Lucky Stars (8 page)

“We don’t want you to lie,” said W&W’s copywriter. “Just the opposite. What we’re playing with at the moment is a problem-solution type of ad. You state the problem, which is that you found a bone in your Fin’s tuna, and then you explain the solution, which is that you visited the cannery and were so impressed with what you saw that you agreed to work for Fin’s, to be the public’s eyes and ears within the company, to make sure that those mothers you talked to us about—the mothers who need to feel secure about the foods they feed their loved ones—will never have to worry when they open a can of Fin’s premium tuna.” He leaned back in his chair and grinned. “I don’t know about everybody else in this room, but I think we’ve got an award-winning commercial on the drawing board. I think we’re looking at making Helen Reiser the next Clara ‘Where’s the Beef?’ Peller.”

There was nodding all around. I, however, was incapable of nodding. My neck was rigid with tension as I flashed back on Clara Peller, the woman in the old Wendy’s hamburger commercials, the one who became an overnight sensation simply by acting crabby. I was
stunned by the possibility that my own mother might become an overnight sensation, too, absolutely undone by this odd turn of events.

“But you see,” she said to her new best friends, “I don’t care for show business, never have. I can’t imagine myself standing in front of a camera with a puss full of makeup.”

“Try to focus on the numbers of consumers you’d be reaching,” said the account executive. “We’re talking millions of people here, Mrs. Reiser. How empowering would that be for you to be able to speak directly
to
them and/or them? You’d be a consumer watchdog for an entire population of mothers just like yourself.”

That seemed to clinch it, that reference to empowerment. I could tell by my mother’s body language. She lifted her head at the sound of the word, tilted it up, rested her elbows on the conference table as if she were suddenly Somebody.

“You’d be great, Helen, really great,” Terwilliger added. “Please say you’ll do this. For our employees on the assembly line, those hardworking ladies you mentioned. And, of course, for the mothers out there, the ones you stand for so articulately and valiantly.”

“Oh,
Frank,”
she said. They were on a first-name basis now? “For years I’ve been sending out my complaint letters, hoping to create a better world in my own modest way. I suppose it
would
be nice to have a larger platform, to be able to reach so many people at once through the medium of television, to have my opinion matter for a change.”

To have my opinion matter for a change.
That was a dig at me, obviously, because I’d ignored her advice for so many years. But was she actually saying yes to them? Accepting their offer? Agreeing to star in a national TV
commercial? Maybe a series of national TV commercials? /

“Sounds like we’ve got a new ad campaign,” said Terwilliger, a big smile on his face as he offered his hand to my mother and helped her rise from her chair. “I, for one, couldn’t be more pleased. How about you, Helen?”

She beamed right back at him, and pledged that she would take her role seriously and work as hard for Fin’s as the women who cut the bones out of the fish.

“Here’s to Helen,” the creative supervisor shouted, as the rest of them cheered and clapped.

I continued to sit there as if I’d been hit by a truck. Who would have believed this? I asked myself. How had a trip to a tuna fish cannery evolved into a life-altering experience for my mother (and, by extension, for me)? And why wasn’t I happier about it? After all, I’d been urging her to get a job, volunteer, do anything other than pester me day and night. And now she’d gotten a job—a great job, as a matter of fact—so what was my problem? What kind of a daughter was I that I wasn’t jumping for joy on this day that had turned out so serendipitously for her? Why wasn’t I thrilled, the way you’re supposed to be when something fabulous happens to someone else, especially to someone you love?

Okay, I knew damn well why. My mother was starring in a television commercial that I wasn’t even asked to audition for and I was jealous. Yeah, jealous of the woman who gave birth to me. It’s embarrassing to admit, but it was true.
I
was the actress in the family.
I
was the one who should have been hired.
I
was the one who had trained and paid my dues and earned the right to appear on television sets across the country, and yet
she
was the one they wanted.

Couldn’t she have gone out for the senior women’s golf circuit? Couldn’t she have gotten involved in saving the whales? Couldn’t she have written one of those books of helpful hints? Did the arena she decided to enter have to be
my
arena, for God’s sake?

If there was fairness on this earth, I failed to see it.

t
en

“
O
h, come on, Stacey. So it’s one measly thirty-second commercial that nobody will ever see,” said Maura, after I called to tell her the news. “It’s not as if tuna fish companies advertise on the Super Bowl. They don’t have huge budgets like Coke and Pepsi.”

“I realize that,” I said. “It’s just a weird feeling having my mother vaulting into
my
profession. It’s as if we’re in competition all of a sudden.”

