Miss Wyoming (17 page)

«Well, Sue, that sounds good to me.» Don possessed no initiative but considered any trace of it in others a good sign. «What else is new down there? I used to have a brother in Denver. He's in Germany now, Patches Barracks, outside of Stuttgart.»

Susan said, «I hang out with Trish by the pool at the Y. She's into numerology now. She's changing her name to Dreama.» Susan could sense every fiber of Don's body instantly spasm with boredom. «Not much else, I guess.»

«A guy called. From Los Angeles. An agent. Named Mortimer. Larry Mortimer. He says you should give him a call. He read about your chucking the pageant in the paper.» Susan took down the number and then she and Don exchanged polite good-byes, both happy to leave the business of what to do to calm Marilyn to some other call, another day.

A few hours later, Susan and Trish, armed with fake IDs and Trish's aunt's Honda Civic, whooped it up in keggery bars and hot spots, releasing sugary bursts of energy with the fervor and desperation of the young. The partying went on for two weeks, after which Trish's aunt Barb suggested the two girls accompany her on a road trip to Los Angeles in her car. They could share in the driving duties.

And so they left, and yet again Susan saw and participated in the country's landscape — hostile, cold and magnificent, dull and glowing. They pulled into Los Angeles around sunset, arriving in Rancho Palos Verdes on the coast just as a full moon pulled up over the Pacific. They were just in time for a dinner of sloppy joes at Barb's friend's house, and they watched the lights of Avalon over on Catalina sparkling in the distance. Dinner was almost ready and adults and teenagers scurried about. Susan found a quiet den and dialed Larry Mortimer's number. She connected to a personal assistant and then a few breaths later, Larry was on the line. «Susan Colgate? You're one brave woman to go and quit that pageant the way you did.»

Susan was flattered to be called a woman. «It wasn't quitting, Larry. It was — well — there was no way around it. You go and do a hundred pageants and then write me a postcard. We'll compare notes.»

«Such spark. You could really harness that — make it work for you.»

«I'm happy enough just having my mother off my back.»

«Have you ever acted before?»

«Have you ever been in a pageant with cramps before? Or the flu?»

«Touché. How old are you?»

«I'm out of high school, if that's what you mean.»

«No — I meant — »

«With a beret and a kilt I look fourteen. With makeup, cruel lighting and two beers in me, I can pull off thirty. Easy.»

«What's the most ridiculous pageant you ever did?»

«I was Miss Nuclear Energy three years ago. I had this little atom-shaped electric crown over my head. It was pretty, actually. But the pageant was dumb. It was organized by men, not women, and the only other thing they'd ever organized was a Thanksgiving turkey raffle. The whole thing was so — corny. Instead of sashes we had name tags.»

«We should meet. We should get together.»

Susan's stomach made a dip, like cresting a roller coaster's first and biggest hill. She was excited. She hadn't expected this. «Why's that?»

Barb passed by the door to tell Susan the sloppy joes were ready.

«You could really go places,» Larry said.

«Like where?»

«Movies. TV.»

«Be still my heart.»

«Come into town. Tomorrow.»

«We're going to Disneyland tomorrow.»

«The day after then.»

Susan had the sensation that this was just another emcee calling her up onto some stage where she would be judged again. After a few weeks of freedom from pageantry, she felt old strings being tugged and that spooked her. Trish, now answering only to «Dreama,» called Susan to the table. «Dinner time, Larry. I ought to go.»

«What's for dinner?»

«Sloppy joes.»

«I love sloppy joes.»

«It gives me cellulite.»

«Cellulite? You're a child!»

«I'm seventeen.»

«
Ooh.
I'll back off now.»

They were quiet.

Larry asked her, «Meet me?»

«What do you look like?» Susan asked.

«If I were in a movie, I'd be a sailor like back in the old days, with a sunburn and a duffel bag, and I'd be on shore leave wearing a cable knit sweater.»

Two days later Susan, Dreama and Barb met Larry for lunch at an outdoor café where the linen, china and flowers were white and the service was so good they didn't even realize they were being served. Larry was late, and when Susan saw him rush toward the table, her heart did a cartwheel. Larry was older, curly-haired, gruff and in a glorious twist of fate, a clone of Eugene Lindsay, the winking judge.

