Significant Others (3 page)
“It’s not
my
theory. I just—” He cut himself off, realizing she’d addressed her remarks to Michael, who had sauntered into the courtyard from the house.
“What have I done now?” asked Michael.
Brian smiled at him. “I was just explaining your Springsteen theory.”
“It’s true,” said Michael. “Straight boys will go all the way for him.”
Mrs. Madrigal turned to Brian. “Is he including you in this sweeping generality?”
“Sure,” Michael cut in. “He’d do it for The Boss in a second.” He cast an impish glance in Brian’s direction. “I mean, if he
asked
you, right?”
Brian actually got off on this. It was Michael’s way of socking an arm in friendship. “You’re a dipshit,” he told him, socking back in his own fashion.
“I think it’s great,” said Michael. “Springsteen’s done wonders for guys named Bruce. There used to be such a stigma attached.” He paused for a moment, then added: “I’m late, y’all. I’d love to stick around and hash this out, but … Wren Douglas cannot be kept waiting.”
It took Brian a moment to place the name. Then her face and chest flickered in his head like a soft-core video. “Oh, yeah. The fat model. You know her?”
“No, but I’m a major fan. Mary Ann got me a ticket for the show today.”
Mrs. Madrigal looked confused. “She’s … uh … heavy?”
“Yeah,” said Brian, “but kind of hot.”
“Kind of?” yelped Michael, with surprising indignation. “How about very?”
Brian gave the landlady a you-and-me glance. “And he should know, right?”
Michael headed for the lych-gate, stopping briefly to sniff a bud of Mrs. Madrigal’s sinsemilla. He staged a little mock swoon for her benefit, then said: “Better be careful. They’re busting people for this now.”
“Well,” said the landlady, remaining deadpan, “if Mrs. Reagan should drop by for tea, I trust you’ll give me fair warning.”
Mrs. Madrigal agreed to keep Shawna for a few hours, so Brian did some shopping at the Searchlight Market (Diet Pepsi, a box of Milky Ways and the new Colgate Pump) before returning to The Summit. Back on the twenty-third floor, he found Nguyet Windexing the kitchen window with what appeared to be the last of the paper towels.
And that reminded him: He had forgotten to buy toilet paper.
So what do you use when the paper towels are gone?
“Uh … Nguyet?”
The maid stopped Windexing and looked at him, a nervous smile on her face.
“This afternoon. When you go shopping. Buy toilet paper, O.K.?”
Her smile faded; he had lost her.
“Toilet paper … you know …” He considered miming it, then discarded the idea. Finally, he went to the bathroom and returned with the little cardboard tube.
Nguyet’s face radiated understanding. “Ah,” she said. “Shommin.”
“Right,” he replied. “Shommin. Buy Shommin this afternoon, O.K.?”
She nodded energetically and returned to her labors, watching out of the corner of her eye as he searched the pantry and came up with a box of Melitta No. 4 coffee filters.
Paper product in hand, he headed for the john, only to be stopped in his tracks by the monumental Wren Douglas, peering up at him from the bedside table. His cock stirred appreciatively, so he made a quick detour and took the book with him to the john.
Vanessa Williams would just have to wait.
R
ISING LATE IN HER SUITE AT THE FAIRMONT HOTEL,
Wren Douglas ordered a hearty breakfast, then ambled into the bathroom to take stock of the cornucopia of miniature creams and shampoos that undoubtedly awaited her. Hotel rooms were really the best part of a book tour. The bathroom bonuses you could stash away for future use. The king-sized beds with their sheets turned back and peppermint patties on the pillow. The thirsty, sweet-smelling towels and silent-flush toilets and TV sets hidden in armoires, ready to offer the transcontinental consolation of Mary Tyler Moore.
This was her sixteenth city in three weeks. Her fat rap had become a well-worn tape, almost too fragile to survive another playing. She was sick of the sound of her own voice and sicker still of the Ken-and-Barbie anchoroids who habitually asked her the same four questions.
Were you fat as a child?
(“I was fat as a
fetus. “) Do you think American women are being tyrannized by the current fitness craze?
(“Not necessarily. Everyone should be as fit as possible, including fat people. The tyranny comes when we’re told we should all look the same.”)
What are your vital statistics?
(“Two hundred and two pounds … fifty-two, thirty-seven, fifty-seven … five feet eight inches tall.”)
