Glamourpuss
Page 7
I also have a CRUSH on you. I have! Ever since you joined HC. You are just incredibly cute. I go nuts when I see you on the TV. I cut your pictures out of soap magazines and put them all over my locker. I have A LOT. YOU ARE JUST REALLY CUTE, WOW! Simon Arable is the scariest, craziest character I’ve ever seen on a soap opera. He’s my very favorite person in all of HC.
You are great. The best actor ever. You’ve got a great talent and are using it very well. I hope to meet you one day. It would be a dream come true for me. I would probably faint. HEARTS CROSSING is the ABSOLUTE BEST SOAP OPERA OF ALL TIMES! THE GREATEST! The Simon story line helps keep HEARTS CROSSING the #1 top on my list. That will NEVER change at all, EVER!
You are the GREATEST & CUTEST ever! Thank you for reading my letter. Sorry to take up your time. If you have your own fan club, I’d LOVE to join. I’d even pay! It would be THE BEST EVER! Your newest friend, Tiffani Tarr, Grosse Pointe, MI
A key pleasure in being back home was raiding my mom’s pantry for things I’d never have on hand in L.A. Sprawled on the couch, I dropped semisweet chocolate morsels into a jar of creamy peanut butter and dug out the decadent snack with a spoon. I idly flipped through the channels, stopping on a commercial for A-1 Mobile Homes, shot on tape — possibly with a camcorder — to reserve the budget for the cutting-edge Chromakey technology with which the President of A-1 illustrated the luxuries of modern trailer life, before clinching the sales pitch by widening the shot to reveal his entire flabby family in their own deluxe A-1. Clearly the firm would still be “Bexar County’s Best Selling Mobile Home Specialists” even if they were at the end of the yellow pages and named “Ze Very Bestest Double-Wide Luxury, Inc.”… perhaps with the accompanying slogan “Who needs Paris Chic, y’all???” Texas TV was great.
My mom peeked in. “Honey, you sure you wouldn’t like a real lunch?”
“I’m probably going to have a huge dinner,” I offered lamely, putting the peanut butter aside. The grandfather clock chimed.
“I can’t believe it’s this late. We’re missing Hearts Crossing!” She changed the channel. Onscreen Gwen dabbed her eyes with a Kleenex, then took a stiff drink, hoping to God that tonight she’d overcome her clinical frigidity and be a real woman for Ollie.
“I’m getting pretty sick of that one,” Mom confided.
“Be patient… she’s going to start getting rape flashbacks real soon,” I revealed. “Who do you think her Mystery Molester is?”
“Probably you, dear.”
“That’s an outrage, Mom. It was Chip!”
“Your father called it.” Gwen’s doorbell rang. She pulled a dressing gown over her tits-for-days spiderwoman negligee, and answered to Ollie, played by buff but born-again Brent Bingham.
“He’s really stupid, Mom. One day they had a restaurant scene and he kept ordering a carfay of wine. He also says excape and vajeena.”
“You’re lying.”
“Not about excape. And he probably would call it a vajeena… if it weren’t for sexism and censorship keeping references like that off the show. Actually, even if harmless anatomical terms were allowed, Brent would refuse to say them. He’s really into JC, the Holy Spirit, and Heavenly Father, which is his special name for God… and he says it so often that Allie Lang — she plays my sister — created a drinking game around it.”
“You guys drink… on the set?”
“I don’t! I just became a regular. I’m on best behavior at all times. Unbelievably nice and cooperative and polite. Which, you see, automatically makes my performance as a rotten asshole seem more impressive.”
“Who taught you that trick?”
“The legendary Ms Carole Ita White, always playing the nastiest bitches in such modern classics as The Concrete Jungle, Savage Streets, Chained Heat and Teenage Brides of Christ.” Mom’s expression told me she needed a hint. “She was Rosie Greenbaum, the mean redhead who tortured Laverne and Shirley?”
“Oh, right! She’s terrific. And what smart advice. Okay, ssshhh!” The scene had switched to Simon and Natalie, the world’s best-dressed dentist, in the middle of a vicious argument.
“I said take that back!” she barked.
