Third Girl from the Left by Martha Southgate Page A

accent like hers, “Well, where you all from, honey chile?” Learned not to flinch when people said briskly, “Well, yeah, she’s got a great body, but what are we going to do with the voice?” Like it wasn’t even her voice. Like she was just some disembodied, honey-dipped thing. Well. Now she had a few lines. She’d show them.
    She worked harder than she thought it was possible to work to get ready. When she walked on set that day, she knew it stone-cold solid. She had even worked out a little story for her character, how she came to be the hooker she was, a little bit of her relationship with Coffy. She’d read once in a profile of Dustin Hoffman that he always prepared an elaborate history for each of his characters. Sheila sent her to the set with a kiss and a whispered “Go get ’em, girl.” She felt like a million bucks as she started her car.
    She murmured her lines to herself as she was made up, stuffed into a cheap, long, curly wig and poured into an ankle-length orange polyester number. The wardrobe woman yanked the front of it quickly, experimentally. Then satisfied, she blew a cloud of smoke into Angela’s face and walked away. Angela caught sight of herself in the mirror and almost laughed. She looked like a whore. Her mother would have died. But she felt kind of excited, to be so completely not herself. She ran her hands across her body, giggled again. “You think so, bitch? Well, I’ll show you,” she said. That was her line to Coffy, just before they started ripping each other’s clothes off. She wiggled in front of the mirror, then went down the hall to the hotel room that was the set for this scene.
    Pam Grier sat a little behind the camera, smoking a cigarette and laughing at something one of the grips was saying. Stationed around the room, looking bored, were women all dressed like Angela. Beautiful, cheap polyester birds. Bright and inviting and not long for this world. They leaned against the wall, talked to each other in easy voices, until the director came on set. “All right, ladies, places, please,” he said crisply. “Quickly, quickly. We’ve got to get this shot in thirty.” Everyone hopped into place as though poked with a cattle prod.
    â€œHi, I’m Pam.” A briskly extended hand.
    â€œI’m Angela.”
    â€œYou ready to do this?”
    â€œYou bet.”
    â€œYou look good in that dress, girl. Too bad I gotta tear it.” She smiled briefly. Angela smiled back. They took their places opposite each other. “Action,” called the director. “You want something, bitch?” snarled Pam.
    â€œI want you to watch while I kick your ass,” Angela snarled back furiously. She felt herself ten feet tall, only rage.
    â€œI think you’ll be the one doing the watching.”
    â€œYou think so, bitch? Well, I’ll show you!” Angela lunged for the front of Pam’s dress, suddenly feeling truly angry. Pam eluded her with one swift side step and just as quickly reached forward and ripped Angela’s dress wide open. Her breasts sprung forward, swinging a little as Angela lunged for Pam’s dress and tore it. Now all the girls were screaming and fighting, fabric tearing, shrieks. Angela felt her leg bump into the coffee table so hard that she knew instantly it was going to be bruised. Then she crashed to the floor. The cheap carpet felt scratchy underneath her back. Pam was tussling with someone else now. Angela felt an odd mixture of embarrassment and intense excitement. Her eyes were brass, her breath was coming hard. She felt no impulse to cover herself where she lay. The scene went on until a leggy blonde reached into Pam’s wig and came away screaming with bloody hands. Coffy had hidden razors in her hair.
    Finally, Mr. Hill called, “Cut. And print.”
    The screaming and rolling around stopped as suddenly as though a plug had been pulled.