Maybe the Moon Page 3

  I called Leonard the morning after my last entry and asked him if he’d had any nibbles from the radio people.

  “Not really, doll.”

  “Where did you call?”

  He waited a tad too long before saying: “Around.”

  He hadn’t called shit, of course, having totally forgotten about me since my last call, but I decided not to force the issue. As neglectful as Leonard can be, he’s a name agent, with fingers in lots of important pies. I signed on with him a decade ago, when he was still in his twenties and hanging out on the lot with Mr. Woods. He was representing Callum Duff, the cute ten-year-old who played the elf’s human friend. We just started gabbing outside the honey wagon one day. I was half in rubber at the time, sweat pouring down my face, hardly at my cutest, and the next thing I knew I was part of Leonard’s stable.

  In the beginning, I think he was swept along by the novelty of knowing me. He’d call me once or twice a month to collect my latest anecdotes and to gossip about his tight little circle of friends, which, if you believed him, consisted exclusively of a handful of other gay men, Dolly Parton, and Cher. The jobs didn’t exactly roll in, but I worked steadily, mostly in horror films, mugging my little heart out in this refrigerator or that.

  Once, a year or so after we’d met, Leonard invited me to sing at a party he and his lover were throwing at their fancy new house in the Hollywood Hills. On the engraved invitation, the event was billed as An Evening with Mr. Woods. I stood on a red-lacquered baby grand in a postmodern atrium full of white plaster sculpture and did my funkiest rendition of “Stand by Your Man.” The guys loved it, and I enjoyed myself thoroughly, though I’d come there largely in the hope of meeting Dolly and/or Cher. Leonard, the little slimeball, had all but promised as much when he’d asked me to perform.

  Since then our contact has been strictly professional and always initiated by me. Leonard’s star has risen dramatically in recent years, judging from the caliber of his clients. I see his name in the trades all the time, or in the local social columns in the company of serious power brokers like Barry Diller, Sandy Gallin, and David Geffen. I’m happy for him, I guess, but so far his success hasn’t exactly rubbed off on me.

  I didn’t grill him about the radio stuff. Leonard just gets cranky when you force him to lie. “So,” I said instead, “nothing new, huh?”

  He heaved a sigh on my behalf. “’Fraid not, doll.”

  “I wouldn’t bug you like this, but things are getting pretty tight.”

  “I know.”

  I considered several approaches, then said: “It might be a long shot, but I’ve been thinking about Twin Peaks.”

  “No way.”

  “Hear me out, OK? I don’t know what they’re doing next season, but Lynch has used little people before and—”

  “It’s toast, Cady.”

  “What?”

  “Twin Peaks is toast. It’s had it. It won’t make it another season.”

  “Toast?”

  He chuckled.

  “People say this? Where do you pick this shit up?”

  “C’mon,” he said with amused disbelief. “Where have you been?”

  “In the Valley, Leonard.” I spoke as sternly as I knew how without sounding angry. “This is what I’m trying to tell you. If you don’t get me out of here soon, I won’t know what anybody’s talking about.”

  “That’ll be the day,” he said. “You never miss a trick.” He was flattering me now, I realized, a very bad sign indeed, since Leonard resorts to that only when there are no other cards up his sleeve. A small rodent in my stomach warned me to prepare for the worst.

  “Look,” he said, “I think I know a guy who can help you.”

  “What do you mean?” I was holding my breath now, hoping to hell it wasn’t so.

  “His name is Arnie Green. He’s a helluva good guy, an old-timer. He runs an agency in—”

  “I know who Arnie Green is, Leonard.”

  “Well…”

  “He books specialty acts. I’m not a specialty act. I’m an actress.”

  “Of course you are, but—”

  “He does clowns and sword swallowers, for God’s sake!”

  “Cady, look, I’m trying to help you out here.”

  Yeah, I thought. Out of his life. I’ve finally grown into a nuisance, and he’s putting an end to it once and for all.