“Not a chance. You never could face the truth, could you? Dad hated you for a damn good reason.” I was being pretty vile, considering she was letting me stay in her ultra-modern penthouse apartment for nothing, not to mention the free cleanings and fluoride treatments.
“What reason?” Natalie started to sob. “I was just nine years old!”
I shook my head, her self-delusion nauseating me. “You tried to break up their marriage, Natalie. You couldn’t stand having a stepfather, especially one so brilliant and successful. Our mother may have forgiven you, but he never did. And I can’t say I particularly blame him.”
“You don’t know what it was like, Simon. The emotional abuse…” Boo hoo hoo.
I got right in her face. “Don’t tell me about abuse, you spineless amoeba. We’re family, remember?” I hissed evilly, then stomped out of the room. She wept. My mom beamed at me proudly as the show’s standard threatening music chimed in and Sara appeared at the back door.
“How come you’re watching this awful show?” she growled, after exchanging hugs and kisses with Mom. She flounced onto to the couch and started to tickle me.
Somehow I was able to drag her upstairs so I could change into a sand-washed silk floral shirt and yarn-dyed silver-tab Levi’s. “Not too flashy,” she arched.
“It’s a special occasion.” I spritzed on a hint of Grey Flannel.
She sniffed. “Isn’t that the cologne?”
“Sure is.”
“You’re as ruthless as what’s-his-name.”
“Simon. And who knows what Nick’s thinking?”
“Alex. You’re doing it again.”
“I’m not,” I protested, pumping my hair full of spray-gel. “Let’s go dancing tonight.”
“Okay… You know, it might be a good idea if I had dinner with you and Nick.”
“I can handle it, Sara. I just want him to think I look good, y’know?” She nodded, regarding me with such care and concern I felt like a neurotic tool for making the Nick thing the focal point of my brief visit there and, as always, dragging Sara along into it. The phone rang and I answered it, eager to cut the Mr. Pathetic interlude short. “Young residence,” I snapped, all business.
Female Voice I Couldn’t Place: “Alex?”
“Yes. Who’s this?”
“Juliana Butts!” Shit.
“Hi, Juliana.” I was cordial, but chilly and cautious. Sara smiled sweetly and made smooching noises. I planted a pillow on her face. She tried to escape before I ruined the little makeup she needed to wear.
Juliana was babbling: “Hearts Crossing just finished and I thought ‘Alex is probably home watching himself with his family’ if you were in town and your mom said you would be, so I thought why not call?”
“Ummm… you know, I appreciated you writing. I’m sure all the letters helped them decide to keep me on the show.”
“You do those in advance, don’t you?” No, honey, I beamed in today’s performance from the living room downstairs.
“Yes…”
“Well I know you’re busy but I have the day off. We could go out for a late lunch and you could tell me what’s going to happen! I don’t know if you've ever been to River Center Mall but there’s a Chinese restaurant with a two-for-one special and…” — O good Christ.
I had to cut her off: “Actually Juliana, I’m just leaving town for the afternoon.”
“Maybe tonight then! We could go to a movie. Have you seen the new one with Danny DeVito?” Sara smirked at my tortured expression. She tapped her watch with her index finger, then started peeking into my luggage.
“I won’t be back until late tonight. I’m only in Texas a few days, Juliana, and there’s a lot I
have to do.”
“Would it be easier if I just dropped by your house tomorrow? I know where it is.” Wonderful. “I told all my friends I’d get to see you…” She was whining now. I’d never spoken to this girl before in my life. Okay — put a stop to it, pronto. I stifled a sigh.
“I might have a little free time on Sunday. I don’t know yet. How ‘bout I call you if I do?”
“Sunday…?” Juliana had to think it over, “I usually go to Furr’s Cafeteria with the gals from Bible-study after church.”
Through clenched teeth: “Juliana? Let’s just see what happens. Now I really have to go or I’ll be late.”
“Alex?! Could you just say hi to my mom? She’s watched the show since the day it started.”
“I just don’t have time.” Too bad. I heard the scuffle of the phone changing hands.
“Hello?” drawled a new voice.
