Chore Whore (14 page)

Why is it when you look like you've been beaten up, someone appears who looks like a knight in shining armor?

“Ma'am, can you get up with my help?” he asks, gently.

“Yeah, I think so,” I cough.

I struggle to stand up and find myself a little woozy and unbalanced. He walks me to the vault door and I promptly throw up.

“Ma'am, there's an ambulance right outside. Come this way with me.”

I feel too sick to be as embarrassed as I should be. The ambulance attendant helps me take off my sweater and seats me in the back of the ambulance. He's a gentle man with a warm glow to his olive skin.

“My name's Angelo. What's yours?”

“Cornelia, but I go by Corki,” I cough.

“Okay, Corki, I'm going to be putting plugs in your nose to stop the bleeding. Are you hurt anywhere else?”

I shake my head.

“What about this on your arm?” he asks as he pulls up my shirtsleeve.

“Oh yeah,” I whisper, “someone stabbed me with a nail file earlier today.”

Angelo raises his eyebrows. “Must be your lucky day. How long has it been since your last tetanus shot?”

“I was afraid you were going to ask that. I'm not sure, but it's been a long time. Eight, nine years.”

“Close enough for me. You need one every ten years,” he says as he inserts two plugs that look curiously like a couple of slender tampons up my nostrils. He then puts drops in my eyes and gives me a tetanus shot. With the tampon nose plugs and strings draping down tickling my upper lip, my shining knight comes back to take my account of the incident for the police report. I have no hopes of flirting with this man when I'm sitting here looking like a five-year-old who got into her mama's medicine chest.

Mustafa is long gone.

“Tell me more,
Mom. Did the robbers have guns?”

Blaise sits in the hallway outside the bathroom, pressing for more details. He has visions of Wild West robberies complete with horses, covered wagons and Indians with bows and arrows.

I can only whisper. My windpipe burns and every breath stings like it will be my last. I try to turn over in my bubble bath, but can barely move. I whisper hoarsely to Blaise the story that was told to me.

“A young couple in their twenties robbed a bank in Arizona and were given a pack of money filled with purple dye. That's what tellers are supposed to do when they're robbed. If everything goes well, the dye pack explodes when triggered by the bank's detection system. But it didn't. The robbers got away, and thought they'd be smart and come to Los Angeles and put it in a safe-deposit box to use at their discretion. Only problem was that my bank's detection system did work and it exploded, flooding the whole place with tear gas. Unfortunately, I got caught in the bank vault with the robbers.”

“But did they have guns?” Blaise asks.

“No guns. It wasn't that exciting. The police kept calling it a freak accident.”

“Wow! I can't wait to tell my friends about this,” he continues. “It's so cool.”

“Cool, huh?” I squeak.

“Yeah, really cool!”

I tuck Blaise into bed,
then fall into bed myself. For once, I don't bother with the answering machine. All night I wheeze, suck in burning air, cough violently, spit up phlegm that tastes like tear gas, and cry. I slurp teaspoons full of cough medicine with codeine that sedates me for short intervals, but my coughing continues, unabated.

At seven-thirty the next morning, Shelly picks up Blaise and takes him to school with the girls. They leave, chatting happily about Envision Prep, bank robberies and Mama Corki's bravery, as if I took down the robbers myself.

I sit down at my desk to make a series of painful phone calls. Some people take my whispering voice as that of a crank caller. Half of them hang up and I need to redial and try again. The other half say I sound as if I've been smoking three packs a day since I turned ten.

I schedule a slew of doctor's appointments and cancel other appointments I had set for today and tomorrow. Finally, I brave listening to my phone messages.

Call number one is from Veronique.

“Corki, it's Veronique. I'm back in town. I hope your Christmas and New Year's Eve were good. Let's meet at Joan's on Third. Love to you and Blaise.” Beep.

Call number two.

“Corki, Jock Straupman.”

He sounds cold and distant, still angry.

“I'm leaving for Paris tomorrow night. I'm going to need enough vitamins for six months. I don't want to have to go through the fiasco we went through last time I was in Spain. While I'm gone, I'll need for you to take care of the cars, have the piano tuned right before I come home and at some point change the felt on the pool table, maybe an aqua color this time. Use your judgment. Have the pool heater turned down, or actually off, and cancel the florist. Most importantly, I want to have my room painted red. I left the colors for the walls and bookcases in the office. I've moved some stuff, but I want you to move the remaining six boxes down to the range and leave them there until I come back. I spoke with the painters and they'll be starting early in February. Please take care of all this as soon as you can. Call Squid and he'll give you an address where you can send my mail. I think twice a month should be sufficient. Thank you.”

The next call is from Lucy, sounding higher than a balloon filled with helium.

