There’s nothing sadder than a group of has-beens, never-weres and never-will-bes in one room together. Add an open bar and you’ve got the formula for first-class entertainment; overwrought tension, whiny commiseration and vicious diatribes. And that was just when we were filming. Backstage, the drama was all the more heightened and feelings were often hurt, but then again, most of us had lost feeling below the eyebrows, have climbed — fallen — all the way down to the daytime game show circuit. Before the camera, the smiles were painted, often plastered, and every insult was softened by the laughter of our dear, dear audience. But without someone there to yell ‘Cut!’, there were no limits, nothing keeping the line between real and imagined discord. I was halfway through my third Dark and Stormy when the familiar clouds of malice began to gather over the green room of my current place d’emploi — Below the Belt, the game show where the best cheater wins, with your host, Chett Riley! It was a rather convoluted and completely uninteresting game in which two souls plucked at random from the bosom of America would cheat and lie their way to victory with the help of a panel of celebrities. Each player started off with $5000 that they would use to buy answers to obscure trivia from any one of six celebrity guests (as in real life, some people could be bought for a lot less than others). The winner would get to keep whatever they were left with, which was certainly not their dignity but usually significantly less than their initial $5000. From my limited — and, quite honestly, inebriated — understanding of it all, players could bribe celebrities to give wrong answers, outbid their opponent for the right answer and steal money from one another, whatever underhanded, despicable trick it took to win, a true American pastime. All of this took place under the blank gaze of Mr. Riley, a former college football hero whose glory days were twenty years and a blown ACL (whatever that is) behind him, though he retained more than a reasonable semblance of his youthful beauty and virility. As a host, however, he was strictly for decoration — a handsome, broad-shouldered all-American type with very thick sideburns and a very thick neck — quietly encouraging the studio audience to settle down, or gently chastising the stars for their disorderly conduct. His beady little blue eyes would search for an answer to more than the capital of the Prussian Empire until 1945 (Königsberg for $300 to Mario the mechanic from Wisconsin), impotent and helpless as the fair land that sired, lauded then abandoned him. Don’t be mistaken, we were encouraged to hurl insults at one another in an attempt to discredit the potential validity of our answers and just to distract from the nebulous premise of the game. Before the show began taping, we lounged about in the green room, reviewing the answers we’d be charged with delivering. I realized I had the same answers as Susie Shewolf, star of the Saturday morning fixture, Susie and the Shewolves about a group of intergalactic Amazons who form a rock and roll band, naturally, and fly around the universe solving mysteries. Strictly highbrow. Susie, herself, was former adult actress Carmen Hidalgo, also known as Coco Corkscrew, star of the cinematic masterwork, A Screw in Time, virtually breathed whiskey. Innumerable were the times the director, the balding, high-strung and impressively hung, from what I’ve heard tell around the water cooler, Kevin Baumholtz, had to have her escorted off Studio D for violently attacking a grip, and/or gambling with the sound crew and/or falling asleep on the set of Maude and/or shedding the lining of her stomach all over the wardrobe department. However, she was sleeping with some low-level executive whose sphere of influence extended to Below the Belt and little else. Everyone hated her, for obvious reasons, and she hated everyone in return. Everyone but me, that is. After all, we’re both girls who like to have a good time. I could see that she had started her good time earlier than usual today, her large, beautiful and intense brown eyes bloodshot at only 10:30 in the morning. She sat down next to me, her Enjoli virtually overpowered by the musky sweetness of Jack Daniels.
“Carl, the bastard, broke up with me. Last night.” The bastard was the aforementioned low-level executive who had, apparently, gone onto greener pastures from this scorched earth who was now anxiously chain-smoking over my shoulder.
“My condolences, Sue, that’s really awful, but do you mind blowing your smoke upwind, dear?”