“Hello, Mrs Butts.”
“Alex Young?!”
“Yes, ma’am, that’s right. Thanks for watching the show, and please tell Juliana I’ll speak to her later.” Before she could squawk anything I hung up.
“What was that all about?” Sara asked.
“She just wouldn’t let up.” I started looking for my wallet. “Then she put her mother on the line.”
“The public adores you,” Sara said. “Now let’s get the hell out of Dodge before they call back.”
I said goodbye to my mom and we took off up the long, familiar road to Austin. I watched the odometer. When we left the driveway, Nick was 70 miles away. Then 68. 65. 59. I-35 hadn’t changed much in a year and a half — maybe a few more “Luxurious Golf Course Living” tract-home developments marring the landscape between Windcrest and Scherz. We passed the reptile farm/“brothel” that had been an urban legend long before I knew what a prostitute was (age five, to be exact — thank you, The Young & The Restless). I wondered what I’d be feeling when I watched this same scenery unreel in reverse as we drove back tonight. Not that it wasn’t obvious: We’d pull off at the Whataburger after-hours drive-thru in San Marcos for a sugar-boost… the extra-thick Whatashake would slide down my throat freezing me into further numbness, as Sara tried valiantly to lift me out of my devastation… her memories of this newfound-soap-stardom time with me forever darkened and spoiled because the secret had been ripped wide open — I still loved Nick with all my heart. And seeing him again, being the day’s last entry in the personal appointment calendar that was his life in Austin — with Barney, without me — had been a terrible idea. Good times!
APRIL 11, 1990
It had been laundry night at my apartment. Nick’s clothes were neatly folded in his basket, jug of Liquid Tide and box of Bounce nestled among them. The TV played Sandra Bernhard on Letterman. Nick was lying on the floor, his head and shoulders propped up on a cushion. And my head was resting on his stomach, where I’d casually laid it 20 or so minutes before — just a couple of buddies chillin’ out in front of the tube. I felt his breathing, deep and untroubled, as I’d imagined it would feel if we were in bed together. He didn’t touch me and neither of us spoke. The only muscle that moved was my throbbing man meat, imprisoned in baggy shorts. Next time I would kiss him. Count on it.
✽✽✽
My dear Alex, Thank you for autographing my movie poster. I’m having it archivally framed with UV plexiglass. And thank you for the 8x10 photo. What a surprise. I’m sitting here, looking into your eyes as I write this, daydreaming about you, your penis, balls and thirsty boy-cunt. Am I terrible?
Yes. In fact, I’m Astaroth, Wizard. Please contact me soon RE: the spell you have cast on my heart. Ray Lanville, Eagle Rock, CA
Austin seemed like a toy city, so clean and convenient, its half-dozen skyscrapers — one of them containing Nick — pristine against the huge blue Texas sky. We had a couple hours before dinner, so Sara and I decided to cruise The Drag, adjacent to the UT campus.
We ended up at Quackenbush’s, an espresso-cheesecake hangout favored by the cigs & Sartre set. We both kept our sunglasses on. I had iced herbal tea and Sara ordered pain au chocolat a la mode. She had the metabolism of a sand shark. “Why this place?” Sara asked. “We never came here in college.”
“We’re so much more sophisticated now, dahling. Alright, vhere are my fans?” I mock-bitched. “I vant to hold court!”
“Okay… Udo Kier.”
“Ivana Trump, thank you very much!”
“That accent needs to come off your resume. But we are an empty wine cooler’s toss from SRD. Those girls can appreciate a real soap hunk.” Snotty, anachronistic Scottish Rite Dormitory, or The Virgin Vault as it was unaffectionately dubbed, had been a running joke between us since a resident, one Staci Jane Henkel of Melody Hills, TX, had stolen Sara’s high school boyfriend Duke our freshman year at UT. We took revenge on the despicable couple by taking out roughly 25 personal ads in smut rags, both local and national, variously listing Staci as a leather mistress with a penchant for golden showers and tasty-looking Duke as a “dick-worshipping frat stud”… complete with accurate addresses and contact numbers. We were never exactly sure of any specific results; only that Staci moved out of SRD two months later never to be heard from again. Duke was now happily married to a fat girl in Grand Prairie. Sara even went to their wedding.
