FARCE?

Reformatted Experiment for the Chermans!

ONE

The phone virtually never rings. When it does, it’s for someone else, someone who used to have this number some af, or a pesky telemarketer. Gramma calls often, usually at happy hour, after a few belts of Almaden. Friends simply turn up at all hours of the day and night in varying degrees of inebriation, some afraid to drive home (I lived right off Santa Monica and Fairfax), others, after partying all night, arrive knowing there’s an eye-opener kept under the sink in the kitchen. There’s always a sofa to crash on, or a bottle of cheap vodka to stave off the inevitable hangover headache. When the phone rings at 8:30 in the morning, there’s clearly an emergency.

“Trauma hotline.”

“What? Jamie?”



“C’est moi.”



“Great! I thought I had a wrong number. It’s Magnus. I’ve got an emergency. Can you make a bloody mary?”



“How many guests?”



“One.”



“Oh, Magnus!” I said, feigning dismay. “You’re one of the few people I know who barely has one drink, much less enough to be hung over. Poor baby.”




“NOT FOR ME! For Mother. Ramon stalked out yesterday, and the Marquess is in a fury—barking at me in Rumanian and swearing like a goddam sailor. I don’t have time to go into it. Lou’s on the rampage--script trouble--damn writers--emergency meeting in five.”




“What do you need from me.” I ask, flatly. It IS 8:30.




“I need a personal assistant for the Marquess. God, you can be stupid sometimes! How soon can you be in Beverly Hills?”


“I don’t know about this Mags. Your mother is notorious, after all.”


“That’s just tabloid bullshit. I thought you’d be grateful, since you’re currently unemployed. What the hell do you do all day since that junk store closed, anyway?”


“None of your damn business.” Surly, I added, “It was an antique store!”


“Whatever. C’mon Jamie, I only thought of you because of that snooty servile middle-class attitude of yours.”


“Bitch! The last time you thought of me was when you tossed me that miserable script reading gig. I’ve never read so much shit in my life. And the titles!”


“Look, I’ve gotta go. Do me a favor. Just try it for a week, if you hate, absolutely hate it, then I find someone else, ok? Pleeeeze.”


“Since your begging, fine. I can be there by 10 or so. But I’m not making any promises.”


“Great! Thanks much. I owe you. I’ll call Ruby and let her know you’re on the way. Wear black pants and a white dress shirt. Whatever you do, don’t go to the front door! There’s a service entrance in the back. Oh! And watch your step.”


I showered quickly, shaved and even (god forbid) blew my hair dry using a vent brush.
Shirt and trousers were hanging in a dark corner of the closet. I hated them but hung on to the drudge wear, never knowing when the odd waiter/catering gig would materialize. One is resourceful, that way.


Truth was I had been unemployed since the shop closed. There was a full-length novel sitting in a desk drawer, languishing for a year. Sure, I wanted to see it published, but how? I wasn’t really a “writer,” didn’t go to college, had no scribe peers. Bits and pieces had been published in a local rag, but I had written on such a personal level, well, exposure is incredibly painful. The result: total emotional collapse. It had been a long year spent in suspended animation. The antique store was a godsend; I was forced to get out of bed and face the world.


I was ironing the final crease on the shirt-sleeve when Preston roared into the carport in his decrepit Alfa Romeo.


“Jamie! Wakey-wakey!”


“Its open! I’ll be right out. Help yourself, doll. You know where it’s at.”


“Not today dear. I’m working.”


“On what?” I called from the bedroom.


“A dreadful teen horror flick. I’m on crew this week. GOD, I can’t wait for this internship to be over! Capital O, capital V capital E…. what the hell are you wearing?”


“Waiter togs.”


“You got a job!”


“Magnus called.”


“And what menial task did Mr. Perfect Pecs have for you today? Another crappy script to edit?”


“No, babysitting his mother.”


“My god! The Marquess?! That witch?! What happened to the last one?”


“’Stalked out,’ Magnus said. He claims she’s treated unfairly by the tabloids.”


“Well, nice girls don’t spend three days in jail for slapping a hairdresser because its mere rumor, dear. I thought you were his friend!”


“Apparently, the only qualifications required for the job are the ability to make a bloody mary and my snooty servile middle-class attitude.”


