Summer Reading List

If you haven’t already had the pleasure, do add the following to your summer reading list….trust me, they are wonderful both pool, and beachside….

Leave your thoughts in the comments, or email me directly at amandahanna01@gmail.com. I’d love to hear what you think of ma’ books, yo!  🙂

The First 2 Chapters of The New New York

Scene 1: The Last Normal Night

It’s Fall in New York City, the most romantic city in the world, save Paris, and here I am, sending flirty faces to strangers on LoveAJew.com.
For the record, my six month subscription to LoveAJew was a gift from my mother. I did not seek out this badge of pathetic loser-dom for myself. Oh no, it was hoisted upon me by a woman who was tired of seeing me jump from Black Male Escort/Doctor to Irish Catholic Soldier, with reckless abandon through the course of the year. My mother, a strict social Jew herself, wants grandchildren who share her strictly social faith.
Let me elaborate. When I say my mother is a social Jew, I mean that she appreciates her religion for it’s social perks and gives little thought to the destination of her soul. She doesn’t keep the Sabbath at home, (imagine her taking the stairs, six flights up, when there’s a perfectly good elevator in the lobby). She doesn’t study the Torah, (it’s never been in Oprah’s book club, why should she?) and she doesn’t send money to Israel. Some could say she’s a real Jew about parting with her money in the wake of a cause. (I apologize. I will try to keep my corniness to myself).
No, my mother is a social Jew. She plans parties for the big holidays like Rosh Hashanah (the Jewish New Year), dinner parties for Yom Kippur (Day of Atonement), and fabulous exodus trips to Europe for Hanukkah. Not to mention the Post-Passover feast she puts on once a year, with big chunks of leavened bread and vodka martinis to raise the dead. She and her social group are the Jewish party planners of Palm Beach. Believe me, you have never seen so many diamonds in one room like at those Post-Passover feasts.
Of course, in the beginning when I got the email from LoveAJew.com, I thought it was a mistake. But then I saw the attached note:
Why not try a Jew? They are called the Chosen People for a reason, Julianne. xoxo Mom
At the time I turned up my nose at the gift. How dare that woman still try to control my life from one thousand and thirty-two miles away! I’m a grown woman and I am certainly capable of finding my own dates, thank you very much.
Well then, a week passed and I didn’t meet anybody. I was in a freak car accident this summer and broke my leg in three places. Although the cast is finally off, I’m still in a lot of pain. Every day I make it down to my office at The New Stage for a couple hours and three times a week I have physiotherapy at my apartment. Not to mention the pain meds, which take a lot out of me. After that, I’m pooped. There is no more going out for me. Unless a single, eligible man happens to wander into the corridor between the elevator bank and the garbage shoot, sufficiently intoxicated, I’m not going to get any.
So I figured, why not take a look?
Diana, my oldest best friend and sometimes roommate, is happily dating this new guy, Jet Elliot. She comes home every few days to gather some fresh clothes and heads back to his place. Although I love Diana and want to see her happy, I’m struck with mixed emotions whenever she shows up. I’m torn between missing her and wanting her to leave. She’s so darn happy! It’s annoying. Can’t people be considerate and keep their happiness to a minimum around crippled, un-datables such as myself?
It’s starting to get cold at last. I thought the sizzling summer heat would never die down. What a year it’s been in this city. An earthquake struck not too long ago and caused some mild damage to The New Stage, my new theater company. We had some pretty intense heat, then some pretty intense rain, coupled with a rash of angry New Yorkers invading YouTube, either stripping on the SubWay or threatening to kill people on public busses. Now there are hippies taking a dump on police cars down on Wall Street. Only in New York, I tell you.
I skip to the next page of my possible LoveAJew.com matches and come across a guy I’ve been corresponding with every couple of days. His name is Yonick and he classifies himself as a non-practicing Jew, just like me. He has almond shaped brown eyes and a mop of curly brown hair. Neither one of us has proposed we meet in person yet, but he’s done a bit of hinting and I feel like tonight could be the night he could take that next step.
As the thought dawns, so it is born. This exact moment my IM has sounded and it’s Yonick wanting to know if I have any plans for this Wednesday afternoon. I’m flushed immediately with a wave of cold sweat. Since the last guy I dated/ lived with, fled New York City for war torn Afghanistan, (he volunteered!), I’ve been a little insecure about dating. What can I say, it’s been kind of a rough year in terms of romance.
Josephine, my best friend, thinks I’m being dramatic. After all, he walked in on his live-in boyfriend ‘in the throes’, as he likes to put it, with a woman (of all vile things), and look at him! He goes out with a different guy every week! If he can get over something that scaring then I should be able to get over a teensy-tiny issue of my boyfriend fleeing my hospital bedside for war. Again, volunteerily!
I respond that I’m not sure about my schedule on Wednesday. Yonick knows about my broken leg, so I can easily blow off Wednesday with a nod to physiotherapy, but do I want to do that? Do I kind of like Yonick? Shouldn’t I give this a chance?
I’m not sure. My hand hovers skeptically over the mouse.
Then I hear somebody opening my front door.
It isn’t unusual that a stranger would be letting themselves into my apartment on a Monday night. It could be Diana coming up for air from Planet Sex, or Joseph stopping by with a new idea for The New Stage, since he only lives across the street. Or it could be my cousin Megan who recently moved into a studio downstairs. By the glaringly bright camera light flooding my living room, I guess it’s Megan after all.
“Julianne,” she sings, camera crew in toe, as she shimmies into my oddly shaped apartment and places herself gracefully, cross-legged on my couch like an Indian Priestess. I give the stink eye to the cameraman for the unwanted flood of bright light that’s currently heating up my place. The producer behind the scenes shoots me a warning look. They are tired of explaining that this is supposed to be ‘reality television’ and I’m supposed to pretend they don’t exist. More nonsense about the fourth wall, even though I remind them that reality TV (what they do) shouldn’t be confused with creating live theater (what I do). You can guess how well that went over.
The last time Megan barged in like this without knocking, I was in the middle of physiotherapy and I started cursing expletives at the camera. Why is it so hard for the producer to understand that I don’t want the world to see me without pants on, with Helga, my Eastern European therapist, bent over into my crotch?
