Queen of the Oddballs (13 page)

The night before Valentine’s Day, Ann came to my house to sleep over. After a beautiful evening together, she informed me that she had to spend the next day with her “ex.” “I’m just trying to be nice to her,” she explained.

“On Valentine’s Day? Isn’t that maybe sending her a mixed message?”

I wasn’t sure if I could take any more of this, but I still gave her an art piece/valentine I had spent the previous week making for her. She loved it, but she had nothing for me except a sweet thank-you kiss that turned into more. When I woke at 6:00 a.m. on Valentine’s Day, Ann was gone.

Stuffing my disappointment into my Cupid costume, I prepared for my busy day—delivering a record-breaking twenty-eight singing/ tap-dancing telegrams. Just as I was about to walk out the front door, I spotted something on the living room table. Piled high were gifts from Ann, each one wrapped in red paper with tiny white hearts. As torn as I had been, I once again fell completely and deeply. Not so much because of the brilliant gifts, oh, and they all were, but because Ann had waited without a word and surprised me so.

Over the next month Ann was as unpredictable as ever, and I was growing more and more nauseous riding the roller coaster with her. Still, whatever reservations I had always melted with her touch.

“Betty,” she said one night as we sat down in my living room to watch the premiere of her variety show, “I’ve just felt so guilty this whole time.”

I braced myself.

“I’ve decided to try and make it work with my girlfriend. I don’t think I can see you anymore.”

I was no longer on the roller coaster, Livvy. I was now on the Tilt-A-Whirl, hanging on for dear life. After dropping the bomb, she left my house with only a hug good-bye—a kiss would have been too risky for us both. And that was that.

For the next few weeks all I could do was weep and ponder what I had done. Was it right to end my three-year relationship for what now seemed like just a fantasy? Did I really think I’d end up being in a long-term relationship with someone where we didn’t even call each other by our real names? And what is magic anyway? Even if it is up to us to believe in and manifest what we want, is what happens
after
that in our hands? Obviously, once we attain our desires, there are no guarantees. And maybe most of the time we don’t even
know
what our
true
desires are. I guess all we can do is put one foot in front of the other and let destiny reveal itself.

Ready for this, Livvy?

Less than two months later, my clothing designer friend Greg calls and cries excitedly, “Dollllllll, I totally met someone for you today. I was buying shoes and put them on hold so you’ll come back with me tomorrow and meet her.”

“Where?” I ask.

“Fiorucci. She’s the manager.”

“Wait, you mean Danielle?”

“Yes.”

That’s right, Livvy. Danielle. The juggler’s ex. Ann’s old ex.

Then, that very night, before I’d even gone with Greg to Fiorucci, which we’d arranged to do the next day, I go to Peanuts (a women’s club you might have heard of, Liv—just in case the rumors about you ARE true!). I walk in, and there, standing at the bar as if divinely choreographed in a routine way more impressive than any in
Xanadu,
is a charming girl with intense green eyes who looks awfully familiar.

“Who’s that?” I ask a friend.

“Her name’s Danielle.”

I say hello, and within minutes we’re joking, laughing, talking as if we’ve known each other forever. And that’s the night that Danielle and I begin a relationship that’s still going strong today, almost a year later.

So you’re right, Livvy. You do have to believe in magic. And if all your hopes survive—destiny
will
arrive.

We can never be certain what magic looks like, but thanks to you, Livvy, I’m a believer.

Love,

Hillary Carlip

P.S. I’m sorry the
London Evening News
said
Xanadu
was “the most dreadful, tasteless movie of all time” and
Los Angeles
magazine described your acting as “having the range of a mannequin.” Despite the bad reviews, I hope you continue to believe in magic!

• I’m unable to audition for more movies, since the Screen Actor’s Guild goes on strike. Less than two weeks after the strike ends, former SAG president Ronald Reagan is elected president of the United States.
  
 

• Three hundred fifty million viewers tune in to find out “Who Shot J.R.” A month later, we learn that Mark David Chapman, a deranged fan, shot, and killed, John Lennon.
  
 

• I use a whole sheet of legal paper to make a note to remind myself to try the newly released product by 3M—Post-its.
  
 

• CNN launches the first all-news network, just in time to watch the U.S.-supported Iraqi president, Saddam Hussein, invade and attack Iran.
  
 

• I see a new band called the Go-Go’s perform in small clubs as they try to get a record deal.
  
