Sky Tongues (7 page)

other
folks hating us to death. Going out in public became a problem when it had never before been an issue.
   I had to disguise myself to go anywhere, wearing wigs, glasses, bulky nondescript clothes, and of course, gloves. Sometimes the disguises worked, sometimes not. Luckily though, it was only people who liked me that busted me trying to buy melons or whatever in the supermarket. Apparently, people can learn to hate you without paying any attention to what you look like or who you actually are.
   No surprise there.
   Occasionally, I received word that my family was still trying to reach me and I always ignored it. They’d never given a shit about me before; in fact, I’d been told to get out and never return.
   But now, I knew all of that would be denied. That would say I was misremembering things, that I had misunderstood. They would pretend to be surprised that I had taken the whole thing seriously, after all Dad had only been blowing off steam, the way all dads are prone to do now and then.
   I wanted no part of it. They could keep their grand illusions about what had gone down that day and all the days before it. But I remembered the truth and would never forget it.
Never.
   And so it went.
47
   The rumors of David and I whipped into a frenzy when we began hangout outside of work. David was also linked romantically to Lucia and about half a dozen other women in the biz. I could understand why, of course; he was an absolute doll, and very cute in a little boy kind of way.
   But, we were just buds. He was a blast to hang out with and more often than not would get me into trouble.
   For example, it was his idea that I get my tongues pierced.
   We were a little buzzed and I think he was half-joking when he said it but I thought it was the best idea I’d ever heard. My one hesitation was the studio heads.
   “They’ll be pissed,” I said.
   “Fuck the bloody studio!” David roared. “Tell me, what have they done for you lately?”
   “Fucking A!” I agreed. “Fuck the bloody studio!”
   “That’s the spirit!”
   And off we went, searching the boulevard for a place to get pierced. We found one just minutes after beginning our quest, a place called The Medusa, Tattoos and Piercings.
   We strolled in to check the place out and were immediately greeted by shouts of recognition.
   “Oh my gods! You guys are from Exquisite Afterlife! Oh my gods, I love that show!”
   A small crowd had gathered around us, mostly young girls mooning over David and telling him how dreamy he was. We played the game as best we could and then I was able to talk to the piercer. She was a young Outie Mue who was tickled pink for the chance to pierce a celebrity, even a minor one like myself.
   “Now, don’t you have bones in your tongues?” she asked me. “I think I remember something about that.”
   “Only small ones,” I said, “and they’re near the bases of them. If you stick something through the middle or near the tips, there are no bones there.”
   “Rad!” she said. “Which do you want?”
   “Which tongues?”
   “No, middle or tip? Most people get near the tip done, but far enough back so the studs can’t be ripped out or anything like that.”
   “Sounds good to me.” I was trying to act as sober as possible and evidently I was succeeding because there was even a sign on the wall warning people that unless they were completely straight, no work would be done on them, no exceptions. “We’re Serious!” the sign admonished at the bottom.
   So, either I was a pretty good actor or she didn’t give a shit that she could smell alcohol on my breath. I’m sure it was the latter, but I didn’t care much myself. I just wanted to get it done.
   Meanwhile, David was still busy chatting it up with his fans and trying to get them to tattoo the shows logo on their bodies, two of whom actually did it, much to his amusement.
   After much deliberation, I decided to get only the tongues on my right hand pierced, a simple silver stud through each of them. She said I wouldn’t feel a thing and for a while, I didn’t.
   Later that night however, my tongues swelled up like tiny eggplants and I was worried that maybe they were infected or I was allergic to the steel. But by morning they were pretty much back to normal and the only unpleasant part was dousing them in peroxide, which was what I had in the house. And if there’s anything that’ll make me gag, it’s the taste of peroxide.
   I had to go to work that morning feeling extremely nauseous. David whispered that I was probably hung over, but I knew I wasn’t. It was the damn peroxide.
   As soon as it got around that my tongues were pierced, as expected, I was called on the carpet and asked to explain myself. It was in my contract that I was strictly prohibited from doing anything dangerous while working on the show, i.e. no skydiving, mountain climbing, racing cars or motorcycles, etc…
   Also in the contract: no body modification of any sort unless it is in a private place and will remain unseen by either the cameras or the general public. This puzzled me a bit. The general public?
   I was told, “You
are
playing an angel, after all.”
