— Okay. Tomorrow we’ll get started, I tell her. Ten o’clock sharp.
— Okay . . . an insipid victim voice wavers back down the line.
I hang up and get my stuff together. I say goodbye to Lester at the juice bar. Then I get outside and walk down to the Miami Beach police station on Washington at 11th. I recognize a cop on the desk from last night, a short, fat, black guy, who just looks me over in vague disapproval, before asking me to sign a form, and eventually issuing me with my car keys. I follow his directions downstairs to the lot and find the Cadillac DeVille. I examine the indented collision area, feeling like I’m taking a much loved but dangerous rescue dog from the pound. I get in and start it up, and it turns over first time. I pull out of the dark basement lot, into the bright sunshine, turning onto my street and circling my block to make sure that no photographers are lurking. But the street is quiet, except for some palms swishing in the mild breeze, the light suddenly weak and fading as thunder clouds roll in from the ocean to block the sun. Have they lost interest so quickly? In the apartment, I’ve no time for any emails, as it’s the big one tonight. Michelle Parish is in town, talking about her new exercise and diet plan!
By the time I’ve gotten ready, wearing white linen slacks and a blue tank top and—sick of the trainer’s ponytail—opting for hair pinned back in a classic chignon, the clouds have passed and it’s a beautiful Miami Beach evening. It’s still hot and balmy as the sun goes down and insects whir dreamily, and I’m wading confidently through that sexy, tropical air back into my car, content the coast is clear. The Caddy’s old stereo is broken, but I have my CDs and put on some Cuban hip hop I bought for five bucks from a hustler on Washington. I never usually do that but this kid had the most amazingly cute eyes. Musically, a gamble, but in this case it’s paid off, heavy samba rhythms filling the air as a sneakily cool Spanish vocal kicks in. I wish I knew what the fuck they were singing about.
I take the MacArthur over the Biscayne Bay and down to Coral Gables, parking a block from the bookstore and walking there. I hate Miami proper, I’m a SoBe bum, but the Gables is one of the few mainland spots I can tolerate, and it’s largely due to this place. Books & Books is a classy store, with a great patio cafe, a corner of which is usually occupied by some cool musicians. I’ve even picked up a couple of guys and a chick here, on separate occasions.
I’m sitting keying in my day’s calorie and exercise data on the Lifemap TM phone app, as the crowd fills up around me. A woman with frizzy dark hair and glasses steps up to the podium, and I can see Michelle Parish, a bit smaller than I imagined, sitting behind her, all frisky and enthusiastic, just like she is on Shed That Gut!
The other woman, sharp-faced with alert, keen, birdlike movements, prepares to intro Michelle, but to my shock, her face expands in recognition as she suddenly catches my eye. — I’d just like to say that we have a local hero in the audience tonight, and she points right at me. — The brave lady who disarmed the gunman on the Julia Tuttle!
To avoid shrinking into my seat, I look around with a forced grin. There’s a split-second pause, before the whole room, about a hundred people, bursts into applause, led by Michelle, who’s on her feet, clapping with ferocity. Oh. My. God. No. Get out of town!
I’m examining the expectant faces and want to just crawl away. Fuck that. Take it. Own it. And I feel my spine stiffen as I nod, with a self-effacing smile; false, yes, but I’m making an effort. And why the fuck not? I stepped up. I saved two innocent men from a fucking psycho. Just take it. I stood the fuck up! I came forward!
The applause dies down and the intro continues, then Michelle gets up and does her thing. At around 5’3", 110 lbs, she’s a pocket dynamo, telling us about something called Morning Pages. — I don’t know if anybody has come across Julia Cameron of The Artist’s Way fame, and Morning Pages . . . Michelle peers over the top of her glasses, a hottie who doesn’t know it, as a forest of hands rise, — . . . good. I swear by them. They are so easy to do. You must write—longhand preferably—three pages, around 750 words, each morning. Stream of consciousness, uncensored stuff; anything that comes into your head. There are no right or wrong ways to do this. This frees up your thoughts for the rest of the day. I’d add one caveat: do not do this with a snack in your hand!