 

• A fire at the MGM Grand Hotel in Las Vegas kills eighty-four people, and Toxic Shock Syndrome claims the lives of thirty-eight women. The hit TV show
  Happy Days
  is in its sixth season.
  
 

• Danielle’s roommate, a gay twenty-year-old named Freddie, is very sick with a suppressed immune system, yet no doctor can figure out a diagnosis for him.
  
 

• Fifteen-year-old Brooke Shields seductively whispers in a commercial, “Nothing comes between me and my Calvins.” The ad is banned.
  
 

• I hang out with my new “buddy,” Kristy McNichol, whose show,
  Family,
  goes off the air.
  
 

O
n a breezy, mesquite-scented autumn night, I pull up to Jack Haley Jr.’s lavish West Hollywood home in the hills north of Sunset Boulevard. The parking valet, a young Latino in a pink vest, pink bow tie, and pink cap, whisks open my door.

“I’ll only be ten or fifteen minutes,” I tell him. “Can I just leave my car in front?”

“No problemo, but if it’s longer, I have to move it.”

“It won’t be.”

I step out of the car, and when the valet catches sight of my ensemble—gold-trimmed black cancan dress encrusted with sequins, black fishnet stockings, gold lamé gloves, and a large black feather rising from the side of a jeweled headband—he lets loose a big, cartoony wolf whistle.

“Ay,
Mamacita
! And I thought
my
work getup was out there!”

“You look good in pink,” I tease as I reach into the backseat and retrieve my concertina—a kind of miniature accordion—and a basket filled with a long loaf of French bread, a round of cheese, and an apple.

I balance on shiny spiked heels, walking up the red brick driveway, its cracks grouted with grass. When I miss a brick, my heel squishes deep into moist, dewy green. Noise spills from inside the house like a soundtrack to a party—glasses clinking, guests chatting—reminding me of the cocktail parties I’d hear from my childhood bedroom and smell on my mother’s breath when she later tucked me in.

I gather my nerve, ring the doorbell, and wait.

A slender, blond man wearing a paisley ascot opens the door. “Shit, you’re early,” he whispers theatrically as he grabs my arm and whisks me down the hallway, careful to make sure no one sees me.

“It’s ten o’clock, I’m right on time,” I whisper back.

“Well, we’re not ready yet, come on.” He leads me to a door. I assume the door opens to a den where I will wait, stealing a glimpse of framed photographs from Jack Haley Jr.’s life—him sitting in a director’s chair on the set of his hit film,
That’s Entertainment
; with Liza Minelli on exotic vacations during their five-year marriage; his dad as the Tin Man on the set of
The Wizard of Oz
.

But no.
I’m taken into a coat closet
. The man closes the door behind us both. He’s pressed up against me in the small, dark space, and I can smell vodka on his breath and mousse in his hair.

“Sorry, but everything started late,” he says. “We had a disaster in the kitchen. If you’ll just wait here a bit, I’ll make it worth your while.” I feel him fishing for something in his pocket, and then a flame appears, hissing from a gold lighter. It illuminates the twenty-dollar bill he holds.

“I guess I can wait a bit.”

“Thanks a lot.” He hands me the twenty dollars and slips out, quickly shutting the door behind him. I hear a man in the hallway say loudly, clearly for the benefit of the other guests, “Well, Mark, it’s about time you came out of the closet!” Partygoers laugh.

I put down my basket and concertina and lean against the cologne-scented jackets and perfumed-tinged furs. In the three years since I began delivering singing telegrams, I’ve experienced many odd situations, but hiding in a coat closet is a first. While almost all deliveries go smoothly and on time, I have discovered that when I’m made to wait, it’s usually for a delivery to a celebrity. And working in the heart of Hollywood for Live Wires Singing Telegram Company, I’ve had my share of celebrity recipients.

Tonight David Niven Jr. has sent me to celebrate a double birthday for Jack Haley Jr. and star of stage and screen Tony “
The Name of the Game
” Franciosa. Like his friend Jack, Tony had married and divorced a legendary actress—in his case, Shelley Winters. When I get out of this closet, I will perform my most popular telegram, the “fabulous, fantastic, fiery, frenzied, famous Fifi DeLune,” a sequined French cancan girl who delivers comedy patter while she juggles, sings a song appropriate for the occasion, then leaves the recipient with a mini French feast, which she also juggles.

