Secrets of a Soap Opera Diva (3 page)

“There’s no way I’m working with that freak,” Emmy said.

She’d stormed to Randall’s office seconds after reading the first script.

“She’s some kinda psycho robot, man. She never flubs a line and knows everyone else’s too! And have you noticed how she just has to win every scene? It’s creepy.” Emmy shuddered. “I’d rather work with that cow Alison.”

If philandering was an Olympic sport, Randall Roberts would take the gold every time.

“Isn’t there anything you can do, Snuggle Bunny?” Emmy asked, stroking Randall’s head and sitting in his ample lap, stretched out by beer and Chinese take-out.

“Sorry, Emmy, it’s a done deal. Augustus wants the storyline, but since you’re already here, you think we could squeeze in a quickie?”

BACK TO THE SUDSYS ALREADY IN PROGRESS
. . .

“I’m not joking up here, people,” Emmy continued with her backhanded praise also known as a
compli-dis
. “Working with Calysta Jeffries is like taking an intense five-day-a-week acting workshop. She’s
such
a mentor. Let’s hear it for Calysta Jeffries!”

To thunderous applause, disguising my contempt, I rose to the occasion, blowing kisses and mouthing Thank yous into the camera for millions of viewers at home and around the world. If Emmy thought she was going to make an ass out of me on prime-time television, she had another think comin’.

Raging on until two in the morning, a steady stream of inebriated bicoastal bubblers
partied on to pulsing music and animated industry chatter at the lavish
Rich and the Ruthless
post-Sudsy Awards shindig at the legendary paparazzi-filled Roosevelt Hotel.

Navigating overstuffed furniture and humongous melting
R&R
ice sculptures, popular gossip columnist Mitch Morelli finally caught up with me.

“I think it’s a goddamn shame you didn’t win tonight, Calysta,” he bluntly stated. “This was
your
year, and this toxic industry knows it!”

My every instinct told me to say what I’d said for the last fifteen. That Emmy or someone else had the better reel, or that it was an honor just to be nominated, but something inside me couldn’t, no, wouldn’t let me lie about the network’s scandalous secrets one second longer:
the block voting, the notorious sexual campaigning, and the money-hungry power struggle between the Barringers and the WBC.

“Damn right it was my year, Mitch! But considering how certain vicious bubble-troublemakers who call themselves peers vote for whoever campaigns with Starbucks and Krispy Kremes as opposed to
actors
who turn in solid performances, I’ll never win, ’cause, honey, I don’t do doughnuts. You can print that, every last word!”

UH-OH SPAGHETTIOS
, Sudsy lovers. On-set spies tell The Diva there is trouble a-brewing on the set of daytime’s numero uno soap, The Rich and the Ruthless.

Calysta Jeffries, who all but had the Sudsy in the dish, once again lost out to her costar Emmy Abernathy, and boy oh boy, was Miss Calysta p.o.’d! Here’s what she said to Cliffhanger Weekly’s soap columnist Mitch Morelli:

“But considering how certain vicious bubble-troublemakers who call themselves peers vote for whoever campaigns with Starbucks and Krispy Kremes as opposed to actors who turn in solid performances, I’ll never win, ’cause honey, I don’t do doughnuts . . .”

Those sound like fighting words to moi! Wow, who knew Krispy Kremes were such a good career investment? A little birdie tells me execs at WBC and The Rich and the Ruthless are not too happy with Miss C. Be sure to keep checking back to
SecretsofaSoapOperaDiva.com
as this explosive news and dirt develops!

The Diva

W
ell, don’t just stand there leaving me in suspense, Thelma, what’s the child’s name, for heaven’s sake?”

“She goes by Calysta and is a natural for sure. Just like that feisty actress on my soap,
Yesterday, Today and Maybe Tomorrow
.”

“Calysta what? She must have a last name.”

“Well, all right, her real name is Beulah Espinetta Jones, lives right here in Greenwood, but no one’s supposed to know according to the director. She’s half black and from where I sit at the piano during rehearsals, quite attractive, and talented too.”

Grandma Jones could hardly believe her ears as the two pale society ladies chattered away in their Delta drawl. Having licked her last stamp, she jotted down the details before leaving the post office.

Later that evening, the only black person in the audience, she nervously sat in
the last row of an improvised theater in Carrollton, intensely watching me act up a storm.

During the curtain calls she made her way to the back of the building and asked for me.

“I’m sorry, ma’am, but you must be mistaken, there ain’t nobody in this here production named Beulah Jones,” the stage manager responded.

Giggling and puffing on a shared clove cigarette, I heard, “Beulah!”