Some laughter, and then we’re down to business as Michelle brilliantly disses the South Beach low-carb diet. This is so what I came to hear, not artsy writing shit. — A diet without an exercise program is like an exercise program without a diet, just another useless fad, Michelle says, focused like a stone-cold killer, those bright eyes burning me. I’m digging the way her head moves to the side on that surprisingly long neck, and her perky little breasts straining against that tight blouse. — People don’t get obese by eating the wrong stuff or by living a sedentary lifestyle. They do it through both. The attack on obesity has to be holistic. The fad diet is dead!
Cue big cheers from the audience, many of whom are from the personal-training community. I recognize one needy bitch who works out of Crunch, and a fag from Equinox. But only one is getting a quick chat with Michelle afterward. I’m straight up there, and even the most competitive motherfuckers in the training fraternity stand the fuck down and let this hero be the first to get into Michelle’s face. As well as the chat, I’m rewarded with her business card and her personal email address! — Drop me an email, Lucy, we should talk, she smiles, then turns wearily, with an apologetic shrug, to face the demanding crowd.
I’m driving back home, almost in a state of rapture. I press the remote to open the gates. I park in the rear lot and head up to my apartment. The back-stair bulb on the second floor needs to be replaced. It’s dark, and I can’t see jack. Then a noise, a blast of music and some voices above me. I feel my body tense, but it’s only kids from the apartment below heading out. The young DJ guy who lives there nods to me, as his entourage file past. I get into the apartment and head straight for my laptop.
4
CONTACT 1
* * *
To:
[email protected] From:
[email protected] Subject: TV pilot
Lucy,
Lovely to meet you at your apartment this morning!
As soon as you decide on your representation issue, do let me know, as I’d like to get things rolling on this pilot as fast as possible. In the meantime, I’m enclosing a document outlining some of our ideas for the show, which we’ll expand upon more at our meeting, which I’ve scheduled for tomorrow afternoon. Does that still work for you? I stress that these are only ideas at this point, nothing is written in stone, and your own input will obviously be invaluable. We were looking at the photographs and footage again, and my colleagues here in production all agree: we have a highly photogenic, potential TV star on our hands. We are so looking forward to working with you!
Please don’t worry too much about any news crews or paparazzi outside your door. News people, God bless them, are not burdened with great attention spans. They will soon flock to an Ocean Drive hotel once they hear that some American Idol contestant got drunk at the bar or brought somebody back to their room. Again, getting good management/PR representation will help you negotiate that intrusion. As I said, I’ve taken the liberty of passing on your details to Valerie Mercando.
Best wishes,
Thelma
Fuck, yeah!
* * *
To:
[email protected] From:
[email protected] Subject: Representation
Dear Lucy,
My name is Valerie Mercando, and I run a PR agency here in Miami representing a diverse client base of models, photographers, artists, actors, and reality-television stars. I obtained your contact details from Thelma Templeton, whom I understand you met recently.
At Mercando PR, we understand that the client is the star. With over 40 years of combined experience, Valerie and Juanita Mercando have carved out an innovative reputation as the leading premi
um client-centered boutique agency in South Florida. If you were to consider becoming one of our clients, let me assure you that you would be well looked after. We feel that your heroism has captured the imagination and hearts of the South Florida community, and further afield.
We would love to be able to work closely with yourself, publishers, and broadcasters, to ensure that the Lucy Brennan brand is represented as strongly as it deserves to be.
As a starting point, we have some firm ideas about a revamping of your website.
I can be contacted on 305-664-6666.
Please let me know if this is of interest to you.
Best wishes,
Valerie Mercando
CEO
Mercando Public Relations Inc
Fuck, yeah! I get straight on the phone to Valerie Mercando. She does not fuck around. I tell her I can’t see her tomorrow as I’ve clients in the morning and a meeting at the channel/production company in the afternoon. So she suggests we meet for an early breakfast.