Susan fell into a reverie. She hoped that Larry's breath would smell like scotch. She realized that Larry was to be her devirginizer, and a wash of sexual energy and nervousness bordering on static cling came over her. She caught his eye as he approached, and sealing his fate with Susan, he winked.

«I'm late,» he said.

«You're just in time,» she said. Their eyes locked and they held each others' hand a pulse too long. «Larry, this is my friend Dreama and her aunt Barb.» They shook hands, and Barb sized Larry up in a manner that was blatantly financial, embarrassing and amusing.

Lunch was a blur. Afterward, Susan left with Larry, ostensibly to test for a new TV show. Once inside his Jaguar, Aunt Barb and Dreama out of sight, Larry told Susan that the test was actually for the
next
day. He then looked up at the sky innocently. Susan wasn't fazed. She told Larry this was pretty much what she'd figured.
Oh God,
she thought to herself,
I'm a jaded harpy and I'm only seventeen. Mom did this to me. She's gone and turned me into … her.

Larry asked, «So where do you think we might go now?»

Years later, with hindsight, Susan would find it appalling that Barb had left her so readily in the hands of an L.A. predator.

Later that night, after Susan and Larry had exhausted themselves in Larry's bed, they would briefly chuckle over the clunky roving eye Aunt Barb had focused on Larry, then phone Barb and say, «Barb? Larry Mortimer here. We're late like crazy. We didn't even get a chance to audition. The tests were slowed down by a union walkout. It'll have to be tomorrow. We'll be back at your hotel in an hour. Here. Susan wants to speak with you.» He passed the phone over the sheets to Susan.

«Barb? Wasn't lunch today a
dream
?»

The next day at the actual audition, Susan clarified in her own mind one of the larger lessons of her life so far, the one which states that the less you want something, the more likely you are to get it. As she uttered her very first line, «Dad, I think there's something not quite right with Mom,» the character of Katie Bloom, two years younger than her, melted onto Susan Colgate's soul, and as of 1987, the public and Susan herself would spend decades trying to separate the two. Katie Bloom was the youngest of four children, a distant fourth at that. Her three on-screen siblings were played by a trio of better-known TV actors who couldn't seem to make the bridge into film, and they chafed madly at any suggestion that their
Bloom
work was «only TV.» Off-screen, the three were patronizing and aloof to Susan. On-screen they looked to their younger free-spirit sister Susan to give them a naive clarity into their problems, and as the years went on, their problems became almost endless.

When Susan emerged as the keystone star of the series, it was in the face of outright mutiny by her costars. At the beginning she thought their coldness was the angst of tormented actors. Then she realized it was essentially fucked-up bitterness, which was much easier to handle. Far more difficult to handle was the issue of Marilyn's continued involvement in her life. The procedure, for insurance reasons, demanded that Susan live with a family member near the studio. The glimmer of TV fame quickly outshone the gloom of pageants lost. Marilyn and Don rented the upper floor of a terrifyingly blank faux-hacienda heap in deepest Encino. Susan did the easier thing and lived in Larry's pied-à-terre in Westwood. Thus, Marilyn's presence was minimized to that of a bookkeeping technicality.

Larry was like all of the pageant judges in the world rolled into one burly, considerate, suntanned package. He knew how the stoplights along Sunset Boulevard were synched and shifted his Porsche's gears accordingly. He had a writer fired who called Susan an empty Pez dispenser to her face. He made sure she ate only excellent food and kept her Kelton Street apartment fully stocked with fresh pasta, ripe papayas and bottled water, all of which was overseen by a thrice-weekly maid. He lulled Susan to sleep singing «Goodnight, Irene,» and then, after he nipped home to sleep with his wife, Jenna, he arrived at work the next day and saw to it that Susan received plenty of prime TV and film offers.

When she thought about her new situation at all, it was with the blameless ingratitude of the very young. Her life's trajectory was fated, inevitable. Why be a wind-up doll for a dozen years if not to become a TV star? Why
not
alter one's body? Bodies were
meant
to photograph well. Mothers? They were meant to be Tasmanian devils — all the better reason to keep them penned up in Encino.

