Walk, Idiot, Walk

Inspired by “Walk, Idiot, Walk” by the Hives, I wrote a fictional story of a make up artist on a film shoot from hell.

The alarm went off at 4am, there was no way I wanted to spend another day on the indie film set from hell. The promise of money and my reputation in the indie film world was the only thing that got my tired ass out of bed.

The last 3 days had been a cluster fuck to say the least. Actors dropped out, costuming didn’t arrive, we were behind schedule, and we were out of money. It wasn’t my problem I was in charge of make up. I had my kit, my team and I knew the script. What I didn’t have was a clue to what the newbie director wanted.

Grayson Armstrong, apparently Gods new gift to filmmaking – or so he thought. Grayson had never made a movie before, never went to film school but he was sure he could bring something new to the ever-plentiful world of Horror; a.K.a. the most over-done genre being done in filmmaking to date. My guess he had these delusions of grandeur was because he watched a horror film or two and thought, how hard can it be?

This was my fifth straight horror film to do make up on. Green zombies, ghost zombies, clown zombies, black and white Romero zombies, I could do the make up in my sleep. Every director thought they were bringing something new to zombies but on each set they asked the same damn design from me.

“I want them to look like ‘Night of the Living Dead’ but better” they would say.

Grayson wrote the script while he was drunk and high with mutual colleagues of mine. It was his first script.

“It was a first script that a film school would have told him to throw away and now write a real script,” the Gaffer said to me.

Max, the Gafffer, who handled the lights, went to USC film school and had three scripts in progress in his car at any given moment.

Most film school people were this way. I went to St. Anne’s Beauty School on the south side so I guess I had an edge of distaste for people with no training who thought they could do what I do.

Grayson had the only things it matters to make a movie anymore – had a friend who had a camera, connections and an internet connection. Facebook was the wicked source that drug us into this project. I swear Grayson went through Geoff friends list and coned us all into this shoot. Geoff, the camera man, wasn’t a super friend of mine but he was making a good deal of films and he and I had worked together on a few. I saw the crew and cast list grow with more friendly names. I asked about pay. Grayson offered me more than I asked for so I took the gig.

One production meeting that pretty much was just a script read later and we were on set. Crew call was at 6am at a little run down shack in the middle of nowhere. There was no coffee on set when I arrive and more importantly no actors. The first actor call wasn’t until 7am and I needed to get 3 key actors in full make up ready to shoot by 7:30pm.

Surprise, surprise, there was a wait on set for make up. The Assistant Director was all over my ass that we were already behind schedule and we hadn’t got our first shot off. As calm as a mouse, I let him know that I sat around for an hour ready to do make up but there was no actors. Then when they arrived the director wanted to talk about their motivation which involved…

DIRECTOR: You ready for today?

ACTOR: Dude, yeah, sure.

DIRECTOR: Alright let’s get you into make up.

ACTOR: Where do I get coffee?

When time is being crunched due to improper planning everyone on set suddenly has ideas. Even the dude holding the slate will have an idea of how to do a quick zombie make up to get 15 zombies ready for a shot in an hour.

“I saw this on a behind the scenes, once,” the slate dude started.

I would fuzz them all out. The second I stopped and listed to the ideas they had the more they would slow me down because nothing can just be done it all has to go through the channels. It has to go through the Script Supervisor to make sure there is continuity to the shots already in the can. It has to go through the Assistant Director to make sure there is time. Then it has to go to the director for his approval. Each one of the those conversations has another handful of ears listening in who – of course – all have another idea of how I can do my job faster. This process of figuring out what to do with the fact that there is a hold on an actor who is in make up is mute because by the time the circle-jerk conversation has finished and got back to me, I’m done with the 15 zombies and they are ready to shoot. That is until they have to tweak the lights because the camera man isn’t totally happy yet.

So with my job done, I sit by a monitor – if there is one – in this case there wasn’t. Only a 2×3 LCD monitor off the junky camera to look through to make sure the actors weren’t shinny or messed up their face by sneezing or touching their face.

Grayson was dead weight, my wiener dog Rocky can give more direction than Grayson. The actors did their lines the same as they did at the table read, the same I’m sure they did at the auditions. Actually I’m not sure they did auditions, I’m sure it was all whoever was available on facebook and on Geoff’s friend list.

Simple questions were asked of Grayson.

“Do you want another take?”

“Was that what you wanted?”