It may be the reality of the situation but there is no need to broadcast my loser-dom to her MTV audience.
“Megan,” I imitate her sing-song tone, quickly closing my lap top before anyone has a chance to spot my LoveAJew.com shenanigans. “How many times can I say it? Please ring the doorbell before you come in.” I’m still doing the sing-song voice, but I can tell Megan is too busy pouting into the camera to hear me.
“Of course,” she dismisses me, “next time. Listen!” She commands, leaning forward on the couch, giving the camera a pretty clean shot at her cleavage. “I have a big open house happening this Wednesday night and I would love, love, love you, Joseph and Jamilla to come! It’s going to be pretty swanky and I’m really excited about my first big project. It’s been quite the challenge,” Megan pauses for impact, “For me to get this project together in only thrity-one days, it’s been almost insurmountable,” all she needs to do now is put a wayward hand to her porcelin brow, “but thank God, it’s done and it’s fantastic!”
Even though I’m the one who’s being filmed, I can’t help but stare at the producer and the cameraman as Megan talks. The cameraman is kneeling on my wooden floor, which can’t be comfortable while holding such a big camera steady, and the producer is whispering in his ear. After each whisper, I see the lens move in and out, probably for depth. I really wish we could break this charade of pretending they don’t exist so I can get a good look at that camera.
Do you blame me? I’m a theater geek. This is the kind of stuff I get into.
“Julianne? Are you listening?” I hear a frustrated Megan pout. I guess she’s done with her monologue about how hard it is being a struggling interior-architect in Manhattan. I want to tell her she can always go back to being an unwilling porn-star, which is how she landed this MTV gig in the first place, but I’ve been warned by Joseph to mind my cattiness around Megan.
“The girl has an audience,” Joseph has said time and time again. “She uses us all the time, why can’t we use her for publicity for The New Stage?”
Joseph has a point. If I’m going to be filmed I might as well be filmed plugging my newest theatrical endeavor.
“Gosh, Megan, I know what you mean. Joseph and I are scrambling to produce the season line-up for The New Stage on St. Marks”, note how I drop our address too? This is so easy, “and one of our January touring groups from Georgia dropped out last minute because of shitty schedule conflicts. So now we’re trying to rearrange all our other shows until we can find a replacement. Such a disaster! But I guess I shouldn’t complain, our other shows are so awesome, they’ll blow the lid right off New York City.”
The producer is giving me the look again. She’s also warned me about shameless plugs. I figure, F her. She doesn’t like it she can drop it on the editorial floor later. I don’t work for her and last time I checked, this was my reality she was imposing upon.
“Oh Jules, that’s terrible. I know you’ll figure something out,” coos my cousin Megan, sweetly. I can see she’s doing it more for the benefit of the people ‘who are not in the room’ than me, but I take the comfort where I can get it. Have I not mentioned already what a pathetic existence I lead of late?
“So about Wednesday? Do you think you can make it?” Megan asks again. I shoot a sad look to my closed laptop. I guess even if I wanted to meet this Yonick character, fate has intervened on my behalf. Maybe if I’d met him, he would’ve been a serial killer? Maybe this is a good thing that Megan has offered me an out.
“Sure,” I say, “I can do Wednesday.”
“Great, and what about Jamilla?” Megan wants to know. I could have guessed this was less about me and more about the star-power of my business partner Jamilla Santos-Elliot.
“I’ll ask her and Joseph tomorrow,” I make sure to stress Joseph’s name because he’s important too and I don’t like for him to be left out.
“Super!” Shrieks Megan, clearly psyched by the red carpet event this is turning into already. “I have a million things to do before then,” (oh woe, is Megan!), “so I gotta run.”
Megan announces the ‘gotta run’ in this slightly affected British accent she’s acquired from hanging around MTv’s offices. Who is she, Madonna? I guess MTv is another country, with it’s own set of didactic rituals and rules of diction. As far as I’m concerned, Megan is on a totally different planet from me half the time.
“Kisses!” She calls back to me as the light dims in my apartment back to the mere glow of my recessed lights. My eyes contract and release at the drastic change, like a fish caught on a hook. Those camera lights are really freaking bright!
Immediately I re-open my lap top and explain to Yonick that Wednesday isn’t good for me.
“Maybe another time,” I type sympathetically. I even add a little sad face before I tell him about my cousin’s reality show producer and Megan’s suddenly British accent. Nothing cheers me up like trashing Megan. It’s become a staple of survival for me in my patch of romantic despair. My only comfort is that she too has nobody special in her life. At least, that’s what I gather from our extremely put-on conversations for the cameras. It’s impossible to get Megan alone since she signed on for this show. All she talks about is her work and her projects and how many fabulous people she’s met and how many fabulous opportunities have come her way. If you ask me–a somewhat connoisseur of reality TV–it’s going to make for quite the snoozefest once all’s said and done.
Where’s the sex? The drama? The hair pulling, fist pumping, golden nugget of human nature on which the great pillars of reality TV were built? I know I need some baby daddy drama to keep me going, and I feel confident that I speak on behalf of the American Public.
I share these thoughts with Yonick who promptly replies with a confused smiley face.
“Oh that’s right, I forgot you don’t have a TV,” I type again. In the beginning when Yonick told me he didn’t have a TV I assumed he was either lying about his non-religiousness in an attempt to trap and convert me or he was poor. Well he’s not poor–I goolged him. Yonick is a sports writer for The New York Post. I know writers don’t make a ton of money, but surely enough to own a TV. Then I revisited the religious zealot/ possible cult leader angle and held it against the conversations we’ve had in the last couple of weeks. Though he’s not up to date on TV, he is very in-the-know with current events, music, books and food. Long story short, I don’t think a religious cult leader would argue the finer points of Erica Jong’s classic novel, Fear of Flying.