“Not really. She’ll do the commercial for Fin’s and that’ll be the end of it, while you’ll go on to have the acting career you always dreamed of. And remember that you asked for this, Stacey. You kept saying, ‘If only she’d find something other than me to occupy her every waking moment.’ Well, now she’s found that something.
You’re getting exactly what you wanted, so be gracious about it, huh?”

Maura was right. I should be gracious about it. I was gracious about it. I was so gracious about it that I called my mother a few days after the trip to the cannery and offered to take her to meet my agent, Mickey Offerman. She would need representation, I figured, someone to deal with the financial side of things. She was a novice in the business, and I would do her a favor and show her the ropes.

“I already have an agent, dear,” she trilled after I’d made the overture. “Peter at the ad agency set me up with Arnold Richter.”

I was speechless. Arnold Richter was the hottest agent in town. I couldn’t have gotten a meeting with him if I’d chained myself to his desk.

“Arnold’s a lovely man,” she went on. “He told me he’s very close to his mother.”

Like he even had a mother. Agents like Arnold Richter were too consumed with dealmaking to have mothers.

“He’s got quite a reputation as a slick talker,” I warned, trying to be protective of her. “If you want me to, I’ll come with you the next time you meet with him.”

“Oh, not to worry,” she said breezily. “I’ve got a great manager now, Karen Latham. She’ll check over everything Arnold does. She handles the actor who plays Joe Isuzu, so she’s very familiar with the kind of work I’ll be doing.”

“Okay, fine. Then you don’t need my help at all.” Sheesh, another conflict of emotions. On one hand, I was relieved that she was being taken care of. On the other, I was hurt—well, not hurt, exactly, but definitely a little put out—that she hadn’t come to me for advice.

Now that I thought about it, she hadn’t called me since the trip to the cannery, hadn’t stopped by my apartment, hadn’t bossed me around. Hallelujah. Sort of.

“What’s the next step with the commercial?” I asked, swallowing the odd little lump in my throat. “When are they shooting it?”

“Peter said it should take about two weeks for the agency to do the storyboard and then maybe another few days for Fin’s to approve it, and then the storyboard goes out for bids to different production companies and then away we go. I think I’ll be on the air in six weeks, because they’re not flying me to some exotic location for the shoot. They’re just sticking me at a kitchen table and letting me speak my piece.”

“Very exciting, Mom,” I said, forcing the words out. “Very, very exciting.” I
was
excited for her. Excited and nauseous.

“What’s new with you, dear?” she asked. “Anything percolating?”

“Not right this second.” Not right this eternity. While Mom was gearing up for her big break, I was sliding further into obscurity. Mickey hadn’t sent me on an audition in days, so I’d been putting in extra time at Cornucopia!, which padded my bank account a bit but did nothing for my morale. It was hard to be chipper when those Brentwood babes sashayed into the store and hit you with: “Can you watch my kid while I drop a thousand dollars on a set of dishes?” I mean, was I supposed to sell merchandise and iron linens and vacuum carpet
and
be a day-care worker?

My absolute nadir at Cornucopia! came a few weeks after my mother’s hiring as Fin’s’ pitchwoman. Cameron, the owner, had just given the sales staff a refresher lecture about how we must never, under any circumstances, make reference to a celebrity customer’s movies or TV shows, in order that all the celebrities who frequented the store would feel comfortable, anonymous, under no obligation to be “on.” This lecture had been triggered by Arnold Schwarzenegger’s appearance in the store the previous day a
nd the fact that Sarah, a part-
timer like me, had fawned over him to the point of being pathological, and he’d fled without making a single purchase. “Treat them with courtesy, but allow them their space,” Cameron admonished us after explaining that Sarah had been fired. “Either that or find another job.”

So there I was, ears still ringing with Cameron’s threat, when who walked in, on the arm of a fetching redhead, but Jack Rawlins, God’s gift to film criticism— the little shit who’d labeled me Sledgehammer Stacey. He was his tweedy, oh-so-smug self, moving among the merchandise as if the very notion of commerce were beneath him. “Who would ever buy this?” I overheard him say to his lady friend, referring to a desk clock that provided the time on three continents. I wasn’t sure I disagreed about the clock, especially not at the outrageous price Cornucopia! wanted for it, but it was his attitude that was unbearable, the same attitude that had ruined my career.

“Stacey, go over and see if they need any help,” whispered Cameron, nodding at our illustrious customer and his gal. “And remember: no mention of his television show.”

“Couldn’t someone else help him?” I pleaded. “I was just about to take my lunch break.” Not mention his television show? It was all I could do not to grab him by the lapels and tell him what I thought of it—and him.

