Glamourpuss

by Christian McLaughlin

  ​One of the women from QVC Blonde’s table was walking this way — sauntering was more accurate — prompting Mom to quietly opine that the woman was trying to avoid the faux pas (or fox pass, as they said at Texas A&M) of slowing her pace too dramatically upon reaching us. “You’re having a fame-delusion,” I teased her. “I’ll prove it.” I unbuttoned the top of my shirt and tossed my head poutily, horrifying Mom.

  ​“Alex!” she gasped. “Don’t get them all fired up!” I knocked it off, and Mom and I looked directly at each other and mumbled phony conversation while we tried not to crack up as the woman cruised by en route to the pizza counter, where she pulled red-and-white checkered napkins from a dispenser. “She checked you out.”

  ​“Did not,” I said.

  ​“Did, too. You know how proud I am of you, honey. But that kind of rudeness…” she subtly cocked her head toward the woman, clad in too-tight acid-washed jeans and a t-shirt that announced MY OTHER HUSBAND IS A GORGEOUS MILLIONAIRE, who was now taking the long way back to her friends, “…really pisses me off.”

  ​I laughed a little and pilfered some of her still-hot waffle-fries. “Do you want to go home?” I asked. “Because I’m having a great time.”

  ​“Me, too. It’s nice, just the two of us hanging out.”

  ​“Yes, it is.” I kissed her cheek. “Let’s go to Structure.” As we left the food court, Mom nudged me. A quick backward glance revealed the gals gathering their bags.

  ​“See? They’re going to be right behind us.”

  ​“Not before disposing of their trash and stacking their trays in a neat, orderly manner, I hope.”

  ​“Just wait, smarty-pants.”

  ​Structure was Nick’s favorite mall store. It was also, I observed while entering with Mom and making a beeline for some choice ass-flattering jeans, the gayest national retail chain. From Greek columns framing the doorway and a Ken Haak book on the glass-topped waiting-area coffee table to a staff composed entirely of buff, hairless teen boys, it was like an islet of West Hollywood smack-dab in the middle of San Antonio. I picked out a few items for myself, then came across a non-acrylic sweater the exact color of Nick’s eyes. A wistful sigh was halfway out of my lungs when I realized I was allowed to give him presents again! I charged the whole wad and trusted there’d be appropriate wrapping paper at home.

  ​Mom bought us each a Strawberry Julius and we decided to go home. First, though, she wanted to use the restroom. “Let’s go to Saks,” she said. “I haven’t used those food-court facilities since I walked into the ladies’ last Christmas and someone had taken a dump in the sink.” I forced her to elaborate on this holiday-shopper’s nightmare as we drifted up-mall.

  ​I told her I’d meet her in Electronics. I’d reached the point in my life when it was time to start pricing enormous TV’s. Thirty identical detergent commercials played on 30 screens of various sizes. I sat down on a piece of hideous furniture and watched the riveting mini-drama of how a husband’s b.o.-tainted work clothes almost ruined a loving marriage. Then a familiar logo popped onto each TV. “We now return to Hearts Crossing.” And there I was, times 30. Neat.

  ​Simon had dropped by Sean Nortonsen’s house ostensibly to offer support in the wake of Cyrinda’s mysterious coma. “Was there anything Cyrinda was working on for the paper that might’ve put her in some kind of danger?” I called to Sean, who was in the kitchen fetching us iced tea. As I waited for his answer, I carefully slid open a desk drawer and planted a fatally incriminating letter that would seal my frame attempt.

  ​“Why would you ask that?” Sean (Rick Brewer) came in and set two glasses down in front of us. Thunder sound-effects rumbled ominously. A storm was coming. When he went to close the window, I switched the drinks just in case he was on to me.

  ​“Come on. It just seems the next direction for the police to take. Wanda told me they haven't been able to come up with a single lead.” I sipped tea from Sean’s glass.

  ​“There’s something rotten about all this, Simon,” the troubled former ski instructor confided. Babs Flanagan, the tipsy daytime dowager who played Wanda Blake, had confided to me, off-camera, that Rick had shortened his name from Breuerstein and lived in mortal fear of the public getting wind of his “five-figure nose-job, the silly boy. All I can say is it’s a good thing circumcision’s not just a Jewish thing these days, because that dong of his has been seen by more women than Bull Durham.” I’d been working on the show less than four hours at that point, so was naturally eager to learn all I could about its cast and their genital modifications.