“I’d really like to take you for coffee some time this week,” Yonick offers again with a sweet angel smiley face. Once again, I am awash in cold sweat. I give a cursory glance to my crutches. Am I ready to date again? I really like talking to Yonick and I think he’s kind of cute in his photo, but gosh, the thought of crutching into Starbucks where the tables are so close together and people are always rushing in or out, threatening to knock me over at every turn, gives me pause.
Finally I give him a maybe followed by a playful dot dot dot.
Man, if only dating were as simple as IM.
Once again, I hear someone turning the key in my door. This time it’s Josephine and by the look on his face, I can tell he’s fuming.
“What?” I say in response. Joseph barrels up to me with a brightly colored paper in his hand. At the top I can read Dynamite Studios Season Line-Up.
“What?” I say again, with more dread than confusion in my voice. “Where’d you get this?” I ask surprised. The Season Line-Ups aren’t announced for another three days.
“I’m sleeping with Lydia Boxburger’s print shop boy,” Joseph confesses matter-of-factly, “Am I the only one who’s on the ball, here?” I stifle a laugh and try to focus on what he wants me to see. Joseph still looks pretty pissed but I cannot get the image of him bent over the twink at the copy shop while piles of paper burst forth through the open mouthed printer. It’s too much. I must laugh.
Joseph lets out an impatient sigh.
“The touring group from Georgia with the conflicted schedule?” Joseph is pointing to a name on the paper and suddenly the printer porn in my head dies down enough for me to understand his rage.
“That bitch!” I shriek at once. “How dare she?”
Lydia Boxburger has played many roles in my life. In college she was my arch-nemesis in the Opera Composition major’s group. She copied all my ideas down to my thesis topic and tried to out shine me. A few years later, she was my boss at Lincoln Center. Believe me, nothing changed. This woman has had a hard on for me and she’s not going to stop until she sucks my soul out of my eyes and presents it to the world as her own.
“Unbelievable!” Josephine concurs, in his bitchiest tone. “You know, we could sue. They signed an agreement that they would not perform in any other theaters on St Mark’s for a full year after our show!” This is the last straw. From the beginning Lydia has tried to bribe our costume people, our lighting people and even the stage hands, over to Dynamite Studios just to flex her muscles and intimidate us out of our dream. Well no more!
The New Stage will not bow to Lydia Boxburgers ill will!
Although I want to jump on Joseph’s bandwagon, I cannot. I know there is an out clause in the contract and the Georgia group cancelled within their allotted deliberation time. We have no grounds to sue. I tell Joseph this carefully. By the shrill in his voice, I know he’s on the verge of taking drastic action.
“We have to do something!” Joseph commands, a little less sure of himself. “Jules, we can’t live like this. What if all our acts drop out in favor of Dynamite Studios? What if Lydia ruins us and our first season flops?” The weight of his statement propels Joseph to sit on the couch. “We won’t have enough money to rent for another season if that happens. We just have enough for this season, it has to be a success!”
Look at Queen Josephine! He’s really worked up about this. Maybe I should send him to the print shop to make some copies with the copy boy. That would loosen him up.
Hold on, we’re talking about serious things. I must fight the Percodans and focus here!
“Joseph, that will never happen,” I assure him in a way only I can do. “There’s not one original act on her season line-up. Look at this! All remakes, touring groups or productions that have already been staged in New York. She doesn’t have what we have. She doesn’t have your original Disco Ballet or my Sophomore Opera! She doesn’t have Falafel Dreams or Midnight in Marakesh! She has The Vagina Monologues. I mean, who hasn’t seen, been in, produced or directed The Vagina Monologues? It’s a joke. She’s grasping at straws! There’s no way a line-up like this is going to put us under.” I am feeling more confident as I speak, but I can tell it’s doing little to rally Joseph.
“But Jules, that could work in her favor. Nobody’s ever heard about Midnight in Marakesh or Falafel Dreams. They are first time productions, not like The Vagina Monologues. It’s a gamble. Everything hinges on how open-minded the public is for new work.”
This is an issue that Joseph and I have struggled with over the past two months. It’s a greater problem in the world of theater actually. Obviously, without new work, theater becomes a voice from the past instead of an honest examination of society’s present and it’s hopes for the future. However, people are reluctant to spend money on theater tickets for shows they’ve never heard about and, let’s face it, times are hard. Given the choice of the unknown Midnight in Marakesh and the tried and true Vagina Monologues, where will people spend their money?
The mention of money and theater always leaves a sour taste in my mouth. When did something so free and pure as art get sullied by common, dirty dollar bills. I feel like my little theater project is a naked, oiled woman on a stage, twirling clumsily around a silver pole for a buck.
“Why are you making your face up? Are you thinking about the stripper on the pole again?” Joseph smacks on cue.
“It’s just so wrong,” I curse. Joseph rolls his eyes.
“Money runs the world, Julianne. Hello! It’s the only thing Lydia Boxburger has going for her. An endless supply of money. She can ride out our New Stage storm for as long as she likes. She can give tickets away for free if she wants. Why not? She doesn’t need the money.” These words are somehow lingering above my head, unable to permeate my brain. Could she do that? Give tickets away for free just to squash us? Would she do that?
“She wouldn’t do that!” I say aloud, hoping Joseph will agree. He doesn’t say a word. We sit still for a moment, mulling over the possible outcomes. I hate to admit that Joseph might be right. I glance at the clock. It’s ten past eight. Time for another Percodan.
I reach for the bottle of prescription pills and dry swallow. At this point in the game, I’m a pro.
“Don’t worry Joseph,” I say for both our benefits. “I’ll take care of Lydia Boxburger once and for all.” I’m playing tough, but I haven’t got a clue where to begin. I’m hoping my show of bravery will at least provide Josephine some momentary release.
However, by the look on his face, I can tell he’s not buying it.
“Jules, I think I know what to do, but give me tonight to mull it over,” announces Josephine suddenly. He may have a funny look on his face, but I don’t say anything in case it’s my meds playing tricks on my mind. Frankly, I’m over talking about my arch-nemesis tonight, and anxious to get back to online flirting with Yonick.
“What do you have in mind?” I attempt half-heartedly.
“Tomorrow we’ll re-visit this,” he assures me, before kissing me on both cheeks and heading off into the night. I let it drop because of many reasons, most of all, because it’s easy.

