The Trials of Max Q, page 12
“We are going to New York to see your friend Lansdale.”
She sits tall behind the wheel. The fear appears to fade away into the cool night. “I’ll pick you up,” she says with conviction.
Chapter 29
I wearily return to my apartment and lay exhausted on the futon. My body feels drained, but at the same time the pieces of the puzzle are zooming around my head like the Daytona-500. Sleep is a long way off.
I reach to my nightstand and pick up my copy of Big Bang Theories. I open to the first chapter entitled My First Movie—this time it’s narrative, not poetry. I figure this will be the closest thing I get to actual sex in a long while.
For some reason, I believe the book contains a clue that will lead me in the right direction. “Talk to me Laney,” I say to myself.
Hello new life! At least that’s what I thought when I moved out on my own after turning eighteen, but I found that it was eerily similar to the old one.
I first saw Mr. Perfect when I literally ran into him in the hallway of the complex where we both lived. He looked like he had jumped off the cover of one of those romance novels, and he’d be the one to write a happy ending to my cautionary tale. But truth was, he barely noticed me.
I didn’t receive the leers of men in those days. I had never even worn make-up at that time, and my twig-like body had been nicknamed “Kansas” by my high school classmates because of my “flatlands”— the famous Laney Bang curves had yet to be attached.
Mr. Perfect didn’t have any problem getting the attention of the opposite sex—even the intimidating ones with their big-hair and showy cars, and who wore the tiniest of bikinis over their flawless bodies at the swimming pool, turned to mush around him. I didn’t fit in with most of the girls, so I spent most of my time alone, hoping Mr. Perfect would look my way. I often fantasized that he’d see me across the room and walk by all the other beautiful girls to me. I would look smugly at their envy-filled faces as we rode off into the sunset. He would provide me a new life and I’d leave Baby Doll behind.
While I didn’t catch his eye, I did befriend his roommate. We’ll call him Friend because that’s what he was to me. Friend didn’t have the looks or status of Mr. Perfect, but he sure liked me a lot more, and turned out to be the most loyal man I’ve ever met. But Friend couldn’t give me a new life; whisk me off into a fantasy like I thought Mr. Perfect would.
Friend took me as his date to Mr. Perfect’s birthday bash. After the party, we returned to their place, and that’s when Mr. Perfect suddenly noticed me. So much so that he began ignoring his date, who looked like she appeared right off the cover of Cosmo. Looking back, I think he just wanted to put Friend in his place and prove once more that he could do whatever he wanted, whenever he so chose. But all I could see was the fantasy.
Miss Cosmo stormed out over the attention he was showing me. Now it was just the three of us. Mr. Perfect went to a small refrigerator and took out a bottle of Bacardi. This was the first time I drank alcohol, and the last. Friend became really drunk, brooding over the fact that Mr. Perfect and I were heavily flirting with each other, which we weren’t being real subtle about. He soon passed out on the bed.
It didn’t take long for Mr. Perfect to make his move. He was a lion and I was his prey. It was inevitable. I started to push him away, not wanting this to happen with Friend present, but the fantasy was too powerful. Before I could blink an eye, our lips were locked and our clothing was off. We climbed to the top bunk, and he officially turned me into a woman. Goodbye Baby Doll—hello new life!
I left before Friend woke, not wanting to face him, but that didn’t stifle my joy in the least. The next day, I couldn’t wait to see Mr. Perfect again. I was floating on air, knowing that Friend had already left for the day and we could pick up where we left off. My new life awaited and I didn’t want to put it off another second.
Even the knock on the door seemed wrong. Mr. Perfect didn’t answer his door. Instead, it was a guy I’d seen hanging out with him. He blocked my path, informing me that Mr. Perfect didn’t ever want to see me again. I can still feel how cold his voice was. I tried to force my way in, but I couldn’t fight past him; he weighed an easy three hundred. “You know the rules—if you know what’s good for you, you’ll turn around and never come back here.”
Full of shame, I walked back to my place. Once inside, I heard laughter from the TV room. I remembered my roommate mentioning something about having some friends over to watch the latest Jim Carey movie. Feeling humiliated, I had wanted to be alone, but for whatever reason I was drawn to the laughter.