  ​As they cut to my sphinx-like countenance in close-up for the scene’s last shot, I heard, “Oh, God, it is him!” I looked to my left. Standing on the stairs was the food court klatch, now tripled in size and stalking me, exactly like Mom said. Thirty TV screens had just proven their hunch right. I was dead meat.

  ​“Simon!” Acid-Washed Bigamist bellowed. I got up and started to walk in the other direction, out of the store, brisk yet controlled. I looked over my shoulder. They were spilling off the staircase, pointing wildly and chattering at whomever would listen. I spun a glance around for my mom — nowhere — then began to run. I looked back again as soon as I’d cleared the Saks entrance. Ten to 14 women were stampeding toward me.

  ​“It’s Simon from Hearts Crossing!” they shrieked at stunned mall-goers. Of course I’d been left with all our purchases and so, now toting a half-dozen well-stuffed shopping bags, tried to dodge baby carriages, power-walking oldsters and a queue outside B. Dalton Booksellers for a romance novelist’s signing — a portion of which abandoned their places in line to join the pursuing mob. Where was security, for Christ’s sake? I’d heard tales of soap actors losing eyeglasses, rings and locks of hair to rampaging fans. I envisioned myself lying senseless on a bed of pennies and nickels in the mall’s maxi-size wishing well, clothing shredded, kicked and spat on by irate viewers unable to separate evil Simon from the real, lovable me.

  ​I bounded up the first stairs I came to and saw the approaching horde now numbered at least 35, and included men and kids. The group was well aware of my route, and a faction broke off and hit the escalator, intending to cut me off on the second level. I put on speed and scanned the upstairs for refuge. There was a security guard, but, frighteningly, the escalator gang was going to reach him before I could. Okay — a clear path to Victoria’s Secret. I took it.

  ​“Hi, what can I do for you today?” the pretty customer service representative asked.

  ​“Please help me,” I panted.

  ​“Oh, my — you’re…” Her eyes widened with recognition. I couldn't believe this. It was just like Rosemary’s Baby. Without waiting, I careened toward the fitting cubicles, banging into an adorably dressed display table and sending a basket of bras ’n’ potpourri flying into the air. I heard my pursuers invade the store as I slammed into the cubicle and locked the flimsy half-door behind me.

  ​I peeked through the slats and saw wall-to-wall people. “Over here!” QVC Blonde was on the floor looking right at me through the foot-high space below the door. “Simon’s in here!” I backed up against the mirror. She tried to squeeze in with me but was too fat.

  ​The rest of the mob surged to the door, pushing against it and the trapped obnoxious blonde woman alarmingly. “Crystal, I’m stuck! Shit!” QVC howled.

  ​Faces bobbed up over the top of the door. “Jason Priestley’s in there!” some idiot screamed. KRAACK! The top hinge tore off leaving a jagged splinter I could easily imagine plunging into my eyeball like I was Olga Karlatos in Zombie, when, in about eight seconds, the rest of the door went.

  ​“Alright, y’all! Clear it out! Security! Clear the area!” Disappointed, angry complaints.

  ​Someone unstuck the blonde. “Simon!” she called. Her bubblegum-colored fingernails clawed the carpet as she was dragged away, still groping for a handful of pseudo-celeb.

  ​Two black rent-a-cops peered into the cubicle. “What the hell�
��s going on, man?” one asked.

  ​They escorted me past the loud, crazed throng to the security office and paged my mother. We left through a back exit. “You should listen to your mama,” Mom said with a sly smile, after determining our purchases and me were all intact.

  ​I couldn’t resist tuning in to the ten o’clock news that night, and sure enough, they’d sent someone to Victoria’s Secret, “the site of a near-riot this afternoon over the alleged appearance of soap star Alexander Young of Hearts Crossing. Young grew up in Windcrest and graduated from Theodore Roosevelt High School, but neither he nor his family could be reached for comment.”

  ​Actually, two reporters had called while we were eating dinner to verify I was in town. My dad told them to “piss off.”