What do you think caused you to become an international sex symbol?
(“Beats me, honey. Some guys just go for a girl with thighs in two time zones.”)
All that glibness had begun to catch in her throat like so many dry cornflakes. She was biding her time now, counting the cities—only Portland and Seattle to go—until the final flight would spirit her back to Chicago, to her loft and her cat and her hot Cuban lover with the permanent stiffie.
Not that she had hurt for attention on the tour. There’d been that body-building cameraman in Miami, brick-shithouse beautiful and full of surprises. And that cute kid in Washington who’d taken her to dinner, entrusted her with his virginity, and driven her to the airport the next morning, whistling all the way. She’d done all right for herself, horizontally speaking.
She mounted the scales in the bathroom, almost afraid to look.
A hundred and ninety-two! Her worst fears confirmed! Thanks to the rigors of the tour, she was losing weight like crazy. If she didn’t shape up and soon, the headline writers would lose their two-hundred-pound sex symbol and she—shudder, gasp—would be out on her ever-dwindling ass.
She savored this preposterous dilemma, then washed her face with a violet-scented English soap.
Soon there would be blueberry pancakes to set things right again.
Forty-five minutes later, she waited for her limousine on the curb in front of the Fairmont. She was decked out in her favorite touring ensemble: a low-necked turquoise sweater dress cinched at the waist by a brown leather cummerbund.
The cummerbund and her boots—Victorian-style lace-up numbers—gave her, she felt, the air of a good-natured dominatrix. As her nerves grew increasingly ragged, she needed all the authority she could muster when she faced her interrogators.
Her driver was a welcome surprise: young and dark, with pronounced Italianate influences and a set of lips she could chew on all night. As he whisked her down California Street toward her rendezvous with today’s anchoroid, she asked him what he knew about the show.
“Not a whole helluva lot,” he replied. “Just … it’s called
Mary Ann in the Morning.”
She let out a faint groan. She could picture the little fluff-ball already.
“My old lady watches it,” said the driver. “It’s real popular. She has on … you know, stars like yourself … Lee Iacocca, Shirley MacLaine, that kid o’ Pat Boone’s with the barf disease …”
“Right,” she said.
“I saw you on Carson the other night.”
“Oh … did you?” She hated it when they left you dangling. What the hell were you supposed to say?
“You were good.”
“Thanks.”
“We’re the same age. I noticed that right off. You’re twenty-eight and I’m twenty-eight.”
“No shit.”
He laughed and peered over his shoulder at her. “My ol’ lady’s big too, ya know?”
“Yeah?”
“Not as big as you, I mean. Not as big as I’d like her to be.”
“I hear you,” she said.
“I like ‘em really big. Like you … if you don’t mind my saying.”
She found her little egg of Obsession, gave her tits a quick squirt, and lowered her voice an octave. “Not at all,” she said.
“I didn’t wanna sound like I was …”
“What’s on our schedule this afternoon?”
“You mean … after this show?”
“Yeah.”
He thought for a moment. “Just a personal appearance.”
“Where?”
“You know … one of those Pretty and Plump shops on the peninsula.”
She dropped the atomizer into her purse. “And then we’re done until tomorrow?” “Right.”
“So … we’ve got time.”
She noticed that he swerved the wheel a little, but he recovered instantly and curled those edible lips into a comprehending smile. “Sure,” he said. “We got time.”
Things went smoothly enough at the television station until the makeup man tried to camouflage her chins with darker makeup. “These babies,” she told him sweetly, “are my bread and butter. What will people think if I’m obviously trying to hide them?”
“It won’t be obvious, hon. You’ll see. It’s Light Egyptian, very subtle. Lena Horne uses it all over.”
“Sweetie,” she said patiently, “my chins and I are not of different races. If we were, I’d call them The Supremes or something, but we’re not, O.K.?” He looked a little wounded, so she added: “Nice Swatch. Is it Keith Haring?”
He glanced down at his watch and answered with a lackluster “Yeah.”
“Look,” she said, trying another tactic. “You can go for broke when you do my eyes. How ‘bout that? Turquoise, gold, whatever. There must be something you’ve always wanted to try.”
As she’d expected, this did the trick. She had offered herself up as a palette, and the artist could not be contained. His eyes grew bright with obsession as he plunged into the depths of his kit. “I think there’s an Aztec Gold in here … that on the lips, very lightly down the center.”