When I stuck my head inside the door, a hush came over the group. All I could hear were the screams and moans—definitely not a comedy. Onscreen, two naked bodies were engaged in passionate sex. Sometimes moments are so surreal that they don’t register right away—this was one of those moments. But when it did, I felt like I had been gut-punched. The two people on the tape were Mr. Perfect and me!
I was glad it was dark, so I didn’t have to see the derisive expressions, nor could they see my humiliation. Who had filmed us? How could this have happened?
I wanted to run out of the room, but my feet felt cemented to the floor. It got worse. Mr. Perfect, obviously aware of the camera, played to it, winking, and even made a hand gesture to indicate that I was “just okay.” At one point, he was mocking me while I was in the throes of passion.
Finally, I bolted from the room, feeling like my skin was on fire. Unbeknownst to myself, my new life had begun. It was just a lot different than I pictured it to be. The first seeds of Laney Bang had been planted.
My therapist believes Mr. Perfect is an amalgam of the many men in my life whom I put on a pedestal, and trusted in the deepest way, only to have them shatter that trust and taunt me in my dreams. And that Friend is a combination of the few loyal people who stood by me, and looked over Darby, as Laney climbed the ladder to fame. Basically, she believes I made up what I just told you as a way to summarize the pain from my youth, and rationalize becoming this character called Laney Bang.
Perhaps, but that doesn’t change the fact that it still feels real in my nightmares.
Chapter 30
I awake to David Bowie singing “Thursday’s Child.” Thursday is not exactly the pick of the litter when it comes to day-of-the-week songs.
The book is lying open beside me. I expected a provocative tell-all of dirty secrets. Sure, the main topic was sex, and granted, it was only one chapter, but what I read was a heartfelt tale of betrayal.
If we take Amber Jazz at her word—I picture Shep having a good laugh at that one—we can conclude that the likely motivation behind Laney’s murder was her attempted blackmail of Drew Anderson. But my impression of Laney Bang, so far, is that there is always another layer below the surface. So to tell the whole story, we will need to dig deeper.
I am fascinated by this Mr. Perfect character in the memoir, especially after Amber told us that Laney “hated” guys who hid their dirty laundry behind a pristine public image. Come to think of it, most of the men she exposed later in the book—which soaked up all the attention from the press when the book was released—fit this category, as does Drew Anderson, which is likely why she had plotted his demise.
My thoughts are interrupted by three quick honks of a car horn.
“Jack? Are you in there, Jack? Are you ready?” I hear a voice shouting at me with annoyance. Definitely not the sweet tones of Ashley. I shake the cobwebs and remember our trip to New York today. My tardiness is threatening to derail Shep’s itinerary and she isn’t happy about it.
I stumble to the porch. It looks as if a heavy downpour could commence at any moment. I see Shep in a bright white pantsuit with white heels, looking like the Angel of Anal Retentiveness.
I negotiate for five minutes to get ready. Shep looks at the slim, gold watch on her wrist and sighs. “Hurry up, Jack.”
I quickly shower and barely make my five-minute deadline. I fix my canary colored tie, and moments later I’m strapping myself into the passenger seat of Shep’s Beemer.
She doesn’t look amused. “You said you wanted to be on the road by seven, so we’d miss the heavy traffic.”
Add lack of punctuality to my growing list of faults. I look at my watch—it’s only 7:15, but I don’t have the energy to fight. The streets are already crowded as we drive through Cooperstown Village—mostly reporters, who’ve descended upon our tranquil town. The unhurried pace of Cooperstown has quickened.
My mind is on food. We pass Carmen Esposito’s Italian Ices, which always hits the spot on a hot summer afternoon. Then the Victorian looking Stagecoach Coffee Shop, which has the best strawberry smoothies in town. A group of tourists wander under the striped awning of Danny’s Market, where I do my food shopping. I give in to my hunger and call in a bacon egg and cheese order. Five minutes later, and after numerous dirty looks from Shep, we pick up my sandwich from Touch ’Em All and head toward the New York Thruway.