Every night she took two white pills to help her sleep. In the morning she took two orange pills to keep from feeling hungry. She loved the fact that life could be so easily controlled as that. Inasmuch as she had a say in the matter, she was going to keep the rest of her life as equally push-button and seamless. In the mornings when she woke up, she couldn't remember her dreams.

John, Vanessa and Ryan were driving from Vanessa's house to Randy Montarelli's out in the valley. The three were crammed into the front bench seat, Vanessa in the middle. John was sweaty and pulled a pack of cigarettes out from the car door's side pocket and lit one.

«You smoke?» Vanessa asked. She made a serious, unscrutinizable face.

«As of now, I've started again. I'm worried about Susan. I can't unstress.»

Once in the Valley, John pulled the Chrysler into an ARCO station for gas and gum. He went to pay at the till, and on returning to the car found Ryan and Vanessa in the front seat giggling like minks.

«Christ, you two.»

«We're young and in love, John Johnson,» Vanessa teased.

«People like you were never young, Vanessa. People like you are born seventy-two, like soft pink surgeon generals.»

Driving along in the accordion-squeezed traffic of Ventura Boulevard, John said, «So, are you two wacky kids gonna get married or something?»

«Absolutely,» said Ryan. «We've even got our honeymoon planned.»

John considered this young couple he was driving with across the city. They were like rollicking puppies one moment, and Captain Kirk and Spock from
Star Trek
the next. Both seemed bent on discovering new universes. John thought that they were, in a way, the opposite of Ivan and Nylla, who he was convinced had married in order to compact the universe into something smaller, more manageable.

«Where are you two clowns going to honeymoon then, Library of Congress?»

«Chuckles ahoy, John,» Ryan replied. «We're actually going to Prince Edward Island.»

«Huh? Where's that — England?» John was driving at an annoyingly slow speed in order to torment a tailgater.

«No,» said Vanessa. «It's in Canada. Back east — just north of Nova Scotia. It has a population of, like, three.»

«We're going to dig potatoes.»

John put his hand to his forehead. «Dare I even ask … ?»

«There's this thing they have there,» said Ryan, «called the tobacco mosaic virus. It's this harmless little virus that's lolling about dormant inside the Prince Edward Island potato ecology, not doing much of anything.»

«Except,» said Vanessa, «it's highly contagious, and if it comes in contact with tobacco plants, it turns them, basically, into sludge. So what we're going to do is rent a van and fill it up with infected potatoes and then drive down to Virginia and Kentucky and lob them into tobacco fields.»

«We're going to put Big Tobacco out of business,» said Ryan.

«Romantic,» said John, «but it does appeal to my Lodge pesticide genes.»

«Vanessa's dad died of emphysema.»

«Don't make me sound like a Dickensian waif, Ryan, but yes, Dad did hork his lungs out.»

«Vanessa likes to fuck things up with the information she finds,» said Ryan with a note of pride.

«You know what, Ryan? I have an easy time believing that. I'm also going to light up another cigarette. Sorry, Vanessa, but I'm flipping out here.»

Ryan shouted, «Hey — that's Randy Montarelli's street over there,» and John pulled into a leafy suburban avenue. The tailgater whizzed off in a huff. Randy's wood-shingled house was pale blue and tall cypress tree sentinels were lit with colored floodlights.

«Well,» said Ryan as they parked across the street and peeked at the house. «We're here.»

«We are,» said John. It was a quiet moment, like being on holiday, after flying the whole day and navigating through cabs and crowds, arriving in the hotel room, shutting the room and taking a breath. What came next was unknown, and John realized he hadn't given this moment much thought. He was stage-struck.

«I just saw somebody move inside a window,» said Ryan.

«We have to go down there,» said John.

«Ryan …» said Vanessa. «Maybe we should wait here. Maybe John should be alone for this.»

«No. Come, you guys — I need you.»

