Flavor of the Month (14 page)

She stumbled into the bathroom and turned on the shower, making it almost hotter than she could stand. She had just finished the first shampoo of her thick, heavy dark hair when the phone rang. She flung open the curtain, leaving the water running, and ran down the narrow hall, trailing soapy footprints. She slipped when she stepped into the kitchen, caught herself at the edge of the table, twisting her ankle, and lunged for the phone.

“Hello,” she panted.

“Hi.” Sam’s voice was dead, cold, the way it always was after a fight, but it
was
Sam’s voice.

“Hi.” Well, Christ,
that
was stupid. “Are you okay?” she asked. Fuck. That was
pathetic
.

“Yeah. What about you?”

“I’ve been better.”

“Listen, M.J., I’m sorry about the other night. I didn’t think. You know. Coming back from L.A., and the negotiations. There’s been a lot of pressure on me lately and…”

Oh, sweet Jesus! He’d apologized. Tears filled her eyes. “Hey…” she interrupted. “I understand. I do. And I’ve been thinking.” She paused now, took a deep breath. It would be all right. He’d said he was sorry. She’d go with him to L.A. He’d still love her. And she could still love him. “I want to go with you,” she said. “The part doesn’t matter.
We
matter. I’ll get my shot later. I’ll just wrap up a few odds and ends here, stick Midnight in a box, and hop a flight to L.A.”

There was silence at the other end of the phone. A long silence. “Sam?” she asked. “Are you still there?”

“Sure. Sure. I’m…I’m just surprised, is all. But that’s fine. That’s great. I’m just, well, surprised.” He paused. “Look, we have to talk, M.J. Maybe I can come over tonight and…”

“I have to go see Neil,” she interrupted. “It’s his last gig.”

“Oh, fuck Neil!” There, he was irritated again. “The guy’s animus is scary.”

She sighed. “I’d rather fuck you. Baby, it’s been a long time to do without you. Listen, I
have
to go, but the show’s at ten; I’ll be home by midnight. How ’bout if we make up then?” She packed all the warmth into her voice that she could manage.

“Yeah. Fine,” he said, and hung up.

She did, too, and as she turned she caught her own reflection, her hair full of lather, her body naked and wet. She forced herself to look. Her breasts hung, like sagging water balloons, to the place on her rib cage where a small roll of fat had developed. It, in turn, rested on the swell of her round belly. Her
fat
belly, she corrected herself, which protruded over her pubic hair. Her hips were another monument to fat, the saddlebags visibly divided into three small but distinct ripples. Cottage-cheese thighs. Even her knees were ugly. She had let herself go and become a rounded, disgusting fertility figure. Even her thick, long hair, her one beauty, was starting to show gray streaks. She’d let herself go, something no actress could afford to do. No wonder Sam didn’t sound happy on the phone, or eager to make love. Oh, God, how could anyone love me? she wondered. She was so very, very lucky to have Sam.

At a quarter to ten that evening, Neil saw Mary Jane come through the door of the club and try to adjust her eyes to the dark interior. He rushed over to her, hugged her, and cried, “Mary Jane, thanks for coming. Christ, I’m nervous. All the guys are here, waiting to tear me apart. Feeding time at the zoo. Jesus, they’re so jealous that I’ve had to hire a food taster. Hey, you look great. Very Mildred Pierce-ish. When she’s on the decline.”

He was so kind. Even in the midst of his spritz, he took the time to notice. Mary Jane had been collecting vintage clothes for years. Neil always managed a riff based on the film or actress she dressed as. He always said she looked great, and Mary Jane always ignored it. But she didn’t usually look as wrecked as this. Well, she’d done the best she could. He took her coat as he led her toward the small room at the rear.

“This place is larger than I thought, Neil,” Mary Jane said. “How many people does it seat?”

“Seat? Forget about seats. We got
standees
here tonight. The entire bridge-and-tunnel crowd, plus every out-of-work stand-up motherfucker in the city. Them alone would fill Shea Stadium.” Indicating the one unoccupied table in the front, he added, “The publicity about my pilot is paying off. But there’s always room for you, Mildred. Boy, what a crowd!”

Bending to kiss her, Neil whispered, “Wish me what I need, Mary Jane.”

Mary Jane patted Neil’s cheek. “I do, Jughead. Break a leg. Now, get started, funny-man, and make me laugh.” She followed the waiter to her table.