“Sweetheart, hello! We haven't spoken since the party. Where were you? It was fabulous. I personally think you missed one of my best yet. Everyone loved the favors. Listen, we popped over to Maui for the week and should be home day after tomorrow. I need you to do me a couple of favors.”

Her Southern accent is full and lively.

“I want you to go and get a bunch of CDs. In fact, I'm going to be totally anal-retentive and just fax you a list from the hotel. Love you, bye.”

I look behind the desk and see four pages curled up on the floor. The list consists of forty-three compact discs, mostly country-and-western: Buck Owens, Johnny Cash, Dwight Yoakum, ZZ Top, Elvis, John Prine and Duane Diamond. She wants them to be opened and mixed in with everything else in her CD case in order to give the appearance that she gave a shit about Buck Owens's music before she met Tommy Ray. I wonder if she'll want me to get a set of bull's horns for the front of the Ferrari.

She also instructs me to rid the house of “ANYTHING and EVERYTHING pre-1940s” and “ANYTHING and EVERYTHING that looks too classy.” I am to pack the antique silverware and put it in my garage. Put the rococo-style table that is in the foyer in the garage as well. Wrap it in blankets. And for God's sake hide the old English china her grandmother gave her. Use my judgment and clear the house of anything sentimental from old boyfriends or from men who happen to be friends or, come to think of it, anything from any man unless it is from her own father. In addition, she wants me to collect all her old diaries, love letters, former wedding rings and personal mementos from past movies, love interests and co-stars. All these items should be packed in boxes and stored at my apartment. “And by the way, as soon as we get home we're going to be looking into buying a house together. Be happy for us.”

I think about the limited space in my place and the equally limited space in Lucy's brain. What on earth is this woman thinking? My garage seems to be a favorite spot for movie stars to hide all their belongings that they don't want their new mates to discover. I have no room to even park my car, let alone another six or seven boxes filled with Lucy's love-life paraphernalia. The last remaining room in my garage was taken up by the four-hundred-pound gun cabinet that Esther insisted leave their home when she married Liam. Liam swore that after the L.A. riots, he was not going to be caught defenseless. He bought a heavy metal pump shotgun and a .357 Magnum—now sitting in my garage. Liam bought the cabinet because someday he said he'd sign up to take lessons on how to the shoot the darn things and until that day, the arsenal must be safely tucked away behind lock and key. That was years ago and Liam has never found the time to learn. I, however, have enough guns and ammo in my quiet little home to fight a small revolution.

The last call is from Officer Gregory Holt from the Beverly Hills Police Department, stating that I should call the department if I want to press charges against the couple foiled in the bank incident.

Going through with pressing charges will be awfully time-consuming. I return his call and leave a message for him that I will press charges if they need me to because it is my civic duty, but I get paid by the hour and every hour spent doing something other than work is money gone.

Packing as many chores
into one stop as possible, I tell Veronique that we can meet at Joan's on Third, our favorite small, casual restaurant. Since it's Lucy's favorite, too, I call ahead and order food to pick up for her and Tommy Ray's arrival home.

The place is packed. Joan's is one of the spots celebrities go to not be seen. The celebrities I “haven't” seen there range from Shari Belafonte with a cap pulled down over her eyes to Cameron Diaz in a corner playing footsie with Justin Timberlake.

When my sixteen-year-old niece, Stephanie, came into town from the San Francisco Bay area, she requested to be taken “somewhere, anywhere” where she might see a celebrity. I took her to Joan's, and Matthew Perry walked in. Stephanie spotted him and morphed into what looked strangely like my old cat who used to sit on the windowsill watching hummingbirds. Her mouth opened and her chin quivered ever so slightly, and it was as if at any moment she might pounce and move in for the kill. For days afterward all she could talk about was how she wished she'd had the presence of mind to speak to him or at least whip out her camera and take his picture.

I push past the throngs of diners waiting in line to order or pay their bills and find Veronique at a corner table in the back. In true movie star form, she's wearing sunglasses.

After hugs and kisses, we sit down to turkey meatloaf, chili aioli and Szechuan green beans. I recount my being fired by Daisy, abandoned for six months by Jock and my bank robbery to explain why my voice is so hoarse.

“Don't take offense, Veronique, because I love working for you, but I can only take so many hits. I need a new job, like soon!”

“You're right. You do! But not until you finish helping me.”

“Tell me what you need.”

“I'm presenting Best Supporting Actor this year. And that won't take too much time, but I've been offered a part in a movie filming for three weeks in New Mexico right in the midst of it all. I only shoot for ten days and I'll be back and forth in between then. It's going to be hectic and I have a new boyfriend. He's coming from Italy to stay with me for a while. I really need you to cook for him, Corki.”