A silence that I wished was filled with nails on a chalkboard filled the air. Inside I screamed “Answer, the damn question!”

After a long pause the answer was always “it was fine.”

Nothing thrilled Grayson except his own reflection. He’s pose for pictures near the camera every chance he could. He arrived on the set acting like JJ Abrams. He asked the media to come to set and we lost 2 hours while he talked to a reporter when we could have been shooting something.

By day 5, the production teetered on the edge of collapse. The AD was freaking out about the schedule; the actors couldn’t have the shoot extended because they had other gigs, day jobs or kids to get home to. Most people just wanted to get home and get away from what was becoming an ego-fest. That, and the fact Geoff started being the director. Which was needed, but confusing to everyone because of the assumed chain-of-command.

The schedule changed for the better for me. I got the actors in early and started. But then the actors were sitting around ready for a set that was being reconstructed to the camera man’s liking regardless of what was in the script. Grayson didn’t seem to flinch. I don’t know if it bothered him or he knew that his lack of experience was starting to show.

Actors being actors, want everyone to like them because it leads to their next job. Plus as Maria said to me between takes “it doesn’t matter shoot sucks, if I look good on my reel, it’s all worth it.” I wished that was true but on some sets it’s not worth it.

I packed up m kit for the last time on day 6. I got the last actor on call to set on time. I packed a little touch up kit in a ziplock bag just in case. I wanted to just hand the bag to the AD and wish him well but I stuck around for my money.

At lunch I saw a few actors talking to the director, it looked like they were getting paid.

I waited until I could talk to Grayson alone, I didn’t like brining up money in the first place but I really didn’t like doing it in front of others. Something about it always made me feel like a hooker.

When the AD called wrap on production I waited until Grayson got his hugs from the actors.

“Grayson, I need to jet, what about my pay is that now or…”

Grayson replied, “I had to pay the actors who were out of state, can I pay you next week?”

Like an idiot, I said yes. A week turned into a month. No emails, calls or facebook messages from Grayson. So I asked. The last of the money had to go into post-production. Then story changed to Grayson was flat broke but the promise of paying me after the premiere.

“This is what I need to get by” he said.

I waited six months. I bought three tickets so my family could come see my work. I cringed as I looked around the crowd. What was being hailed as a sold out show was anything but. The theater was half full. I doubted again if I would ever see my money.

Promises were written but never delivered on. DVD’s were made and sold but I never got a copy or got paid.

The horrible horror film that was more of a thriller with zombies went out to Grayson’s facebook friends who gave it glowing reviews. He sent it to festivals that Geoff knew so he would be a shoe in to show and win. The buzz machine was on full blast and no one ever talked about how much a mess the shoot was. No one from the crew ever worked with Grayson again. Geoff went off to direct his own projects. Max and I would work on other shoots together and we’d bitch but we were still working. Only those actors who firmly planted their lips to Grayson’s ass were attached to his new project, which for some reason could never find money.

But if you never learned nothing than nothing’s in order. I learned my lesson. Take projects for 3 reasons and 3 reasons only: for pay, for love or for fun. If it doesn’t fit into one of those perimeters, then you won’t see Gwen Roma’s name on it.

We Are Going To Be Friends

This song entry to National Novel Writing month is the White Stripes song “We Are Going to Be Friends” also sung by Jack Johnson for the Curious George movie soundtrack. It’s a simple story, I hope you like it.

Mom came from the corner store with paper bags filled to brim. Her face was stressed and so I helped her with the bags.

“Kid, you’re my ticket to the poor house,” she scoffed.

I helped her unpack the bags; shoes, pens, a coat and a school uniform. I tried not to look excited as I opened each item. Back to school was coming.

I said thank you because I think that’s what she expected as took the new items to my room.

That night I couldn’t sleep. The school bell echoed in my brain. School was my ticket to freedom, a chance to get out of the house from Mom and her abusive boyfriends.

Before the sun was up I had on my new uniform, had my bag backed and was ready to go. I knew it was hours before school was ready but I didn’t care.

Mom was snoring on the couch. I poked at her and whispered I was going to school. She moved slightly so I guessed she heard me. I didn’t want to wake her too much or she’d yell at me.

I jumped the fence in our yard and I was free. I wanted to crush every leaf on my way to school in triumph. I found a big oak tree in the park and gathered up the leaves and jumped in the pile.

“What are you doing?” a girls voice said.

