Secrets of a Soap Opera Diva (6 page)

My stomach tightened as I vroomed my Jag down the 101 freeway thinking,
Can’t let thunderpants Edith see me sweat. Forget her. There ain’t no way in hell I’m about to let some uptight suit put the fear of unemployment in my spirit. Gotta be about the business and hold it down. They need me more than I need them.

I’d better keep my inner Beulah at bay. I had way too much riding on my soap career to go into Edith’s office with an attitude.

Ivy’s private school tuition, my mortgage, and taking care of Grandma Jones and, heck, half the town back home in Mississippi depended on my income from
The Rich and the Ruthless
. Since she retired as a cleaning lady at the Greenwood Country Club, there was no way Grandma could survive on what little she received from Social Security. My paycheck made
it possible for her to live comfortably, not to mention making payments on a subprime loan to keep my friend Seritta’s property from going into foreclosure, plus a little extra cash to supplement her food stamps, and sad to say, bailout money for a few others.

Seritta had stood out among so many faceless Greenwood elementary and high school classmates. She was always tall for her age, but what most impressed me about my friend was her loyalty, defending me when someone wanted to start some mess in the playground.

“I’ma beat you up after school, Beulah,” said Jadasia Pickens, the school bully. “LL always thinkin’ you better than everybody else with your light skin and long hair.”

With her eye line coming to the middle button of Seritta’s blouse, Jadasia stood there, trying to figure out how to save face and ass at the same time.

After guiding my Jag up to the WBC security gate, I flashed my
R&R
ID while humming Chaka Khan’s remix of “I’m Every Woman” with a renewed sense of empowerment.

“Morning, Ms. Jeffries,” greeted the guard. “You sure are
wearin’
that hat.”

“Why thank you, Jay,” I said, looking over my vintage cat-eyes. “You know I’m never caught without one.”

“Sorry you didn’t win the Sudsy last night,” he added. “Everyone and their mamma was pullin’ for you.”

“That means a lot to me, Jay,” I said with stiff gratitude. “Be sure to thank everybody for their support and tell ’em there’s always next year,” I lied as my gut, my thong, and anything else that could twisted themselves into a pretzel.

“Sure will, Ms. Jeffries, sure will.”

My face dropped faster than the S&P 500 the second I passed the security gate. Miraculously, I managed to find a parking spot.

“This has got to be a good omen,” I said aloud as I squeezed my
two-seater between an obnoxious custom-painted orange Hummer and a silver Ferrari.

I glided through the metal detector located at the Artists’ Entrance and into the building. There had been a threat against Edith’s life the year before and a soap stalker on the prowl for Emmy Abernathy.

“Have a good one, Ms. Jeffries,” the guards said in unison from their desk.

“You too, fellas,” I flirtatiously replied with a wink, stepping onto the elevator.

“Damn shame she didn’t win the Sudsy, she’s the only reason I watch that corny soap.”

“Me too, man.”

Exiting four floors later, I began my
Waiting to Exhale
journey down the long hallway to the executive offices, lined with more than thirty years of framed cast photos from
The Rich and the Ruthless
.

With the poise of a classically trained ballerina, and my patrician nose (a genetic imprint from my lecherous father) held high above my bee-stung lips (a nod to my mother), I stopped short of the
R&R
etched glass doors, leveling my eyes at the latest cast photo.

I was standing in the back row with jive-ass Ethan Walker cheesing as usual; next to us were a bitter Dell Williams, who played the recurring character of Queenie the maid for the entire run of the show; Pepe, the Finks’ constantly recast Mexican gardener; veteran bubbler Wilson Turner,
R&R
’s favorite go-to plumber, judge, cop, drug dealer, and preacher; and Jade (like Beyoncé, Prince, and Drake, she went by one name), who played herself, Jade, my valley girl daughter who wanted the world to know she was a quarter Persian, a quarter Sicilian, a quarter Creole, one-sixteenth Osage Indian, and the rest she didn’t want to talk about, including being bulimic. It wasn’t entirely the ingénue’s fault; the blue eye shadow, matching contact lenses, blond highlights, and staying a size zero were encouraged by Edith and the rest of the gang.

Next year I’ll be in the front row,
I vowed before bouncing through the
Star Trek
-ish double doors.

“I’m here to see Edith,” I informed the chubby secretary. “She’s expecting me.”