  ​My parents went to bed and I stayed up daydreaming in the dark about my life in L.A. with Nick. He’d give 30 days’ notice to that ungrateful law firm and tell Barney he needed to spend some time apart. He’d load his things into a U-Haul and I’d fly back and drive it to California with him. In the meantime, I’d have rented a beautiful Spanish Gothic house in the Los Feliz neighborhood, with a turret and lots of windows for To-Bel’s squirrel-viewing pleasure. Nick would volunteer his time at the gay and lesbian community center in Hollywood and AIDS Project Los Angeles while studying for the California Bar. He’d meet me for lunch at the studio and we’d spend days off frolicking on the hunkiest beaches. I’d lease him a forest-green Jaguar XJS for his birthday. He’d start a law practice on Hillhurst Avenue and… we’d have searing unprotected monogamous sex every single night (five times total per weekend) on 1500-thread-count sheets purchased at Nordstrom.

  ​I took out the picture of him I always kept in my wallet, propped it up next to the lamp and left it there while I wrapped the sweater I’d bought him. Then I phoned a boutique hotel on the river and made a reservation for Monday night under the name Alex Miller. It was still on the nightstand when the call came in late Sunday morning.

  ​“Honey, it’s for you,” my mom said. “Nick.” I zipped upstairs like a roadrunner, flopped onto my bed and picked up.

  ​“Hello?”

  ​“Hi, there, Alex.” He sounded great. “Whatcha been up to?”

  ​“Just hanging around… looking forward to talking to you again.”

  ​“It was nice catching up the other night.” Catching up?! What was he going to call his divorce from Barney, a little schedule-change?

  ​“Listen, Nick, I was thinking about Monday, and I guess the easiest thing would be for you to meet me here, and we can go downtown for dinner.”

  “That sounds fine, Alex…” Then why that tragic note in his voice? Oh, no. Oh, fuck. “And I wish I could do that. But I don’t think I can.”

  ​“Why not?” For a few seconds, I thought I really might get through it this time without crying.

  ​“I just can’t leave. All this.”

  ​“But you’re not happy. You said so,” I whispered. A tear splashed onto the receiver then dripped to the comforter.

  ​“It’s more complicated than that,” Nick began.

  ​“I know what it is, Nick. I know exactly what it is.” I cried softly. Nothing ever changes.

  ​“My job’s in Austin…”

  ​“You can quit tomorrow. I make three thousand a week, minimum. That's plenty for both of us. You can do the kind of work you really want to.”

  ​“Alex. I can’t leave Barney.”

  ​“Why? Why?!”

  ​“Because I love him.” But you’re not IN love with him, are you, Nick? How many years has it been since you could say that? And how many more will it be before you escape a barren “relationship” with that thankless deadbeat? I wanted to ask him those things. Instead, out came the very Hollywood “What about me, Nick?”

  ​“Oh, Alex… you know how special you are to me.”

  ​“No, Nick, I guess I really don’t. I thought I did Thursday night…” My voice broke into an embarrassing, childish sob. “But it doesn’t matter what we do or what I say or how easy it would be for you to come with me. I can't make you.”

  ​“Alex, please try to understand…” I thought I heard him choke back a sob of his own.

  ​“No,” I said. “I love you.” Then I hung up.

  ​Thirty seconds seconds later the phone rang. It was Nick, telling me he loved me too. That we’d work it out. I snatched it up. “Hello?”

  ​“Alex, it’s Juliana.”

  ​“Who?”

  “Juliana Butts. From Roosevelt?”

  ​“Oh. Hi.” Jesus, not now.

  ​“You didn’t tell me you were making a personal appearance at the mall,” she accused.

  ​“I was just shopping with my mother. It wasn’t an appearance. Look, Juliana, this isn't the best time for me…”

  ​“Anyway, you told me to call today. About lunch.” I sighed. My eyes found Nick’s photo on the nightstand. Juliana babbled on: “I hope you still want to go. I can pick you up as soon as I change out of my church clothes. I think we should go casual, don't you?”

  ​“Juliana, I can’t go to lunch. I’m sorry. Maybe next time I’m in town. Definitely, okay?”

  ​“Alex, you promised!”

  ​“No… I didn’t, Juliana. I’m having a really bad day, so please…”

  ​“I don’t understand why you can’t just give me an hour or two. Maybe you can tell me what’s upsetting you.”