   Long story short, they made me take out the studs every morning and I wasn’t allowed to put them back in until the days shooting was completed. It made the healing process twice as long and twice as irritating and as revenge I completely ignored the ‘don’t wear them out in public’ rule. I wore them everywhere and still do.
48
   During the hiatus between the second and third season of the show, I did another movie, this time lending my voice to an animated feature. It was a cute movie about a silly family of raccoons conquering the elements, hunters, trappers and an evil bear who shares their forest. I played the eldest child raccoon, a moody teenager who enjoys head-banging, boy bands and tormenting her younger siblings. It was a fun and easy job and it didn’t take much time to do, so I had most of my vacation free to pursue other things, including a six-week run in the LA stage production of
Much Ado About Nothing.
I was paid next to nothing but the play received great reviews and I experienced a renewal of my original love, the theater.
   It was a good break, but I was also happy to go back to working on the show when the time came.
49
   One night I came home to find a note had been slipped under my front door.
   I didn’t think much of it, not because it happened often—it didn’t—but because I was dead tired and only wanted to hit the sack. I tossed it on my kitchen table with all the other mail and promptly forgot about until I had a day off and was able to actually sit down and go through all the junk.
    My usual custom for reading mail is to grab a beer from the fridge and carry the whole bunch of it up to my office and examine it piece by piece, either at my desk or while seated comfortably on the couch I had up there for script reading sessions.
   This day was no exception. I carried the mail upstairs with a beer and flopped myself down onto the sofa to read. It was all the usual crap, mostly junk, a few fan letters from people who had somehow managed to get my home address and then the unmarked envelope I’d found a few nights prior.
   Curious, letter opener in hand, I split the envelope and pulled out a single sheet of paper, neatly folded into three sections. When I unfolded the paper, I saw what appeared to be blood smeared all over it and the words,
We’ll be together soon
, also written in blood.
   “Fuck!” I dropped the paper, wanting it away from me.
   Lavinia had warned me that something like this was bound to happen sooner or later. I just hadn’t paid much attention, figuring I wasn’t the type to attract a stalker. Even after Lucia had had a problem with one, I still hadn’t seriously considered it a possibility for myself.
   I rose from the sofa and went to the phone, pressing the speed dial button for the security company that we were all given to call just in case something like this very thing were to occur. The man I spoke to was very nice, didn’t seem even the slightest bit alarmed and managed to ease my mind with only a few words. He said he’d come and take a look at the letter himself and he would arrive in about ten minutes.
   Comforted, I tried not to think about it and drank my beer while surfing the net and listening for the doorbell. I’d actually managed to forget about it by reading one of the shows fan sites and when the ring came twenty minutes later, I was surprised.
   Then I remembered and hurried downstairs with both the envelope and the letter to show the security guy. He examined each carefully, still seemed unperturbed but told me he’d send a guard over to watch my house every few hours or so, just as a precaution.
   “Is that really necessary?” I asked. “It seems like it would draw more attention than dissuade it.”
    “He’ll be very inconspicuous, ma’am. Not to worry.”
   I knew that in these kinds of circumstances it was best to just step back and let people do their jobs. I said ok and thanked him, sent him on his way with the foul letter and forgot all about it.
50
   About a week later, I was in my trailer when the same security guy knocked, accompanied by another more official looking security guy.
   “Unfortunately, we suspect the person who sent you the letter has been sending mail to the studio for quite some time.”
   I looked between them. “How long is ‘quite some time’?”
   They exchanged a glance and the first guard said, “Basically since the show began.”
   I leapt out of my chair. “What? Why wasn’t I told about this?”
   The suit guy did his best to placate me. “You weren’t told because we didn’t deem him as a serious threat at the time. Just one of those whackos who professes his love for one celebrity or another. Usually those guys turn out to be harmless ugly loners who can’t get laid to save their lives.”
   “But not this time?” I asked.
   “We’re sure he’s an ugly loner all right, but we’re not so sure he’s harmless anymore.”
   I sat back down again. “Great. He never wrote in blood before?”
   “Oh, no. He has. That isn’t what we consider threatening. And it isn’t so much what he wrote, even. It’s the fact that he’s progressed to sending things to your house.”
   “Ok,” I said. “So, what does that mean exactly? Besides the fact that he knows where I live.”
