Fifty Cents For Your Soul Page 5

  Sol and I became pals in the twinkle of an eye.

  “I have to make a full mask of your face,” he said, his blue eyes twinkling, “to see if it matches the face of the girl Suzanne wants for Robin. Her name is Lynn. Lynn Beth Sullivan.” After fishing a Tsingtao from a Styrofoam cooler, Sol’s expression turned rueful. “One of my addictions,” he said, hefting the bottle. “You can have a beer later if you like, Frannie, but right now you must sit very still. The procedure is uncomfortable, but I want you to try and keep your teeth apart so the mouth is structurally sound. Okay?”

  “Sure,” I said, instinctively flexing my jaw.

  Sol’s studio looked like Bloomingdale’s cosmetics department, except for the two bald swordsmen who stood next to large tubs of colorful base. Their names were Oscar and Oscar.

  I had seen them on TV, having only missed the Academy Awards once, at age thirteen, when my appendix began rupturing. But now, for some dumb reason, I noticed that Oscar had no genitalia.

  Seated in front of the dressing room mirror, I scrutinized Sol’s reflection. A full mane of brown hair, a Wyatt Earp mustache, sapphire eyes, and ears studded with diamonds filled in my mental Etch-a-Sketch.

  I felt comfortable but grungy in my faded Levi’s and waitress tuxedo shirt, eternally stained with Caesar salad dressing. Although laundered at least a million times, the shirt still smelled of anchovies.

  Sol met my eyes in the mirror. “When I was a boy I used to put on scary makeup to fool my friends,” he said, smootching grease all over my face. Then he had me close my eyes and breathe through a straw while he told me about his makeup sessions with Marlon Brando and Dustin Hoffman.

  “Well?” I said, after Sol had removed the outer plaster mask and some loose, floppy silicone.

  “Well, what?” He gently dislodged tiny shreds that still garnished my eyelashes, then handed me a Tsingtao.

  I sneezed and wiped my nose on my rolled-up sleeve. “Will my face match the other girl?”

  “I don’t know, darling, you were first. Lynn Beth is due here Wednesday.”

  “Then I guess I’ll find out Thursday, unless…” I knocked on wood and clapped three times. “Unless Suzanne calls…” I tried to sound like the witch who’d worn a prom dress and burst onto the screen in a bubble; the Oz Munchkinland witch. “Unless Suzanne calls and cancels my audition with the great and powerful Victor Madison.”

  Was it my imagination, or did Sol grip his beer bottle as if it had become the only tangible object in the room? I was unable to read the expression in his sapphire eyes.

  Resentment? Defiance? Bitterness?

  His demeanor suddenly turned normal again, assuming normal meant cautiously placing his Tsingtao on the table, picking up his two Oscars, and hefting them like dumbbells. Then he handed me one.

  I gazed into the mirror and visualized my acceptance speech.

  Holding Oscar against my face, I felt heat radiate from its Charlton-Heston-Ben-Hur body.

  Even without the genitalia, Oscar generated desire.

  In other words, I felt horny.

  Wasn’t Hornie a Scottish nickname for the devil?

  Frannie, you ask such stupid questions!

  That night, while moisturizing my face, I discovered an almost imperceptible half-moon-shaped burn on my right cheekbone.

  I wanted to tell Bonnie about my makeup session with Sol, but I got her answering machine. Trying not to sound like my mother, I left Bonnie a message. Then I called my mother.

  “Make sure you wash every bit of that greasy gunk off,” she said, “or you’ll get pimples.”

  Chapter Eight

  “Damn, damn, damn! I don’t know what to wear!”

  “Frannie, what’s the difference? If you hurry, we can share a cab.” Clothed in sockless sneakers, jeans, his/our Les Miserables sweatshirt, and a Mets warm-up jacket, Andre paced up and down the bedroom.

  “I want to make a good impression on Victor Madison,” I said, “but I’m supposed to double for a thirteen-year-old girl. Don’t you think I should look young and innocent?”