A buzz kill for sure; I didn’t need to turn around to know who it was. I exhaled the smoke through my nostrils like a defeated dragon, dropping the butt and grinding it beneath my sneaker.

We rode home in deafening silence in Pride-All Taxi Service. The frozen expression on Grandma Jones’s face made her chin dimple like a pocked orange skin.

Arriving at the front door, exasperated, she searched her bottomless black pocketbook, her painted fingernails scratching the polyester lining for the key. And as she opened it she looked dead at me, saying, “You not too grown ’n’ I ain’t too old, now you get you a switch ’fore you come in, and don’t be steppin’ on my strawberry patch either. No dilly-dallyin’.”

After washing my mouth out with soap, Grandma found the hidden strength all women possess, no matter how old, to whup any lick of disobedience or theatrical fantasy out of me.

Not daring to look up past her knee-highs, I cried out, “Grandma, please stop! I promise never to do it again.”

She continued swingin’ with her J. C. Penney coat still on, a hard staccato rhythm in her voice as if in a trance, saying, “Only-freaks-and-strange-folk-want-to-be-on-stage-and-TV-and-you-let-that-boy-kiss-you-all-over-your-mouth-for-everyone-to-see-if-I-evah-catch-you-hitch-hikin’-or-actin’-up-on-a-stage-again-so-help-me . . .”

As I lay in a cold sweat, the merciless ringing of my telephone rescued me.

“Ms. Jeffries?” asked my answering service.

“Huh? I’m sleepin’.”

“I’m sorry to disturb you, ma’am, but your agent is on the line.”

“For crissake, what does he want? Never mind, put him through,” I slurred wearily with a splitting hangover, gulping down a bottle of Evian next to my bed.

Weezi—my agent, manager, publicist, legal counsel, confidant, financial adviser, and escort—barked into the phone, “What the hell are you trying to do to us?”

Never signing a contract, we were each other’s first clients, during the lean years, ever since I stepped foot in New York City a zillion years ago.

He always managed to irritate the hell out of me, like the time I met him for lunch at Chateau Marmont, a favorite Hollywood haunt for A-list movie stars. Weezi insisted on introducing me to De Niro, never mind that he didn’t know the man, who was minding his own business, incognito at a neighboring table. Putting on a thicker than usual New York City accent, Weezi shamelessly asked, “Yo Bob, how ya doin’? Loved ya in
Raging Bull,
ma’ man. My client Calysta here is quite the actress on the number one sudsah,
The Rich and the Ruthless
. I’m sure ya hearda’ it.”

What came next trumped all. Weezi brazenly slipped his business card onto De Niro’s table, a glossy picture of himself on the back.

Cringing, I wanted to evaporate. The A-lister took another sip of espresso before peering over his shades, saying, “I don’t do soaps,” and walked off leaving Weezi’s card and a half-eaten biscotti.

As much as I swore I was firing Weezi after that embarrassing episode, like thousands of times before, I knew I wouldn’t, ’cause pastures just ain’t greener on the other side. I tolerated him the way he tolerated me, one day at a time.

“Huh?” I asked groggily, forgetting I’d tucked myself in with a bottle of Moët and a tin of Godiva. I attempted to hold the phone to my throbbing head, CNN’s Nancy Grace blaring in the background.

“Those quotes you gave Morelli,” Weezi reminded me. “You’ve caused a goddamn firestorm. The network is pissed and so is the show!”

“Oh . . . that?” Hadn’t thought much about my conversation with Mitch until that very moment. “Maybe I went a little overboard, I was fired up. It’ll blow over.”

“A
little
overboard? Your stunt is being talked about all over the place.
Cliffhanger Weekly
,
Soap Suds Digest
, SecretsofaSoapOperaDiva.com,
Daytime Confidential
. . . you name it. And not just soap press,
Access Hollywood,
Nelson Branco,
even Perez!”

“Wow, Perez? I finally made it.”

“This isn’t funny and it ain’t good,” Weezi griped. “The network’s scrambling. A reporter from
Black Enterprise
has already requested an interview with you and the WBC’s head of diversity, Josephine Mansoor, concerning alleged unfair practices on your soap.”

“Oh boy,” I said, sitting up, clearing hair out of my eyes.

“You’ve caused quite the commotion.”

“And that’s a bad thing? You know how many times I’ve been up for that doggone Sudsy. If it sheds some light on this screwed-up, narrow-minded industry, good.”

“Calysta . . .”

“Thanks for the wake-up call, I have thirty-three pages today.”

“You mean thirteen.”

“No, I mean what I said, thirty-three. If only I got paid by the page like that diva in Britain.”