   The first guy replied. “Generally, it means that he’s getting frustrated, probably due to the fact that he hasn’t received a response from you.”
   “Great,” I repeated.
   The suit again: “Well, we don’t want you to be alarmed. You’ll be perfectly safe at all times, of course. You can count on that. It is just our standard procedure to let the client know when something progresses to this degree, not because you’re in danger but just as a common courtesy and for your own awareness. Teaching the client to be aware and careful is half our job, after all.”
   I’m sure he expected at least half a smile from me, but he got nothing. “Well, thanks for making me aware then,” I said listlessly.
   “Absolutely. And remember, just be cautious. That’s all we ask and you can leave the rest to us.”
   “Gotcha.”
   I showed them the door and sat staring into space until I got my makeup call.

51
   Somehow, the freaky son-of-a-bitch managed to break into my house a week later. I wasn’t home, thank gods, as we were doing a night shoot, but somehow he was able to climb in through a second story window, avoiding the notice of the guards on duty and spent several hours rummaging through my belongings before security finally noticed the glare of a flashlight moving back and forth across my bedroom window.
   He’d been parading around my house and wearing my clothes when they caught him. I was called immediately and asked to come to the house. When I arrived home, I was disgusted by what I found. He’d masturbated every where he could thing of: on my bed, my sofas, my toilet seat and tubs, even on a kitchen chair and in the fucking refrigerator. He’d also done obscene things with my toothbrush and various kitchen utensils.
   “Jesus,” I cried. “How long was he in here?”
   “An hour,” one of the on-duty guards said. “Maybe two.”
   “Fuck!” I was disgusted, scared, and furious all at once. “What the fuck?” I just kept walking around my house, saying “fuck,” over and over again.
   “The good news is we have him in custody,” someone said.
   “Fuck!”
   I was told of a reliable and trustworthy cleaning company and given their business card. “Fuck that,” I said. “I’m moving.”
   I went back to work and spent my downtime talking to people about where they lived and was anything for sale in the neighborhood.
52
   I moved into a spacious place in the same area where Dove lived with his wife and kids.
   It was much more extravagant than my little Tudor had been. It had what the realtor called
grounds
. I had to hire a gardener, something I could never have pictured myself doing only a month before. I also hired a maid and was sure to make them both sign security clauses. My life was getting to be very bizarre, something I barely recognized, especially when I thought back to my beginnings. I had come a long way and with that knowledge came a sense of pride I would carry for the rest of my days. Beginnings were nothing more than that: beginnings. The end always counts more than the beginning.
53
   Because our show had become such a ridiculously huge hit, some people got it into their moron heads to send us all on a publicity tour. In a bus, even. A painted bus. Painted with our logo.
   It was insane.
   None of us were thrilled with this idea but Dove seriously hit the roof. He threatened to walk off the show, and when they threatened him back with a lawsuit, he threatened
them
back with a countersuit.
   We thought it was the end of the show for sure and even starting planning cancellation parties, consoling each other by saying things like, “Well, we had a good run,” and “It was great while it lasted.”
   But in the end, Dove agreed to go on the tour and we all boarded the bus like good little corporate angels. We did a lot of special appearances, a lot of interviews, signed a lot of autographs. Much of the Mue hatred that had been going on had by then settled down enough so that we weren’t heckled very often and, as far as I know, we never had any security problems.
   There were a few bus problems, however.
   We were somewhere in rural Washington when the damn thing broke down. The driver told us fixing it would take a while, consulted a map and said there was a general store just a couple miles up the road.
   Dove was not a happy camper. “Why would I want to go a couple miles up the road?” he demanded. “I have everything I need right here, don’t I? I have food, I have air-conditioning? I even have a mini-movie theater right here at my fingertips? Why would I leave?”
   The driver looked like he might cry. He had been getting the brunt of Dove’s anger for the entire tour and I suspected the camel’s back would be breaking any day now.
   The rest of us left the bus in a hurry, not so much because we cared about going to a general store but because we didn’t want to be around when that kid pulled out a gun and decided that taking the show’s star hostage would be a great way to get his point across.
   It was hot from the moment we left the bus and Lucia doesn’t do well with hot. She briefly reconsidered, going so far as to get back
on
the bus, but we waited by the side of the road and she emerged less than thirty seconds later.
   No one had to say a word. We could hear Dove’s ranting from where we stood.