Oblivious to my request or simply unwilling to grant it, my head was covered in a halo of smoke as she sang out her heartbreak in her raspy tenor. Carl, from hereon referred to as “the bastard” has taken up with a younger, prettier and if I were to venture a guess, a decidedly more sane woman and poor, old (inching ever closer to forty) Susie, from hereon referred to as “the victim,” was distraught. She had little in the way of talent, though fans of AScrew in Time and its sequel, The Spanking of the Screw might disagree, and though the victim admittedly didn’t love the bastard, she had grown rather accustomed to him. Now with her contract with BtB almost up and SatS all but cancelled, the intergalactic Amazon rock and rollers market not being what it once was, Susie would have a dearth of opportunities available to her. “And I’ll be damned if I’m going to be flashing my pussy for a living, I’m a mother for Pete’s sake,” the victim clarified. Poor, old Susie was at the end of her rope, and not one to dangle alone, was determined to make the atmosphere as toxic as she could manage, and on her fourth cigarette in under ten minutes, was already doing a splendid job at it.
“These people make me sick,” seemingly out of nowhere, a parade of discord began as Susie slumped down in the chair next to me. She surveyed the room with a mix of utter disgust and ravenous hunger, the hunger for flesh-figuratively-torn-asunder. “They all think they’re better than me. All of ‘em!...Except you, Sanny.” She turned her left eye on me, the right one seemingly unable to keep its act together, “You always treated me like an equal.”
“Well, I hoped I had done better than that, dear. “ I gestured over the waiter, a short, nebbish little thing with glasses covering half of his face and asked for another of the same. “To be my equal is a fate I would not wish on my worst enemy.”
Expecting at least a chuckle, I was surprised when, with a start belying her advanced drunkenness, she flew over to sit next to Ginny Garfield, jovial star of her own cooking show, Cooking with Gin and, incidentally, a colossal bitch. It should be noted that the title of her show was less of a pun and more of a modus operandi, as she often had to be propped up during filming, having guzzled down a few bottles of Seagram’s while performing her BtB duties before stumbling over to her Day-Glo kitchen on Lot B. Mrs. Garfield was sitting at what passes for the cool kids table, if you, by any stretch of the imagination, consider a group of middle-aged, out of work actors cool, when Susie plopped down next to her.
“Oh, look what the cat threw up and dragged in,” greeted Phil Dunbar, best known for his commercials for Tide laundry detergent and a brief, wholly forgettable stint on The Patty Duke Show, with his typical, unimaginative cattiness. A pang of sadness rang through my entire body and I felt terribly sad for Susie. She had been such a nice kid when she first showed up on set, but her past indiscretions preceded her and everyone had already made up their minds about who she was. Of course I befriended her. I’ve been the outsider my entire life, because of my sexuality, because of my weight, which a diet of amphetamines and coffee eventually tamed, albeit temporarily, because of my heritage (my original surname being Horowitz) and have been lucky enough to have more than one person stand up for, or at least beside me. She didn’t deserve their ire. Not to say that she couldn’t hold her own.
“Zip it, Dunbar, as usual no one’s talking to or about you. I came over to visit y dear old friend, Ginny. You’re looking particularly bloated today, all of the crème Brule no doubt.” The battle lines were being drawn when my drink came thankfully in time. Ginny had been the most venomous in the assault on Susie, assuming the role of moral center for this immoral group. Not a day went by that she didn’t take the opportunity to degrade, embarrass and insult her, once going so far as to screen A Screw in Time to the entire crew of the show, though for most if not all of them, it was by no means a premiere.
“Shouldn’t you be spinning on a pole or lying face down in a ditch somewhere, Coco.” She also insisted on referring to her by her nom de scène and all the withered old witches cackled.