“Calysta . . .”

“I know, keep dreaming. Later, Weezi.”

I hung up and dialed Grandma Jones.

“Hey baby,” she replied on the second ring as usual. “What’s wrong?”

“How’d you know?”

“It’s six thirty in the morning out there in Hollywoodland and you’re supposed to be gettin’ ready to tape my
story
.”

“Grandma, I swear the devil’s at my heels. I have
had
it!”

“What happen’ this time? And before you start, Beulah, I hope you didn’t go ’n’ pop that Gina Chiccetelli in the lip even though I don’t like how she’s been tryin’ to take your man again.”

“Grandma, first of all, that’s her storyline, second, she’s paid to be a floozy. And third, no, I didn’t go ’n’ pop Gina in the lip. It’s worse than that.”

“Beulah, ain’t nothin’ God and your grandma can’t fix; now you tell me with a quickness what’s goin’ on out there!”

I hated my birth name, Beulah Espinetta, with a passion. I changed it the moment I boarded the train from Greenwood to New York City with blurred stars in my eyes, twenty years earlier.

“I didn’t win the Sudsy again, Grandma.”

“
Is that all?” She dismissed me. “Sugah, that’s yesterday’s news. Been knowin’ since last night, but wasn’t gonna bring it up ’cause I know how you let that mess bring you down. But you sure did hold your own, Beulah, I don’t care what anybody says. Made me just as proud, the way you held up your head even though you didn’t win and kept right on smilin’, blowin’ kisses into the camera and everything, and I know that was just for me. You gave new meanin’ to ‘Folks push you back only as far as you let ’em.’ Made
all
of Greenwood feel good, sure did.”

“What?”

“Chile, I had the whole neighborhood over here. You coulda’ canceled Christmas. Couldn’t tell a soul you wasn’t gonna win that Sudsy. No sah-ree. Sister Whilemina made fried chicken and greens, Miss Bessie made mac and cheese, and I made my monkey bread and a Sock-It-To-Me
cake that wouldn’t quit. Tongues was lickin’ brains, baby . . . lickin’ brains. Plus I made my special Manischewitz punch with bananas to wash everything down real good.”

It was bad enough that I’d lost, but to find out the whole town was watching!

“
Chile, folks was yellin’ at the television somethin’ fierce when those imps gave the Sudsy to that Gina Chiccetelli. She can’t act her
way out a brown paper bag nohow. Doggone shame you didn’t win that trophy.”

“You can say that again, Grandma. Emmy’s got four Sudsys to my
none
. One thing’s for sure, she’s been doin’ a lot more than actin’ all these years.”

“Ms. Jones, tell Calysta she was snatched like
all get out
last night!” a voice yelled in the background.

“Shush your mouth! What’d I say ’bout talkin’ like that in my house,” Grandma scolded. “Back in the day I’da washed your mouth out with soap.”

“I ain’t said nothin’ Beulah ain’t never heard before.”

“Pipe down and button up,” Grandma commanded. “That girl and her fresh mouth, always running like a bell clapper.”

“Who’s that?” I asked.

“Miss Whilemina’s fast granddaughter Eartheletta. Got herself in a little trouble so she’s visitin’ from Chicago for a few weeks thinkin’ she grown. Now listen to me, Beulah, never mind all that foolishness out there, I raised you right and you’ll get yours the old-fashioned way. Besides, you done won eleven NAACP Image Awards.”

“Yes, Grandma, and I’m very proud of that,” I replied, knowing I couldn’t begin to explain Hollywood politics. Though the prestigious Image Awards were star-studded, and the NAACP was steeped with rich political and theatrical history as far back as the 1915 protest against D. W. Griffith’s
Birth of a Nation,
the painful absence of qualified brown people before and behind the lens still remained and affected everything from soap operas to feature films. The camera didn’t lie, and it was still out of focus.

“And how many times can Gina Chiccetelli . . . I mean Emmy Abernathy say she’s been on the cover of
Jet
or
Ebony
? Shoot, I have two scrapbooks full of your clippin’s for safekeepin’. Winnin’ an Image Award is one heck of a prize, baby, you right up there with all the big shots, and
Harry Belafonte still looks good, used to be sweet on him. I’m lookin’ at that Image Award you sent me right now. I have it smack dab in the middle of the kitchen table with the salt and peppa’ shakers so
no one
can miss it when they come visit. Now, I know there’s one award missin’, and I bet you even keepin’ a space for it, but don’t you worry, somethin’ bigger is comin’ down the pike. I can feel it. Been prayin’ for it to happen for ya.”