Secrets of a Soap Opera Diva (24 page)

“Hello, Calysta,” everyone chorused, before holding hands to say grace
.

As the lavish gourmet dishes were passed around, the residents introduced themselves, though most needed no introduction.

“Hello, Calysta, my name is Erroll.” Erroll Cockfield was the legendary director Weezi had told me about. Also at the table was Dylan Finch, a popular heavy metal musician covered in tattoos and several piercings, and of course Dolly Burke, notoriously troubled Hollywood starlet who was as famous for crashing her car into tall inanimate objects as she was for her family-friendly blockbuster films.

Ambling through the door, Kelly Lava escorted yet another poor soul, an athlete of the football variety, into the intake office.

“Two more will check in tomorrow,” Gretchen whispered. “There’s usually ten at a time.”

Man this is some racket, $36,000 times ten residents, every six weeks? Not bad. Maybe I’m in the wrong business.

“Calysta, do you want any?” Chad Brodure, a famous politician who I later found out was there for a gambling addiction, held out a dish of coq au vin.

I ate every bit of it hoping to get a tiny buzz from the extra helping of sherry sauce. As I dabbed the corners of my mouth with my linen napkin, Kelly Lava informed me, “Alcohol burns off, Calysta. You have dish duty.”

“What?”

“Yeah, Calysta, you and me have dishes!” Gretchen chimed in. “Dolly clears the table, you wash, I dry, Chad puts them away, Erroll sweeps,
and Toby and Dylan set up the coffee and dessert and light the fire for our bedtime sobriety share.”

I feebly pushed away from the table and walked into the state-of-the-art stainless steel kitchen. “And why aren’t we using the dishwasher?”

“Discipline,” Kelly said.

As I ran the hot water, bad Greenwood, Mississippi, memories washing over me, I looked out the wide picture window and began planning my escape.

Gretchen was the appointed group leader of the evening meetings, pointing out how delicious the espresso and profiteroles were. Finally, the last person was introducing herself.

“Hi, my name is Dolly and I’m a druggie.”

“Hi, Dolly,” everyone sang in unison.

“Group, as you know we have a new member to add to our TT family and she’d like to introduce herself.”

I would?

Gretchen looked at me expectantly.

It was the last thing I wanted to do.

“Calysta?”

“Nope.”

“She’s a little shy. Maybe tomorrow then.”

Staring into the crackling fire, I sat in the corner of the overstuffed couch, listening to all the sensational
shares,
one topping the next,
in disbelief that my life had spiraled this far out of control.

Once the hour-long meeting was over, and two grown men were in tears after explaining the unfortunate events that transpired with either business associates and/or family members while attempting to
make amends
, we all stood up and formed a circle. I listened as the others recited a memorized mantra that ended with, “It works if you
work
it.”

Peeling off, I beelined it for my room followed by “Sweet dreams, Calysta,” “Don’t let the bedbugs bite,”
“Bon soir, cherie”
from several of the glossy residents, as they went outside for a smoke.

“Don’t forget, tomorrow’s collage therapy. I’ll be waking you bright and early at seven a.m. sharp, and make sure you read at least one chapter out of the Big Book before you fall sleep. I recommend ‘My Bottle, My Resentments, and Me,’ it’s one of my favorites. And don’t worry, I’ll help you find a sponsor at one of our off-campus meetings too. I know everybody. TT always gets the best reserved seating,” Gretchen added before lighting up a cigarette and walking outside to the blazing fire pit.

Ugh, they paired me with a sobriety zealot, and I thought Weezi said I was going to get some rest.

A
fter a sumptuous breakfast of freshly squeezed orange-mango juice, johnnycakes and sorghum, crawfish beignets, free-range poached eggs, and roast bacon, I knew I was gonna have to spend some quality time at TT’s state-of-the-art gym if I didn’t want to turn into a Chunk-a-Munka.

We all obediently did our designated chores before walking down to a shingled outbuilding and into the activity room for collage therapy. In large Times Roman lettering its sign read, Art Saves Lives.

Set up on a series of banquet tables with folding metal chairs on either side, there were bins of magazines, beads, ribbons, stickers, stamps, glitter, yarn, fabric and felt patches, and various other arts and crafts supplies, placed intermittently along the tables with baskets of Elmer’s glue and safety scissors in between, an elementary schoolchild’s paradise.