Scene 2: You Know When People Say Life Can Change In A Heartbeat….

The cab drops me out on St. Mark’s Place right in front of The New Stage. As I struggle with my crutches I notice two police cars stationed out front Dynamite Studios. It makes me chuckle. I’m probably a bad person for wishing this, but I’m secretly hoping they didn’t get their fire safety paperwork submitted on time and are being shut down at this very moment. Boy, that would solve so many of our problems and teach Lydia Boxburger that her millions of dollars do not make her above the law!
Once I’m upright and the cab has pulled away, I see the Dynamite staff out on the street, talking quietly to officers who seem to be taking a lot of notes. A part of me wonders what else Lydia Boxburger failed to file on time. This looks a little serious to be just a fire department violation. Perhaps if she’d spent less time snooping in our costumes and wooing our acts away, and more time dealing with the running of her own theater company, this would be just another normal Tuesday morning for Dynamite Studios.
“Did you hear?” Winnie the Costume Mistress greets me gravely. She and David, the Set Designer, are holding two cups of bodega coffee and surveying the chaos.
“Hear what?” I ask mischievously, awaiting the juicy gossip that’s sure to come.
“Lydia Boxbuger is missing,” announces David quite seriously. I can only imagine how much he’s judging me right now with a tone like that. I must look positively ecstatic.
“Missing?” I repeat like an idiot. “Missing how? I mean, I saw her yesterday at the bodega,” I gesture down the street. “Don’t you have to be gone for forty-eight hours before anyone declares you missing?” The more I talk, the more I feel like a piece of shit. Obviously something is wrong. Look at all these police cars! Look at the terrified expressions on the Dynamite Studios’ employee’s faces. My own staff is looking at me like I’m a babbling baffoon.
“Apparently she never got home last night. Her boyfriend came down to Dynamite around midnight after he couldn’t get her on her phone, and he found the theater unlocked. He walked through to the office and found Lydia’s shirt on the desk, torn, sprinkled with drops of blood,” Winnie explains slowly. Now that I get a good look at her, I can tell she’s pretty shaken up.
“Oh my God,” I hear myself say, looking around at the hurried commotion of sirens approaching from the East. “This is really serious!”
My palms are starting to burn from propping my body weight upright, so I tell Winnie and David I’ll see them inside. They hang out sipping coffee and taking in the scene, probably discussing how cold their boss is in the face of tragedy. I make a mental note to give them a generous holiday bonus. I don’t mind one bit that it makes me a shallow people-pleaser.
When I get downstairs I’m out of breath. I notice my hands shaking as I reach for the knob on my office door. Crutching down stairs is not much easier than crutching up stairs, no matter what anyone tells you.
“Jules, you should’ve called. I’d have helped you down,” Jamilla greets me nervously. By the look of the hefty crease in her shirt, I can see she’s been here for a while. Her normally pristine skin is betraying her today with a hint of under eye bags. This is the worse I’ve ever seen Jamilla look and she’s still stunning. Where’s the fairness in the world?
“Did you hear about Lydia?” I pant, as I gingerly lower myself into my seat. Jamilla is up at once to help me lift my bum leg onto a folding chair. She rests my crutches near by, but slightly out of my reach. I figure I won’t mention it because she looks very preoccupied and I don’t want to annoy her.
“Yes, I’m still in shock,” she says with that wide eye look she gets when she’s anxious. “I can’t believe it, truly, I’ve gotten about a hundred calls since two this morning.”
Sometimes I get so used to Jamilla being around that I forget she’s the biggest socialite in New York City, which basically means she’s one of the most recognizable women on the planet. Jamilla’s no stranger to People Magazine or tabloid gossip rags. Recently she started writing a style column for Modern Park Magazine called ‘Simple Style’. She’s the biggest ace in the hole Joseph and I have for The New Stage’s success. She’s also one of the sweetest and smartest people I’ve ever met, which is a true exception for the New York socialite rule.
Of course she knew about Lydia’s disappearance from the moment it happened. She and Lydia Boxburger, my arch-nemesis, are part of the same social circle.
“What are the police saying?” I want to know. My head is reeling and it’s barely ten. Jamilla puts down her IPAD and rolls over to my desk.
“They’re saying it doesn’t look good,” she whispers gravely, giving a nervous look at the door. “So far her boyfriend is the last person who heard from her. She called him around eight to say she was working late. He tried to get her again around ten but she didn’t answer, so finally he cabbed it down here to make sure everything was OK. That’s when he found the bloody ripped shirt.” Even though I’d heard basically the same explanation from Winnie a mere ten minutes ago, I’m transfixed. I have to hear it again and again because for some reason, it’s refusing to sink into my head.
Maybe I’m in shock too.
“What about finger prints or hair follicles? Have the police found any of that stuff?” I ask, searching the archives of my memory for lessons learned from Law & Order: SVU. I always knew this info would come in handy at some point, and I congratulate myself mentally for bothering to pay attention.