“You know, Gin, the last three years have been really eye-opening, not only because I have to keep them wide in order to take in your entire body,” I inadvertently attracted attention when I almost shot rum out of my nose at that, “but I know how this business works. The crueler you are, the more heartless, soulless and downright AWFUL you are to people, the further you get. It must kill you inside to know that despite all of that going for you, you’re still a nobody.” I was hoping she would just walk away after that, everything she said being true, after all, but I knew that this was the last time Susie Shewolf, aka, Coco Corkscrew, aka Carmen Hidalgo would terrorize and be terrorized on this set. And she was not one for subtlety. “I just want to thank you.” Susie grabbed Ginny’s ample cheeks and kissed her full on the mouth, leaving the other woman stunned. A collective gasp went into the air, then Susie clasped her hands together and swung them like a bat at Ginny’s temple. Ginny Garfield made a thunderous thud as she landed on the floor, her legs splayed beneath her. Susie then dug her stiletto into Ginny’s side and turned, relishing the bloodcurdling scream that she emitted. I went out on the pretense of grabbing a smoke as three burly security guards rushed passed me, my hand accidentally grazing one of their firm backsides.
What price must I pay Before I am free? What burden must I bear Before I am relieved? How long must I crawl Before I can fly? How long must I live Before I can die?
Shirk off this mortal coil! And all of its spoils Naked to life’s designs Powerless, remain resigned The winds of change beat against your face Blowing freely the leaves of fate
I’m brain-dead Confused, dejected Heavy-hearted Rejected My feelings all agitated The air’s been let out A life deflated A hunger for love Unsatiated
Extinguish this hot longing! Find a new song to sing A different melody and tone One you can sing all alone Steel yourself against the cold of the night And blind yourself to love at first sight
What price must I pay Before I am free? What burden must I bear Before I am relieved? How long must I crawl Before I can fly? How long must I live Before I can die?
To Freida, walking was the only acceptable form of exercise, should be done whenever possible and without destination or purpose. We always walked quickly, per Freida’s insistence, should she be recognized, and at our advanced ages, the trip to the market had become rather a rigorous race to the spinach. The old girl really had nothing to worry about. Swathed in the de rigueur costume of the faded starlet, Hermes scarf and Chanel sunglasses, she could have easily been a Garbo or a bag lady, or any number of aged dames wary of direct light. That she was Freida Garson was privileged knowledge, though one would guess, outside the realm of cinephiles and preening queens, this privilege was in scarce demand. She could have thrown caution to the wind and gone out, shorn of her disguise, into the bustling world of Greenwich Village, and would have drawn less attention than, say, the group of rather pale and sickly looking young men hanging onto the walls of St. Marks. They had, with just a bit too much intent to be truly frightening, their very own distinct form of charm rooted in their complete lack thereof, no doubt,with barbs and hooks through their noses, lips and/or eyes. But stars will be stars. Whether anyone recognizes them or not.
I on the other hand, lived for recognition. Freida had retired from the screen at the ripe old age of…well that depends on your source of reference, but it was twenty years ago, near to the date. But I held on, embracing television like an unwilling but nevertheless insatiable lover. Now nearing three-hundred, I can only find work on the game show circuit — you might have seen me giving circle the center square or trading bons mots with Betty White. It’s nothing that I’m proud of, but it’s eight hours of work a week, a decent paycheck, free booze and a spot, Monday through Friday, in the hearts of seventeen million Americans. Those swelling hearts beat rhapsodically in the bosoms of housewives and sporadically in the cavernous chests of people even older than myself. I am occasionally stopped by one or the other for an autograph, or an inquiry into what Richard Dawson is really like, to which I always reply, shamefully queer. Theirs is admiration that can never tire, love that will never abandon and devotion that shall never waiver. Freida was spoiled from an early age — fame came easy to her — but I’ve worked for fifty years to sign a kerchief for Mrs. Baker-Watson’s recently returned amputee son whose only reprieve in life is my grinning double chin on his eight inch black and white TV set.