“He said that to you?”


“Verbatim.”


“What an ass (and I say that with the sweetest of affection for him), however, since that blurb in the LA Times about that quasi-marriage….”


“David Geffen was on the guest list.”


“Might I remind you he didn’t show,” Preston sniffed. “Though the cut glass vaahs was lovely. He’s only preying on your vulnerability, poor poverty struck dear.”


“I’m sure it was crystal, Preston. The ‘vaahs,’ I mean. And yes, I do need the money. I’m sick of drinking cheap vodka and living on Ramen noodles and Shasta lemon lime. It’s the worst mixer. I’ve had my ass reamed by the CEO of Showtime and dealt with Shannen-fucking-Doherty on a snooty servile level, so I think I’m probably up to the job.”


“Providing you keep your mouth shut and smile smile smile,” gleamed Preston, baring bonded teeth.


“Exactly.”


Preston inhaled, exhaled, and disappeared into a thick exhaust of cigarette smoke. “I thought we could have a café American before I go to work,” he pouted.


“I’ve got to get the number four, Preston. I’ve got to be in Beverly Hills by 10.”


“But it’s barely nine!”


“LA Transit?!”


“Oh that. Say, I can drop you! It’s on my way. Let’s you and I pop round the corner and have a café at French Market.”


“Let’s you and I pop round and have a coffee and a scone at the tea place, your treat. And we can sit outside and smoke your cigarettes, and then you can drop me at SanMo and Maple Drive. What time’s your call?”


“Puh-leeze. I’m the assistant gaffer to the assistant gaffer to the assist etc. etc. I shan’t be missed until at least 11.” Puff. “I insist on driving you to the door. I’m dying to see the family manse.”


“You mean the service entrance?”


“Exactly,” Preston wheezed, and hacked a tubercular cough.


“The family manse,” as Preston proclaimed it, was either very old and remodeled in the 60’s, or simply an abomination of architecture built during the period. Big, rectangular and white with a long flat roof, the neo-Grecian horror called to mind reruns of Love American Style. The landscape design was distinctly suburban moderne: lots of concrete, a patch or two of grass, cypress trees, white rocks, and the obligatory plaster of Paris casts of David and Venus, who, strangely enough, had grown back her missing limbs.


“Christmas in Jerusalem!” Preston howled as we drove up. “Call me the minute you get the grand tour.”


Timidly, I walked up the driveway, along the side of the house in search of the service entrance. The sign on the gates (wide open) warned: BEWARE OF DOG. I certainly didn’t want to surprise a German Shepard or Rottweiler. Slight though I am, I’ve no desire to become some beast’s idea of a canapé.


I walked through the carport and around the rear of the house. No door. The pool had been sadly neglected. The cabana’s sliding glass doors were draped in faded orange velvet. The curtains were drawn; one presumed it unused for years.


I crept along the patio, turning left at the corner of the house and came immediately upon a middle-aged black woman smoking a Saratoga. Nonchalant, she inhaled a final drag, dropped the butt to the cement and ground it out.


“You must be the new one. Boy, is you a sight for sore eyes,” she exhaled. “I’m Ruby. You got a name?”


“I’m James, though most of my friends call me Jamie. Nice to meet you, Ruby.”


“Well, if you don’t mind, Miss Ruby’s gonna call you SAINT Jamie, ‘cause you gonna need that kind of patience dealing with Her Majesty. Come on in, boy,”


The kitchen was decorated as you would expect, all outfitted with matching appliances. Avocado Green. The kind of kitchen that young Janice Pennington would be standing in the center of, arms outstretched, gracefully motioning to each gadget as Rod Roddy jovially announced: “It can all be yours, a dream kitchen by Amana, if The PR-I-I-I-I-I-CE I-I-I-I-I-S RI-IGHT!” Bob Barker, a mere fifty-odd, coaxing guesses out of random contestants from the audience, their only pride being the fact that they were on Tee-Vee without having to dress like a chicken.


“This is my room. She don’t come in here, and I don’t go out there. We have what you folks call “an understanding.”


“The Marquess never comes in the kitchen?”