   David pointed and yelled, “Forward march, ladies.”
   So, we marched.
   By the time we reached “the center of town” (which we all agreed just
had
to be someone’s idea of a sense of humor) we were drenched in sweat and wanting a cold drink. It must have looked quite comical actually, almost the entire cast of Exquisite Afterlife showing up in Shitkickville, thirsty, without makeup and most notably, without wings. I’m sure we were a sight to be seen.
   The general store was smaller than my old house and evidently one of the best places in town to hang out with your buddies. About a dozen people were hanging around out front, mostly Norms, and every single one of them started staring the instant we came into sight and never took their eyes off us the whole time we were there. I don’t think they recognized us; their reason for staring was because they
didn’t
recognize us. We were strangers in their town, interlopers.
   David, being David, thought making conversation would be just the thing to ease the tension in the air. He stayed outside rambling gods know what at the rednecks while the rest of us went inside in search of beverages.
   “Shit,” Lavinia muttered under her breath. “I think Dove had the right idea.”
   “Yep,” I agreed. “From now on, I’m not gonna leave his side.”
   “You got that right, girl.”
   We peered into one of those old time box freezers for something to drink while Lucia was asking the proprietor where the magazine rack was. She was always in search of new articles about herself; I believe she had a collection.
   After a minute, she joined us in the back, saying, “Can you believe they don’t sell magazines here except
Guns and Ammo
and
Penthouse
?”
   We laughed and Lavinia said, “Honey, I am
not
surprised.”
   When we’d chosen our drinks, including one for David, we paid and went back outside. Sure enough, David had them laughing and so relaxed that they were suddenly not so shy and several of them began whistling and tossing catcalls Lucia’s way.
   We all walked away in the direction we’d come from, with Lucia practically jogging in front of us.
   The walk back wasn’t too bad now that we had drinks. It wasn’t until David saw a loose dog in someone’s yard that the trouble began.
54
   David, quite innocently, spotted the dog and said, “Oh, look. It’s a pit-bull. I had one of those growing up.”
   Simultaneously, we all made a move or a sound to stop him but it was too late. He was already crouching on the ground and yelling, “Here, boy. Here, boy.”
   The last thing I heard before the barking began was Lavinia saying, “Oh, shit.”
   And then the dog charged us, all six of its legs pumping furiously, covering the ground between himself and us in about 3 seconds.
   It probably wouldn’t have been so bad, had it been just the one dog. But the instant the first one barked, three others rounded the side of the house at full speed racing towards us with teeth bared.
   Lucia screamed and started to run, but Lavinia was quick enough to grab her by the arm and hold her in place. “Don’t move,” she whispered. More to all of us than just to Lucia.
   But David moved. He stood up so fast he dropped his Diet Coke and good thing too because if he hadn’t the dog would have lunged for his throat. Instead, it lost its balance when it stepped on the can and went skidding past us and into the street. No matter to it though. It simply turned around from there and proceeded to snarl, covering our backs.
   We were surrounded by a pack of redneck dogs, all barking to wake the devils. None of them were attacking, but they were sure as shit trapping us, making it impossible for us to move.
“David,” Lucia hissed. “If one of these dogs bite me, I swear to fucking gods I’ll have your balls on a plate!”
   “I think someone beat you to it, love,” he said, his eyes on the mutt at his crotch.
   It was easily five minutes before someone came out of the house to rescue us. A big guy with a long white beard and a straw hat on his head; he was dressed in dirty overalls with no shirt, his big bare boobies hanging out in the breeze.
   The man started screaming at the dogs and they all scattered to the winds as if they were terrified of him, which I’m sure they were.
   We all thanked him profusely but he never said a word to us. Just stared as if we were strange bugs he’d never seen before. Maybe bugs from space.
   When we got the gist that he wasn’t about to reply or apologize for his rabid murder squad, we hurried away down the street and the moment we were out of his sight Lucia began whacking David in the head, swearing at him, insulting him, threatening him. He kept apologizing but it did him no good. Hell hath no fury and all that.
   Lavinia and I followed them, mostly without speaking, occasionally wincing when Lucia landed a good one on him. Poor guy. More than once Lavinia and I exchanged a glance and had to fight like hell to keep from laughing.
   When we got back to the bus it was running again and Dove’s hands were covered in grease up to his elbow. He peered at us from over a newspaper. “Did you kids have fun?”