When delivering singing telegrams I mostly perform my own characters and original material: a fortune-telling gypsy, a nagging wife, a Salvation Army zealot sent to cocktail parties to encourage the recipient to “repent,” a scheming Lucille Ball, a stewardess taking recipients on a “trip” through their lives, a nagging Jewish mother, and a porn director who comically leads the fully-clothed recipient in scenes from their “latest film.” I also do specific holiday characters created by Live Wires: a leprechaun for St. Patrick’s Day, a fruitcake for Christmas, a baby for Mother’s Day.

I know it’s not like performing on television or in films, but at least I’m not waitressing while I wait for my big break. And since I often perform for studio heads, producers, casting directors, and stars, I figure delivering singing telegrams could very well lead to something bigger. Jack Haley Jr. is a successful producer, and who knows who else is at this party. So I guess it’s worth the wait. Even in this closet.

After ten minutes, I hear footsteps approaching.
Finally.
I adjust my strapless bra, make sure the feather in my headband’s standing straight. I pick up my basket and concertina. I’m ready. The knob turns, and Mark opens the door a crack. He pokes his head in and whispers, “Just a little bit longer. Can I get you a drink?”

“No thanks,” I say, sucking in the fresh air that seeps through the gap. “But I do have to get going soon,” I add as the door closes.

Damn it.
Just last week I stood for twenty minutes on the corner of Rodeo Drive and Santa Monica Boulevard in front of the Beverly Hills Presbyterian Church dressed as a gorilla. When I was finally led into the church, I sang, danced, and told gorilla-themed jokes for a famous movie star. I really shouldn’t say her name because, well,
I was appearing at her Alcoholics Anonymous meeting,
sent to celebrate her two-year anniversary of “having the gorilla off her back.”

And a few weeks before that I waited thirty minutes dressed as a fifties-style fan in the back of a soundstage at Paramount Studios as they taped the first episode of the fourth season of
Laverne and Shirley
in front of a live studio audience. Penny Marshall and Cindy Williams had hired me and my cohort to welcome back the cast, whom we thought we were waiting to greet backstage when the scene was over. Wrong. After a half hour, a producer ran up to us and, without warning, shooed us out onto the stage, where we unexpectedly performed our routine for the entire cast, crew, and studio audience.

At least during those two incidents, I could breathe. It’s getting pretty damn stuffy in this closet. And I do have a life. In fact, I have a date with Danielle. I’m supposed to meet her at a club at 10:30. That’s in ten minutes. Come on already.

Finally the door opens. A wrinkled blond woman in her seventies wearing a silver cocktail dress, jumps back. “What the fuck?!” she yelps.

“Shhhh,” I whisper, “I’m a surprise for the birthday boys.”

“Ya nearly gave me a motherfuckin’ heart attack.” She is so sloshed, she stumbles inside the closet, and I manage to catch her by the arm before she falls.

“Can I help you with something?”

“My lipschhhtick,” she slurs, rummaging through the coats. “I left it in my pocket.” This woman can barely stand up straight. How the hell is she going to apply lipstick? Still, I help her search and I find the cool, smooth tube in a leather coat pocket.

“Thanksssss,” she says as I hand it to her. She staggers out, closing the door on me.

One time I was sent to Chasen’s restaurant to deliver a singing telegram for Ed McMahon’s birthday. Not only did I have to wait twenty minutes until his guests finished their appetizers, but once I finally started performing, Ed
heckled
me. I improvised as best I could, working around his obnoxious comments, but he was relentless. Finally one of his guests, the typically even
more
obnoxious Don Rickles, came to my rescue, shouting, “Ed, shut up and listen!”

Months earlier, at a party in Coldwater Canyon, I waited for Steve Allen to stop noodling on the piano before I could begin my act. When he didn’t, I dived into my routine anyway, and he kept playing, trying to accompany me. At least I made the guests laugh when, in character, I asked him to please stop. “I work alone,” I said.

And alone I wait, for another fifteen minutes, in Jack Haley Jr.’s coat closet. Trying to remain cool, I mentally recite a litany of Zen quotes that I recall: “If you understand, things are just as they are; if you do not understand, things are just as they are.” “The obstacle is the path.” Insightful, but not really relevant to having to wait in a friggin’ closet.

Finally I hear footsteps. But it sounds like the click of high heels. Again the door opens a crack and this time a buxom caterer dressed in a short black skirt and crisp white hors d’oeuvre-stained shirt thrusts a tray inside. “Potsticker?”

I decline. “Would you mind telling Mark I have to go?”

“Who?”

“The guy in the paisley ascot.”

“Which one?”