“The Marquess! HA-HAAAW! That’s a good one. If she’s a Marquess, I’m the Queen of Sheba. No honey. She don’t know a kitchen from a outhouse. Her idea of a kitchen is a sink with a refrigerator under it and a martini shaker in the cabinet.”


“Ah. Wet bar.”


“Yeah honey, and you better get used to it because you are going to be spending a lot of time there. There she goes again! Been laying on that buzzer for a half hour. You better get to work.”
Ruby passed a card table to the far corner and slipped into a narrow pantry. She handed me a clip-on bow tie and a white jacket.


“This is what I call your house coat. When you drive her ass into town you’ll wear this.” She held up a polyester blazer in midnight blue. The buttons were tarnished, but seemed wearable. She walked to the refrigerator and pulled two raw eggs from the door and handed them over.


“What do I do with these?” I asked, foolishly.


“It’s breakfast time, Jamie honey. You put them in her bloody mary.”


“Both in one glass?!”


“Hooo-hoooo! You are funny, for a saint. No honey, you take up a pitcher.”


The buzzer sounded again. One insistent long and two short.


“Jesus Lord! There she goes again. You better get a move on.”


Ruby directed me to the wet bar, walking to the edge of the parquet floor in the dining room. She pointed to the plexi-glass staircase and said in a stage whisper, “Her room is up there, the last door on the right. Knock three times first, then go in. She pulled the back of the coat as I walked away. “You’re nothing but skin and bones! You eat this morning?”


“I had a scone.”


She laughed as if I’d delivered a deliciously witty punch line. “You’re gonna need more than that, honey. You deal with her highness, and I’ll fix you a real breakfast.”


I laughed and started to trod on the carpet of orange shag. Suddenly, a thought occurred.


“Ruby,” I rasped. “How do I address her?”


“”She likes Your Majesty, but at this hour, you could call her Miss Thing and she’d never know it. Oh! And watch your step.”


Hearing this phrase again, I imagined Her Majesty a true dragon. But walking across the carpet, I realized that “watch your step” was literal rather than metaphoric; the carpet was covered with small piles of turd. I watched my step.


The bar was fully stocked. Scotch, bourbon, gin, and the same brand of cheap vodka one drinks at home. Drink Kamchatka! Aperitif of Royals!


The bloody mary was a snap. Tomato juice. Worcestershire sauce. Heaping tablespoon horseradish. Salt, pepper and scads of Tabasco. Vodka plentiful. Gallon available. The drink (even with eggs) was pinkish in color, but I know from experience, one who drinks seriously appreciates this hue.


I garnished a glass with a celery stalk, placed it on a tray with the pitcher, and made my way to the circular, transparent staircase.

TWO

“That was quick!” Ruby said, turning something sizzling tantalizingly in a cast iron skillet. “Good Lord! You’re as white as a white person could be. What happened?”


“She threw a shoe at me!”


Ruby shook her head. “That woman.”


“She said some really nasty thing about me trying to steal her jewels!”


“Did you call her your majesty?”


“Hell yeah! I fucking bowed!” I lied. It was really more of an Anna and the King curtsey.


“Well, that’s more than Raymond would do.”


“You mean Ramon?”


“RAH-MOAN! Honey, I birthed that child and called him Raymond, and no matter anyone else says, he’s Raymond.”


“Must be an actor. They change their names.”


“No, he is just a mess. That child went off to some east coast college and came back with all these fancy manners and a taste for raw fish.”


“Sushi?”


“Whatever it is, it’s a waste of time. He took me to one of those places, you know, where you sit at the bar and some Chinese guy takes your order and then fixes it up right there.”


“Pardon me for saying, Miss Ruby, but sushi is Japanese.”


“Chinese, Japanese, they all look the same. Bow-legged and flat-assed. Can’t drive for shit. You ever notice how they teach each other to drive? That’s why they all stop at green lights, and slow down when they get on the freeway. Own every damn liquor store in my neighborhood. Should have seen them after the riots. Like to shoot us black folks just for buying a carton of milk. Anyway, Raymond says ‘it’s ok Mama, I know what to order. You’ll like it.’”


“Well did you?”


“Hell no. Little cakes of rice wrapped up in some kind of paper you can eat with a little piece of raw fish on the top. Fish I never even heard of,” she grumbled, and dropped two fried pork chops onto a plate and put them in the oven. “You like gravy?”