We’re traveling to the big bad city with hopes of capitalizing on the previous day’s momentum. Shep seems troubled this morning. And I get the feeling it goes beyond my tardiness.
“Is everything okay?” I ask
“Yes, why wouldn’t it be?” she snaps, before changing the subject. “I called to confirm our visit with Lansdale’s office. I know it will take away the element of surprise, but I didn’t want to waste the trip if he was out of town on business.”
“Good thinking.”
She looks like normal Shep—punctual, prepared with the day’s agenda, conservative dress for success, and hands safely on the wheel at “ten and two” as if she came directly from drivers-ed class. But something is lingering below the surface.
She rambles on, “We will meet him at his Midtown office at eleven-thirty. He said he would give us an hour. I’m not sure if we will have time for lunch, so I packed a cooler with sandwiches and bottled water.”
“Tell me what’s bothering you. Is it those reports about us being a couple?”
“Nothing, Jack.”
“C’mon, Shep—I thought we are supposed to trust one another.”
She surprisingly relents. She reaches into her briefcase and pulls out a pile of papers and hands them to me. “I printed them from my email.”
I begin to read the emails and I’m horrified. A death threat is one thing, but detailing the way they plan to do it, is another. I keep reading, one deranged paragraph after another.
“Have you told Gifford—maybe he can get the FBI involved? We need to get you protection.”
“You said not to discuss the case with anyone in the office.”
“This is different.”
“One threat claims they can get to me anywhere, anytime and actually work with members of the FBI, CIA, and Secret Service,” she tells me, her voice cracking.
“So what do you want to do about it?”
“I want to stop talking about it. I’ll deal with it.”
I take her tone as a sign to drop it. I reach in my bag and pull out Big Bang Theories. I open to my bookmark and begin to read the next chapter, titled Epiphanies Don’t Wear Clothes.
When Shep grasps what I’m doing, her look turns to irritation. “I can’t believe you’re reading that trash.”
“The last book you read was How to Get Rich by the classic author Donald Trump, so I’m not sure you are qualified to be a book critic.”
“Sounds like you are just trying to get your jollies,” she says back.
“You should always talk to the victim, Shep, and this is the only way she is talking these days.”
She rolls her eyes and returns her concentration to the long road ahead.
Chapter 31
As if the heavens disapprove, the sky suddenly opens up and rain begins to pour down. But I read on.
Following the embarrassment of my first movie, I packed up my stuff, and made another attempt at a new life, ending up in Atlanta. I thought about returning home, but one thing I learned is to never go back. Just keep looking forward.
I got a job at the local movie theater—made minimum wage taking tickets, working the snack bar, and being an usher, but the fringe benefit of the job was getting free movie viewings. I loved escaping into my mind and sinking deep into a fantasy.
The Peachtree-7, which was the name of the theater, is where I met a beautiful girl around my age named Jade, and she asked me to be her roommate. The movie theater was Jade’s second job—the one to fool her parents—she had another job that paid much better. She worked as an exotic dancer at a club called Vixens out in Marietta. She would come home with fancy cars, the best new clothes, and would take expensive vacations with her sugar-daddy boyfriend of the month. The Bahamas, Greece, Italy …
Jade was always trying to get me to work with her at Vixens, knowing I was struggling to get by each month. I always declined. I think I had about enough public humiliation to last me the rest of my life. Taking off my clothes in front of a bunch of horny guys? I didn’t think so. Besides, I didn’t know how I could compete with the bodies of girls like Jade.
One night, Jade convinced me to come by and watch her dance. No pressure, just watch. Jade was up on a stage dancing around a steel pole in seductive style. I noticed how she had the crowd in the palm of her hand. Not to mention the wads of green cash sticking out from the waistband of her g-string. It was intoxicating.
Following her performance, she introduced me to the club owner, Tyler Maddox. He had long rocker hair and a goatee, and I was amazed by how young he was. It also impressed me how kind and supportive he was to the girls. Not the greasy, cigar-chomping sleazeball I expected.