Oh yeah. Hello, bigtime! I’m inspired, so I get right onto Michelle!
* * *
To:
[email protected] From:
[email protected] Subject: Hey You!
Hey Michelle,
Not only was it a great honor to meet you tonight, but to hear one of the foremost people in my field endorse everything I’ve been trying to teach for the last fifteen years—well, it kind of blew my mind! What a sense of validation! So I’m shamelessly taking you up on your offer of getting in direct contact with you.
I’d like to start by saying that you are numero uno, top of the pile, exactly where I want to be. I’m not going to give you all this creepy “I’m your biggest fan” stuff—from what I saw tonight you’ll have had that up to your eyeballs—but what I will say is that you are a massively inspirational figure in my life.
As you know, Michelle, I too am a personal trainer, a zealous warrior against the plague of obesity which is swamping our nation in blubber. And as you are also aware, I’ve recently become something of a media celebrity myself, since disarming that gunman on the Julia Tuttle Causeway. I’ve had a lot of attention as a result of this incident, with a cable-television company anxious to strike up a deal. I was wondering if it would be possible to pick your brains about the benefits and potential pitfalls of media stardom!
Not that I want to disclose too much personal stuff, but I’m a bisexual woman with an active sex life, and I know that this very fact makes me a target of interest for an avaricious media and public. Help! If you’re ever in SoBe, look me up!
Best wishes on your continued success,
Lucy Brennan
* * *
To:
[email protected] From:
[email protected] Subject: I Know It’s a Long Shot, But. . . .
. . . on the off chance that you do answer emails personally, I’d like to start by saying that you are numero uno, top of the pile, exactly where I want to be. I’m not going to give you all this creepy “I’m your biggest fan” stuff—I suspect you’ve had your fill of that—but what I will say is that you are a massively inspirational figure in my life.
Jillian, I too am a personal trainer, a zealous warrior against the horrendous plague of obesity which is swamping our nation in blubber. I’ve recently become a bit of a media celebrity myself, having disarmed a gunman on the Julia Tuttle Causeway, right here in Miami Beach. I’ve had a lot of media attention as a result, with a cable-television company anxious to strike up a deal. I was wondering if it would be possible to pick your brains about the benefits and potential pitfalls of TV stardom.
Not that I want to self-disclose too much, but I’m a bisexual woman with an active sex life, and I know that this very fact makes me a target of interest for an avaricious media and public. Help! If you’re ever in SoBe, look me up!
Best wishes on your continued success,
Lucy Brennan
5
BLUBBER SUITS
I’M UP AT 7:07 with the sunrise, as I am every morning at this time of the year. It’s like a freakin switch. I can’t sleep when the sun’s up; even if I’m in a darkened, shuttered room without a chink of light, my body knows. So I’m into my workout clothes, stretching out, then pounding the sidewalks of South Beach. I see a couple of runners up ahead, a guy and chick, but I’m easily catching those mofos, then leaving their fake asses for dead. I bomb into Flamingo Park, where I stop at the bars to knock off four sets of fifteen pull-ups and chin-ups. I get back to my place on Lenox and shower, then take the Caddy up to Soho Beach House to see Valerie Mercando. We’re having a breakfast meeting at the back patio. I get there early as I wanted to see this joint, and I’m highly impressed. This will be the new Brennan hangout!
Valerie Mercando comes in, shielding her eyes against the morning glare, older than I imagined from her highish phone voice. She’s dressed in a light blue power suit, radiating a cool which says “I can do sass, but right now I really want to get down to serious business,” kind of like a Latina Oprah.
This is my beeyatch, of that I’m sure.
At my recommendation, she orders the same breakfast and insists on paying for both, and we get a table outside. Valerie, putting her shades back on, tells me that Thelma sent all the details for the show on to her. — Conceptually, I think it’s sound enough, but that is for you to decide. Financewise, I think they’ve come in a little low . . .