“Are you kidding! I love gravy. My grandmother used to make us biscuits and gravy when I was a kid.”


“You from the south?”


“No, I’m from here, but her family was from the Ozarks.”


“Hell, you ain’t nothin’ but white trash.”


“Hell, I’m nothin’ but po’ white trash.”


“Haw HAW! Saint Jamie you is funny! Well, I got him back.”


“Who?”


“Raymond. He likes to come home for supper on Sundays, and I know he likes my fried catfish. So he comes in and sets his stuff down and says, “Hi, Mama. What’s for dinner?” And I said “catfish,” and he said “great, Mama! You know how I love your catfish.” So at supper time I went into the kitchen (we always have Sunday supper in the dining room) and I piled his plate with some rice and took the whole catfish out of the refrigerator and slapped it on his plate and took it out and laid it on the table in front of him. I thought his eyes were gonna pop out his head!”


“You didn’t!”


“You think Miss Ruby lies? Anyway, he says ‘what’s this,’ and I said ‘I thought this is how you like your fish,’ real uppity. Me and his sisters fell out laughing. He was pissed.”


“Not amused at all, eh?”


“Oh, I fried him that catfish, afterward, but that boy needs to come back to earth. Whiter than Bill Cosby, my Raymond. Hell, he’s whiter than you!”


I immediately loved Ruby. Who couldn’t? If anything, I knew this job had an element of fun, as long as I hung out in the scullery.


A platter materialized on the card table in front of me. A true southern breakfast: Pork chops, grits and gravy, a mug of piping hot coffee. “Oh, Ruby! I’ll never be able to eat all this.” I picked up the knife and fork and plunged into the chops.


“You’re gonna eat everything on that plate, you hear me? You too skinny! You look sickly.”


“Deeelicious. M-m-m,” I muttered through a mouthful. “Actually, I am sickly.”


“Something real bad?”


“Well, it could be if I didn’t take lot’s of medication. I have AIDS.” I’d said this so often, it came off as nonchalant. Offhanded.


Ruby’s eyes grew moist. She rose from the other side of the card table and came beside me, pulling my head to her bosom. “Jamie, baby, I am so sorry to hear that. I had two friends die of the AIDS. Terrible disease. Poor things got sicker and sicker and the next thing you know, husband dies, then she goes, too.” She sighed.


It felt sort of odd, mainly because we’d only just met (and I did have a craw full of pork in my mouth) but, the way she stood holding me to her and rocking back and forth, comforting, I just had to throw my arms about her ample waist and squeeze tight. We stayed like that for a few moments. Then she went back to her seat, still troubled.


“It’s OK, Ruby. I’m doing pretty well. The miracles of modern medicine, and all. This gravy is fabulous! I mean, for all I know I might drop dead of a massive coronary if I stay here for any length of time, judging by the scene played upstairs with Her Majesty. Hell, I could be standing right there at the wet bar, suddenly clutch my chest, and collapse to the floor.”


“And you’d land in a pile of dog shit, nigga.”


I gasped aloud and laughed heartily. I never even say the ‘N’ word, and I’d certainly never been called same. An utter shock.


“Miss Ruby, you are something else.”


“Well, if you don’t mind, Ruby’s gonna include you in her prayers, Saint Jamie. If anyone can help you, it’s the Lord. Believe you me, when I pray, the Lord listens.”


“Somehow Miss Ruby, I can believe that.”


“You believe in God?”


“Yes, ma’am.” It was true but had only recently occurred. Once I got the idea that there was something out there, making the world turn, and began to wonder at the marvel of creativity, did it seem to make sense. Reading Elaine Pagels Gnostic Gospels made a huge impact on my thoughts on Christianity. So I prayed, rather casually but frequently, expressing gratitude for a particularly lovely rosebush, a remarkable painting, or an exquisite piece of fiction. My life turned around quickly.


“You pray?”


“Yes ma’am.”


“Well you better pray to the Lord every day and thank him that you are sitting here in front of Ruby, looking pretty handsome and healthy, for a skinny white boy.”


“Amen sister. I do express my gratitude to The Maker each and every day.”


“We all would want to. While you got him on the line you might ask him for an ass!”