“Thank you,” she replied. She was a pleasant, pale woman with a shock of red hair pinned up with lime green butterfly barrettes. She pressed the intercom button. “Ms. Norman, Calysta Jeffries is here to see you.”

“Thank you, Fern. Send her in.”

“I just love you on the show and I was really rooting for you last night, Ms. Jeffries,” Fern gushed as I attempted to walk past.

“Thank you.”

“My aunt Midge loves you too. She lives in Des Moines, Iowa, never misses an episode of
The Rich and the Ruthless.
”

“That’s wonderful,” I replied, stopping to momentarily regard Fern with a warm smile. “I’m glad you and your aunt enjoy the soap.”

“Oh my, do we ever.” Fern giggled. “Now tell me, just between us girls, did you know who your baby’s daddy was?”

“Excuse me?”

“Your
baby
, you know, Kip, you had him last November. The stillborn? You weren’t sure if he was Dove Jordan’s baby or if Whittaker Kincaid, the Moroccan arms dealer, was the dad?”

I contemplated explaining to Fern that I was Calysta Jeffries, not Ruby Stargazer, a fictional character on a soap opera, but I didn’t want to bring on another migraine or disappoint a fan, so I decided it wasn’t worth it.

“Ruby’s always known Whittaker was the father,” I assured her, leaning over to whisper, “but I can never tell Dove.”

“I knew it.” Fern gasped, grateful for the inside scoop. “I made a bet with all the women in my bowling league that Whittaker was the father all along.”

“Well, I better go in.”

“Have a nice day, Ms. Stargazer, I mean, Ms. Jeffries.”

I opened the door to find not only Edith but Randall Roberts, Felicia Silverstein, co-head writer of
The Rich and the Ruthless,
and Daniel Needleman, the show’s nerdy publicist. They were all seated around a conference table that looked to have been inspired by Arthurian legend.

“Good morning, everyone,” I greeted, laid out in a fierce beige Comme des Garçons
suit.

“Come in, Calysta,” Edith said. “We’ve been expecting you.”

“Had I known it was a party I would have brought champagne!”

Daniel pulled out a chair and I flashed him a smile before taking it, facing Edith. Pointedly looking at Randall, I said, “What a gentleman. Some folks could learn a lot from you, Daniel. So, what’s going on that I had to miss rehearsal?”

“Never mind the rehearsal,” Edith began. “There are more pressing things.”

“Oh?”

“As you know,
The Rich and the Ruthless
and the network, per our joint operating agreement, have an Out clause in your contract that allows us the opportunity to reevaluate your performance on the show every thirteen weeks.”

“Yes, of course I’m aware of that, but considering I signed a three-year contract just two months ago, I’m sure that isn’t on any of your radars,” I stated confidently.

“Actually, we’ve decided to exercise the Out clause,” Edith returned.

The words hung in the air, locked by smugness and condescension.

“What?”

“We’re putting you on hiatus,” Edith continued.

“Hiatus?”

“Yes, for the foreseeable future Ruby Stargazer is being back-burnered,” Randall finished.

“You can’t be serious?”

“You heard right,” he said, not hiding his smirk.

“What is this, some kind of punishment for speaking out in the press last night?”

“Of course not,” Edith said. “Frankly, the decision was made weeks ago.”

“Yeah, right, I smell stink all over this.”

“Although I must admit,” Edith began, “the blatant disrespect you showed for the network,
The Rich and the Ruthless,
and the Barringer
family by providing that tabloid reporter with those slanderous remarks really did drive home the point that you’re unhappy here with the
R&R
family, and as much as we love you, it was high time we reconsidered our association.”

“Family? Love? Are you actually using those two words in the same sentence with
The Rich and the Ruthless
? Who are you trying to kid, Edith? There’s more love between Angelina and her dad than on this soap.”

“Calm down, Calysta.”

“No, you calm down, Edith. I may not know the ins and outs of corporate America to the extent that you do or the long-term chokehold the financial collapse must have on the show, but one thing I do know is that I bring home your target audience in the
millions
, not to mention advertising dollars and press, and you want to ‘reconsider your association with
me
’?
R&R
was on cancellation watch when I joined and
in less than six months we were the number one soap in the country and have remained there! I fought like hell to bring about diversity in front of and behind the camera even though every qualified professional I presented was unilaterally rejected, with one exception, Kimesha Nosegay. You-all remember her, don’t you?”