  “Absolutely. What did you wear when you played Jill?”

  It took a moment. “Overalls and a beanie. But Jack peed his pants and exited stage left. God forbid Victor Madison should pee his pants and exit stage left. Please, Andre, please. Tell me what to wear.”

  “Why don’t you call your mother and ask her?”

  That shut me up. I stared at my empty closet. Then I stared at every piece of clothing I owned, spread out across the waterbed.

  “Andre, you have a part in a soap,” I said. “You shot a shaving gel commercial that was actually shown on TV. I make tuna sandwiches and clean Snow’s litter box and vacuum our ersatz Oriental carp ‑‑”

  “Enough, Frannie!” He tossed me a pair of pink linen slacks and a white blouse. “Too bad you’re not auditioning for the part of a Jewish demon. Guilt is definitely your forte.”

  I tried not to wail. “This stupid blouse is wrinkled!”

  “A blouse isn’t stupid, Frannie. A person who refuses to iron is stupid.”

  “If God wanted me to iron, She’d have given me hot hands!”

  With exaggerated patience, Andre sorted out the mess on our bed. Then, like the butler in an Agatha Christie movie, he handed me a short-sleeved sweater crocheted in pink and white stripes.

  “Nice,” I said, “but it’s tight and shows too much cleavage.”

  “What cleavage?”

  He had a point. “How should I fix my hair, honey?

  “Christ, I don’t know. Shave it off or mousse it into Shirley Temple curls.”

  “All right, be that way. You have a part --”

  “Gotta run, Frannie. My producer called. She has new scripts. With luck, I’ll emerge from my coma. I hate breathing through that nose plug. Good luck, babe.”

  Andre gave me a quick kiss and exited stage left.

  I wondered if it mattered what I wore? Suzanne had called. Sol hadn’t finished the face-masks yet, and Madison wanted my audition to take place inside his hotel suite. Why? Did he want me to perform the nude scene she’d mentioned? If yes, clothes wouldn’t matter. Suzanne would be there, too. I remembered telling Andre I wasn’t into kinky. Were Suzanne and Madison into kinky? I tried to erase that thought because, to be perfectly honest, ever since my meeting with Sol I’d been feeling hungry, passionate, inspired. Andre hadn’t made love to me since my psychic-pathic visit, and a threesome sounded…intriguing.

  No! Never! I was monogamous, would always be monogamous. Asmodeus had nothing to fear.

  Asmodeus? Christ, I’d just had a brain-glitch, probably because I had re-read the book last night and Asmodeus, sneaky devil, was on my mind. My mind recovered the fumble. Andre had nothing to fear.

  I brushed my hair into a ponytail and cloaked my cotton-candy-colored outfit with a vintage Brooklyn Dodgers warm-up jacket. Then I locked the apartment, navigated five staircases two steps at a time, and waited impatiently for the bus. While waiting, I tried to conjure up an image of a demon, but all I could visualize was Tenia’s rattlesnake. So I’d use the snake, if Madison wanted a Robin-Asmodeus improvisation. Hissing through my teeth, I began to feel malevolent.

  Madison’s hotel fronted Fifth Avenue, across from the park, and I was too early. Seated atop a grassy knoll near a duck pond, I watched molten sunshine accentuate drake feathers. The ducks quack-quacked, and it was difficult to sustain malevolence. Until I pictured fangs between their bills and claws between their webbed feet.

  I wouldn’t collect one of Sol’s Oscars for the role of a double, but Harris had said it could lead to other parts if Victor Madison liked my work. I wanted to be good, and good meant bad.

  Once upon a time, while wandering through the city, I had walked into an art gallery and seen a portrait of Madison. The exhibit included photos of Marilyn Monroe, the Beatles, Walt Disney, Alfred Hitchcock, Garbo, Janis Joplin, Steven Spielberg ‑‑ legends in black and white.

  Especially
black. Against a pure black background, Madison had stared directly into the camera. His hair was so dark, you couldn’t see the shape of his head. His face was a pale mask, with onyx eyes and a cruel, sensual mouth.