The art therapy teacher was a mellow black woman with long blond dreads. She introduced herself as Zima and encouraged us to check out her art, frequently showcased at the local health food store.

“Now class,” she said, as though we were five, “today the focus of our collage is pain. I want you to feel free to take as many of these magazines as you wish, cut your pain right on out, and paste it on the foam board in front of you; a catharsis if you will. I want you to break off in pairs and make a conscientious effort to collaborate on this one, feel each other’s distress. Addiction is a disease that makes one feel completely isolated. So, I want us all to focus on our teamwork skills.”

“But Zima, didn’t I hear Alcoholics Anonymous should be a selfish program?” Toby piped in.

“Yes . . . but this is different. So, since we only have one hour for art let’s get down to business and leave the Big Book discovery reading for later. Everyone find a partner!”

“Hey, Calysta,” Toby enthusiastically invited, “let’s pair up!”

“All right, sure, I’ll be back in a sec,” I tossed, heading toward Pat Quigley, not thrilled since he’d blown my cover at dinner, but it was better than
chine collé
-ing it with Gretchen, who had proudly completed thirteen of the collage-catharsis boards.

As Pat poked his head in to make sure things were running smoothly I thought it might be a good opportunity to have a much-needed chat with him about my sleeping arrangement.

“Mr. Quigley, may I have a word?” I whispered
sotto voce.
“You said to come to you about anything.”

“Yes of course, Calysta. What is it?”

“I appreciate and understand why you paired me with Gretchen, I really do, but—”

“C’mon Calysta, I need your help,” Toby yelled out.

“Be right there,” I replied with a forced smile before turning back. “You do realize she suffers from sleep apnea and that contraption is
so
loud?”

“Yes, it’s been a problem in the past with other clients.”

Hold up. Did he just say other clients?

“So, I was wondering if I could get a different room or roommate?”

“I’m afraid not. We took in three new clients since yesterday and we’re at capacity. Why don’t you look at this as an opportunity to exercise tolerance and acceptance?”

Nodding my head, I began chewing the fatty flesh on the inside of my cheek. Turning on my heels, I flip-flopped it back to the craft table and slid into my chair beside Toby. Erroll and his collage partner Chad were seated across from us.

“Hey, Calysta,” Toby cheerfully greeted as he dexterously cut a marijuana leaf out of a
Rolling Stone
. “So glad you’re here too. Always kinda thought of you as a mom, you know? Now that I think of it, isn’t this what they call ‘art imitating life’? Or is it ‘life imitating art’? I don’t know, whatever, we’re here together. Isn’t it cool?”

“Cool doesn’t really come to mind.”

“That’s true, I guess. I did get in trouble last night.”

“Why?” I asked, half-interested, flipping idly through a
Glamour
magazine.

“It was me and Dolly. She’s so dope. We snuck out and went skinny-dipping in the pool around midnight; dude her tits are
so
big. Too bad we got totally busted. Now we’ve got extra bathroom duty for a week! They are
so
strict
at this one.”

“This one? Where else have you been?”

“Downey Jr.’s place. Dude, I had so much fun there, the girls were way hotter. They finally kicked me out, though. Oh yeah, and after Hazelden my parents got really pissed and did something radical, sending me to, and don’t tell anyone, the Scientology rehab Narconon. Dude, there were more stars there than at the People’s Choice Awards, couldn’t believe it! But I got kicked out for smoking weed. Don’t remember after that, but I’ve been in at least five different spots so far.”

“So far? Since the Sudsys?” I was shocked, even if it
was
Toby.

“Yeah. Check
this
out,” he said, sliding an open
Vanity Fair
toward me, pointing at a picture of what looked like an orgy in a bubble bath. “I gotta cut this out for my collage. Talk about recall! This club Amnesia in New York was one of my favorite hangouts. Man, did I have fun. I was up for three days straight there and ended up crashing in a 7-Eleven bathroom. I was so wasted; the police came, an ambulance, and everything. My parents even flew in from the Caribbean to bail me out.” He shook his head, smiling at the memory.

Blinking slowly, I said, “Your parents must really care about you.”

“Yeah, cool, huh? And they’re divorced!”

“Yeah, cool.”

