thumps his chest and says, ‘Tarzan.’ Then he taps Maureen O’Sullivan on her chest and says, ‘Jane.’ Tarz had a rather limited vocabulary, but he didn’t need words.”

  “Neither do I.” Jon scooped her up in his arms, carried her into the bedroom, placed her on the bed, stripped her jeans, and shrugged off his shirt.

  “Hurry,” she urged.

  “Even Tarz can’t make love through denim.” Jon unzipped his fly. “What are you doing?”

  “Helping. Did your jeans shrink? I want to lick stamps and envelopes. I’m so hot. What’s the name for a woman’s hard-on?”

  “A wet-on?” His mouth covered her breast while one hand crept between her thighs.

  “See? I’ve got such a wet-on. Hurry, Tarz. No. Don’t hurry. Yes. Hurry.”

  Later, with the hamburger meat and broken egg shells still decorating the kitchen counter, they shared a pizza.

  “I want to create the best soap character ever,” Delly said. “Do you remember my New York acting teacher, Don? The one who came after Madame Sourdellia?”

  “Sure. Tall and skeletal. White hair. Yellow teeth from chain smoking. Fingers stained with nicotine.”

  “People always thought he was Andy Warhol and stopped him on the street for autographs. Don’s a fabulous teacher. He takes characters and helps you find a way to make them like real life. The audience can identify and love you or hate you because they recognize themselves in the situation. Do you understand?”

  “Not really.”

  “There are no emotional memories. People don’t have them in real life, at least not on the surface. Interesting people don’t go around feeling sorry for themselves all the time.”

  “Sure they do.”

  “No, Jonny, not interesting people.”

  “Sorry, but I disagree. I like up-front emotions. I think that’s healthy.”

  She chewed a piece of pizza crust. “Okay, take Pandora.”

  “I just did. Or did Jane take Tarz?”

  “I’m serious. I don’t want to create a character dripping with self-pity. Viewers like their TV friends full of hope, no matter how hopeless the situation.”

  “I thought the soaps presented epic problems so that viewers can believe their own lives aren’t so awful.”

  “No way. Viewers want happy endings, with hugs and kisses.”

  “So do I. But not always on the screen.”

  “Sorry. I forgot about Duck Pond’s altered concept. Look, there’s a fine line. In the soaps the viewers want sex and drama, not pitiful characters. They can’t empathize with someone totally pathetic. You wouldn’t love me if I whined and wailed all the time.”

  “I’d cuddle and comfort you.”

  “That could become tiresome.”

  “I’d want you to comfort me.” He lifted her chin with his index finger. “Isn’t it time we got married? Or will your sister stop you?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Samantha got married so you won’t.”

  “Sami has nothing to do with it. Anissa once said, ‘Most marriages don’t add two people together. They subtract one from the other.’ ”

  “Who was she quoting? Elizabeth Taylor? Zsa Zsa Gabor?”

  “No. Liz and Zsa Zsa love being married. Anissa quoted James Bond in Diamonds Are Forever.”

  “Well, marriage or no marriage, I plan to love my Diamond forever.”

  They shared the last slice of pizza, mouth to mouth, teeth to teeth, tongue to tongue. Then, ignoring the goopy egg on the tiles, they sank to the floor and consummated Delly’s role as Pandora. Again.

  * * * * *

  On September
thirteenth, an Emmy was presented to Daniel J. Travanti for his leading role in Hill Street Blues. Delly, Jon, Anissa and Randy watched the televised special together.

  “Travanti attended the University of Wisconsin,” Anissa said. “I met him years later, during my college production of A Streetcar Named Desire. If anyone deserves his success, Dan does. He’s paid his dues.”

  “Who did you play in Streetcar?” Delly asked.

  “Blanche, the Vivian Leigh role. My half-brother, Joseph Weiss, played the Brando role.”

  “Is Joseph still an actor?”

  “Joe prefers emoting before a judge and jury. He’s a lawyer. I love him to death, but not as much as I love my new husband.” Anissa hugged Randy, then stuffed his mouth with popcorn.

  The popcorn traveled down his chin, un-chewed, landing in his lap, where his hands rested. Actually, they didn’t rest, thought Delly, since Randy constantly clenched and unclenched his fists, pumping them up and down as if he held a couple of weapons. Knives, maybe. Randy sounded normal when he spoke, but his blue eyes looked glazed over. Maybe he was on some kind of drug.

  Two days later, Delly stood outside the Morning Star studio.