Figures. I describe Mark’s particular paisley, and she ventures out to find him. Now my future lies in the hands of a stranger whose priority is to deliver rounds of crab cakes. It’s 10:35, and I’m already five minutes late to meet Danielle, and I haven’t even performed yet. And it’s not like I’m getting paid by the hour. I get a set fee for what usually takes ten minutes, and I’ve been here thirty-five minutes already. Who do these people think they are, anyway? Just because they’ve had some success doesn’t mean they can treat others like they’re unimportant. It’s always the celebrities….

I remember one chilly spring day when I arrived at a lavish estate tucked into Benedict Canyon. I rang the bell, and the large wooden front doors creaked open. There stood Cher. Even dressed in baggy gray sweatpants, a T-shirt, and no makeup, she was striking.

“Come in,” she said excitedly. “I’ll go get Chas.” She didn’t move—just screamed upstairs. “Chas, come on down, someone’s here for you.”

In the foyer, assorted kids and adults gathered around me. Cher called upstairs a few more times, but when her daughter, Chastity, didn’t answer, one of the guests, a very tan woman, climbed the stairs.

Cher talked with her guests while I waited. And waited. Finally, about fifteen minutes later, the tan woman appeared at the top of the stairs with Cher’s eleven-year-old daughter. The birthday girl sauntered downstairs, and I launched into my routine. Everyone laughed and applauded. Except for Chastity, who never cracked a smile.

As I was leaving, Cher turned to the apathetic birthday girl, “Chas? What do you say?”

“Thank you,” her daughter uttered, almost inaudibly.

Not quite the enthusiastic response one would desire after being made to wait.

At this point even a standing ovation won’t make forty-five minutes in this closet worthwhile. I hear everyone singing “Happy Birthday,” and I feel my lip curling. Okay, I have to draw the line somewhere. How can they be so thoughtless and rude? They think it’s okay to make me wait this long in a dark, tiny coat closet like freakin’ Patty Hearst? Unh-unh. Enough already. My heart’s pounding, muffled under my lace bra; my palms are damp with sweat in my gold lamé gloves. I can hardly breathe. That’s it, I’m outta here.

Just as I reach for the doorknob, I feel it turn. Mark pokes his head in. “Pllleeeeaaassse forgive me. I am sooooo sorry. It’s just that everyone was still doing dinner, and I knew they wouldn’t focus while they ate, and I just want this to be perfect. We’re finishing up cake right now and I swear it’ll only be five more minutes. I swear.”

“Look, it’s been almost an hour, and I’m already late for my next appointment.” I try to appear cool, to keep my anger from erupting. He could be an important showbiz connection. But I take a stand and say, “I have to go now.”

“I’ll make it worth your while,” he repeats, only this time he reaches into his pocket and takes out
two
twenty-dollar bills. Damn. What do I do? I need the money for rent this month. I only make twenty-five bucks for delivering the singing telegram, and usually people don’t even tip. I can’t say no to forty more dollars, can I?

“All right,” I hiss, snatching the bills. “But if it’s not in five minutes, I’m gone.”

“Thank you so much!” Mark hugs me. I feel his silk ascot brush against my cleavage; some mousse from his hair sticks to my left cheek. The door closes, and once again I’m enfolded in darkness.

I am still so riled, my heart won’t stop racing. There are a million things I want to do with my life yet I spend so much time waiting. Waiting in lines at the bank and post office, in traffic, and for buses. Waiting for phone calls from lovers, for food to come at restaurants, for planes to take off, for news that I got the job. I’ve waited to say the right thing at the right time, waited for apologies, and waited until the last minute to make a decision. I’ve spent an enormous portion of my life waiting. And what have I done with that time? Grown impatient, antsy, annoyed, insulted, angry, frustrated, exasperated.

And right there in Jack Haley Jr.’s coat closet, it hits me—just how much energy I’ve wasted. I breathe deeply and calm myself down as I make a decision. I will no longer continue to waste my life while I wait. Instead, I’ll use my time and materials wisely. I will brainstorm and scheme, meditate, contemplate, create. Damn it, from now on, while I wait, I might even enjoy myself. After all, I do have a choice.

Before I can put my newfound revelation into practice, the door opens, light pours in, and Mark says, “You’re on!”

I place my basket back on my arm, pick up my concertina, and pull out its folds, sucking in air. I launch into the cancan song as I march into the living room. Forty guests, all decked out in cocktail dresses and suits, are gathered in the stark, white room with white furniture and white shag carpeting. They gasp and giggle as I enter, and when I finish my song on the concertina, they applaud.