Like clueless trick-or-treaters, they headed to the front door. From inside the house they heard a TV blaring, feet pounding an uncarpeted floor and a door shutting. John rang the bell before he had a chance to change his mind. All interior sound stopped. Vanessa rang it again three times quickly. A minute passed and still nothing. Ryan tried the doorknob to see if it was open. It was.

«Shut the fucking door, Ryan,» said John.

«Just checking.»

«Hellooooo … ?» Vanessa called into the crack in the door.

«Oh jeez,» said John.

«You are such a chickenshit, John.» Vanessa cooed into the house, «Hello — we're from Unesco.»

Ryan turned to Vanessa:
«Unesco?»

«It was the first thing that popped into my head.»

«Right,» said John, «like you're Audrey Hepburn and ready to hand over a clod of Swiss dirt if they donate five bucks.»

From down the hallway came the sound of somebody tripping over a small heap of suitcases. A man appeared, pale as linguine, in a black bodysuit, a cell phone dangling from his right hand.

«Well, well, it's the Mod Squad. I'm Randy. You're John Johnson, aren't you? What are
you
doing
here
?»

«Perhaps we could come in?» John asked.

«No. I —
can't.
I mean, I know you're famous and rich, but I don't know you personally. And I don't know these two here at all.»

«I'm Ryan.»

«I'm Vanessa.»

«I'm sorry, but I still can't do it.»

«That's okay,» said John. «We're looking for Susan Colgate.»

Randy didn't flinch. «And why would you be talking to me about this?»

«You are Randy Montarelli?»

«I was.»

«And you are Randy “Hexum,” then, too?»

«Yes, but what is your point? It's a free country. I can change my name. So you guys know stuff about my past. I'm not scared or anything.»

«We're not here to scare you,» John said.

«Okay, but why are you assuming I've got something to do with Susan Colgate? Do you have any idea how random it is to have you three show up on my doorstep like this? Asking about some washed-up soap actress? I can already feel my spirit entering therapy as a result of this visit.»

«So you're saying you don't know her,» said John.

«I didn't say that.»

«Do you know her?»

«We've met.»

«And?»

«I used to work for Chris Thraice a few years ago when I came to L.A. As far as I know, he and Susan are still friends, but I don't think they ever talked much.» Randy added, «Hey, kids, I have an idea. I won't tell the cops that you were here if you don't tell them you were here, either.»

«Deal,» said John.

Randy's face changed like still water brushed by a breeze. «Wait …» He looked at John with a degree of calculation. «Maybe there
is
something you need to know — something you should have.» John, Ryan and Vanessa exchanged Hardy Boy glances. «Hold on,» he said, and headed down the hall, knocked a piece of luggage out of his way and entered a room. A minute later he returned with a sealed manila envelope and offered it to John. «I hope you're feeling better,» he said to John.

«What was wrong with me?» John was taken back.

«Well,» said Randy, «I recently heard that you were suffering from Jeep's syndrome.»

«Oh jeez,» said John, «that's one of those bloody Internet rumors. Who starts those things?»

«What's Jeep's syndrome?» asked Ryan.

Vanessa said, «It's when an ingrown hair follicle above the anus becomes infected, causing a massive buildup of waste fluids, requiring a surgical excision and drainage. The most famous sufferer was English pop star Roddy Llewellyn, who once dated Princess Margaret.»

«Did we
really
need to know that?» John asked.

«Ryan
did
ask. And besides, I've heard the rumor, too. That's why I looked it up.»

Randy handed John the envelope. «You should find this interesting.» He closed the door.

A minute later they were back in the car. John was agitated, mad at himself for not having better strategized the encounter. «Shit, that guy's bailing town somewhere and he's our only clue. He could have
Susan
in those suitcases for all I know. Ryan, open the envelope. What's in it?»

«It's a script: “Scratch 'n' Win,” by Randy Hexum.»

«Shit — a script.» He slammed the steering wheel.

Vanessa said, «I have another clue,» but at that exact moment Ryan locked bumpers with a car identical to John's own — same color, same year — and their car was hobbled onto the other like animals in heat. «Oh
wow
,» mumbled a surf brat loitering on the corner with a friend, «two gay Chryslers fucking.»