  Under each framed portrait, the photographer had included a quotation. Marilyn Monroe: “Hollywood is a place where they’ll pay you a thousand dollars for a kiss and fifty cents for your soul.” Disney: “Every time they make a pornographic film, I make money.” Joplin: “You can destroy your now by worrying about tomorrow.” Victor Madison had quoted Shakespeare. King Lear. “The prince of darkness is a gentleman.”

  Madison’s photo also graced my friend Mickey Roebuck’s loft, but Madison’s face had been distorted by dart punctures, leaving the impression that something (greasy gunk, maybe) had induced pimples.

  My watch said it was time to meet a living legend. I felt like Alice in Wonderland. Only instead of cartwheeling down a rabbit hole, I was about to fall through the pages of a movie magazine. I remembered Alice’s “Oh, dear!” upon meeting the Queen of Hearts.

  That broke the spell. I would have said, “Oh, shit!”

  Riding the elevator, I listened to Manilow Muzak.

  Chapter Nine

  Suzanne responded to my knock. I didn’t cartwheel or fall, simply marched into Victor Madison’s suite, the last notes from Barry’s Copa still inside my head, establishing my rhythm.

  Oh, dear! Shaking the famous horror film director’s hand, I whispered, “Hi.”

  Andre would have compared me to Snow during a thunderstorm. I felt as if someone had handed me Alice’s eat-me-drink-me potion, except my eyes, rather than my body, had grown too big.

  Madison wore black jeans, basketball sneakers, a charcoal-gray Oxford shirt, and a black V-neck sweater. With his short dark hair and black-rimmed glasses, he looked like Clark Kent. Where was my man in the art gallery? Where was my Prince of Darkness? Only his eyes retained that sinister, brooding quality.

  Without being obnoxious, he examined me from head to toe, and I wondered if he had X-ray vision. Could he see my breakfast bagel and ersatz cappuccino ‑‑ half Maxwell House coffee, half 2% chocolate milk?

  As if she’d read my mind, Suzanne said, “Do you want something to drink or eat, Ms. Rose?”

  “No, thank you.”

  “Then I’d like you to reenact the scene you performed for me in my office,” she said.

  “Here?”

  “No, the bedroom.” Madison tapped the ash from his cigarette into a water glass. “That’s where Robin has her confrontations with Asmodeus, and a bed has to be more comfortable than the floor.”

  His voice was deep, with a slight Brooklyn accent. I had expected Cary Grant and felt somewhat soothed by the regional diction.

  Madison offered me one of his Marlboros. I’ve never smoked but my shaky fingers needed a provisional prop, so I put the cigarette between my lips á la James Dean, then watched Madison reach toward a nearby table and pick up a silver lighter engraved: TO M FROM S.

  M…Madison. S…Suzanne?

  As he flicked the lighter, Suzanne said, “Are you ready, dear?”

  Shedding my jacket, I killed my un-smoked cigarette in an ashtray filled with gold candy foil. Then I entered the bedroom and glanced around.

  An ornately-framed Isabelle Copley painting enhanced one wall. The window view looked like an illustration for a Big Apple postcard. A lawnmower wouldn’t have sneered at the plush carpet, and the dresser beneath a beveled mirror had so many drawers, Madison could have opened a Gap franchise. Dominating a small table was a steel sculpture that resembled a winged baboon.

  Striving to sound worldly rather than dumb, I said, “Who made, uh, sculpted the sculpture?”

  “Picasso,” Madison replied.

  “Really?” My Picasso encounters included my Aunt Brenna’s coffee table book, several visits to the Museum of Modern Art, and one Picasso quote: “Art is a lie that makes us realize truth.”

  “Really.” Madison smiled. “It’s a replica, of course. The original structure stands 50 feet high and weighs 163 tons, but I like to take this one with me when I travel.”

  “Why?” To me, it still resembled a baboon. Or a gargoyle.

  Madison smiled again. “It soothes my soul.”