“I don’t know about all that. Maybe that’s what the police are gathering now.” Jamilla shrugs and leans back in her chair pensively. “They’ve been here since I arrived a little after seven.”
I get the sudden sensation that I am dreaming. Everything seems so surreal. Time is creeping past. I’ve checked my watch at least six times in the last five minutes. I contemplate pinching myself to see if I could sit up in bed and escape this nightmare situation.
“What are you doing?” Jamilla’s shooting me the quizzical eye. I realize I am pinching myself.
“Nothing, nothing,” I reply meekly. “Where’s Joseph anyways?” I beg off, hoping to divert attention from my loopy, vicodin-induced reality.
“He hasn’t come in yet. I called him this morning to tell him the news, but it went straight to voice mail,” says Jamilla.
“He was probably up late last night thinking of ways to get back at Lydia for stealing our Georgia group,” I volunteer, recalling Joseph’s face as he left last night. Boy, would this news hit him like a ton of bricks. Joseph gets really sensitive about stuff like this. He’s a regular Nervous Nelly. He can’t even watch Twilight!
“He’s not going to take this well,” Jamilla concurs, reading my mind. Like clockwork, Joseph comes sailing through the door in a panic.
“Oh my God, what is all this huppla about with the cops?” He practically glides into the room, in a stylish black fedora and dark shades.
“Well hello Bojangles,” I smirk, as Joseph tosses his light coat over his desk chair. “Where’ve you been all morning?” For a moment I’m swept up in Josephine’s graceful gait. If there was ever a man who successfully coupled poise and masculinity, it was Queen Josephine Himself.
“I swear, I had the worst night ever,” declares Joseph animatedly. “After I left your place, I went for a walk to burn off some steam about the Lydia incident, and fell straight into an open man hole!” Joseph removes the shades to reveal a shiny black eye and several scrapes and bruises around his nose.
“I’ve never been more mortified in my life! There I was, stomping down First Avenue in the middle of the night, thinking about all the horrible ways I could teach Lydia Boxburger a lesson, and next thing I know, I trip on the uneven sidewalk and land face first into this open hole,” Joseph is pacing the tiny office, painting masterpieces with his gestures.
“Oh my God,” Jamilla and I say in unison.
“Thank God no one was around. I could’ve just died if anyone saw me!” Joseph shrieks, reaching for his shades, “you know, I consider myself quite graceful, usually,” Joseph confesses sheepishly.
Suddenly, there’s a knock at the door.
We all turn at once. Jamilla yells ‘come in,’ and a George Clooney look-a-like in a gray suit is standing in the doorframe, coat in hand. We all regard him for a moment. I can’t speak for Jamilla but I give Joseph a quick glance and know we’re on the same page.
Yum.
“Hello, my name is Detective Young,” the Clooney clone introduces himself, still standing in the door. “I was wondering if I could speak with the proprietors of this theater, mainly,” he glances at his notepad for a second while a wayward strand of salt and pepper hair brushes against his olive brow, “umm, let’s see here, Julianne Klein and Joseph…”
“Marsbeth,” Joseph announces, leaning hungrily forward in his chair. Jamilla is standing, having vacated her seat, and encouraging the Clooney Clone to come into the fold.
“Sure, what can we do for you?” I say, feeling my back straighten on it’s own. In fact, my entire body seems to be responding on it’s own to Detective Young’s presence. My breasts perk up immediately, and my head automatically turns to showcase my most attractive side.
Detective Young doesn’t seem to notice these miraculous changes occurring in the cockles of my cold, neglected heart. I deduce that he must get this reaction a lot.
“Thanks, I’ll try not to take too much of your time,” says Detective Young.
“Is this about Lydia?” I hear Jamilla ask quietly. Out of the corner of my eye I notice a change in Josephine. His engaging body language somehow deflates a little at the mention of her name.
Detective Young notices too.
“What is it?” He asks Joseph casually.
“Ick,” Joseph spits out with an eye roll, as if the very mention makes him sick to his stomach. Suddenly I remember that nobody has told Joseph that Lydia is missing.
“Care to elaborate?” Detective Young asserts, keeping with his casual demeanor.
“I’m just so sick of Lydia Boxburger. Sick, sick, sick! It’s because of her that I have all these bruises,” Joseph removes his shades once again to display his bruises. “Every problem in my life right now is because of Lydia Boxburger, and frankly I wish she’d just disappear sometimes!” Declares Queen Josephine Himself.
I feel my eyes and mouth respond to gravity in opposite ways.
Detective Young isn’t interrupting Joseph and I can only imagine what he’s thinking about this little bitchy tirade.
I suddenly imagine a giant cake being rolled into the room, with a showgirl version of Lydia Boxburger getting ready to pop out of it right now. Sure, if she rolled into the room and popped out of a cake right now, how awesome would that be? Then we could all sit around and laugh about how worried and serious everyone looked, then eat cake! It wouldn’t be so bad that Lydia was around. Then Detective Young and I could make a date for tonight to perhaps sample another kind of dessert.
