Deadly Dues

DEADLY
DUES

LINDA
KUPECEK

To actors, artists and good times.

“Definitely dead,” said Geoff.

Even I could figure that out. Five of us stood in a wide-eyed group around Stan's desk, and not one of us offered a heart-rending sob or tender tear at the sight before us. Gretchen, Geoff, Pete and Bent looked just the way I felt: as if I had been presented with a gift of generosity so obscenely overdone that I would live with the guilt forever.

I didn't want anybody I knew to turn up dead, no matter how evil they were. But sadly, and to my immense shame, seeing Stan Pope face down on his desk with a letter opener slanted into his back fell more into the category of riotous celebration than wailing mourning.

Behind us, the streetlights filtered through the blinds of the union office, casting shadowed lines over the centre of the room. Horizontal lines are so unflattering to actors, and none of us looked attractive at this moment. We were a pale and pasty bunch, unaccustomed as we were to finding dead bodies.

Classic film noir, a cinematographer's dream, and no camera in sight. On his hand, splayed across the desk in uncharacteristic stillness, Stan's gold pinky ring glimmered, flashing gently as the orange neon lights from Rae's Bar and Grill across the street beckoned unsuspecting customers. Stan had implemented many gestures in his daily life, especially the charming one-fingered one. It was strange to see his hand unmoving and vulnerable.

I had always liked Stan's desk, a deep oak vintage piece that didn't suit Stan's shallow personality. The elegantly curved letter opener, inscribed with the HAMS logo and embedded in his back, created an image that was really quite beautiful, if one could divorce oneself from the reality and consider the aesthetic.

As the office manager of our union, the Honourable Association of Minstrels and Singers, known as HAMS, Stan had managed to ruin or damage each of our careers, with intimidation, harassment and plain old lying.

Geoff, at the age of forty, with classic movie star looks, a shock of prematurely white hair, and a credit list that could make a casting director faint (if he or she hadn't already fainted from his lethally flirtatious ways), now found his once thriving career stalled. This was thanks to the frivolous lawsuit Stan had launched against him. If Geoff was not too broken up over his own pronouncement, who could be surprised?

Gretchen had fought off Stan's advances with her award statuette at a party last year, and now found that her engagements were always sidelined by minor contractual problems. Who could blame her for looking more slightly surprised than devastated?

Pete, whose marriage of twenty years had ended after Stan had cornered his wife Sally at a party, and after whispered innuendo of an affair between Pete and Sherilyn, Stan's intellectually insignificant but physically impressive other, looked almost happy. Were any of us going to say boo?

Bent's career as an acting coach had been cut short by poison pen e-mails emanating from Stan's computer (although this was never proven). It was understandable that he didn't look particularly bereaved as he gazed at Stan's lifeless body. Bent was black, brainy and beautiful in a strangely androgynous way. At moments, he seemed all testosterone, with a weird, repressed sexiness. He was a terrible actor but a wonderful coach. And now he was working part-time as a mechanic to make up for the sudden drop of income in his chosen field, thanks to Stan.

And what about me? Given that my long-standing, exclusive and wonderfully lucrative contract as the spokesperson for Bow Wow Dog Food had come to a sudden end once Stan planted himself between my agent Mitzi and the producers, I was revolted by the image before me, but not heartbroken by the result. My royalties had been MIA for over two years. The lawyers I hired had depleted my bank account, but had never recovered my money. Working at McDonald's is great for an eighteen-year-old, but maybe not a satisfying career choice for a forty-something actress with two degrees and a sheepdog who eats the furniture if he is not fed gargantuan amounts of food on an unreasonably regular basis.

I am Lulu Malone. Well, I was Lulu Malone.
Lu, stop that. You are still Lulu Malone.
I am five feet five inches, and more curvy than anorexic (not that there is anything wrong with that). Despite my chronological years, I still get rude, complimentary comments from men on the street about certain parts of my anatomy. When I was younger, I was enraged by the fact that I lived in a sexist society. As I grow older, I notice that I feel slightly more benevolent toward the socially challenged men who feel the need to comment on a woman's body. Just the other day, as I paid (in quarters, dimes and nickels) for an overpriced vitamin-enhanced water at a convenience store, the twenty-ish cashier squinted his face into a huge smile, gave me a thumbs-up and roared, “Looking good, lady.”