  “The thing is,” he added in the gentlest voice I’ve ever heard from him, “you need regular employment, Cady. What’s the point in being so proud? You’re doing phone work, for Christ’s sake. Arnie Green might not be the movies, but at least he would keep you in the public eye.”

  “In a dwarf-throwing contest.”

  Leonard sighed. “It’s more than that.”

  “So you’re dumping me?”

  “Did I say that?”

  “You never say anything, Leonard.”

  “I don’t know why you’re so angry at me. I’m just trying to help.”

  “I know.” I tried to sound contrite.

  “You’ve gotta appreciate…” He cut himself off, obviously avoiding some sort of thin ice.

  “What?”

  No response.

  “What, Leonard? What do I gotta appreciate.”

  “That the market just doesn’t call for it. I won’t lie to you, Cady. They’re not writing roles for little people. I don’t like it any more than you do.”

  “I don’t want a role written for me. I just want a role. Why does my size have to be an issue? This is the real world, Leonard. Little people can turn up anywhere, just like redheads and queers.”

  This was a pretty speech, but a big mistake. Most of my gay friends revel in calling themselves queer now, but Leonard is obviously not among them. It took him a decade just to get to the “gay” stage. I could tell by the long, clammy silence that followed that I’d offended him.

  “The thing is,” I said, slogging ahead, “I’m not trying to be Julia Roberts. They can use me wherever they use a character actress. I can play anything Bette Midler can play. Or Whoopi Goldberg. I could’ve been that psychic in Ghost.”

  Leonard grunted.

  “Why not?”

  “Too Zelda Rubinstein.”

  He’d brought up her name, I’m sure, just to get back at me for using the Q-word. It was his mean way of telling me that not all little people are failures, but I refused to let it get my goat. “You see the point, though,” I said. “It’s just a question of creative casting.”

  “No. It’s more than that.”

  “Like what?”

  “They’d have to insure you, Cady.”

  “So? They have to insure everybody.”

  “Well…I’m not sure if they would now.”

  “Why the hell not?”

  Another tortured pause and then: “How much weight have you gained?”

  I couldn’t believe my ears. “Excuse me?”

  “I don’t wanna get personal, Cady.”

  “Go ahead. Be my guest.”

  “Look…”

  “What is this, Leonard? You haven’t laid eyes on me for two years. Do I sound fat?”

  “People talk, OK?”

  I had a brief, delicious fantasy in which Bruce Willis and Demi Moore, or maybe the Redgrave sisters, were gossiping over dinner at Spago: Have you seen Cadence Roth lately? Is she a porker or what? Coming back down to earth, I decided that one of Leonard’s lovepuppies must’ve seen me at brunch in West Hollywood one Sunday. “And what do these people tell you?” I asked him glacially.

  “It’s not that I don’t sympathize,” he said, avoiding the question. “God knows, the weight thing is a constant struggle for me.”

  “Fuck you. You’re practically anorexic.”

  “Well, it’s all the same thing. You can’t afford to gain a pound, doll. It’s too much pressure on your system. It’s just not healthy. And this is what they’ll say.”

  “This is what who’ll say?”

  “The studios.”


  “Oh.” I waited a beat. “So let me get this straight: A—I’m too short, and B—I’m too fat.”

  “Don’t do this, Cady. You know I think you’re special.”

  “Is that why you call me so much?”

  Silence.

  “Don’t listen to me,” I said, suddenly fearful of losing him altogether. “It’s my hormones raging. I could drown kittens right now.”

  “Can I give you Arnie Green’s number?”

  “No,” I said. “Thanks. I know how to reach him.”

  “He’s a decent guy, really.”

  “I’m sure.”

  “I’ll still keep my eyes open, doll.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Take care now.”

  “You too.” I hung up, perilously close to tears and more confused than ever. I couldn’t decide if “still keep my eyes open” was just one more hollow promise or Leonard’s backhanded way of making the divorce final. Either way, I didn’t like the sound of it. Either way, I was sure I was toast.