Instinctively I look at the door expecting that this is the most logical thing to happen right now, but my excitement is derailed by Detective Young’s soft voice.
“So let’s cut right to the chase. You admit that you know what happened to Lydia Boxburger last night?”
Well that bursts my bubble good and proper!
“Joseph, Lydia’s gone missing,” I inform him hastily. It appears gravity isn’t only playing tricks on my face today. Joseph’s jaw practically falls off his face.
“What?” He says a tad hysterically. “What? What?” His voice is raising an octave and the room becomes instantly tense. Detective Young repeats the question, this time, without his light, casual tone and Joseph sinks back into his seat.
“How should I know?” Shrieks Josephine nervously. I take his hand and he squeezes it so hard I feel like the pressure might explode through my head or my anus. It could go either way, and personally, I’m rooting for the head.
“Didn’t you say you sustained your bruises because of Ms. Boxburger?” Detective Young presses.
Joseph stutters for a moment. “Well, yes, she is to blame indirectly–”
“You clearly had grievances with Ms. Boxburger,” Detective Young barrels on, “and what I hear from the Dynamite staff, the both of you have been quite hostile to her in the past.”
Thankfully Joseph’s hand has now begun to sweat under this line of questioning and I manage to wriggle my now crippled hand, free.
“What? That’s insane. We never threatened Lydia!” I refute passionately. Sure, we have cursed her privately, but we’ve never outright threatened her. Well, actually, we did kind of threaten her that one day…
“According to a formal complaint lodged to your landloard, Ms. Boxburger’s father, Lydia claims that on the evening of October second she merely came over to check on some faulty water pipes as a favor to your landlord, and ran into Ms. Julianne Klein and Mr. Joseph Marsbeth, who hurled repeated threats of violence at her. In fact, to quote you two, Ms. Boxburger writes that you said: If we ever catch you in this theatre again we’ll string you up by your designer lingerie!”
Now my palms are starting to sweat. I hear Joseph let out a nervous laugh.
“She invaded our space to spy on us, not to look at any water pipes!” I assert defensively. “She was in the costume shop snooping through the wardrobe. Last I checked, water pipes don’t run through detached cupboards.”
In light of recent events, I can now see how this incident could be taken the wrong way, but I don’t say so. Instead I sit uncomfortably in my chair and stare at the floor.
“So when you told Ms. Boxburger you would string her up by her underwear if she ever came over to a building her father owned again, you were, what? Joking?” When Detective Young says it like that, it does sound pretty catty. Goes to show he’s never met Lydia. How can anyone condone a blatant case of bad sportsmanship like that?
“And isn’t it true that the performance art group, Southern City Slingers, that was scheduled to perform here at The New Stage, cancelled only yesterday in favor of performing at Ms. Boxburger’s Dynamite Studios?” This detective is looking less like George Clooney and more like Jack Black by the minute.
“So what?” Joseph spits defiantly. “We have lots of acts for next season, no big deal. We were just filling a weekend slot with that Georgia group. God knows nothing any good ever comes out of the deep south.” Even though he says it in all seriousness, I can tell Jamilla is stifling a chuckle.
Detective Young remembers that she’s idling near by and shoots her an appreciative smile.
“I just have a few more questions,” he tells her politely then turns his attention back to Joseph. I wonder if he knows he’s speaking to a woman who commands thousands of dollars for papparazzi photographs around the world?
“How exactly did you come to get beat up that badly, Mr. Marsbeth?” Joseph has replaced his shades since his former outburst on the evils of Lydia Boxburger.
“I fell last night, into a manhole,” he says matter-of-factly.
“Oh, so these injuries occurred last night,” observes Detective Young. Joseph doesn’t budge.
“That’s right,” Joseph raises his voice to above a whisper and the effect is quite shrill, “And I should sue the city!”
Even though I know this is the truth, hearing Joseph say it now, in this conversation, I find myself noting the irony. I’m sure Detective Young is noting it himself.
“Did anyone witness this, um, accident?” Detective Young wants to know. In my head I want to scream that I witnessed it, even though I was probably conked out asleep when it happened. Anything to just give Joseph some credibility.
“No, I was walking alone,” admits Joseph bitterly. I know he wishes he’d just stayed in my apartment last night, or better yet, gone home. “It was First Avenue at ten thirty. It’s an unpopulated street, that’s why I chose to walk there. I wanted to clear my head.”
“And again,” Detective Young is leaning closer to a fairly shaken Josephine. “How does this involve Lydia Boxburger?”
I eye Jamilla who is leaning against her desk pretending to read her IPAD. She knows how bad this sounds and I can tell by the knot in her eyebrows that she’s worried.
“Well, I’d just learned she’d stolen Southern City Slickers from our season line-up, so obviously, I felt a little betrayed. I needed to blow off some steam so I went for a walk. What is that? A crime?” Joseph is getting more defensive by the minute.
“What, blowing off steam? Not unless it hurts another person,” admits Detective Young, in a tone I do not care for.