“Hmmm. I thought you were looking a bit rosy in the cheeks. Who is he?”

“Roberto Tratelli. Dependable. Independent. Loving. Affectionate. Dreamy. A count.”

“Account? He's an accountant?”

Veronique leans forward.

“No. He's a count.”

“Get out. Like Dracula?”

“Yeah. Count Roberto.”

“Sounds sexy.”

“It is sexy,” she purrs saucily as she rubs the diamond cross hanging around her neck.

“And?” I urge.

“I met him on the set when we were filming in Rome. He's not in the film industry,” she says emphatically. “His brother is.”

“Thank God for small favors. Continue.”

“He's a commercial real-estate developer. A magnate. He's very well established, well mannered and well bred.”

“Well, well, well!”

“I don't think he's your stereotypical Italian fare. He's quite reserved, a widower—his wife of fifteen years died in a car accident. He's a staunch Catholic and, well, you know, I've always flirted with Catholicism.”

“And no doubt you're flirting much harder now,” I add.

“No doubt.”

“Back to the count part,” I prod.

“That's his title. His money comes from his business,” she says matter-of-factly.

“It may be just a title, but I confess, I'm impressed. It's not a title anyone I know has. You?” I ask.

“No. I mean I met Prince Charles once at a film premiere in London, but I don't know him,” Veronique says.

“Would you move to Italy if you marry him?” I ask.

“Corki, you're jumping too far ahead. But he is going to take me on his yacht for a tour of the Med.”

“Oh, impressive. Molto impressionante!”

“Grazie! For the here and now, though, I need you to cook for him while he's here. I would attempt to, but you know my cooking—less than impressive.”

“I would be happy to do it. What does he like?”

“I don't know!” she confesses. “Surprise him!”

· · ·

Surprise him.
Surprise him. What meals would surprise a count? I try to think of all the small corners of the world whose cuisine might be fresh and exciting to Roberto Tratelli and can't come up with one. This is going to haunt me all night until I can come up with something new and fresh.

Balancing Lucy's bags of take-out food carefully while waiting for a break in the stream of cars, I run across the street and pass the place where I used to be able to afford manicures. I nod and mouth “Hello” to the ladies working there behind the large glass window painted with delicate, long hands showing the different colors of nail polish and French manicures they perform.

They wave to me as I disarm Betty and roll down the back window to place the bags of food in the trunk space.

“Uhhhh!” I hear.

I look around.

“Mmmmm.”

There it is again. I look under the SUV. Nothing.

“Uhhhh!”

I roll Betty's back window up, realarm her and go to investigate, slowly walking around to the passenger side. I hear what sounds distinctly like a baby's wail.

Phlit!

A wad of something hits my leg. White viscous fluid is dripping on the cuff of my jeans. I look up and see a pasty-faced, unshaven guy dressed in sweats shoving his penis back in his pants. He runs away.

I can't even muster a scream. My vocal cords have been burned by the tear gas and the doctor told me my windpipe and lungs now resemble those of a man on the front lines in war. I look back toward the manicurists' shop to see if anyone else noticed what happened.

A young woman getting a pedicure sits close to the window, her short skirt revealing her thigh and crotch as she holds up her leg for a heel scrub.

Disgusted, but trying to force my mind not to dwell on what just transpired, I dig through Betty and find four old napkins from the last fast-food run Blaise and I made a few days ago. I wad them up and attempt to wipe the semen off my pants. Where are the cops when you need them? They'll probably arrive the one time in my life when I litter by throwing the napkins down on the curb. I'll end up with a three-figure citation.

“Dang,
girl, you have a good old selection here! We should have taken these to Maui with us, Lucy.” Tommy Ray continues to scan the rows and rows of Lucy's music. “How can you say the CDs you have might not be to my taste? I see Buck Owens, Duane Diamond, Johnny Cash, Dwight Yoakum, ZZ Top, John Prine. I've never seen a better collection. You even have some of Elvis's best stuff.”

I smile politely at Lucy, who stands over Tommy Ray, acting as if her newly fortified collection of CDs is old hat. Lucy mouths the words “thank you” to me as she strokes the back of Tommy's neck.

I smile and nod my head slightly to acknowledge her.

“Lucy, let's bring along some of these for the road,” Tommy suggests. “You almost ready?”

“Honey, now that Corki's here, we don't have to go. We can stay right here,” Lucy says seductively. “Corki can go pick up the car.”

Tommy swings around and playfully nips Lucy on the thigh. “Meow!” he purrs. They tumble on the floor and start kissing and fondling each other.

I clear my throat.

“Corki, don't be so uptight,” Tommy Ray manages as he gets on top of Lucy and straddles her. “You ain't never seen live sex shows before?”

“Tommy Ray, shut up,” Lucy says playfully. “Get off me!” she says, pushing him off of her.