By the end of our meeting, I had agreed to work at Vixens. Not as a dancer, the thought still was unfathomable, but as a barmaid. Triple my current salary and I didn’t have to take off my clothes. Tyler called it an offer I couldn’t refuse, and he was right.
One night, a regular customer, who many said was the richest man in Georgia, requested that I give him a lap dance. I tried to explain that I just served drinks and wasn’t a dancer. He wouldn’t take no for an answer and began shouting to the whole club, “I will give Darby five-thousand dollars for one dance. If she says no, I will leave and go home heartbroken. But if she agrees, drinks for the rest of the night are on me!”
The crowd went crazy! I didn’t know what he saw in me compared to the other girls—maybe it was the challenge of my innocence. I felt like the crowd practically pushed me to Mr. Money Bags. I started slow and nervous, but I had watched the girls enough to know what I was doing, and I used my gymnast background to my advantage. The whole place was focused on me—I felt alive—and I realized that I could become this character, like in the movies, and lift myself out of my life.
Over the next few months, I became the club’s most popular girl. Tyler paid for my now famous surgical enhancements. He said if he could combine my innocence with the look of the classic blonde bombshell, we would rule the world. I became completely immersed in the character, and started going by the name Laney.
Tyler convinced me to take our success onto the road. He partnered with a fraternity at the University of Georgia for us to work their party. So on a humid night, typical of summers in the south, I packed with Tyler and a couple other girls, including Jade, into the back of a van and headed to the nearby college-town of Athens.
That’s where I came across a Mr. Perfect type. A dance wouldn’t be enough for him—he wanted to take me back to his room for more. I could tell from his eyes that he thought it was his God-given right to get whatever he wanted. When I turned down his advances, he offered me money—when I told him I don’t do that, he started to get physical with me.
I had been separated from Tyler and the other girls, and felt completely vulnerable. But luckily, a young man who had been watching the festivities from the corner most of the night, came to my rescue. His name was Sean, and it was uncanny how much he reminded me of Friend. He told Mr. Perfect to get his hands off of me. Mr. Perfect didn’t like being told no, and a showdown appeared imminent. But luckily the commotion attracted too much of a crowd for him to do anything to Sean.
I don’t know what got into me, but I felt the need to reward Sean for his bravery, and wanted him to be noticed. I took him by the hand and led him to a table in the middle of the floor. The crowd circled around us, pushing forward, and I felt like I was having an out-of body experience. It started as a lap dance, but Darby was no longer in control or calling the shots. Lost in my Laney character, I removed the boy’s clothing and led him on top of me on the table. As we kissed passionately, the crowd began chanting his name. “Sean! Sean! Sean!”
Sean came out of his shell, in more ways than one, and began to give back what he was getting. I writhed and moaned on the table, the sounds drowned out by the raucous crowd that chanted wildly. It was like nobody was in the room and the whole world was in the room at the same time—a level of intoxication that defied reality. Sean didn’t let the crowd down and we lost ourselves in each other. As fate would have it, Tyler captured the whole episode on video—history has always been the most infamous book ever written, and we were writing our own dirty chapter.
When we finished the shocking display, fraternity members actually came up to Sean and poured beer over his head like athletes do with champagne when they win a championship. A grinning Tyler brought me a towel for my sweaty body, and enthusiastically told me that he had never seen anyone capture a room like that before, and he had no doubt that I’d be the biggest star in the world one day. I was only half-listening—I was too busy watching the Mr. Perfect-type quietly exiting the room with his shoulders drooped. I smiled, but the scar remained.
Always the entrepreneur, Tyler owned the rights to our escapades that night and marketed the amateur movie. When the film hit stores, it became one of the top selling adult films of the year. What later became known as “dorm porn,” took off on college campuses throughout the land. Our van was traded in for a tour bus, and we traveled to colleges throughout America like rock stars. Some said I was corrupting the youth of America, but I figure if you’re old enough to go to war, then you’re old enough to score. For better or worse, the legend of Laney Bang was now a train barreling down the tracks that nobody could stop, especially myself. Not that I wanted to. The faster the train sped, the happier I was. Darby and Baby Doll were left behind and I wasn’t looking back.