“Why?” Joseph suddenly bursts out. “Am I in some kind of trouble?” A nervous laugh escapes his lips, “I didn’t hurt Lydia, I swear! I was probably face first in the man hole when she came into her troubles!”
I wish to God I could reach my crutch so I could beat the poop out of him. He isn’t guilty of anything! Why is he acting so absurdly? If he’d only sit down and play it cool! And what about that rampage about wanting Lydia to disappear? I can practically see the orange jumpsuit broken up by thin black bars in his future wardrobe!
“Listen, Detective,” I attempt, “we’ve had our fair share of friendly competition with Dynamite Studios, but I’m sure you can appreciate the level of stress we’re under–both Lydia and us–trying to launch our opening seasons. It’s just catty theatrical stuff. Nobody here wishes any ill will towards Lydia personally.”
My voice sounds shaky but I’m hoping I can boil this whole awkward situation down to professional tension. I know Joseph had nothing to do with Lydia’s disappearance. Sure, he is freakishly strong from lifting anorexic ballerina’s across wide stages all day, but it’s not in his nature to harm anyone. He can’t even stand the sight of blood. I told you about Twilight!
Detective Young seems to be processing what I’ve said. Finally I notice out the corner of my eye that Josephine’s tense shoulders are beginning to relax.
“So far, we’re just talking to folks in the neighborhood, following up leads, trying to recreate the events of last night.” I feel my shoulders begin to soften too. Suddenly the Jack Black image isn’t so strong and the Clooney begins to resurface.
“How about you Ms..” Detective Young is glancing through his notes once again.
“Julianne is fine,” I offer. For that I am rewarded with a small, appreciative smile.
“Julianne, thanks. I’ve spoken to so many people today it’s hard to get all the names straight,” he begs off cutely. “So last night, Julianne, where were you between seven and midnight?”
I reflect on my night of online chatting with Yonick from LoveAJew.com, but think better of revealing this embarrassing interaction.
“I was at home in bed,” I say with a nod to my leg. “Not getting much night action with this sucker,” I say without thinking. Oh God! Did I really say ‘night action’? The raise of Jamilla’s eyebrows from behind her IPAD confirms that I did indeed say ‘night action’ and it sounded more like, ehem, night action.
Clearly Joseph is more than a tad shaken up because I read no adverse reaction on his face.
“Oh Ok,” says Detective Young. He is trying his hardest not to smirk, but I can tell that the comment didn’t pass unnoticed. “Can anyone confirm this?”
“My building has a doorman. And cameras. You could probably talk to Raul,” I suggest, turning my face away to scribble down the number for Raul at the front desk. I feel my cheeks burning as Detective Young thanks us for our time and says he’ll see us around. It doesn’t take a minute before the door closes for Jamilla to incorporate ‘night action’ into our daily office lingo.
“Looks like your lack of night action finally payed off in your favor,” she says, dragging her chair back to her desk.
“God I could just die!” I tell her, turning my head to Joseph for a response.
Joseph is curiously silent. He has replaced his fedora and dark glasses and is getting out of his seat with his coat.
“Jesus Christ, who needs coffee?” He clearly could use the walk, so I happily announce ‘me’ as he tears towards the door.
“This week has gone from hellish to impossible!” Josephine declares, as he slams the door dramatically and bounds up the stairs out of ear shot.
My eyes meet Jamilla’s, once he’s gone.
“An entrance and an exit, all before lunch! Boy, we are certainly in for it,” she says mischievously. I am suddenly grateful that she’s here to keep the calm. Unlike me and Joseph, Jamilla is very anti-drama.
“Tell me about it. I think he decided it was going to be a high drama morning when he plopped that fedora on his head.”
Jamilla has abandoned her IPAD in favor of catty office gossip.
“Can you believe that speech about wishing Lydia would disappear. I swear to God, I almost peed my pants!” I encourage saucily. Josephine is such an easy target sometimes, and boy, he gets plenty of amusement at my expense!
“I know, I know,” Jamilla leans back when she laughs, “I had images of him being wheeled off to jail. It was like a bad slap stick comedy!”
In all our school girl cattiness, there is another knock on the door.
“Come in,” calls Jamilla. Winnie, the Costume Mistress, pokes her head through the door.
“Sorry to interrupt,” she begins meekly, “but I thought you’d want to know that the police are taking Joseph in for questioning.”
Jamilla stands up at once.
“Why?” We both say.
“The blood on Lydia’s ripped shirt?” She says almost breathless, “They say it belongs to him. They’re taking him to their precinct for questioning.”
Winnie is a fine boned, soft-spoken Costume Design graduate from NYU. I feel bad for her when Jamilla instinctively shoves her out of the way and tears up the stairs to find out what the heck is going on.
My leg throbs at the thought Joseph being arrested. Here I am, trapped, out of reach of my crutches and upstairs my best friend is being hauled off to the big house for questioning.
This slap-stick comedy schtick has gotten way out of control. And what the heck is Joseph’s blood doing on Lydia Boxburger’s ripped blouse? I pinch myself one more time.
Nope. Still not dreaming.

