> “Those who say that life is worth living at any cost have already written an epitaph of infamy, for there is no cause and no person that they will not betray to stay alive.” ―Sidney Hook
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> “Drink and dance and laugh and lie, Love, the reeling midnight through, For tomorrow we shall die! (But, alas, we never do.)” ― Dorothy Parker
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CHAPTER TWO:
From Tiger Beat, May 1986
CELEBRITY TANTRUMS AND THE STARS WE HATE TO LOVE
...And number one on our list is Abcde Braxtynn Clark, joining the ranks of Ally Sheedy, Drew Barrymore, and Charlie Sheen. Clark was caught breaking into a stranger's home after an altercation with her on-again, off-again boyfriend, and heartthrob Dillon Fox in a San Dante Chi-Chi’s parking lot. The victims' security camera showed Abcde hovering around the front door of their beach house trying to push her way in before, giving up and breaking one of the living room windows with a fallen tree branch to let herself in. Disoriented and confused, she proceeded to make her way into the downstairs bathroom, and pass out in the tub. Police later confirmed Clark had high levels of alcohol in her system and was in possession of both marijuana and cocaine.
From Seventeen, October 1987
LOOSER LOOSER, CHICKEN BOOZER
Fresh out of rehab, Abcde B. Clark was arrested after violating a restraining order from ex-fiancé and acclaimed Swiss film director, Pierre Paquet. Paquet’s lawyers insisted on an RIT after she continued to stalk Paquet for three months dressed in a replica of the chicken costume featured in the 1980 comedy, Stir Crazy. Paquet says he and Abcde were supposed to marry the following summer, but he was forced to break off their engagement after she showed up uninvited to the Cannes film festival drunk, wearing a white sheer dress short enough to reveal her panties- or lack of. During her trial, she alternated between absolute sobriety and fits of hysteria. Neither her mother nor her agent was available for questioning.
From YM, February 1988
Trends of the Stars- Do’s And Don'ts!
NUMBER 7. ABCDE CLARK’S EAU DE COLOGNE.
Abcde Clark & Co. is in hot water with the courts once again after her new perfume “Cosmic Whisper” was found to contain traces of shellfish- Yuck! The claim was brought to the public’s attention when [Name Redacted] sued for reimbursement of medical bills and damages, insisting just one spritz of the popular fragrance sent her into life-threatening anaphylactic shock. Clark chose to settle out of court and shelled out (get it?) $145,000 but maintained the resolution was in no way an admission of misconduct. Further trouble came from a Civil Rights class-action lawsuit filed by the California chapter of Council on American Islamic Relations. In response to the charges, Miss Clark’s lawyers are canceling their contract and dissolving all relations with the current manufacturer, Arcadia Aromatics, citing unapproved alterations to the ingredients after the initial authorization to market the scent. This marks the third time Clark has had trouble with her line, the first back in May of last year when it was alleged she never wore her own products. “It was because of that incident that we believe Miss Clark was already aware of the dubious ingredients in question,” said CAIR-CA Staff Attorney, Adel M. Meskin.
From Bop, August 1989
TROUBLE IN PARADISE
Pop quiz. What do you do when you have the hots for your old economics professor? Sail off together on a cruise ship to Barbados, of course. What do you do when you get sick of the old fart after you dock? Fly home and leave him to fend for himself without a passport or even a ticket home. Sources say that’s what Abcde Clark did after claiming she and Professor Vern Keasling of Berkely were going to have a Caribbean themed wedding at the Silver Sands beach. Staff working aboard the Paraíso claim the disturbances began before the fashion model ever got on board. Clark was enraged because Holiday Sails had already denied her request to rent out the entire ship for just the couple. Afterward, Clark wandered the dock trying to purchase the tickets directly from the other passengers. In an interview with Professor Keasling, he claims that he was already married, had no intention of divorcing his wife, and that it was only supposed to be “a fun, and discrete summer fling.”
From Sassy, March 1990
EMBARRASSING TALES OF THE RICH AND FAMOUS
Abcde Braxtynn Clark made waves last month when she showed up to the Grammys with Hunter Brandau of the Canadian pop trio, 38C. It was the band’s first nomination for their debut album $uperficial, Hunter and the boys would neither confirm nor deny that the title track was written about her, but who could say with Abcde standing there with her arm around him the entire interview? Reports of the trouble came during the after-party when Abcde threw a bottle of champagne valued at $14,181 through a $31,000 tropical fish tank because she was told she would have to read the menu for herself and communicate directly with the wait staff. After the altercation, Brandau quietly paid for the damages and put her in a cab. We guess there won’t be a second date, but on the bright side, 38C will have plenty to sing about on their next album.