“Take your lunch break after you help him,” she said. “Everyone else on the floor is busy.”

Fine. Great. Done. I took a deep breath, fluffed my hair, smoothed my sweater, and strode over to the darling couple.

“Is there anything I can help you with or are you just looking today?” I asked, glaring at Jack Rawlins, daring him to remember me from
Pet Peeve,
daring him to atone for his s
in.

“We’re just looking,” said the redhead, fondling a five-hundred-dollar chenille throw.

“How about you?” I said to Rawlins. “Are you just looking, too? Because we have a beautiful pair of sterling silver nose-hair clippers.”

Okay, so we didn’t carry sterling silver nose-hair clippers. I couldn’t resist baiting him, saying something that would get a rise out of him.

He looked at me for a long second or two, as if genuinely trying to place me. When he couldn’t, he said with a smirk, “I’m not in the market for the nose-hair clippers, but have you got any sterling silver nipple rings?”

“Jack!” The redhead pretended to be shocked by him and tousled his hair, as if he were a bad little boy. She turned to me. “He’s got a wicked sense of humor. Don’t mind him.”

“Oh, but I do mind him,” I said, because I couldn’t stop myself.

“Excuse me?” she said.

“I meant, I do mind that I can’t come up with the right item for him.”

Rawlins lowered his tortoiseshell eyeglasses so he could see me better. “The right item for me? What might that be, do you think?”

“Well,” I said, as the redhead wandered off. “What
about a letter opener? You get mail, do
n’t you?” Hate mail, probably.

“I do,” he said, “but my assistant takes care of it.”

“Ah, then I should come up with something more personal,” I
said. “What about a mirror?” Or
is
it too
hard for you to look in the m
irror after you rip peoples’
reputations to shreds?

“Nope. A mirror isn’t on my shopping list today,” he said. “But you’re extremely enterprising. Has anyone ever told you that?”

“No, but someone once said I had the subtlety of a sledgehammer.” I let the words hang there, just to see if there would be a glimmer of recognition. There wasn’t.

“Whoever said that must not have understood the demands of your job.”

“He didn’t.”

“Well, then to hell with him.”

“My sentiments exactly.”

At that moment, the redhead returned and indicated that she hadn’t found anything she wanted to purchase but was ravenously hungry. “How about the sushi place down the street?” she suggested to Jack.

“They’re doing construction,” he said. “I think they’re closed.”

“Speaking of construction,” I said, insinuating myself into their conversation but focusing my gaze exclusively on him. “You know how that obnoxious person told me I had the subtlety of a sledgehammer?”

Jack nodded absentmindedly.

“He also told me that I should think about going into the construction business. He said—well, why don’t I give you his direct quote—‘Stacey Reiser uses her precious few moments of screen time to pound us over the head with her lines. She has the subtlety of a sledgeh
am
mer and should consider applying for a job in construction.’ I’ll bet
you’d
never say anything as insensitive as that, would you?”

“What on earth is she talking about?” mused the redhead.

It took a few beats, but the remark finally registered with Jack Rawlins. I could see it on his face, which dropped the ha-ha-ha expression he’d worn during our banter and went serious. Yeah, he remembered me now. And he was ashamed. Or, if not ashamed, then a tiny bit chastened. It’s one thing to trash people from behind the safety of a camera; it’s an
other to have one of the trash-
ees confront you face-to-face.

“Jack, I’m starving,” whined the redhead, as she tugged on his sleeve. “Can’t we
go
?”

He continued to look at me, trying, I think, to formulate a response—perhaps even an apology—but in the end he said nothing and slunk out of the store.

Way to go, Stacey, I complimented myself, loving that I had thrown the jerk’s malicious review right back at him without ever violating Cameron’s edict. I’d never so much as mentioned Jack’s stupid television show or even that I was aware that he hosted one.

Feeling in control of my life for the first time in months, I actually whis
tled as I walked into the stock
room to grab my sandwich out of the refrigerator.

“Stacey, I noticed that Jack Rawlins didn’t buy anything the whole time he was in here,” said Cameron, who was chomping on a baby spinach leaf. “Tell me you didn’t embarrass yourself with him, not after I just explained my policy toward our celebrity customers.”

I was dying to tell her that the piece of spinach between her teeth was a bigger turnoff to her celebrity
customers than asking them for an autograph, but I decided against it. “I didn’t embarrass myself with Jack Rawlins,” I said instead. “As a matter of fact, Cameron, I gave Mr. Rawlins the treatment he richly deserved.”