  ​That was so rich I came close to emitting a peal of hysterical laughter. “No, okay?”

  ​“You can’t treat people this way. This ‘star attitude’ I keep hearing about — I guess it’s like, totally true. You’re not gonna have any friends if…”

  ​“Fuck off, Juliana!” I slammed down the phone… a tiny fraction less miserable, I had to admit.

  PART TWO

  FEBRUARY 1993

  ​The stage manager cued me and I pivoted into the breeze of an electric fan (as opposed to the ones who squealed and swooned around the studio entrance after getting a glimpse of us while they were in line for game-show tapings of Cash Crazed and Date Bait). I aimed my malevolent yet seductive grin at the camera and purred, “Cross over to danger.”

  ​“Cut,” the on-air promo producer intercommed from the booth, adding this familiar inexplicable directorial couplet: “That was perfect, Alex. Now let’s do it again.”

  ​I repeated my performance, wondering if the voice in the booth belonged to the person who’d conceptualized the snazzy “Cross Over” campaign. I was happy to have been chosen to participate, even if it did mean two extra hours hanging around this semi-tacky limbo set complete with a wooden footbridge and blood-orange lighting that together evoked prom-pictures in Hell. I felt like the new kid in class who’d been invited out for pizza and a chocolate malted with the way-coolest, Most Popular peeps in school. The only others on hand to tape mini-commercials for the show were Bible-thumping beefcake Brent Bingham (“Cross over to passion”), perky teen Nori Ann Marshall (“Cross over to romance”), brooding hunky teen Cary Rietta (“Cross over to suspense”) and token Negress — her words, not mine — Phalita Renee (“Cross over to excitement!”). The other two guys’ spots entailed mandatory shirt-doffing. Luckily, Brent and His Lord Jesus Christ had no trouble with male toplessness — his yummy manly chest was very reminiscent of a certain Texan attorney… with whom I was no longer speaking.

  ​I was itching to scrub off the makeup I’d had on since 9:00 a.m., but was stopped en route to my regular assigned dressing room by Phalita handing out invitations to her housewarming party — color-Xeroxed and featuring a photo of En Vogue with all four heads replaced by Phalita’s sassy noggin. After the date and time, invitees were discreetly advised to “Call Phalita For Address!” Keeping the location of her new digs a secret would be no easy task, for the same reason her party would be an A-list event above and beyond the soap opera crowd: she was shacking up with a sitcom star who’d just left his wife of 15 years, the last si
x months of which had been consumed by a torrid affair with our own Ms Renee.

  ​To make things a tad juicier for the fly-over states, he was white. The “scandal” officially broke in Hawaii during production of a special two-part episode of Loverboy’s show, although everyone at Hearts Crossing had been prepped for weeks, since a soon-to-be-ex-intern from Cal State Fullerton had barged into Phalita’s dressing room and caught her smoking sitcom pole. (“My back was to the door — he didn’t see shit… just my booty in a g-string. I wasn’t even shakin’ it. For a change!” she laughed gaily to Allie Lang and me during an off-campus lunch at City Cafe on La Brea.) I RSVP’d yes on the spot, in no position to condemn adultery.

  ​Or enjoy it myself. I’d heard from Nick exactly twice since I returned to Hollywood last fall. 1) A phone message in November: “Just wanted to see how fame ’n’ fortune were treatin’ ya. I’ll call you back.” He didn’t. 2) When I got home from Christmas — thankfully spent far from Texas with Mom, Dad and surprise guest Sara at my grandparents’ Palm Beach penthouse condo — there was a Rockshots card simply (and ironically) signed “Love, Nick.”

  ​The only upside to the latter, aside from the hilarious Yuletide photo of Desperate Living’s 400-pound killer maid Grizelda as played by Jean Hill, was being able to use my sense memory of it — thank you, Uta Hagen — to cry convincingly in a Hearts Crossing scene in which Simon confided with utter insincerity to love interest/patsy Jane Parkins (who, not coincidentally, was also the Crossing Hospital forensic chemist assigned to Cyrinda’s case) how torn up he was over the rift between him and half-sister Natalie. A rift naturally caused by my insistence on blackmailing her with nasty nude photographs in order to get access to our late, demented father’s private scientific journals which she’d inherited and wanted sealed forever.