From USA Today, July 1991
WE’RE GETTING MARRIED!
Abcde Braxtynn Clark, San Dante’s most fickle bachelorette is at it again, but will Sir Barnaby Fletcher seal the deal, or will the two time Wimbledon champ be just another jilted lover?
“That last one’s not even a gossip column.’ said Gail Delarosa, the rookie reporter for WDLS Channel 42- San Dante’s most trusted source for local coverage, weather, and traffic updates.
It was a far cry from Vogue but Gail knew it was just a hazing gig the moment the assignment crossed her desk. She also knew Abcde Braxtynn Clark would sit through an interview for any jackass that showed up on her doorstep with a notepad and a tape recorder, not because she craved the limelight like a perpetually pregnant woman clings to a jar of pickles, although she did. But… Abcde’s favorite pastime was abusing the press; usually done with an adult lubricant in one hand and plenty of illegal substances cruising along the hemoglobin highway regardless of how she had to smoke, snort or inject them in there. Still, if the size of Abcde’s pupils were any indication, she was currently flying higher than the Goodyear blimp during the Macy’s Thanksgiving parade, and that suited Gail just fine.
If all went according to plan, this would be Gail’s first and last time composing fluff segments for WDLS. She wasn't cut out for it and had no intention of spending the next forty years interviewing senior citizens on their centennial birthdays and driving all over the country just to find out which mid-town dump made the best chili. The current blue ribbon holder was a food truck in San Antonio, Texas, but Gail didn’t give a damn about chili. She didn’t want to have to be the one spell checking the teleprompter just so John and Jane Anchor, also known as “the real reporters” could sit in front of the camera with a shit-eating grin and a coffee mug full of cheap whiskey. Thanks, but no thanks. Gail had her mindset on a syndicated morning show and she intended to fund it with a little negative press and some settlement money.
Gail produced a small yellow writing pad and braced it against her lap for balance. It was like the kind found in business class motels, usually on the end table next to a copy of the Gideon Bible - voted American hospitality’s most stolen amenity and a dull-colored plastic ice bucket. The pads were always neatly printed with the name and address of the joint at the top of every page, good for reminding yourself what cheap dive you blacked out in the night before. She brushed the loose strands of black hair away from her face, took a sip from a can of Tab, and pressed down on the record button of her pocket Sony. “There’s a lot of people who claim you’re quite difficult to work with, and based on those headlines, it’s easy to see why. Would you care to comment on that?”
The story has been taken without consent; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.
Abcde fixed a menacing gaze at the stack of what her father always called “trash digest.” If she were half the demonic spawn the media had made her out to be, they would have burst into flames. The large french windows would implode. Earth would quake as deafening shockwaves of thunder tore open the heavens themselves, unleashing a squall of hail and hurricane. With a simple flick of her wrist, Abcde would send Gail Delarosa flying over the edge of her balcony, and she’d smile, red-eyed, hair billowing in the wind with arms raised, crying out to every child star, to every disgraced, junked-up, rock-bottom lush, “I did it all for you!” Yet, they remained, and Abcde combed through the modest collection, then snorted.
“I’ve been modeling professionally since sixteen. “I was featured in Elle twice last year and I’m a fashion consultant that publishes bi-weekly in La Bohémienne Paris, but I notice you didn’t bring any of those along with you. Is it because you can’t speak french?”
“We don't really have the budget for imports.” Gail muttered, while her hand worked overtime, gliding across the blotter, jotting notes in her own form of shorthand that when translated would read, “avoids eye contact,” “obviously drunk,” and “claims to know french.”
“I noticed,” Abcde smirked, brushing them into a nearby wastebasket. Gail’s mouth fell open to protest but fell short of producing more than a sibylline objection. “Trust me, it’s where they belong.”
It wasn’t as if they were particularly difficult to come by. All of them could still be purchased by ordering a back issue directly from the publisher. She herself had copies stored in the attic, a tradition her mother, Lauren “Moonberry” Clark began doing over a decade ago. Moonberry liked to keep one of everything because she thought her daughter might like to display them, and she never complained when the headline was something raunchy or degrading since she had once read “there was no such thing as bad publicity.” Abcde didn’t display them. Her agents over the years had instilled if nothing else, the difference between free publicity and good promotion. She also learned not to take advice attributed to circus carnies and a woman who had legally changed her name to an imaginary fruit in 1968.