I looked up to see a dark-haired girl with short pigtails. Her squashed face looked like a doll’s face. She was beautiful, for a girl.

“Can I jump too?” she asked.

I nodded and re-made the pile of leaves.

We jumped and screeched and giggled.

“My name is Suzy Lee” she said.

I nodded.

“Look a roly poly!” she said.

We dug up the ground with sticks looking for my rolly poly’s, worms and ants.

“We should get to school,” she said. “Will you walk with me?”

I nodded.

We safely walked to school without a sound.

When we arrived it still wasn’t time for school. The classroom’s were empty and the halls echoed. Suzy sat at the teacher’s desk as we played school. I got an “A” for listening but was in trouble for the dirt on my uniform.

Suzy said we should clean up. She picked the leaves out of my hair while I washed the dirt off. Then we heard kids starting to fill the halls.

“Time for school!” Suzy exclaimed.

Suzy and I were in the same class, we sat side by side. I learned that she had moved here from Washington DC which is not a state. Teacher had us work on our numbers and letters and I learned that school was not spelled skool.

At playtime Suzy and I played catch and looked for more bugs before the teacher yelled at us.

The teacher marked our head against the wall. I was shorter than Suzy by a few inches but the teacher said not to worry, I’d grow tall and strong.

“Teacher?” I asked “Will I sing pretty like Suzy Lee one day?”

“I think you mean to say, ‘One day will I sing as pretty as Suzy Lee?’”

I nodded having no idea the difference.

“If you work at it, Jack, anything is possible.” The Teacher said.

It felt as soon as school had started it was over.

I walked Suzy home.

That night thoughts of bugs and the alphabet ran though my head. I hoped when I woke up that Suzy and I would walk together again because I think we are going to be friends.

He Got Game Part 2

This story could be seriously long. I leave it to you my dear readers. If you’d like to see more, leave me a message in the comments.

Here is the continuation from Part 1 http://katechaplin.wordpress.com/2011/11/02/he-got-game-part-1/

 

 

“Spirit Snipers” I said.

On the way to work I glanced in a coffee shop window and saw today’s news talking about the surge in robberies in Vora and Noddnaba. People were claiming their most treasured items were being mysteriously stolen; retirement funds – gone, small business disappeared with only the concrete foundation left. Boat, planes all the toys of the rich and famous were gone. Nearly everyone had been robbed of something.

There was a sense of the End of Days. People were starting to cling closer to their belongings. There was a line around the bank for people trying to keep their valuables in safety deposit boxes. Others were taking things out of storage garages and burying them in their back yard. All over the city was chaos worse than the riots.

“What was stolen from you” a stern voice said as a microphone was shoved in my face.

It was Sharron Addison, a reporter from the evening news. Here platinum blond hair looked more like a plastic wig in real person than it did on TV.

“Nothing.” I said leaning into the microphone.

“Nothing?” she asked, trying to insult me. “Everyone lost something in last night’s attacks.”

“I saw the spirit sniper in my room and I guess I scared it off.”

“Spirit Sniper? Is that what they are called? Where did you get this information?”

“I read it on the wall”

“What wall?”

Crap. I was in Vora City if I revealed I saw it in Noddaba I’d be arrested for trespassing. I had to think of something quickly. “The wall behind Segrims & Sabbath” I uttered with as much confidence as I could muster.

“And what did it say exactly?” Sharron pushed.

“Beware of the Spirit Snipers, trying to steal your light.”

Sharron motioned to her camera man to cut. “We’ve got what we need, let’s check out that wall.”

“Wait.” I said. “There is no message there today.”

“What do you mean?” Sharron asked this time with anger in her voice.

“Well, the message changes. Some days there is nothing written on the wall, like today. And others days the message changes.”

“And how do you know this for sure.”

“I work there.”

“Perfect, you can take us” said Sharron grabbing my arm.

Surely enough when we arrived there was no message written on the wall by my work. I assured her of my story and she and her camera crew left. What had I done?

I had to find a way to put messages on that wall, but how and what?

He Got Game: Part 1

Day two of the National Novel Writing Month challenge. The song I ended up picking today was “He Got Game” by Public Enemy from the soundtrack of the same movie. Now surprisingly I didn’t write this short story about any sport. I was inspired by a few stanza’s towards the end of the song “Now if you take heed to the words of wisdom/written on the wall of life/then universally we will stand and divided we will fall because love conquers all…This is a wake up call to all you sleepin’ souls/Wake up and control your own cipher/and watch out for the Spirit Sniper trying to steal your light”

Here is part one. I was too tired to finish but I will tomorrow.