  I wanted to ask him why his soul needed soothing, but Suzanne said, “Shall we begin?”

  Taking a deep breath, actually several deep breaths, I hit the bed.

  Madison watched.

  Suzanne watched.

  I could almost swear someone else was watching too, even though there was nobody else in the room.

  The mirror! It had to be the mirror. Somebody, or some thing, was in the mirror, watching me.

  Was I nuts? Or had I seen too many Wes Craven movies?

  I tried to ignore the mirror. I remembered the book; Robin trying to avoid mirrors. She hadn’t succeeded. Half of me said this was good, I could use Robin’s tension for the audition. Half of me said this was bad, crazy, scary. The third half told me to run like hell.

  I don’t know why I didn’t run. Maybe because I had blabbed to my mother, telling her about the audition (“Promise you won’t say anything, Mom!”), knowing she’d call her sister, my stupnagel cousin Charlene’s mother, as soon as I hung up the phone.

  Almost instantly, I realized that implementing the mental picture of Tenia’s snake would never fly. I wanted Robin to be terror-stricken, but the image of a rattlesnake would render her motionless, unable to flail out at her adversary.

  “Take your time,” Madison said.

  “Do you need to use the bathroom, dear?” Suzanne sounded impatient.

  “No.” A shiver traveled up and down my spine. The bedroom felt cold, almost frosty, but that wasn’t the reason for my shivery sensation. Fact was, I didn’t need to use the bathroom. I needed to hide inside the bathroom. Because, to my chagrin, I couldn’t perform. I couldn’t do that scene, or any other scene. I didn’t give a rat’s spit if Suzanne and Madison critiqued my presentation, but I was paralyzed by whomever, or whatever, lived inside that mirror.

  Suddenly, I heard clicks.

  Slanting a glance toward the mirror, I saw beetles avalanche from its scrolled wooden frame and tumble to the dresser. Most landed upside-down. As I watched, unable to look away, they righted themselves with a click.

  Christ! If I opened my mouth the click-beetles would crawl inside.

  Fuck the improvisation! I wanted to go home. Fuck Asmodeus!

  Without warning, ice-cold fingers unzipped my fly and tugged my slacks down my hips.

  “No!” I screamed.

  “Good,” Madison said. “I like that interpretation.”

  His voice seemed to come from far away. But the clicks sounded closer. Had the beetles tumbled to the floor?

  Still on the bed, I felt my body flop like a grounded fish. My slacks and panties were down around my ankles, shackling my feet. Icy fingers rubbed my clit, back and forth, back and forth, in a mesmerizing rhythm of continuity. I was burning up and shivering at the same time.

  “Don’t,” I begged. “Please! Leave me alone!”

  “Good,” Madison said.

  CLICK. CLICK. CLICKCLICKCLICK.

  “Why are you doing this?” Even to my own ears, my voice sounded plaintive, the whimper of a young, scared little girl.

  With the greatest effort of my life, I moved my hands toward the icy fingers between my thighs.

  Nothing! No icy fingers!

  CLICK. CLICK. CLICK. CLICK.

  “Get away from me!”

  “Good,” Madison said.

  Now my fingers were rubbing my clit ‑‑ and I couldn’t stop! I began to shudder. On the verge of an orgasm, I squeezed my eyes shut.

  The clicks diminished, but behind my closed eyelids I saw a tidal wave of animals. Carnivorous. Herbivorous. Insectivorous. Omnivorous. Equine. Bovine. Canine. Feline…

  And they all wanted to feast on the moisture between my thighs!

  I tried to raise my la
shes but they seemed glued to my cheeks, and all I could do was blink with my eyes closed.

  “Good,” Madison said. “Very good.”

  And very good meant very bad!

  I must have blacked out, at least momentarily. When I became fully aware of my surroundings, Madison was leading me from the bedroom. He announced that he’d screen-test me right away, how about tomorrow? When I nodded, he said, “I’ve never seen an improvisation like that before. It looked real.”