I laughed and looked down at my plate. Damned if I didn’t eat the entire meal.


Ruby was washing the dishes as I dried when the phone rang. She took her hands from soapy water, wiped them on her apron, and answered.


“Hi, Mr. Magnus…. I think he’ll work out just fine….Sure, he’s right here.”


“Hello?”


“You’re already scoring points.”


“In the red or the black?”


“Mother loves you. Said you have very genteel manners. The best bloody mary she’s had in a long time.”


“As I’ve always said, a snooty servile attitude and a heavy pour on the vodka will take one to the heights. Of despair, I mean. Did she tell yooo that she threw a marabou trimmed dressing mule at me?”


“No.”


“Did I tell yooo that I refrained from plucking the caterpillar of false eyelashes from her jowl, where it had migrated, presumably to spin itself into a cocoon, and become a butterfly, by happy hour?”


“Christ! Have I had enough of you literary types for one day or what?! Words, words, words all these fucking words! Can’t you guys ever just get to the point?”


“Don’t look now, Miss Doolittle. Your mother’s showing.” Eyebrow arched, I snuck a peek at Ruby, who was clearly enjoying the tone of the conversation.


“Arrrrrgh!” Magnus choked at the phone.


“Calm down, Mags. I’m just messing with you. Take a breath, jeez.”


“OK, OK. You’re right. The best way to handle her is to flatter her. She already likes you. That’s a start. Just schmooze her a little.”


“I shall become one great stampede of lips directed toward her derriere, to paraphrase The Master.”


“Who?”


“Never mind.”


“Can you drive?”


“Sure. I even have a license.”


“I only ask because I’ve never seen you in the driver’s seat before.”


“Simply a driver without a vehicle.”


“OK, great. I need you to drive out and pick up a friend of Nana’s. Ever heard of Marjorie Sherwood Forrest Wyatt?”


“Famed Hollywood hostess? Of course. She’s still around?”


“Yeah, in Westwood. Ruby will give you directions. I gotta go.”


“Wait! Magnus! What about the Marquess?”


“She’ll be fine until around 2 (hang on, hang on, I’ll be right there) I gotta run!”


Click. Dial tone.


“Jamie, you kill me. Why you sound so fancy with Mr. Magnus?”


“Because Mr. Magnus and I are friends, and he made a rather rude remark about me this morning. I was simply giving him a taste of his own medicine. Ruby, who’s Nana?”


“That’s the mother. She stays in that house by the pool. Lives on carrot sticks and yogurt. Hardly ever see her. They trot her out about once a year or so. Still likes opening day at the horse races.”


“My god! How old is she?”


“Old as dirt. Probably served up the last supper to Jesus and all 12 disciples.”


“Well how old is the Marquess?”


“Lemme put it this way, Saint Jamie. When I first started working here 15 years ago, she was 59. Then about, oh, seven, eight years ago, she had her 60th birthday party. According to my calculations, she’s about to turn 61 any old year now.”


“I hate to ask this but, is there a Marquis in the picture anywhere here?”


“You kiddin’? He cleared out of this mausoleum about ten years ago. Real slick, that one. Smooth. Reminded me of that guy who played Dracula.”


“Boris Karloff?”


“No, no. The new one. The funny one. Real tan.”


“George Hamilton.”


“That’s him. Used to play gin rummy right here at this table. I whipped his ass everytime! Ran off to Monte Carlo with some cheap tramp, the Vegas type, you know... (she squeezed her boobs up with her palms)…too tight brassiere. Weighed in at 265, if you ask me. A real prize heifer, that one. He shipped her fat ass off to Monte Carlo. And with his luck?! Lord have mercy. I hope his card game got better, ‘cause honey, he would be broke now. Couldn’t win a crapshoot. At gambling, he stunk. Hell, even his cologne stank, now I think of it. You can call it Fab-er-jaay all you want, but even Miss Ruby knows that Brut is some cheap smelling shit.” Ruby stared off nostalgically, Royal scent wafting. “Rotten stinking smoooth sonofabitch,” she sighed. “Used to be some fun around here. Not any more.”


Ruby looked across the table, smiled warmly and reached for my arm.


“Not till you came along, Saint Jamie.”