Neil was a good friend, and the crowd looked good, too. Hell, everything was rosy to her now that she knew Sam was waiting for her at home. After all, he had apologized. She shifted in her seat. The crowd was noisy tonight. It was the short break before the headliner, her pal Jughead.

For years, since they’d discovered that, among other shared tastes, as kids they both had read and collected Archie and Veronica comics, she had called Neil Jughead, and he’d called her Veronica. Now, with any luck at all, her pal would kill ’em. She felt her stomach tighten in nervous anticipation. He’s good, she reminded herself. It will go well.

Neil had taken the three steps up to the stage and walked off into the wings. Now, after a rave introduction, he returned with a hand-held microphone, entering to a roaring welcome. He looked at her. “Hello, Veronica,” he said. She smiled, and he was off on his spritz.

“Evening, folks. Good crowd. You all look very prosperous. You, sir”—pointing to a well-dressed man in the front row—“you look like you do all right. What do you do for a living?”

What was this? Mary Jane knew that Neil never stooped to working the crowd for his act. It was for hacks and amateurs, he said. Now he watched his mark in the audience, and so did everyone else. Mary Jane shifted, uncomfortable in her seat. Was Neil going to embarrass the poor guy?

“I’m an investment banker.” The guy sounded wary but self-satisfied.

“You are?” said Neil. “And what did your father do?”

“My father?” The guy paused. Not so self-satisfied now. Embarrassed. Mary Jane hunched her shoulders. “My father was a school custodian.” There were a few titters.

“School custodian?” said Neil. “You mean a janitor, right?” Someone actually laughed, but the rest of the audience was silent. What’s he doing? Mary Jane wondered. That’s nothing to mock. He’s shaming the mark. He’ll lose the crowd.

The guy adjusted himself in his seat and after a pause finally said, “Yeah, you’re right. He’s a janitor,” and managed to laugh himself.

“And did he get you your job?” The audience tittered, but more out of confusion than embarrassment. They were definitely uncomfortable. Where was this going? Mary Jane again asked herself nervously.

“How could he get me my job? I told you, he’s a
janitor
. I got my own job.”

“Me, too,” Neil agreed. “We got something in common. I got my own job, too, which is weird, ’cause that doesn’t happen much in show business anymore. I mean it. Like now there’s a new generation of Fondas making it in the movies. Henry’s
grandchildren
. Can you believe this shit?

“As far as I’m concerned,
the first
fucking generation of those bastards was more than enough. Then we had to have Jane and Peter. He was a fuck-up, and, let’s face it, Jane was a dog.” Some shocked laughter. “You think she got parts based on her looks or her talent? Get the fuck out of here! Even with her father’s connections, she had to settle for
Barefoot in the Park
. And she had to marry Vadim to get cast in
Barbarella
. You think there aren’t ten girls in the room right now better-looking and more talented than she was? But, hey, let’s talk about Peter, a
true
no-talent degenerate. What the hell did he ever do? Now we got
his
kid, and we’re going to have to watch
her
for another generation?

“They call them show-business dynasties. Get the fuck out of here! That isn’t a dynasty. That
legitimizes
the no-talent dog shit. It ain’t a
dynasty
, it’s a
conspiracy
. This country is supposed to be a democracy, but we’re fighting nepotism.”

He paused and looked around the audience. “See, America was supposed to be a meritocracy. It was what you
did
, not who you
knew
, remember? And it sure wasn’t who your father was. Who the fuck was Thomas Jefferson’s dad? Or George Washington’s? The trick is, this isn’t private enterprise. Hey, you want your son to join you in your plumbing business—aces with me. But this is
broadcasting
. This is television, radio. Airwaves that are owned by us all. But these fuckers have a lock on ’em. Nothin’ left for us.

“See, show biz has lost that grand American ideal of rewards based on talent, a combination of hard work and talent. Tell me that Talia Shire was the best Connie that her brother Francis Coppola could buy. Well, maybe not, but his daughter was
perfect
as Mary in
Godfather III
, right? Get the fuck out of here!” The audience laughed. “Hey,” Neil continued, “there were entire theaters that cheered when that bitch got shot down. Did anyone count the number of Coppolas in that movie? Of course not, because no one can count that high. You know, Coppola won a special lifetime-achievement award for putting more family members in a single movie than anyone else. And he had stiff competition in that category. Let me tell you about Anjelica Huston. No,
you
tell
me
. A big, ugly girl who can’t act. John Huston put her in all his later films, ’cause Nicholson wouldn’t marry her and she needed an income.

