P.J. Morse - Clancy Parker 02 - Exile on Slain Street (6 page)

Chapter Seven:
The Premiere

I
marveled that the Hummer could turn along the winding road that led to the front of the house. Then I noticed the cameras in my peripheral vision, and I just started to go wild, jumping up and down on my heels. “Patrick!” I squealed.

Fred, the black Santa who delivered me to the mansion, stepped out of the Hummer’s driver’s seat. As he walked to the other side, he beamed because the extravagant limo was clearly an upgrade from the Cadillac. Then he opened the door to the back of the Hummer.

Patrick Price stepped out. I had watched some of the recent videos he made with the grunge-rock supergroup the Modocs, and he had aged well. Unlike many men who became famous in rock, he never had a girlish face. With his bone structure, his features had become more chiseled over the years, but he still had sleepy eyes that made him look like a boy who just woke up. He had wisely shaved his head, as opposed to covering up what was probably male-pattern baldness with a cap or extensions.

Not only that, but he clearly worked out, and his arms looked almost exactly the same as they had on Muriel’s poster. He was even wearing a tight black T-shirt that looked similar to the poster, a sign that he was either proud of retaining his physique or that he was chasing his glory years. Given the fact that he was on a reality dating show, I assumed the latter.

The only downside of Patrick’s appearance was that he was trying to work a goatee, something I never, ever liked on a guy. I thought of a T-shirt Shane loved to wear: “Free Mustache Rides Upstairs!” For the first time, I wondered if I might have to kiss him and how I was going to navigate the facial hair. Then I wondered how I was going to navigate all the other kisses he would be receiving from my competitors.

Patrick walked to a mark on the ground and scanned each of our faces. “You know how to make a man feel like a king!” he yelled, leaning back. “Whoo!”

We all responded with a “Whoo!”

“Now, you guys know that last season’s
Atomic Love
, well… it kind of blew up in my face,” Patrick began.

“Bitch!” Cookie shouted, as if any relationship that began on reality television ended well. On the first season of
Atomic Love
, Patrick chose a stunning Brazilian bikini model, Ana. As Wayne put it, “Her English wasn’t so hot, but it’s not like she was there to, you know, talk.”

Alas, soon after the final episode, Ana had been spotted around town with the editor of a lad mag,
Gent
, who kindly put her on the cover, and ratings for
Atomic Love
were good enough for Patrick to get another season.

Patrick laughed at Cookie’s heartfelt response. “Someone here has my back! But I’m putting that behind me because, well, the future just got a whole lot brighter today.”

More jumping, more stomping, more chest thrusting.

“This time, I want to get it right. This time, I want the kind of love that is more than a spark — I want a love that burns!”

I tried not to laugh because I could only imagine what kind of unsavory jokes my bandmates and even Harold might make regarding a “burning love.” After looking at the files of my fellow contestants, I thought that a few of them might indeed give him some burning love, only that love wouldn’t be quite what he had in mind. But, like a good reality-show contestant, I screamed with glee.

“Now, you don’t just have to impress me. I’m already impressed. But you do have to impress one other important person — my body man — Wolf!”

Wolf emerged from the stretch Hummer. He hadn’t changed much from last season, except he had picked up a little more weight around the middle, and he had a new, huge tattoo of Bettie Page with “RIP” inked under it on his forearm. He didn’t say much but, when he did, it was memorable. Women often came crying to him last season, and he would reply with inscrutable comments, such as “When the ox is in the ditch, sometimes you have to push it out. And, other times, you must cut it in half.”

Wolf was in his typical quasi-Zen mode. He turned to us and said, “Let the rooster crow freely when he is in the garden. That’s all I ask.” Then he bowed. Fred raised an eyebrow in response.

I heard Stacy mutter, “If I can’t get Patrick, maybe I’ll go for Wolf.”

“If you can speak his language,” I replied. “Are you fluent in fortune cookie?”

Patrick walked up to us and strolled up and down the rows of women. He caught my eye once, and I didn’t look away. I could see Cookie’s chest moving up and down quickly, and I thought she might hyperventilate after getting so close to her idol.