“Super,” she said.
“And a little pale purple powder just under the eyes.”
“There you go.”
Sometimes it seemed there wasn’t a man on earth she couldn’t handle.
An associate producer led her into the green room, which was peach and cream this time, with loads of hideous seventies Deco. On the walls were huge framed photographs of the fabled Mary Ann: Mary Ann with Raquel Welch, Mary Ann with Dr. Ruth, Mary Ann with Ed Koch, Mary Ann with Michael Landon.
“Make yourself at home,” said the associate producer, backing toward the door. “There’s coffee there … and sweet rolls and whatever. Mary Ann will drop by to say hello in a little while.”
“Am I the only guest?” she asked.
He nodded. “Except for Ikey St. Jacques. We’re taping him for ‘Latchkey Kitchen.’ ”
“What’s that?”
“One of our segments. Fifteen minutes at the end. Famous kids come on and … you know, teach latchkey kids how to cook for themselves while their parents are out working.”
“Come on,” said Wren.
“It’s very popular.” He sounded a little defensive. “We’ve had offers to syndicate it.”
Wren tried to picture the tiny black star of
What It Is!
whipping up a quick-and-easy tuna casserole. “He’s such a baby,” she said. “He can’t be a day over seven.”
“Uh … look … I’m kind of rushed right now. I hope you don’t mind if I leave you on your own for a while.”
He was flustered about something, she could tell. “I’ll be fine,” she said. “Are you kidding? Alone with all this food?”
Laughing uncomfortably, the associate producer backed out the door and closed it. She puzzled over his behavior for a moment, then headed straight for the sweet rolls, remembering her dwindling weight. She had downed one and was repairing her lips with a napkin the next time the door opened.
“Awwriiiight, mama!”
It was Ikey St. Jacques, grinning like a jack-o'-lantern and cute as the devil in his tiny red-and-white workout suit. His hands were outstretched, Jolson-style, and one of them held a lighted cigar.
She tried to stay cool. “Uh … hi. You’re Ikey … right?”
“I knew it,” he said with a husky chuckle. “That fool lied to me.”
“Who?”
“That candy-ass producer out there. He knows I like big mamas, so he lied to me, the sucker! I knew you was in here.” He took a long drag on his cigar and looked her up and down. His head was no higher than her waist. “I saw you on Carson. I said to my agent, that is one foxy lady.”
She wasn’t buying this at all. “Look, junior …” She flailed toward the cigar. “Those things make me sick. The entrance was cute, but the bit is over.”
He regarded her dolefully for a moment, then went to the table, reached up and stubbed out the cigar.
“Thank you,” she said, extending her hand. “Now … I’m Wren Douglas.”
He shook her hand. “Sorry ‘bout that.”
“Hey … no biggie.”
“I come on strong sometimes. Don’t know why.”
She was beginning to feel like a bully. “Well, it was just that cigar. You ought not to smoke those, even for a joke. It’ll—”
“Stunt my growth?” He laughed raucously. “I’m seventeen years old, lady!”
“Wait a minute. Says who?”
“Says me and my birth certificate. And my mama.”
She drew back and studied him. “Nah. Sorry. No way. I’m not buyin’ that.”
“You think I’m lyin'?”
She shifted her weight to one hip and appraised him coolly. “Yeah. I think you’re lyin'.”
He glared at her defiantly and shoved his sweat pants down to his knees.
She took stock of the point he was making and responded as calmly as possible. “O.K…. Fine … we’ve established your maturity.”
The kid wouldn’t budge, arms still folded across his chest. “Say I’m seventeen!”
She glanced anxiously toward the door. “Pull your pants up, Ikey.”
“Say I’m seventeen.”
“Ikey, if somebody walks in here we could be arrested for … I don’t know what. All right, big deal. You’re seventeen. I’m sorry. I was wrong.”
A half-lidded smile bloomed on the kid’s face as he returned his sweat pants to their rightful position.
Wren clapped her hand to her chest and heaved a little whinny of relief. “God,” she muttered to no one in particular.
Ikey moved to the table and picked up a sweet roll almost as big as his face.
“It seems to me,” said Wren, now angered by his nonchalance, “you could find a subtler way to tell people.”
The kid licked the edge of the pastry, then shrugged. “Saves talk.”