“What I love is when these bastards say they had to audition for the part, just like everybody else. We know how she had to audition for Nicholson. What I don’t want to think about is how she auditioned for her father! Don’t ask.”

The audience was rolling now. Mary Jane saw heads nodding, the laughs were building. And the janitor’s son shouted “Right on.”

“I’m a working actor, and what burns me up is how rarely I get to work. Then you hear these assholes on TV telling Arsenio or Jay Leno how much harder it is being Debbie Reynolds’ daughter, because people expect so much more from you. Get the fuck out of here!

“Hey, don’t get me wrong. I have compassion. Being rich and having famous, powerful parents in the Industry
can
be a liability. And I’m sure Arsenio will schedule me as a guest so I can explain how being Nunzio Morelli’s son made it
easier
for me, since people expected so little.”

There was a true explosion of laughter, and Mary Jane sighed with relief. Despite the bitterness, the hostility, in the routine, the crowd was going for it.

“Of course, in the music industry it’s different. Wilson Phillips were a different story. I mean, even if they hadn’t been the children of multimillionaire, drug-addicted, degenerate recording artists, I really do believe they’d probably be the same dog shit they are today.”

The audience was rolling with shock and laughter now. But Neil had no mercy. “Or the Nelsons. Oh, excuse me. Just ‘Nelson.’ Get the fuck out of here! They’re the California white-bread visual equivalent of Milli Vanilli. But, hey, Grandma Harriet says they’re her pride and joy. Well, that makes it all right for the rest of us, right? Shit, even
Ricky
was a lousy musician.

“Okay. So you’re mad, too, but you say there’s nothing you can do. You say the abuse is too rampant. You say you’re just another man on the street. Get the fuck out of here! The solution to the problem, as I see it, is taking a simple action. Like the Boston Tea Party. Join the Neil Morelli Antinepotism League. You
can
make a difference. I say a few acts of terrorism could liberate the airwaves.”

Oh, sweet Jesus. He’s gone too far now, Mary Jane thought. Some people in the audience “ooooh”ed.

“Oh, you think that’s too extreme, huh?” Neil said, voicing her thought. “Well, let me just say one word to convince you: Sheen. Am I right? Marty, then Charlie and Emilio.
He
said he didn’t want to use his dad’s name to get ahead. Right! He must have used it to get an ass—that fat ass had to come from
somewhere
. So they make every movie a family affair, to keep it a secret. Get the fuck out of here! Waste ’em. The world will thank us, I promise you. Think of the alternative: Emilio might reproduce.”

The crowd was whooping now, and Neil, his hostile energy aflame, was playing them, pacing across the stage, punctuating his gestures with a Mick Jagger strut. Then he stopped dead and turned to the crowd, still.

“But one more thing. We can’t be accused of sentimentality or favoritism. There are a
few
talented children of the stars. Think of the Bridges boys. Still, we gotta be fair. Waste ’em. And then there are the old standbys. Oh, I know. You’ll beg for them. But hey, if we spare Liza Minnelli, we have to pass over Laura Dern or Tori Spelling, Melanie Griffith or Nicholas Cage. Of course,
he’s
a special case. He’s getting by on his good looks.” He paused, got his laugh, and went for his tag line. “Get the fuck out of here!” he cried.

It went on and on. He killed them. Mary Jane looked over to the corner tables, where Belzer, Leary, Barry Sobol, and half a dozen other stand-ups watched. Even
they
were laughing. At the end of the set, Mary Jane rose while Neil was still getting his ovation and made her way back to the crowded, tiny area that passed for a combination dressing room and green room backstage.

Now Mary Jane waited while Neil accepted congratulations, drank down a Scotch, joshed with the guys, and greeted the heavyset woman that Mary Jane knew was his sister, Brenda. At last he noticed her. He moved toward her and planted a kiss on her lips. He smelled of sweat and alcohol. Neil rarely drank and could never hold his liquor; the adrenaline from the set, plus the Scotch, had made him high. But he was still sharp.

“You must be one of the Aristocrats,” she said, quoting the old vaudeville joke, too dirty to repeat.

“Yeah,” he said, getting the reference, “I’ve been fucking everyone onstage,” he laughed.