“Now,” Patrick said. “Today is get-to-know-you day. We’ll leave your bags on the patio, and you can get inside, get to know each other, and get to know me. Tonight, I will eliminate five of you. So, first impressions are everything — and today has got to count. Wolf and I are going to have a chat, so you ladies head inside and get to know the lay of the land.” He gestured toward the mansion, as if it were his. I wondered if he knew the “lay of the land” any better than we did.

Chapter Eight:
Bottoms Up

A
s Kevin, Greg and other members of the crew herded us inside, I explored the mansion. The large windows let in plenty of light, and it would have been beautiful if someone hadn’t painted the walls brick red, a color that was always prominent on Nuclear Kings album covers. I walked around the spiral staircase, and then I saw another crime against architecture — the silver stripper pole. It ran floor to ceiling in the back corner of the room that opened onto the patio, and it was right in front of a stunning view of the Bay. Unfortunately, that view was quickly obscured by the silhouette of a woman who had taken to the pole like a seal would take to that water.

Multiple leopard-print couches lined the walls, with fringed jade green tuffets filling the rest of the space. Of course, the crew thoughtfully set out cheap plastic end tables with ashtrays so the contestants could rest their drinks and their cigarettes. They even had coasters, but I doubted those would ever be used.

Speaking of drinks, the bar was obscenely long and stretched the entire length of the wall that faced the bay. Nearly every kind of liquor and mixer was available, but I could only recognize them from the shapes of the bottles. All the labels had been covered up with duct tape, probably because they were, as Greg said of my can of soda before he took it, “off-brand.” Large mirrors hung behind the bottles, and some of the women were already checking out their makeup.

Once I saw the bar, I realized that I really wanted a drink. A refreshing drink. An alcoholic one, in fact. By making us stand outside for so long, the producers were probably trying to get us thirsty so we would get good and drunk for the first night of shooting. Like all the other women, I had filled out a questionnaire about my likes and dislikes, and they included questions about our favorite beverage and our favorite “base liquor.” I put down “beer,” and I was relieved that I hadn’t written down my first choice of tequila. Otherwise, the producers might be tempted to shove that down my throat.

Andi was already behind the bar, touching the bottles and peeling back the tape to see the labels underneath. “Oooh! Is that Schnapps?”

I cringed, not just at the thought of drinking Schnapps straight but how close her voice came to the sound of squealing brakes. I would have preferred to take my Pynchon book down by the pool, but I let myself get shoved along in the clusters of women clamoring for liquor.

Kevin barreled his way through the crowd of contestants, shouting, “Don’t forget the Major Rager! Don’t forget the Major Rager!”

Interspersed among the actual alcohol bottles were tall cans of a beverage called “Major Rager.” It was one of the few visible logos on the bar. Andi picked up the can and twisted it in her hands, trying to read the small print and failing. Exasperated, she slammed the can on the counter.

Kevin stood on a stool and tried to explain Major Rager’s supporting role in the show. “Ladies! Hear ye! Hear ye! Major Rager is our sponsor. Major Rager is the reason we are here. Major Rager tastes great — ”

“Is it less filling?” Lorelai joked.

Kevin missed the gag and replied, “Well, the diet cans are on the second level if that’s what you want. Anyway, Major Rager tastes great, and we need you to drink it when you are not drinking alcohol. In fact, I think it goes pretty well with tequila.”

“What’s it taste like?” I asked, taking down a can and popping it open.

“Like candy!” Kevin said, getting off his stool.

He was right. I took a gulp, and it tasted like carbonated Sweet Tarts. Half the can should have been poured out and then refilled with grain alcohol, or maybe lighter fluid, to make it palatable. Then I spun the can around and looked at the nutrition data. The main ingredient was a disturbingly high amount of caffeine.

Then Patrick waltzed in. He was casually toting a can of Major Rager, as if he happened to enjoy drinking it in his spare time. He stationed himself behind the bar. “Ladies! My second love is mixology, and I’d like to make a special drink for each of you. Just introduce yourself to me, and tell you what you want!”

We all cheered, of course. He could have said, “I am ready for a rousing discussion of health care reform,” and we would have cheered.

“Psychology?” Andi asked. “Is he gonna ask about our dreams and stuff? Oh goody!”

“No, dummy!” Tina said. “
Mix
ology.”

“Oh! Right! Mixology… yeah…” Andi’s eyes remained blank.