It was on the corner of Tenth and Washington when I first saw the writing on the wall. Like anyone else in this greed-driven city I didn’t pay it that much mind. It read: “Wake up you Sleeping Souls.” It was one of thousands of spray painted graffiti left by the bored, the rebellious and what was left of the artists. The only thing that caused me to remember it was the fact that it was tagged on a brick building with no windows and the words weren’t painted so that people who drove by would see it. It was down a narrow alley where cars didn’t travel and most people didn’t walk. Why have a message where no one can see it? I wondered. The only reason why I saw it was that two men were having a heated conversation across the street when a black car screeched to a halt in front of them. I had seen that movie, someone was about die and I didn’t want to have any part of it.

I made sure I pulled up my hood, I didn’t want to my red curly hair to bring unwanted attention. Being a girl in this neighborhood does you more harm than good.

The police left long ago. People like to say it was because there was no money in arresting thugs and druggies. I think it was that the police were getting paid off by Big Jimmy to stay away.

Big Jimmy ran Noddnaba He strived to make sure we lived on next to nothing because if we felt next to nothin’ then we’d come to him for a job or to escape into his drugs. Either way, he’d control us like puppets.

I was one of the few since the riots that could still live in both worlds. There was a strong divide between the destroyed slums of Noddnaba and the business of Vora City. I took 3 buses and walked 2 miles to get to work in Vora City. They were working on building a wall to divide the two neighborhoods but until it was completed I always found a way to get through undetected.

Once I almost did get stopped by the VC Police but I quickly pulled out a cell phone and pretended I was talking to someone important and the VC Police let me go. No one in Noddnaba was allowed such a device, our towers were destroyed in the riots, so even if we have them, they wouldn’t work. I picked up my phone from a trash can. A business man on 22^nd Street got upset with whomever he was talking to on the other end and threw the phone in a trash can before opening his suit pocket to reveal another phone. The phone only worked for me for a month. I didn’t care, I didn’t have anyone to call anyway. It was now more of a prop to get me through Vora.

Just past the still-being-constructed wall was where I hid my clothes. My hoodie and tennis shoes would get me arrested. I would switch into high heels and a fitted jacket and leave everything else in a laundry bag that I’d let dangle from an open manhole cover.

I worked in the mailroom of Segrims & Sabbath. I knew everyone’s name but no one knew mine. Even my boss called me “you” and my checks were made out to Cash.

The company I worked for was in control of the advertising for all of Vora City. They were the ones that pushed the products that everyone felt they had to buy and people just laid over their money like zombies. Most of the mail that came through was from collection companies about clients who were becoming too poor to pay back for the services they promised to pay. The people of the city were quickly being owned by the crap they bought. Everyone was in debt to someone, except me. Before my mother passed her and I bought the apartment I was living in. I only needed money to pay utilities (which not many were actually available anyway) and food. The rest I saved for my future. I had a picture of my grandmother’s house in the country, living off the land, not another soul in sight. That’s what I wanted most. That’s what my future would be if only I could get enough money to get out of this twisted and upside down place.

On the way home from work the writing on the wall had changed. No sign of the old message being erased. The new one read “Watch out for the Spirit Snipers trying to steal your light.”

##

I couldn’t sleep, there was a weight on my head I couldn’t shake. Sure Crazy Mary was yelling at the moon again, but I that wasn’t the reason I couldn’t fall away to dreamland. I closed the window only lightly buffering out Crazy Mary.  I felt heavy, as if there was a magnetic pull from the top of my head through my body and pass the floor below me. Each step back to bed got hard and harder. I gave up and sat in a chair in the living room.

A small light appeared in the bedroom. Nothing bigger than a fireflies’ light.  Against my body’s wishes I got up to investigate.

A ghostly white light hovered around the picture of my grandma’s farm.

“What do you think you think you’re doing?” I asked the entity.

The orb swooped over to me and hovered a few inches from my nose. I could see the faint appearance of a sunken in eyes and a devilish grin. Protective of my picture I stared it down.

The orb being the first to blink grinned and crashed through my window.

I rushed to the window to watch the orb swerve over to Crazy Mary’s porch. The orb waited behind Crazy Mary as she continued to yell at the moon.