  New York would already have the bite of fall in the air, she thought, while California was still summertime, summertime, sum-sum-summertime. Instead of a seasonal nip, there was the nippy anticipation of a new TV season. Which shows would conquer Nielson’s nightly ratings? During the day it was Morning Star versus General Hospital.

  The building looked like a film noir creation—dark complexioned, mournful, wicked. Even the sky above had been bleached gray, while in the distance black birds soared like crooked parentheses.

  At the studio entrance, a security guard sat inside his booth. Delly scribbled her initials next to her name on the roster. With a Scatman Caruthers smile, the guard waved her through.

  My first day as a soap star, she thought. Twinkle, twinkle, little star.

  She walked down a flight of stairs, turned left, entered through double doors, and was greeted by a cast mural.

  Doctors Lizzy and Marshall smiled sincerely. They’d never be sued for malpractice.

  Next to Wayne Memorial’s staff leaders were Nurse Marybeth and Dr. Ron.

  Another group included Caleb, Charlotte—long blonde hair blown by invisible breezes—and Adam. Leaning suggestively against Adam was Hannah.

  To the right of Hannah stood Lady Nancine. Then Marlon the Drug Smuggler, scowling attractively.

  Mr. Norman, the town’s doddering pharmacist, and Malcolm, the black police chief, could have stepped straight from a Norman Rockwell painting. In fact, everyone looked like that. Even the rock singer, Tabitha Catherine.

  Tabby Cat had been painted with short, porcupine-quill hair. A pink streak zigzagged down the middle of her dark spiky strands. Earrings dangled to the top of her jumpsuit. Delly remembered reading opposite Tabby at the audition. Without the wig, Echo Foster’s shoulder-length hair was ash-brown.

  Delly squinted. There was lots of room for her character. She could see herself standing directly behind Charl and Cal. Charl, Cal, and that crazy kid, Pandora. No, not crazy. The trick was to take the dialogue and make it sound natural, sane, so that viewers would emphasize with that sick kid, Pandora.

  Saluting the mural, she strolled toward a reception desk. The young woman talking on the phone had Tabby Cat spiked hair, dangling earrings, and she chewed gum like a grazing cow. Delly had met Rosemary twice: Vance Booker’s interview and Maxine Graham’s audition.

  Spying Delly, Rosemary pulled the receiver away from her ear and covered its mouthpiece. “Good luck, kid,” she whispered.

  A short flight of stairs led to the first floor, which included Vance’s office, several writers’ alcoves, and a waiting room furnished with comfortable chairs, sofas, and three color televisions, all tuned to various daytime dramas. Delly walked past the waiting room and entered the nearest restroom.

  Her stall contained fresh graffiti. MAXINE SUCKS read one notation, to which someone had added COCK. Underneath cock, someone else had scribbled:

  I’M CHRISTIAN AND I DON’T WANT TO READ DIRTY WORDS

  Under dirty words it said: HOW DO CHRISTIAN COCKS TASTE?

  LIKE DREW FLORY

  YOU TASTED DREW, CHRISTIAN? LUCKY YOU!

  Delly grinned at the graffiti, tucked her Superstar T-shirt inside her green cords, and re-tied her sneakers.

  Exiting the restroom, she climbed another flight of stairs, found herself in a hallway, and remembered Anissa saying that part of the old building had once been a sound stage for silent movies. Delly sped past a door lettered PROJECTION ROOM, then Maxine Graham’s office.

  Next came the dressing rooms and a wardrobe room, jam-packed with clothing racks. Delly saw Tabby Cat’s sequined jumpsuits and Lady Nan’s fur-trimmed dressing gowns. One rack held nurses’ uniforms. White shoes and stockings were scattered underneath.

  Right next to Wardrobe was the makeup room. Small cubicles for individual makeup artists lined the walls. At one end, beauty salon sinks looked like gape-mouthed monsters waiting eagerly for hair-wash victims. The area was filled with the hum of conversation. It smelled like talcum powder, shampoo, underarm deodorant and hair spray, especially hair spray.

  Delly took a few steps forward. Then she just stood there, frozen, until a familiar eye winked and familiar lips smiled.

  “Anissa!” Delly sagged against the door frame. “Thank God.”

  “Hi, pen-pal. Confusing, isn’t it?”

  The beautiful actress rose from her chair. Feeling like an eager, tongue-lolling puppy, Delly scampered toward her.