Tommy uses a wrestling move and negotiates her into a half nelson. She squeals with joy.

“Corki, ignore us,” Lucy whispers.

“Lord, girl, can't you tell when two people need to be alone? Get the girls and all of you go pick up Lucy's car together,” he demands.

Before I can ask what girls he's talking about, two come out of Lucy's bedroom. They are mere girls, maybe nineteen or twenty. Both of them rub sleep from their eyes and both wear men's, probably Tommy's, pajamas.

The taller of the two is very pretty with long, blondish hair and a cattish grin plastered across her face. As she passes by, I can smell the scent of old cigarette smoke clinging to her hair.

The shorter one has a decidedly round face reminiscent of a ball of rolled pie dough. Her already big, wide-set brown eyes appear larger than normal behind Coke-bottle-thick magnifying lenses set in tortoiseshell frames.

The “girls” giggle between themselves, then, without warning, the prettier one pounces on top of Tommy Ray and Lucy and they all start wrestling around together, hugging, kissing and saying good morning.

I look at my watch. It's 2:15
P.M
.

Pie Dough looks on affectionately, then wanders down the hall toward the kitchen.

“Corki, I want you to meet Jolene McGraw; Jolene, this is my friend, Corki Brown,” Lucy says in a winded, exasperated rush.

“Nice to meet you,” I say.

I don't mean it.

“Real nice to meet you, too,” Jolene says with as hard a drawl as Tommy's.

“And the other girl . . .” Lucy stops, then calls out to the kitchen. “Bobby Sue Hunsucker, get in here and meet Corki. Don't be antisocial.”

Bobby Sue peeks her pie-dough face around the corner.

“Nice to meet you, Corki,” she says in a flat tone.

I return the coolness.

“Likewise.”

I fidget, not quite wanting to say “Could you two get off your asses and get dressed so we can get going to pick up Lucy's car.”

“Lucy, why don't I just catch a taxi. The service department closes at four on the dot and it takes a good thirty minutes to get there at this time of day,” I plead, wanting to vacate the premises immediately.

“Slow down, woman. Give the girls a moment to shower and they'll get you over there. Jolene here was my driver on my last movie, she'll get you there soon enough,” Tommy protests. “Besides, I want you to show them the ropes.”

What's that supposed to mean? My Spider-Man “spidey senses” are tingling. I sense a hostile takeover on the brink of invasion.

The girls go back into Lucy's bedroom to get dressed, and I go to the kitchen, make myself a cup of tea and wait. I'm still waiting one hour later. It's now three-thirty, rush hour, Los Angeles time. The repair place closes in thirty minutes.

About to give up and just go home, I walk out into the foyer just as Jolene and Bobby Sue slowly exit Lucy's bedroom. Lucy and Tommy Ray come out of the living room after them. As if they're off for a trip around the world, Jolene and Bobby Sue throw their arms around Lucy and Tommy Ray and they all exchange goodbye kisses on the mouth. I watch this display and notice that when Jolene kisses Tommy goodbye, she slips him the tongue.

I get into the back of Tommy's rented Mercedes while Jolene gets behind the wheel and Bobby Sue, with her freshly powdered face, gets in the front passenger seat. I give them directions on how to get down the hill and into L.A.

Jolene can't drive to save her life. Her foot keeps tapping on the accelerator, then takes turns tapping on the brakes. She drives only a little bit slower than Mustafa. She also carries on an elaborate conversation with Bobby Sue without so much as glancing at the road. We fly down Coldwater Canyon where sharp turns and big, thick pine trees line the road. Under many trees are flowers, crosses and ribbons memorializing the people killed there. I don't want to die sharing a car with these two.

“You might want to slow down up here!” I offer. “It's a tricky curve.”

“Don't worry, I drive for the union back in Tennessee.”

She keeps up the same pace and the same conversation. I sit back, close my eyes and pray that it's not going to end like this.

“So, Corki! Tommy Ray says you're gonna teach us the ropes,” Bobby Sue says brightly.

“What ropes are those?”

“You know, like what you do for them. Where you shop, what you get, what they like,” Bobby Sue says.

“Well, we already know what Tommy likes,” Jolene interjects, nastily.

They laugh to each other, confirming my suspicions.

Lucy's mama, Beryl, will blow a gasket when she takes one look at Jolene. I can already hear her lecturing Lucy to make Tommy Ray get that “blatant hussy” out of his life or else. Lucy's not brave enough to give a man an ultimatum though. The cost of losing him is too high.

“Are you two working for them?” I probe.

“Oh yeah,” says Bobby Sue. “Tommy Ray says he needs folks from back home so he can be comfortable here. He doesn't work too well with you Hollywood types.”