I knew for a fact, were planted by Nema’s secretary, also without her knowledge.
I could write a book—someday I may—about personality disorders in stars’ secretaries, based on my experience with the forty or fifty Nema and Morgan went through in the nine years of “Al and Sal.” The secretarial disorder most likely to drive producers into early coronaries is a secretary’s tendency to identify too closely with the star she or he works for. Inevitably, secretaries derive their sense of status from the status of the star; just as inevitably they come to believe that they
are
the star—many stars’ secretaries I’ve known acquire more airs than three-time Oscar winners.
So in my dream Morgan Underwood’s secretary had planted an item in the
Enquirer
claiming that Nema was fucking a prop man, an item which so infuriated Nema that she started her day by walking into the makeup trailer and squirting Morgan Underwood in the face with Mace, a squirter of which she always kept in her purse for defensive purposes.
This dream was a replay of a real scene: Nema did once Mace Morgan. Headlines the world over read: “Sal Maces Al!”
In the dream I was standing outside Morgan Underwood’s trailer, watching him gag and vomit; I had a stopwatch in my hand, as if I were clocking a gag-and-vomit contest. I was probably just trying to calculate how soon a man who had just been Maced could reasonably be expected to trot back on the set and begin rehearsal.
Then T.R. woke me up. Once she hung up, I felt vaguely uncomfortable, but it was not because I had accidentally provoked my daughter; it was because I needed to know if Morgan had actually recovered and done the scene. In real life a whole day had once been lost, most of it spent trying to persuade Morgan not to sue Nema. It was ridiculous that I should need to know how much time was lost in the dream replay, but I did. The fact that the show had been closed for four years made no difference. Virtually my entire dream life still took place on the set of “Al and Sal.” My dream strata were not deep; I never dreamed of my childhood, of my marriage; only rarely did I get a flicker from my European years, and those flickers tended to be heart-disturbing: a glimpse of Romy Schneider’s face the last time I saw her, or Françoise Dorléac dancing at a party the very week of her accident. But most of my dreams were American, and firmly anchored in Culver City, on a sound stage so filthy it was the equivalent of a running sore. All my dreams were tension-laden; even the few that were sexual weren’t very exciting; my dream sex was the sex-born-of-boredom variety—the kind of sex Nema might descend to with a fairly nice A.D. if one happened to step into her trailer at an opportune moment.
Why was I always dreaming of that set? I had had a life before “Al and Sal”—I had even had a life after it, insofar as continuing to breathe constitutes a life. How come Culver City got to hog my dreams?
I didn’t know, but I switched on my bedlight, hoping T.R. would call again. I didn’t feel like going back to sleep if the best I could look forward to was a dream about an actor who had just been Maced.
Five minutes later the phone rang again and an operator asked if I would accept a collect call from T.R.
“With pleasure,” I said.
24
“I don’t think you even have an airplane,” T.R. said. “You probably ain’t half as rich as that magazine said you were.”
In the background I could hear a baby crying; also I could hear salsa music and the sound of cars passing.
“Where are you?” I asked, feeling a touch of alarm.
“I’m out in front of the Circle K, talking on this stupid pay phone,” she said.
It was 1 A.M. , and the Lawndale area wasn’t the safest part of Houston—if there was a safe part.
“T.R., are you safe?” I asked. “Would you like me to come and get you right now?”
“Come get me and do what with me?” she asked, after a
I could write a book—someday I may—about personality disorders in stars’ secretaries, based on my experience with the forty or fifty Nema and Morgan went through in the nine years of “Al and Sal.” The secretarial disorder most likely to drive producers into early coronaries is a secretary’s tendency to identify too closely with the star she or he works for. Inevitably, secretaries derive their sense of status from the status of the star; just as inevitably they come to believe that they
are
the star—many stars’ secretaries I’ve known acquire more airs than three-time Oscar winners.
So in my dream Morgan Underwood’s secretary had planted an item in the
Enquirer
claiming that Nema was fucking a prop man, an item which so infuriated Nema that she started her day by walking into the makeup trailer and squirting Morgan Underwood in the face with Mace, a squirter of which she always kept in her purse for defensive purposes.
This dream was a replay of a real scene: Nema did once Mace Morgan. Headlines the world over read: “Sal Maces Al!”
In the dream I was standing outside Morgan Underwood’s trailer, watching him gag and vomit; I had a stopwatch in my hand, as if I were clocking a gag-and-vomit contest. I was probably just trying to calculate how soon a man who had just been Maced could reasonably be expected to trot back on the set and begin rehearsal.
Then T.R. woke me up. Once she hung up, I felt vaguely uncomfortable, but it was not because I had accidentally provoked my daughter; it was because I needed to know if Morgan had actually recovered and done the scene. In real life a whole day had once been lost, most of it spent trying to persuade Morgan not to sue Nema. It was ridiculous that I should need to know how much time was lost in the dream replay, but I did. The fact that the show had been closed for four years made no difference. Virtually my entire dream life still took place on the set of “Al and Sal.” My dream strata were not deep; I never dreamed of my childhood, of my marriage; only rarely did I get a flicker from my European years, and those flickers tended to be heart-disturbing: a glimpse of Romy Schneider’s face the last time I saw her, or Françoise Dorléac dancing at a party the very week of her accident. But most of my dreams were American, and firmly anchored in Culver City, on a sound stage so filthy it was the equivalent of a running sore. All my dreams were tension-laden; even the few that were sexual weren’t very exciting; my dream sex was the sex-born-of-boredom variety—the kind of sex Nema might descend to with a fairly nice A.D. if one happened to step into her trailer at an opportune moment.
Why was I always dreaming of that set? I had had a life before “Al and Sal”—I had even had a life after it, insofar as continuing to breathe constitutes a life. How come Culver City got to hog my dreams?
I didn’t know, but I switched on my bedlight, hoping T.R. would call again. I didn’t feel like going back to sleep if the best I could look forward to was a dream about an actor who had just been Maced.
Five minutes later the phone rang again and an operator asked if I would accept a collect call from T.R.
“With pleasure,” I said.
24
“I don’t think you even have an airplane,” T.R. said. “You probably ain’t half as rich as that magazine said you were.”
In the background I could hear a baby crying; also I could hear salsa music and the sound of cars passing.
“Where are you?” I asked, feeling a touch of alarm.
“I’m out in front of the Circle K, talking on this stupid pay phone,” she said.
It was 1 A.M. , and the Lawndale area wasn’t the safest part of Houston—if there was a safe part.
“T.R., are you safe?” I asked. “Would you like me to come and get you right now?”
“Come get me and do what with me?” she asked, after a
Similar Books