Abcde yawned, pulling her limbs into the tangerine shell of her favorite bubble chair. “And for the record,” she declared, like a well-versed collegiate nearing the conclusion of an oral exam. “My perfume line, despite the slander, brought in $3 million in revenue this quarter alone, and if you had bothered to follow up on that case from a more reputable source, you’d know that Arcadia Aromatics was found guilty on all charges and that the proceeds from my counterclaim went towards building a new Mosque downtown. You could have read that in The Globe last August when they assumed I was converting to Islam.
Gail paused and raised an eyebrow. “Are you?”
“Fuck no!” Abcde laughed. “I need a drink.”
Abcde had just turned twenty-one two months ago but had been bordering alcoholism since sixteen and over the years the size of her stemware progressed with her addiction. Now, the comically large wine glass she raised to her lips was originally intended to be an ornate vase. It contained almost 1.5 liters of Pinot Noir. She cupped it with both hands and suckled the cranberry teat with a lavish thirst until her head grew heavy with a dull buzzing heat that she could almost hear seeping out of her ears.
Gail watched her drain the glass dry the way someone watches a building burn to ash when the inferno has gone on too long, and the building is no longer worth saving, and Abcde much like the building was expected to burn out sooner rather than later. She rested her head against the plush orange cushion, closed her eyes, and began to snore lightly. Gail sat in the uncomfortable silence, completely flabbergasted by the abrupt break in what might have turned out to be a juicy tell-all. She had certainly got her going, but now she wondered if she had pressed too much or not enough? Was there a precedent for this kind of behavior, perhaps an industry protocol she could reference? Gail envisioned herself in a candlelit room of wall to wall bookshelves that smelled of sandalwood and vanilla parchment. It was her happy place. Like Sherlock’s mind palace this quixotic library was where she came to think, and what she thought was that she really could go for a how-to number by Old Ironpants or even Joan Rivers -at least she’d know how to deal with a drunk.
Gail made up her mind to leave and had just got to her feet when Abcde sturred, knocking the comically large wine glass onto the floor. It shattered into hundreds of mangled fragments and thousands more into a keen glistening powder. Abcde’s glossy red eyes rolled back, then fluttered into focus. Her dark, heavy lids took turns intermittently dropping. She couldn’t remember anything since the beginning of the pre-bachelorette party she had held three nights before. Some of it was beginning to come into focus, flooding her mind all at once like a poorly edited student film -one of those plotless artsy-fartsy types that bombard the viewer with a slew of black and white non-sequiturs. There were flashes of wild limo rides, of pretty rainbow drinks in loud bars, of screaming matches and catfights. Flashes of coke lines on the well-chiseled abs of strange men, of mechanical bull rides while twirling her panties above her head like a lasso, of... karaoke! Oh yes, there were flashes, but, please God, how she wished someone would turn off the projector.
“Are you ok?’
Abcde blinked warily at Gail with no recollection of who she was or how she had gotten in. “I.” Her stomach made a bubbling lurching sound and suddenly she felt as if she had just chugged an entire bottle of apple cider vinegar. “Am.” A foul mixture of bile and red wine had made it to the top of her throat. She swallowed down the corrosive gunk gasping quick shallow breaths as It stung at her esophagus.“Fi-” Abcde hunched forward. With one violent contraction, she unhinged her jaw like a hungry python and erupted a reddish-brown molten with chunks of green olive and undigested pimento, undoubtedly from the countless martinis and bloody mary’s.
Well shit! Gail thought, and began to fidget with the top of her pen, compulsively mashing the retractable cartridge in and out; tick-clack, tick-clack-tick-clack. What happens if I leave and she chokes on her own vomit? Tick-clack-tick-clack. “Let me get you some water. Where’s your kitchen?”
Abcde held up one shaking arm and pointed. “Through there, on the left,” she sobbed, followed by an encore performance. It was over.
She wiped at her mouth again, leaving a streak of acidic residue from her elbow to her wrist, then leaned back and groaned in a bored sleepy way, like a child who would rather be out playing with friends on a hot summer day, than sitting through a drawn-out sermon in a cramped, church pew. When Abcde’s father was still alive, there had been plenty of balmy Sundays and a lot of preachy do-gooders who always seemed to know she was the one pinching a couple of bucks out of the tithe basket, whenever it passed her by. But she had to steal it because precious little Abcde Clark; once America’s Junior Miss couldn’t very well ask dear old dad for an extra U.S. Grant so she could score an ounce of coke off, Zach the youth pastor. Zach was a decent fuck, but Abcde always suspected he cut his powder with flour and coffee creamer, and she was right, he was.