  Anissa’s blouse had paper toweling for a collar, and her long hair, skewered onto oversized rollers, looked like fat, flaxen caterpillars. Dark liner and sooty lashes enhanced the friendly pussy-willow eyes.

  “I’m wondering why I agreed to do this.” Delly implored the ceiling, then focused on Anissa again. “I’ve never been so scared in my life. Maybe they should paint my portrait on the mural downstairs and send me home. I can’t remember my lines.”

  “Relax. We have time before our scenes are shot. I’ll show you around. Randy’s here and so is Echo, who told me your audition was spot-on.”

  “What a great name, Echo. How did she think of it?”

  “She didn’t. Her parents did.”

  “It’s her real name?”

  “Yup. Her mother was pregnant and on vacation, visiting the Grand Canyon. Dad went exploring while Mom rested. Then Mom went into labor and yelled for help. Her voice—”

  “Echoed down the canyon. I love it.”

  The object of their conversation strolled into the makeup room and gave Delly a hug. “You made quite an impression at your reading, Delly. The other auditions were mere formalities.”

  “Thanks, Echo. I need all the positive feedback I can scrape together for the taping this afternoon.”

  “I’m not making it up to give you confidence. You should have heard Pendergraft. ‘Well, that’s that,’ she told Maxine. ‘We’ve found our Pandora.’ Max puffed on her ciggie. ‘Loved the doll, nice touch,’ she said, smoke billowing. Judith said, ‘I want her, Max.’ Vance stopped blinking. Anissa says I talk too much.”

  “I didn’t say you talk too much. I quoted Johnny Carson’s comment about Pat Huxley. ‘She doesn’t need a sharp knife at the dinner table. Pat cuts her food with her tongue.’”

  “I take that as a compliment. It’s called wit.”

  “It’s called nasty rumor-mongering.”

  “Whatever. Do I have time to give Delly a survival course?”

  “Be my guest, but let her sit in the makeup chair. Marla should arrive any moment to create Pandora’s hair style.”

  Delly said, “Who’s Marla?”

  “Head honcho hairdresser,” Echo stage-whispered. “She’s having an affair with Marlon. Marla and Marlon. Sounds like two fish fucking.”

  “Wait a sec,” Anissa said. “Last week you told me Marla wa
s sleeping with Dr. Marsh.”

  “Nope. I heard Marsh is sleeping with Marybeth, and his wife is lusting after Drew. Everybody lusts after Drew.”

  “Not me.”

  “Shit, Anissa, you have Randy. I guess Maxine has Drew, even though she continues to audition male extras in the projection room next to her office. Ah, the scent of old cellulose film. An actor’s aphrodisiac.”

  Anissa frowned. “I wish they’d pack up those ancient reels and send them over to UCLA. Damn fire hazards!”

  “I believe the affair between Judith and Zelda has run its course,” Echo continued. “Scottie’s on the skids. Hey, Delly, watch out for Mr. Norman. He’s always peeking at naked boobs. Drew Flory, busy bastard, also has an ongoing affair with that Rosebud model, Maryl Bradley. She sends him suggestive telegrams that sound like steamy romance novels.”

  “And Tabby Cat is screwing our director, Peter Peterson. We call him Peter-Peter-Pussy-Eater.”

  “Shut up, Anissa.” Echo grinned. “Speaking of pussy, Tabby must get ready now. I’m on before you.”

  Marla fussed over Delly’s hair, finally settling for a duplicate of the audition style: curly ponytail and shaggy bangs.

  The wardrobe mistress presented Delly with a blue and yellow, vertically striped housedress. It was too large and very long.

  I’ll have to develop my character from the inside out, Delly thought. Clothes won’t help.

  Anissa’s blue smock was shapeless, as well, but she was tall enough to look chic, despite the unflattering garment. Following her friend, Delly ascended twelve steps until she reached the top floor’s cavernous studio.

  “Wow,” she breathed, awed. “This place is the size of a full New York City block.” Glancing up, she instinctively ducked at the sight of dozens of grid lights stretched across the ceiling. “Those spots look like black vultures.”

  “Our only vulture is Maxine,” Anissa said. “See that piece of glass set into the wall at the end of the grids? Behind the glass is a tiny room with miniature TV screens, speakers, and telephone lines. Max supervises the show from there. If she’s angry, her voice booms from above and sounds like God. Sometimes you can hear her walking across the set, her heels tapping. It’s scary. I’ll escort you through Wayne County, Delly, but be very quiet. They’re shooting Tabby’s scenes.”