“We can’t go to SRD,” I said. “No men allowed.”
“Oh, right. You’d hate it.”
Sara finished her snack while I picked up The Austin Chronicle, the city’s oh-so-cutting-edge newsweekly that had once reviewed me in Child’s Play (a psychological early Seventies boarding school thriller by the author of Burnt Offerings, not Chucky the Musical) at the Hyde Park Theatre as “a deadpan Aryan gerbil.” I skimmed the paper. Except for the heat, Austin was a great place: good crop of interesting movies, cool record stores, politically active liberal population, gloriously cheap awesome restaurants and, from the size of the Men Seeking Men column in the Chronicle’s infamous Personals section, it was rapidly becoming Texas Queer Central — “4-H Clubber (Hot, Hairy, Hung, Hard) seeks buff J/O playmates 18 - 40.” “Smooth frosh athlete, totally str8-acting, into discreet encounters with VGL blonde M under 23. No fats, fems, freaks or facial hair. W or light-skinned Latins only!” Talk about Aryan gerbils.
Still, I couldn’t see myself ever living here again, and not just because you couldn’t pay the bills acting. The main reason was the unbearableness of being in a town with Nick — I wouldn’t be able to stand schlepping through the same territory as the world’s most mismatched male couple, knowing damn well Barney took all he had for granted while I’d be endlessly tormented by fantasies of elusive domestic bliss every time I walked into Whole Foods alone.
I couldn’t believe there was still an hour left before I was set to meet Nick. This had to be worse than waiting for prostate surgery. And the weather — October and 89 degrees! Not to mention the humidity that was dampening my studwear and making my bangs curl up like shrimp on Barney’s Sizzler platter.
We went over to Dobie Mall to get our parking validated. I was absurdly comforted that the little twin cinema still showed midnight movies every day of the week (even if tonight’s was Tie Me Up! Tie Me Down!) Sara and I had probably seen a hundred late shows here while in school, smuggling in bottles of soda, Freixenet cava splits from Longhorn Liquors and homemade popcorn, feeling that invincible kind of college cool that comes from not having any classes before 11 the next morning. Nick and I had come here together, too. I’d always remember the time he’d taken my hand about 20 minutes into Wild At Heart and didn’t let go until every credit had rolled and we were sitting alone in the theater.
“Are you sure you don’t want me to join y’all?” Sara asked from inside her car. I stood by the unlocked passenger door, making no move to open it, lost in a nostalgic haze. I unspaced and got in.
“Huh?” I asked Sara.
“I said if you want, I can call C
huck and Vanessa and tell them I can’t make it. They’ll be in San Antonio for a vegetarian chili cook-off in a week or two, anyway.”
“I’ll be fine, I promise. Just meet me at Oilcan Harry’s at nine-thirty.”
We pulled up to Nick’s building. The sunset splashed a beautiful golden glow over the plaza, the fountain and the big-haired secretaries on their way home. “I guess I’ll see you later,” Sara said.
“Yeah, thanks.” I unlocked the door and squeezed the handle.
“Alex, you’re going to have an amazing life no matter what happens. It’s Nick’s loss. Remember that.” I leaned over and kissed her cheek.
“Okay.”
“You can get out of the car now.”
I did, feeling a bit dizzy. Excitement, dread, sadness — these I’d expected. But what I was suddenly aware of, as I trotted toward the chrome-and-glass tower and a warm autumn wind bedeviled my hairdo, was that right now — tonight — I was standing on the cusp of my future as surely as I had been four months ago when I’d walked onto the Hearts Crossing set for my final network test with Cyrinda Blake herself: tiny, Tab-slurping daytime diva Megan DuBois. It was one of those moments that defines the course of your existence. It puts in stark relief where you've been and what you’ve been working toward/waiting for… and everything that comes afterward seems to refer back to it. I was about to write a whole new chapter of my autobiography — Life With Nick, After Nick. I braced myself as I revolved into the building, afraid of stepping into the lobby and being face-to-face with him.