  That night Renee and I ordered a large pepperoni pizza from Domino’s and ate it on the living room floor. “This is it for me,” I told her, playing cat’s cradle with a loop of mozzarella. “Tomorrow it’s diet time.”

  Renee giggled. “Sure.”

  “No. I mean it, Renee.”

  “OK.” She shrugged and gave me a sheepish look. I knew she didn’t believe me.

  “What’s that one you were telling me about last week?”

  “One what?”

  “That diet,” I said. “The one with the protein shakes.”

  “Oh. The Cher Diet.”

  I winced. “Is it in a book or something?”

  “Yeah. I’ve got it at work.”

  “Could you bring it home?”

  “Sure.” She picked a pepperoni off the pizza and popped it into her mouth. “What brought this on?”

  “Nothing. It’s just time for me to get my shit together.”

  Renee nodded absently.

  “I’ve got a few ideas about work, and I wanna look my best.” By this I meant Arnie Green, of course, but I couldn’t bring myself to tell her yet. Renee relies on me for glamour. I dreaded worse than anything the thought of letting her down.

  “Oh,” she said, brightening. “Did you talk to your agent today?”

  “Yeah.”

  “What does he have in mind?” She had that movie-mad gleam in her eye again.

  “Oh, just…various possibilities.”

  “Great!”

  “It’s nothing definite, Renee.”

  “Still…if you’re dieting…” She gave me a look that said I was just being coy, concealing something truly fabulous. I felt like a total fraud. Frankly, the diet is for my own comfort more than anything. I haven’t gained that much, really, but the extra weight has begun to leave me breathless after short walks. My self-esteem has always been pretty good, but lately, when I look in the mirror, the person who looks back reminds me of a beach ball with legs.

  Renee wanted to take a drive after dinner, so we piled into her clunker convertible and cruised off down Ventura. It was a pearly pink evening, scrubbed clean by the rain, and the air seemed especially warm for April. With her streaming yellow hair and blue angora sweater, Renee played havoc with the teenage boys loitering along our route. Since the little horn-dogs couldn’t see me from a distance, any more than I could see them, they just assumed that the solitary blonde with the big casabas was out looking for action. They howled with exaggerated lust whenever we stopped at a light.

  “They’re so awful,” Renee said, the third or fourth time this happened.

  I looked up at her and cackled. “You love it.”

  “I don’t, either.”

  “Any of ’em cute?”

  “No. They’re gross. They’re practically naked.”

  “Where?” I undid my seat belt, scooted to my knees, and peered over the top of the door. Four shirtless skateboarders sat on a wall bordering a mini-mall. They weren’t my type, really. Too Matt Dillonish.

  “How ’bout I moon ’em?” I said.

  “Caaady.” Renee rolled her eyes and giggled.

  “Why not?”

  “You’re almost thirty, for heaven’s sake.”

  I feigned indignation. “Are you suggesting my moon isn’t what it used to be?”

  “Just chill out.”

  “It’d be so easy. We just open the door right here…”

  She reached across and pulled my hand off the handle. “What’s gotten into you?”

  “You don’t think I’d do it.”

  “Oh, I think you’d do it, all right.”

  We exchanged crooked smiles, understanding each other, so I abandoned the game. I wanted to tell her we couldn’t be victims, that we had to take a stand and give that shit right back to them, but I kept my mouth shut. I knew she’d get whiny and accuse me of lecturing again.

  I slid back down and refastened my seat belt. We just drove for a while, making rectangles. The sky became a ripe nectarine backdrop to the palm trees and Exxon signs that flickered past my line of vision. I filled my lungs with the spongy air and sank back against the seat, wallowing in the promise of summer. A tape deck in another car was playing “Kiss the Girl,” a Disney tune that sounded almost pagan on this pseudotropical evening.

  “Where we heading now?” I asked.

  “I dunno. Mulholland? Some place pretty?”

  “Go for it.”