Reviews have referred to my “dancing, incandescent eyes.” We won't talk about the reviews, for the same film, that noted that my eyes looked as if I were on speed or had been wearing the same pair of contact lenses for too long.

Luckily, no matter what I do, I am adorable. I have mutated through at least two dozen hair styles, but I am still adorable. I guess it is the dimples. Over the years, I have played the adorable heroine, the adorable best friend of the heroine, the adorable neighbour, the adorable head nurse, even the adorable crack addict, and finally, in a low-budget film I won't name, the adorable serial killer.

I am a classically trained actress. So it is only logical that I am best known as the adorable, curly-haired star of the most successful dog food commercials in the history of broadcasting. In my youth, I did a decent Portia. I paid my dues in hundreds of forgettable docudramas and educational films. I eventually starred in a television series with the unlikely title of
Darling, Detective
.

I was Dora Darling, the retro private eye who wore black leather coats and black lace garter belts, and, between extremely clever one-liners, leapt about in karate poses. It was silly, but it was also entertaining, and more respectful of women than a lot of other junk on TV at the time. At least Dora was smart. Then that ended, and I moved from big cheese to second banana. I continued to work, sporadically, in all the adorable (and not so adorable) permutations of my acting range. A wonderful resumé. And I am still known as Lulu Malone, of Bow Wow Dog Food fame.

I sometimes mused, what if I had changed my name to something more theatrical and dignified, like Clytemnestra? Would that have helped? Would that have suddenly made Stan discover where my royalties were hiding? Would the press and my fans have stormed the HAMS office, demanding justice for Lulu/Clytemnestra? Would Stan have been shamed and intimidated into doing the right thing?

Oh yes, Stan. Stan, on his desk. Dead. And we were standing around, holding our collective breath, as if we were waiting for the stills photographer to snap us.

The silence we shared changed from stunned shock to prickling anxiety. I suspect we were all considering the repercussions of our presence in the office at this extremely inconvenient moment. We were all major victims of Stan's, and now we were standing over his dead body at nine in the evening. He had called each of us, suggesting a meeting, supposedly to address our differences. These differences were considerable, and it was surprising that Stan had asked to see us. Our correspondence in the past months had been limited to threatening, accusatory e-mails and equally unpleasant rebuttals, from both sides.

Our union was a vital part of our existence as professionals. We had grown to count on the support and expertise of the hardworking staff, who over the years had improved conditions, fought for our overtime and scrutinized our contracts. I blessed the union whenever I received a royalty cheque. The combination of Stan, Katrina, Lorraine and the assistants was like a phalanx of protection against tricksters and crooks. Katrina, the long-time office manager, had an unfortunate habit of taking frequent maternity leaves, at which point Stan would take over her duties.

When Stan began to interfere with our careers, we complained mightily. As a group, we had sent a letter of protest about Stan to the HAMS head office. We should have known better. Wild accusations, even if they are based on fact, accomplish little. In hindsight, we should have bided our time and taken the proper route of protocol, with a good dose of legal advice along the way. We should have tried for mediation.

But we were incensed by what we perceived as repression of and discrimination against any performer who didn't kowtow to Stan and Sherilyn. We hadn't thought about what this would do to our careers. Despite our years in the business, nobody believed us. Or if they did, they declined to comment. We were too old, too experienced, to be afraid to speak up. And we paid the price. After years of a mutually respectful and beneficial relationship with our union, we felt betrayed.

Casting directors and producers quickly discovered that it was wise to omit our names from any production list. We had paid our dues, in more ways than one, and now we were disposable.

Somebody thought Stan was disposable, too.

We avoided looking at each other. It wasn't pleasant looking at what was left of Stan either. We were aggrieved, but not ghoulish. We were sensitive. Artists. Not murderers.

We had convened in the dark and depressing parking garage, then had crowded into the ancient elevator, complaining with the lurches from floor to floor until we finally had reached the fifth, disentangled ourselves, walked into the HAMS office and found Stan stretched across his desk, his bald head gleaming rather beautifully in the dim light. He was wearing a dark blue cashmere sweater, grey slacks and expensive, glossy shoes. Around the blade of the letter opener, his sweater was rumpled and stained dark with blood. The blood had oozed down his neck to the desk.

Here we were. He was nice and dead. And we were nice and alive— and happy about it. Yow.

“We should call the police,” said Geoff.