Lorelai leaned in to help. “He likes making cocktails, sweetie.”

“Why didn’t he say so?” Andi asked.

I tried not to laugh.

Kevin yelled, “We gotta do that again. Ladies, you’re deflating! At least try to look excited!”

The crew caught several reaction shots of us cheering and clapping. One of the cameras got right up in my face, and I realized my cheeks were hurting from fake-smiling so much.

A camera guy moved toward Patrick as he described the scene. “I’m going to pick one of you to be my assistant. This lovely lady will get to stay tonight. The rest of you, alas, might be one of the five to go home.”

“Awwww…” we all groaned.

“Now, who will be staying?” Patrick walked up and down the length of the bar as each of us fought for his attention.

At that moment, I discovered Andi’s special gift. She may have had issues with the English language and her vocal cords, but she had a superhuman control of her breasts. She could twitch them, much like a bodybuilder could twitch his pecs. As soon as Patrick scanned past her, she whipped out that trick, heaving up one bosom and then the other. He screeched to a stop.

“You!” Patrick pointed at her. “What’s your name?”

“Andi. With an ‘i.’”

“Of course,” Patrick said, keeping a remarkably straight face. “Would you like to be my assistant, Andi with an ‘i’?”

“Yes!” she squealed, jumping up and down.

“And what would you like to drink?”

She clapped her hands like a child. “Peppermint Schnapps!”

Judging from how enthusiastic she was, I began to wonder if maybe Andi hadn’t already appeared on
Girls Gone Wild
.

As Andi took her place of honor by Patrick, Lorelai laughed. “Now the competition is serious!”

“How do you do that?” I asked. I found myself testing my pecs, but my chest stayed put. I realized I was out of my league. On other jobs when I had to pretend to be someone else, I was able to keep up an act for an hour, tops, until I got the information I needed, but this?

“Taking orders, here!” Patrick spread his arms out. You would have needed two of him for his wingspan to cover the whole bar, but the crew had somehow engineered it so that the contestants were jam-packed together.

Topaz managed to shove Cookie aside to be first. I saw Cookie clench her fist and shove another woman aside to make sure she was second, but she looked back at me and gestured that I should get myself up there, too. I stepped on some feet as I pushed my way ahead. It wasn’t too hard, as I was more physically fit than the other women, but I got called “bitch” more than once. One woman added, “
redneck
bitch,” and I had a feeling that my cowboy boots were going to become an issue.

Topaz leaned in, giving Patrick an eyeful of her ample cleavage. “Gimme a martini.” She paused for a moment. “And make it real dirty,” she purred.

Patrick winked. “You know what you want, eh?” He bowed toward Andi. “Milady, can you pass me the gin and vermouth?”

“Yes, sir!” Andi giggled, shoving random bottles that may or may not have been gin and vermouth toward Patrick. “I love astrology!” As all this was going on, she was halfway through her Schnapps.

Once Topaz had her martini, she pulled out the toothpick and ate each olive off it, looking Patrick in the eye as she did so. Cookie was positively stewing. Unlike Topaz, who let her dirty martini do the talking, Cookie leaned in with her shoulder to show off a tattoo on her bicep. The tattoo was simple — a flame above a power plant.

“A fan!” Patrick yelled. “That’s our logo!”

“Hell, yeah,” Cookie said. “I want a Long Island Iced Tea.”

“You don’t mess around,” Patrick said.

“Oh, no, I don’t. I love your work.”

Right as Cookie was going to say something else, Tina jostled her aside and planted a kiss on Patrick, complete with tongue. She received a Red Bull-and-Vodka in return. Cookie got pushed back into the second group of women, all those who were still begging for drinks.

By the time I got up there, I didn’t know what I had left to offer. It seemed as if every woman spent the night in her hotel room thinking of her signature pickup line. I spent most of the night watching the news and reruns of
Charlie’s Angels
until I fell asleep. My last thought before I dozed off was how someone who was really like Kate Jackson had to pretend to be Farrah Fawcett.

“I would like a tall boy.” All the women had tried sexy. I tried a shy smile. “Like you.”

“Making it easy on me!” he said. “A sweetheart!” He grabbed a can of beer from the cooler and slid it my way down the top of the bar. It landed in my palm, and I popped it open. “Cheers!”