  By the time we reached the hills, a purple twilight had come over them. Renee was so closemouthed on the way up that I began to wonder if something was eating her. If she had any major bombs to drop, I knew she’d save them for the very top, where long-established custom demanded that we get out of the car and watch the lights of the Valley.

  Then, as we wound around a steep canyon curve, I looked up and caught her frowning into the rearview mirror. “What’s the matter?” I asked.

  “Just some guys.”

  “Guys?”

  “In a car.”

  “Following us?”

  “I can’t tell.”

  I chuckled. “How do you do it? Is it a musk or something?”

  Renee didn’t answer, busy watching the mirror again. I could hear them hollering now, a rednecky sort of croon. The only word I could make out for certain was “dick.” Why is it that some guys can’t see a nice pair of boobs without bursting into a love song to their peckers? If it’s boobs they like, why don’t they talk about boobs?

  Renee’s face suddenly registered dread. “Oh, no.”

  “What?”

  “They’re pulling up next to us.”

  “Big deal.”

  “Don’t egg them on, Cady, please.”

  “Me?”

  “Oowee, would you look at that?” His voice was pure Orange County and came from just above the door next to me. I could see the side of his hat, in fact, which had an American flag on it. “Shit, man, she’s got a kid with her.”

  I restrained myself, looking straight ahead.

  “Nah, it ain’t a kid. What the fuck is that?”

  Renee whimpered at me. “Cady?”

  “What?”

  “What should I do?”

  “Just drive, OK? Faster.”

  “But…”

  “I’m not gonna moon ’em. Just keep driving.”

  “You won’t fuckin’ believe this, man. She’s even got a friend for you!”

  I kept my eyes ahead of me and, ever so discreetly, gave him the finger.

  “Ha ha…you see that? You see what that fuckin’ midget did?”

  “Cady.” Renee cast me a desperate glance.

  “It’s all right,” I said, still flipping the bird. “Stay cool.”

  The guys lingered a moment longer, laughing like jackals, then shot ahead of us and screeched out of sight around the bend. Checking Renee for damage, I found her cheeks shiny with tears. This kind of stuff really gets to her, poor thing. She hasn’t dealt with it as long
as I have.

  “How can they be so ugly?”

  “Practice,” I said.

  “If they knew who you were, they’d be so ashamed of themselves.”

  “We’re swerving, Renee.”

  “Oopsy…” She grabbed the wheel and made a quick recovery. “Sorry.”

  “What do you mean, if they knew who I was?”

  “If they knew they were saying those ugly things to Mr. Woods.”

  “Oh, for God’s sake!” I hooted at her. “You think they’d give a rat’s ass?”

  “I do…yes…I do.”

  “You are such a schmaltzbag.”

  “I bet they went to that movie, and I bet they cried.”

  “And then they went out and joined the ACLU.”

  Renee frowned at me in confusion.

  “Just a group,” I said.

  Now she looked more wounded than ever. “You’re making fun, and I’m serious.”

  “No, I’m not.” Sometimes she makes me feel like I’ve just knocked a kid’s ice cream cone into the dirt.

  “I believe in Mr. Woods,” she said.

  “I know, honey,” I found a Kleenex in the glove compartment and handed it to her. “Blow your nose.”

  We sat on our private hillock and watched the glowing grid of the Valley. The air was cooler but still very pleasant. A helicopter dipped and swayed on the slope below us, slashing the underbrush with garish white light. The night was so still and diamond clear that I could hear a dog barking all the way down in Sherman Oaks.

  “I saw Ham today,” Renee said.

  “Oh, yeah?” I tried to sound as nonchalant as she had.

  “He was at that baked potato place. At the mall.”

  “What did he have to say?”

  “I didn’t talk to him,” she said. “I just saw him.”

  “Oh.”

  “That was the first time I’ve seen him in almost two years.”

  “Three,” I said.

  “He looked good.”

  Good God, I thought, the creep dumped her. What was there to get misty-eyed about?