“Crazy Mary, look out!” I yelled from the cracked window.

Crazy Mary turned around and opened her mouth to scream. But the scream never came. The voice Crazy Mary loved so much was sucked out of her throat and ingested by the orb.

For Part 2 click here http://katechaplin.wordpress.com/2011/11/04/he-got-game-part-2/

“Black Betty” PART 2

To view PART 1 click here

PART TWO of the short story inspired by “Black Betty” by Leadbelly and Ram Jam

I had hired a live-in nanny to be with her boy while she was away. Turned out the nanny also liked to drink to excess in the evening so that night when she put the boy down to sleep and he kept waking up she rubbed some of Betty’s powder on his gums to make him sleep. The child went wild destroying the room at the Chelsea. He was so enraged and uncontrollable that she brought him to the hospital.

When I arrived the boy was on sedatives after having his stomach pumped. He was awake but groggy. Doctors told me that the boy kept asking for his father.

“Hey Champ,” I said, taking a seat next to him.

He won’t look at me. He stared out into oblivion.

“Why are you here?” the boy asked.

His words cut like knives.

“Your mom is at an event she can’t miss.”

“Says you?” he asked.

“Well, Champ, it’s a big event in Manhattan. A lot of important people are there.”

“More important than me, I guess.”

“No, Champ no one is more important than you to your mom.”

“Don’t say that.”

“It’s true. Your mom wanted to give you a better life. She’s working hard to get you everything you want. She got that new train set you wanted, didn’t she?”

“It broke.”

“How did it break?” I asked.

“I threw it against the wall.”

“Why did you do that, Champ?”

“I wanted my father.”

“I understand that. It must be hard not having a father in your life.” I said. “My Paw worked in the coal mines. Depending on the season, I wouldn’t see him for days at a time. I know we’ve only know each other for a few years now but I’d like to you to think of you of my son.”

“I already have a dad.” The boy said.

“This is true and I won’t come between you and your daddy.” I said. “Do you know where he is? Is he back in Birmingham where your mom was from?”

“No.”

“Do you know where he is?”

“He’s at a big event in Manhattan.”

“Your father is in town?”

“Yes” said the boy with a dry wit.

“Is he with your mom? I’d love to meet him.”

“You have met my father.”

I rattled through my memory of any man that Betty introduced me to that could have possibly been the boy’s father. She never said anything to me. She silenced the conversation every time it was brought up.

“Where did I meet your father?”

“At the Black Hat.”

“Now, Champ, I’m not sure if I have the best memory but I don’t recall meeting—“ the boy cut me off before I could finish.

“You call her Betty, I call her dad.”

The room went silent. I could hear the only the hum of the hospital equipment and the breath of Betty’s son. Not wanting to know the answer I feared, I asked the question, “Betty is your father? Betty was born a man?”

“That thing he’s become took me from my mother, dragged me to some of the most unfit places and now,” the boy gulped, “and now has made me blind.” Rage built up in the boy as he sat up and screamed at the world, “I’m blind!!”

The boy kept repeating the words. I tried to calm him. I reached for his arm but he pulled away.

“I want my father!” he’d yell. “I want him to see what he did to me!”

I paid every nurse I saw to keep quiet on anything the boy said about a father. I assured them it must have been the drugs. The money would make sure that it was about the drugs.

I hailed a cab and rushed to the gallery where I had left Betty. This couldn’t be true. It must have been the boy’s delusions or perhaps a mean rumor to spread to ruin his mother’s good name.

In the cab I tried to recall anything that would add creditability to the boy’s story. I keep my dealings with Betty strictly business. Sure Betty would come on to me but nothing ever came of it. I thought of the men she had been with, how they all seemed to give her whatever she wanted but they rarely ever saw her again. She’d always have a new piece of jewelry or furs sent to her the next morning from a suitor, but never a marriage proposal or ask to see her again. Could this be why? Did she threaten they would be ousted for propositioning a man if they didn’t meet her requests. Was Black Betty everything I thought she was?

When I reached the gallery I was sweating and frantic. I asked everyone for Betty. Few had seen her. One waiter said he saw her sneak into the kitchen with the owner of the gallery.

In the walk-in freezer, I found them. The owner was nibbling on her neck when I burst in.

“Betty, I need to talk to you.”

“Mr. Paris, I do ask that you give Mr. Armstrong and I a minute. You seem to have caught us in such a peculiar state.”