We went to a different grocer each week, all within walking distance, or at least that was the idea. I often found myself crossing state lines in pursuit of the perfect pear, or shuffling past any number of fruit stands that Freida had blacklisted for one grievance (mangos were far too soft ) or another (practically rotten cabbage). Today we traversed Fifth Ave to the East Village and were presently perusing the wares of a handsome, bearded young man, on the corner of Avenue C and Ninth Street. He entertained a casually browsing young family of three: a handsome athletic fellow in criminally tight khakis and his pretty wife, unassuming in a pale yellow cardigan, and between them, their yellow-haired offspring, clutching at anything in reach. Meanwhile a young Spanish boy pocketed a handful of grapes, hoping not to be noticed. I winked at him and he sped off towards Avenue D.
“Will you look at this?” Freida purred as she fingered the fruit, obsessively, vigorously, appraising any fault she could exploit to lower the exorbitant price of this apparently sub par produce. “These tangerines have been visited by aphids. It should be a crime to have these out for sale.”
Like a knee reflexive to the strike of a tiny hammer, I responded without having to distract from my own perusal of some superb fruit in the form of the high, bulbous buttocks of the young father standing in front of me. “Where would you rather they sold them, dear, the back of a flatbed truck?” I said greedily licking my lips.
“If it resulted in better merchandise, I would pluck them from the bottom of a dumpster, you there!” she addressed the sad-eyed fruit vendor of indeterminate ethnicity, but if I had to venture a guess, perhaps Persian, with the offensive tangerine stretched out directly before him, “What kind of two-bit operation do you think you are running here?” Her inflection of the ‘think’ suggesting that not only did this wide-eyed, possibly Persian young man run a poor business, but that he also ran it poorly. The young couple looked warily at us, trying to determine whether we were of the garden variety New York crazy, or if they needed to abscond with their precious flaxen-haired cargo in tow. Just then, as the grocer searched for the cloudy words in English with which he would try, and ultimately fail to defend himself, the young woman’s eyes opened wide with pleasure.
“I know you!” She gasped, “you’re Sanford Haven!”
“T. Haven. Sanford T. Haven,” I corrected her, as I’m often called upon to do, the T not signifying anything, but good ole Bobby G. felt it made me sound more distinct or something, back in 1941.
“That’s right, from Match Game! I watch you nearly every day when I’m doing the wash or vacuuming the apartment…”
“You really should ask your husband then to get you a cleaning woman so you can devote all of your attention to me and the kids…” I shot a glance towards the husband, his face practically plastic in its insincerity, but beautiful because it was meant to be — chiseled jaw, dimpled chin and all. I wanted him and wanted to erase him — a blight on this corner, on this city to whom he did not and never would belong. A recent transplant from Poughkeepsie, or Jersey no doubt, a further sign of the gradual whitewashing of this little corner of the world. Freida and I have walked through the changing landscapes of New York for the past fifty years, in our own various incarnations, so we inevitably feel some kind of propriety over these streets. We’ve watched poor immigrant faces morph into affluent gay faces then finally into affluent white faces in every part of this island-nation, though our sovereignty is strictly that of figureheads. I am a queen without power. And this was another face in a long line of faces, disfiguring all that I had once loved of this city. I wanted to punch him. I wanted to kiss him.
Then he smiled his perfect, ten-dollar smile. I felt a faint, subtle stirring, though I knew nothing would come of it; nothing has for nearly ten years.But my heart sank to the pit of my stomachas he expressed his rehearsed though still utterly charming nonchalance to my succinct assessment of their marital life. After signing, for lack of a better option, a ripe cantaloupe, I bid farewell to the department store couple and their moon-faced son or daughter. Freida continued to berate the sad-eyed grocer, all the while inserting ideas to improve his business (never undersell your competitor, you don’t want to seem desperate) and, in general, his life (shaving your beard could only help at this point), the young man nodding along to the blitzkrieg of blabbering before turning his sad eyes to me for something in the way of assistance, or more likely salvation.
“Freida dear, let’s try the next stand, it looks promising—I think I see a peach that has your name all over it.” I pulled at her bony little arm away while with the other one she violently shook a bunch of wilted asparagus.