“Oh brother, here we go again,” Randall moaned. “Can we stay on topic?”

“I couldn’t be more on topic if I tried. A single black mother fresh out of an Inglewood salon, she did more than stuff hair under a wig,
lacquer it with Final Net, then claim victory at the Sudsys for Best Hair. Never once did she show disrespect, even though the idiot in charge of the
hair department
insisted on segregating her due to Emmy’s incessant complaining, ‘It smells when Kimesha presses Calysta’s hair with those medieval combs, even Ethan and Jade think so.’”

Ethan was the ultimate brown-noser. He shifted like the scent of shit in the wind if it meant saving his own ass.

“Stop exaggerating, Calysta,” Randall admonished.

“It’s no exaggeration. Did you know Kimesha was
so
incredibly competent even Katherine and Veronica Barringer hired her for private affairs? Then
poof
, just like that she disappeared.”

“I know nothing about that.”

“Sure you do, Edith. You paid Kimesha pennies to tighten your weaves in the privacy of your own home in Pasadena.”

“I have had about as much as I’m—”

“I’m not done,” I snapped. “As much as you pay Danny Boy here to keep it out of the press, this soap is
huge
in black households, yet there’s barely a black storyline on the page let alone anyone of color on the stage. If the fans only knew how I’ve had to pull tooth-and-nail to get the basics, while you-all scandalously line your pockets with sponsorship dollars, cheese for the camera, and collect yet another NAACP Image Award, which clearly you don’t display in your offices, only the Sudsys. Diversity my butt, Josephine Mansoor is asleep at the wheel.”

“If I give
you
special attention everyone will want—”

“Excuse me, Edith? Did you say
special
? Don’t have a soul on the show to do my special hair, dress my special behind, or write my special lines. Who do you think’s doin’ it all—a ghost?”

Edith squirmed.

“Do you honestly believe the viewers are tuning in to watch Phillip McQueen cry over another one of Queenie’s sticky buns? If you’re unsure just check SecretsofaSoapOperaDiva.com.”

“Calysta,
shut up
,” Edith barked, like my name was Sally Hemings. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to say that.”

Knowing she did, I wanted to say, “Bitch,
shut
don’t go up,” but kept the verbiage on the Anglo tip.

Everyone sat there, looking like they were stuck on stupid, and they were. Maybe, just maybe, the truth was finally crystallizing on the noses and eyelashes of the guilty like an early Mississippi frost.

Barely audible, a taciturn Daniel Needleman, who should’ve been drivin’ a Mister Softee truck, spoke for the first time. “Miss Jeffries, we appreciate all your many efforts to assist with marketing
The Rich and the Ruthless
,” the publicist began.

“Save it, Daniel. You don’t have to thank me for doing
your
job. I know you were too busy making arrangements for
other
actors representing
R&R
at the Nymphette Awards in Monte Carlo, or was it the sixty-third
Cliffhanger Weekly
cover shoot for Alison? What’s that pat line you give my manager year after year? Oh yes, ‘Brown doesn’t sell.’”

Daniel dropped his head.

“Edith, now you see firsthand the
ego
we’ve had to endure all these years,” Felicia said with a sneer.

“Ego? How ’bout your
envy
? You’ve got some nerve, Silverstein, coppin’ an attitude with zero ink in your pen game. Didn’t you win a Sudsy last year off a storyline
I
wrote and submitted to you on the downlow just so the black cast had
some
airtime? And didn’t I have to tell you UES meant Upper East Side? You thought ‘all up in my grille’ had to do with burgers.”

Busted.

“You’ve had it in for me since day one. Couldn’t stand that Augustus respected my opinion and consulted with me on a regulah about your tired asinine plots.
I
rewrote my storyline so my character didn’t have an incestuous lesbian affair with her daughter. Or how ’bout the time you wanted me shackled as a runaway slave in a dream sequence, ‘Ruby Stargazer channels her ancestors,’ a weak attempt to honor Black
History Month. Remember that one? I gave this show a gift, on a silver platter. And did it for free because I
cared
and knew who was watchin’ at home.”

“As usual, your attitude and allegations are offensive, incomprehensible, and befuddling!” Felicia admonished.