“Betty, now.”

“Mr. Paris, is that any way to talk to a lady?” Betty said.

“Betty, that’s exactly why you need to come with me now.”

Betty eyes shot daggers at me before giving Mr. Armstrong a kiss on the lips. “To be continued,” she whispered.

I dragged Betty by the arm to a supply closet. I made sure no one else was in the room or in the hall.

“Joseph, you’re hurting me.” She said. “I never thought of you as the jealous type. If you wanted me all to yourself all you had to do is ask.”

“Stop the game, Betty. I talked to your son.”

“Oh darlin’ is that what all this is about, my son? I know I should have gone to the hospital with you but—“

I couldn’t take it anymore, I had to cut her off. “He kept asking for his father.”

“Huh.” Betty replied.

“And by father, he meant you. Now Betty as your manager I’ve put a lot on the line for you and if you’re keeping from me what I think you’re keeping from me… I’m gonna need you to explain” I demanded.

Betty brushed the lapels of my jacked and started to fix my tie.

“Joseph, I didn’t mean to hurt you.”

“Betty, you’re hurting more and more by the minute if you don’t tell me the truth.”

“Will you stay with me if I tell you the truth?” asked Betty.

“That depends on your level of honesty.”

Betty leaned against the sink of the supply closet and tucked her arms into her chest. “My parents had no earthly idea what they were doing when they named me Robert Sinclar.”

My heart skipped a beat. I didn’t want it to be true.

“But Joseph, you have to believe me, that I wasn’t put on this earth to be a man. I was meant to shine as a woman.”

“So our whole relationship has been a lie?”

“Lie, what lie?” She retorted. “You use me to be pretty for photographers and designers. Don’t mistake me Joseph, I am pretty. I am what men like to look at and what women want to be.”

“But you’re not being honest.”

“I’m as honest to myself as it comes. Why else would I have a doctor go snip-snip?”

I cringed with the thought.

“I am living the life I was meant to live and am the person I want to be.” Betty said with pride/

“Your son doesn’t think so.” I hated myself as soon as the words came out of my mouth.

“My son. My son. You’re going to bring my son into this?”

I saw the same rage in her boy grow inside Betty.

“My son’s mother died at birth. I have been everything to my son. I may not be the most normal mother but I have worked to give my son a life that Alabama would have never been able to give him.”

“He need you, Robert. He needs his father.”

“Do you need me Joseph?” Betty asked.

“No, Betty. I’m sure I’ll hate myself for it later but I can’t help keep or expose your lie. This is your choice, your fight. I can only urge you to see you son.”

I turned to the door and opened it slightly before I heard Betty ask, “Joseph, back at The Black Hat, what did you see in me that you didn’t see in the other girls?”

“Oh Black Betty you’re so rock steady and always ready.” I said. “But it turns out, I’m not ready for you. Goodnight, Betty.”

“Goodnight, Mr. Paris”

“Black Betty” PART 1: 30 stories inspired by 30 songs

This story written for National Novel Writing Month is inspired by the song “Black Betty” by Leadbelly & Ram Jam. Here is part 1. Part 2 can be found here.

****

A simple sales call was scheduled to keep me in town for a weekend, after I met Black Betty I stayed for three months.

I remember the night as clear as gin. As soon as my foot hit the cobblestone street outside the cab I could feel the excitement. The clay covered earth rattled with the music spewing from The Black Hat.  The smell of fresh-rolled cigarettes, whiskey and desperation pulled on my nostrils and dragged me in.

Williams had warned me about The Black Hat. Warning isn’t quite right, Williams nearly dared me not to go. I believe his words were, “For the New Orleans calls, make sure you stay away from The Black Hat, the girls there will put their voodoo on you.”

Never one to step down from a dare from a fellow salesman, I made sure to make an appearance at The Black Hat.

On a side-street off the French Quarter was the red brick building with darkened windows and a red awning with only the image of a black hat on the fabric. No name or address listed on the building; however, every cab driver seemed to know the place before you uttered the address. The line outside the front was littered with a mix of the town drunkards, business men and locals, all anxiously waiting to get inside.

A few phone calls to important contacts in the area and all I had to do was nod to the doorman and I was in. It was far too easy.

Inside was a sea of people, shoulder to shoulder. Long fingers of men and woman seemed to be touching, grasping and groping everyone and everything. The room bled sex.