   We all made statements to the affirmative and he said, “Good,” and went back to his paper.
   And before long we were on the road again.
55
   During the wrap party that year, I was popping an olive into my mouth when I looked across the room and saw the woman who had been my advisor on
The Queen is Dead.
She was standing in a corner talking to one of our shows editors. I stood there watching her for a minute, trying like hell to remember her name but it just wasn’t coming to me. Oh well, I thought. I’ll just bite the bullet.
   I left the bar and started making my way towards her. She spotted me over the guys shoulder and smiled. Smiling back, I thought,
Fuck! What is her
name!’ I figured by the time I’d reached her it would have come to me but it didn’t. Was it Rabia? I couldn’t be sure…
   “Hi,” I said, raising my glass in greeting. I never extend my hand to be shaken unless the other person does it first. Experience has told me that not everyone is thrilled to be grabbing a handful of tongues.
But this woman actually reached around the man, offering me her hand. “Hi, Sky. It’s so nice to see you again.”
   “Likewise,” I agreed.
   “You two know each other?” Clyde, the editor, asked.
   I nodded, chewing a piece of ice from my glass. “We’ve met, yes.”
   He looked at her. “Wow. I didn’t know that. Why didn’t you mention it?”
   She shrugged, a little half-smile on her face as she watched me.
   Even though I regretted having to do so, I said, “I’m really sorry, but right now your name escapes me.”
   She seemed surprised but not particularly offended. “Rabia.”
   “Rabia! Of course!” I nodded enthusiastically, like a complete idiot.
   “Clyde, would you mind freshening up my drink?” she asked, still not looking at the guy.
   “No, problem,” he replied. “In fact, I’ll get you a whole new one. Open bar!”
   When he was gone, I said, “So, you and Clyde, huh?”
   “Oh, gods no. I just met him.”
   Really? Tonight?”
   “A few nights ago at a friend’s house. He told me he worked on your show and then when he invited me to the wrap party, I couldn’t say no.”
   “Cool.” I nodded again, feeling like a moron. “So, how have you been?”
   “I’ve been great, thanks. Working here in LA on my dissertation. How about you?”
   “Good, good. You know…” I gestured around us. “Same ole, same ole.”
   “Movie-star stuff,” she said with a mischievous smile.
   I laughed. “Yeah. Movie-star stuff.”
   Clyde returned with her drink and I excused myself. She gave me a look that said don’t go, but I had to. There was something about her that made me nervous as hell and I didn’t want to make a bigger ass out of myself than I already had.
   For most of the rest of the night, I did my best to avoid her but when it was getting on towards dawn and I’d stepped onto the balcony to toast the sunrise, she found me.
   She leaned her elbows against the railing, same as me, and asked, “Are you avoiding me?”
   “Yes.”
   “Why?”
   “Because you make me nervous.”
   “Why?”
   I didn’t dare say the first thought that ran through my head. Instead, I looked down into the depths of my gin and tonic and said nothing.
   “Sky.”
   “Hmm?”
   “I’m sorry I was such a jerk the last time we saw each other.”
   I looked up in surprise. “You weren’t a jerk.”
   “I was. I should have just said yes. I’ve been regretting it ever since.”
   “Really?” I was still surprised, but tried to make light of it. “You didn’t miss much, I can guarantee you that.”
   She leaned over and kissed me. “I beg to differ.”
   I took her home with me that morning.
56
   I would have married her too, if the laws had permitted it.
   But, as we all know, our government is not open-minded and to this day forbids different breeds of Mues (yes, we are still referred to as
breeds
in the books) to marry, stating, basically, that, who knows what kind of children these unions will produce?
   It’s completely disgusting and racist (though the government denies this) and it is exactly these kinds of prejudices that events like the Walk on Washington are trying to rectify, but we still have a long way to go.
   In the meantime, Rabia and I were content to live together in sin.
57
   We did have a commitment ceremony however, a very private one in our own back yard and only our closest friends were invited. It was held under a tent and Rabia wore flowers in her hair. We were both barefoot, proudly displaying our Mue bodies to everyone who cared to look, she with her see-through feet and I with my big tongue toes.
   Barefoot is not a state I like to be in often though, because usually the ground tastes terrible. While mostly people dread stepping in something gross, I live in terror of it. Have you ever had to