— I’ve got to confess, I haven’t seen any offer.
— Didn’t you open the attachments?
— Not yet, I admit, having overlooked them and feeling a bit of an asshole. — You have to appreciate that this is all happening very quickly for me.
— Yes, it must be quite overwhelming. But at this stage I just want to say two crucial things: one, sign nothing . . .
— I hear you.
— . . . and two, do you want me to come along to the meeting this afternoon? I’m happy to do this, and act on your behalf on an interim basis. There’s no pressure on you to formally engage me, and if you go for somebody else, I’d happily brief them. Obviously, though, we’d love to work with you.
— Look, I’m convinced. You’re a straight shooter, so am I. As far as I’m concerned, you’ve already earned your 10 percent, I tell her, feeling a thump inside at my use of the term straight shooter, which came from one of Mom and Lieb’s management books.
We shake hands and talk nonstop for over an hour. As we start to vibe, so Valerie’s tone becomes less businesslike and more open. — Camera crews are always chasing the cops. Be prepared for that kind of intrusion for around two weeks, she says, when I tell her about the media fuckers, — then it’ll be like it never happened, unless some other development puts it back in the news.
— It feels like it’s kinda over already.
— Don’t worry. You have something real to sell. Heroism is an unusual quality these days, we don’t see a lot of it. We try and tout our military, then have the Pentagon practically admit it’s also a hotbed of rapists and psychos. But individuals who can step up to the plate, they really capture the imagination.
— I agree.
Then she breaks into a little giggle. — Some say we’ve got a lot to answer for in TV, especially reality television. Let me be frank. She drops her voice. — I came into this game wanting to do quality stuff, but there’s just no demand. People are so scared, dumbassed, and pliable, they just switch over if they feel challenged, into a world of useless parasites like Paris or the Kardashians, who have money. They want to either imagine themselves in that circle, or just see them get fucked.
— For sure, I nod. Hell, I like this woman, she doesn’t pull punches.
— So we’re crying out for a real hero. Therefore you’ll be getting a lot of attention, and she lets a sly glance sweep over me, — though I don’t suppose that will be a problem!
For a second or two I wonder if this dirty bitch is flirting with me, bu
t quickly dismiss the notion. — One of the things about looking fit is that the damaged goods tend to leave you alone, I explain. — But this is South Beach, so you’re never too far away from a cocky asshole, or self-absorbed douchebag.
— Well, be aware that people are obsessed with celebrity. If you suddenly find yourself on the psycho radar, call me, she offers. For some reason, that fat little Julia Tuttle Causeway chick with the bangs and grotesque chin strap flashes into my mind.
Sorenson.
Valerie cracks a smile, albeit a slightly uncomfortable one. She’s an agent to her fingertips. — Right, she rises, — I’ll see you at the channel this afternoon.
— Wow, I’m so looking forward to it.
I walk Valerie outside as the valets get our cars. We shake again on the deal.
From the sublime to the ridiculous: when I get to Bodysculpt, Marge Falconetti is waiting for me, a lost look on her face. With most clients, and mine are almost exclusively women, you try to find the key. Is it sex: wanting to be seen as attractive, to get some fucking pipe laid? Is it their kids: staying alive, fit and active, and becoming a positive role model for them so they can see them grow up, and meet their grandchildren? Is it fear of the Grim Reaper: has the doc said, lose the fucking blubber suit, or else? With those ones you still have to force them toward progress, but at least you have some kind of handle. With Falconetti, though, it is simply wanting her crappy lifestyle maintained. All I have to do is to keep the scheming bitch on this side of type 2 diabetes so that no medical crisis upsets the apple cart. Seeing me three times a week for an hour gives her approval to sit on the couch watching her soaps, throwing potato chips into her mouth. She doesn’t want to change, she wants me to validate what she’s was doing. At $75 per session, I am perfectly prepared to offer damage limitation, to go through motions and try to keep her flabby ass from uncontrolled expansion.