“Ever since then they’re always talking about me on
Cliffhanger Weekly
’s
gossip page,” Toby barreled on. “How I’m coming back to the show all the time. You know they’re just pimpin’ my fame to get my fanatical fans to buy their mags. Speaking of fans, Needleman tells me
R&R
had to use spillover for all my mail, but I never answer the stuff. I like to keep the base frothin’ for more of the Toby-meister.”

“Mm-hm.”

“Yeah, I treat ’em like crap and they love me for it, especially the girls, it’s amazing. Dude, I’m such a friggin’ catch. I tell the babes not to call after eleven on Tuesdays and Thursdays; those are my nights off. I’ve got them
so
trained. But then again, I learned from the best.”

“Who’s that?”

“My man Derrick.”

“Really?”

“Hey, Zima, gotta whiz like a racehorse.”

“Go ’head. Keep the door open.”

“Be right back, Calysta.”

“Can’t wait,” I said dryly.

Erroll caught my eye and rolled his. Leaning forward, he said, “Poor you, working with that kid,” under his breath.

“It was brief,” I whispered. Half-amusing myself, I thought,
Maybe
Weezi was right. If I could win over a big film director, my time in this place would be worth the investment.

“Calysta, right?”

“Right.”

“Nice name.”

“Thanks.”

“Fairly new to Hollywood?”

“No, actually I’ve been in L.A. for fifteen years.”

“You’re kidding? How old are you?”

I went back to cutting out an ad for Moët.

“What have you been in, Calysta? I mean besides that show Toby mentioned?”

Holding on to politeness, I gave a stiff smile as I thought,
Can’t believe after 3,120
R&R
episodes and more than two million words memorized I’m still a fresh face.

Lifting my chin, I said, “I’ve been in several successful projects on stage and screen like
The Refined Politician
and
Dumb Bell.
”

“I must have missed those films.”

“Maybe you saw me on cable. I was the face for ‘Tweeze-it.’”

“No, I missed that too.”

“The Butt-Blaster?”

“Afraid not.”

“I was the lead in
Impatient Virgin
and
Purrr-fectly Eartha,
ran briefly in New York.”

Returning to his foam board, Erroll said, “Guess I can’t know everyone, but I’m surprised I missed that last production since I’m an avid theatergoer.”

Glancing down, I noticed he’d cut and pasted an assortment of young blond actresses; noticeably, many of them were of the same ingénue. I cocked my head for a better peek; she seemed familiar though I couldn’t quite put my finger on it.

Erroll grimaced, stabbing the photo with his index. “This broad.
This broad right here is the cause of all my pain. Stupid starlet was in
my
movie, a sixty-million-dollar Russell Crowe studio film I was directing. Took me fifteen years to get this friggin’ picture on its feet. Little bitch couldn’t remember her lines to save her life. Could-not-remember-her-lines,” he ranted, raising his voice.

“Shhhh,” Zima said as she wandered around the room gently plucking her kalimba, “let’s keep it to a whisper. We only have twenty minutes left, so think about wrapping up your pain projects. I have to go check on Toby.”

“She screwed up every bloody scene,” Erroll ranted on. “We taped her lines on props, the fruit she was about to eat, on the floor, we tried everything! I thought maybe she couldn’t read. Russell was so patient with her. But I lost my temper and had a Christian Bale meltdown. Someone filmed it, played it all over YouTube. Absolutely killed my career. Couldn’t stop drinking.”

“Wow, that’s rough,” I fake-sympathized.

“You don’t know the half,” he continued. “Mick even offered me a stay on his island but I was isolating and couldn’t get on the friggin’ jet. Damn casting directors! That bimbo had an absolute
shmuck
agent who kept reassuring me she’d shape up any day and that he got her an acting coach, turns out
he
was the friggin’ coach. It was one disaster after another. Found out he doesn’t even have a license to operate; a complete fraud. I wanted to sue but my attorney told me, ‘Don’t waste your money.’”

I knew he was talking about Weezi and was spared thinking up a response other than “Bummer,” thanks to Toby returning to his seat.

“Sorry, Calysta, had the runs.”

“TMI,” I said, looking down at his hands then back at him.

“Oh man, I forgot. Be right back.”

Gretchen was cutting into a
Soap Suds Digest
featuring the headline “Rich and the Ruthless Megashocker: Calysta Jeffries Is Out and Vivica A. Fox Is In.”