As I made my way through the crowd I could see the stage. I could see my future. The rest of the room faded away. Black Betty was on the stage. Her strong chocolate legs glistened with sweat, white feathers held together by white and black rhinestones covered her bottom, a strategically placed black hat allowed her chest to play peek-a-book with the crowd. Her frame was long and lean, muscular in all the right areas. Her dark eyes lured you in. One look at her and you wanted her. If you were lucky enough to get a glance back, you were a dead man. Like a spider drawing in her prey, she wouldn’t let you go until she had all your money and admiration.

It was clear I wasn’t the only one who wanted her. Finely-dressed men where enticing her with hundred dollar bills, women mimicked her moves trying to absorb some of her allure to bring back to their own bedroom. I wanted her, that’s for sure, but I wanted her for something more.  Perhaps something that no one else at the club that night could offer her.

It was the hot sultry summer of 1965 when I snuck back stage. Among the half-naked women, feathers and scattered lingerie, sat a dark-skinned boy about the age of 6.

“Who’s kid is that?” I asked the topless red-head lacing her boots.

“That’s Betty’s son.”

“Where’s his father?” I asked.

The red-head opened her mouth to answer but was quickly cut off.

“You askin’ about my kin?” said Betty. Her thick Southern drawl was a smooth as velvet.

I wasn’t sure if she was challenging me or asking a direct question. I knew I had one chance to impress her or she’d dismiss me as fast as a shot of Jack Daniels. “My name is Joseph Paris, I know people in New York that can get you on the cover of magazines and in fashion shows. You and your kid deserve the best life.”

Betty checked me up and down. Her fingers reached for a cigarette. I lit it for her. Her smile sealed the deal.

I wasn’t completely lying to her. I did have friends in New York tied to Vogue and Harper’s Bazzar. Working for General Cigar Company had its perks. With our ties to Cuba and the Dominican Republic we were a must have for the social elite. At the right party, with the right dress, I knew I could make Betty a star.

We left three months later for New York on the company’s dime. One picture of her smoking our new cigar and they’d wouldn’t question any expenses. Her image would sell more than I could schlepping across the country in three months talking to vendors.

I put her and her son up in the Chelsea Hotel. I wanted her to make an impression on the artists and designers who made the hotel their home. An impression she did. Within the week I got calls that she was doing impromptu burlesque shows in the lobby and roaming the halls naked reciting poetry.

It wasn’t hard to get her on the cover of Tobacco Magazine. The ad men had a taboo love of dark-skinned women. Betty was eager to full-fill their desires. Soon there were calls from Vogue, Warhol, Paris and couture New York designers all asking for Betty. I quit my job working for General Cigar Company and managed Betty full-time.

It was clear that Betty had a drinking problem when I met her. She had an obsession with pink champagne. Soon any spirit that was pink she’s drink faster than water. When she started hanging out with Warhol and fashion designer Charles James she quickly got hooked on pills and powder. Most people including myself, ignored the problem. She was making us money hand over fist. We were flying around the world and being privy to the best of the best.

One night after an art gallery opening, I got the call that Betty’s son was rushed to the hospital. Betty refused to leave the party, she was afraid she would offend her fans, so she sent me.

PART TWO LINK

NaNoWriMo Facebook Updates

National Novel Writing Month

Prepare for the next 30 days of literary abandon!

I’ve signed up for National Novel Writing Month aka NaNoWriMo. The goal is to write 50,000 words in 30 days. I don’t know if I’ll get to 50,000 words but I’m sure going to try. I’m going to do something different this year, I’m going to share the process with all my lovely readers. The experiment I’m going to do is to pick one song each day and write a short story based on or inspired by the song. I’m going to post the story and the link to the song here on the blog. *WARNING* I’m not that great of a first draft writer and a lot of NaNoWriMo is just to get words on the page and not to edit. So there will be rough sentences, spelling errors etc. But hey, that’s all of the fun.

I will have polls and questions to have you help with what songs or artists I should use. I’ll also have at the end of all this polls on which stories are readers favorites, which stories should be turned into movies, novellas or even a novel.

I don’t know what’s going to happen during these 30 days and that’s the excitement of it all. Stay tuned to the blog for stories and progress. Also if you are doing NaNoWriMo “buddy me” my user name is “katechaplin” the temp title of my work is “The Music in Me” although I also like “Rebel Diamonds” (it’s from a Killers Song) and “ituned out: a musical journey”