Gail returned, handing Abcde a tumbler of water and two antacid tablets. “I found these in my purse,” she said dryly, realizing she had just trudged through the vomit of a woman she had come here to coerce seed money out of. So what if karma was a step ahead? At least on my show, I won't have to do shit like this!
Abcde thought the woman before her now could have been a preacher, scoping out Gail’s starchy, monochrome power-suit. Underneath her, well-padded blazer was a black silk blouse, conservatively buttoned to the top and each seam of slacks was neatly pressed into perfect pleats. “Holy shit, aren’t you Oprah Winfrey?” Abcde felt a wave of excitement and jealousy.
I should be so lucky, Gail thought and sat back on the banana-shaped sofa. “No, I’m Gail Delarosa.” She crossed one leg over the other, giving in once more to her pen-mashing impulse. “You scheduled an interview with WDLS yesterday.” Tick-clack, tick-clack, tick-clack. “And before we got off-topic, I had asked why you decided to ca-”
“Jayne Kennedy!” Abcde snapped! “We met on the pageant circuit, that’s how I know you!’
Jayne was her antithesis. Jayne was clean and confident. She had dreams to chase and aspirations to strive for. When this was all over, she would doubtlessly get into a car that she paid for with her money, and drive back to a job she earned, with a degree she studied for, and at the end of the day, she would come home to a family that saw her as something more than just a genetic prize. In other words, Jayne had her shit together.
“No, It’s Gail! Gail Delarosa,” she insisted. “We met an hour ago. Don’t you remember?” Tick-clack, tick-clack, tick-clack...
“Dale the grocer, got it! You’ll have to talk with Meilin when she gets here, she does all my shopping.
Tick-clack, tick-clack, tick-clack. Gail pinched at the bridge of her nose. “No, no, sweety. It’s Gail.”
"Gail?" The name fell out of Abcde’s mouth as if she were reading aloud from a utility statement and had suddenly discovered she owed far more than she expected. Something finally clicked. Yes! Good. Gail Delarosa. You invited her here, but why?
There was something else; an underlining smugness hidden in the upturned corners of Gail’s mouth that simultaneously conveyed both contempt and patronage. It was the look of a guidance counselor in an underprivileged high school -not that Abcde had ever seen one, except in the movies. In Abcde’s mind, the idea of public school always conjured up images from Boyz n the Hood and Stand and Deliver. Abcde pictured a kid lumbering along the long-neglected hallways of some inner-city school reminiscent of Chicago’s infamous Cabrini-Green. He was an average teen that barely squeaked by on a D average but the movie playing behind Abcde’s eyes has reached its turning point and he tells Guidance Counselor Delarosa that he wants to go to college. The corners of Counselor Delorosa’s mouth crack and rise in a joyless -almost robotic sneer. Then she offhandedly crushes his spirit by suggesting he consider a field in fast-food or retail.
That smirk was fixed on her now. and she knew what Gail wanted to ask. “How much did you steal from the poor box this week, Abcde? Do you really believe it’s some kind of divine secret between you and God just how much shit you shove up your nose, week after week? Do you know when people smile at you it’s not because they like you, it’s because you're a joke? You’re an absolute riot and you hide behind all that makeup and lacquer because deep down even you know you're nothing more than a goddamn clown, so smile clown, smile for the picture!”
Of course, Gail hadn’t said anything; she just sat there mashing away at her pen, tick-clack, tick-clack-tick-clack, envisioning herself sitting at a large oak desk. Behind her was a backdrop that looked like the skyline of the Big Apple at sunrise and she was busy interviewing Robin Williams, and Meryl Streep. Everyone would want to watch her show because she would have cute animal segments just like Johnny Carson used to. Tick-clack-Tick-clack-Tick-clack. That sound was driving Abcde batshit and…
“Gail,” she reconciled... hadn’t even bothered to ask if she could sit down. She just tick-clack-tick-clack dropped her ass into the nearest chair and started dragging out the skeletons, bone by bone. The whole thing was some kind of fucked up guided tour through her sex life, and who the fuck did she think she was anyway?
Abcde jolted forward, pulling, hatching out of her orange shell like a great featherless bird “Excuse me, but aren’t you the chick that gets everyone coffee?”
“Like, oy my god!” Another woman’s voice called out from the doorway. “Who’s ready to get tanked skank?” This abrasive shrill was joined by several others woo-hooing, and tee-heeing as they made their way down the hall, like a flock of seagulls hovering over a crowded park.
"I should go," Gail said and packed up the tools of her trade with a defeated sigh.