BUY THIS BOOK TODAY: THE NEW NEW YORK

NEW TO THIS BEST SELLING SERIES? BUY ALL THE BOOKS TODAY: THE RED ROCK CAFE, THE NEW YORK CATCH & THE NEW YORK SOCIALITE.

THE NEW NEW YORK is Out Today!

**This is the FINAL book in the Best Selling comedy series!**

Dubbed ‘The Next Generation of Sex & The City’ by one Amazon Reviewer, this final book surprises with no lack of twists and turns…

Lydia Boxburger, arch-nemesis of Julianne Klein, has gone missing, and who do you think is charged in her disappearance? Queen Josephine Himself! Between Julianne’s constant supply of pain killers and the fast moving plot twists, the world of backstage theater starts to take center stage, in a Masquerade of epic proportions.

You will laugh, you will cry, you will consume copious amounts of Appletini!

The New New York takes these characters out with a bang! It’s an unforgettable ride on the roller coaster of urban backstage theater, where people are never what they seem, and nothing can be named an absolute until the final curtain goes down….

READ THE ENTIRE NEW YORK SERIES: THE RED ROCK CAFE, THE NEW YORK CATCH, THE NEW YORK SOCIALITE & THE NEW NEW YORK.

The Dedication for ‘The New New York’

So this is my dedication for the FINAl book in my New York Series. I think it’s very tongue in cheek. Moreso you’ll understand when you read the book:

All the world’s a stage,
And all the men and women merely players;
They have their exits and their entrances,
And one man in his time plays many parts,
His acts being seven ages
As You Like It, Act 2, Scene 7 by William Shakespeare.

This book is dedicated to all the players. God bless their parts.

IF YOU ENJOY MY BLOG, CHECK OUT MY AMAZON BEST SELLING NOVEL: THE NEW YORK CATCH, AND MY OTHER KICK-ASS FUNNY NOVELS: THE NEW YORK SOCIALITE & THE RED ROCK CAFE

Picture It

Picture it. My boyfriend comes home to find me resolutely sitting on the toilet with that tell-tale bored look in my eye.

Boyfriend: Amanda, what are you doing?

“I’m sitting on the toilet,” I say as if it weren’t totally obvious.

Boyfriend: No really, are you using the bathroom or just sitting there?

“Well it took so much time and energy to lower myself onto the toilet seat that I figured I’d just wait around here until I have to go again.”

My boyfriend gives me the quizzical eye, finally taking in that I’m feverishly massaging my leg muscles.

Boyfriend: How was the gym today?

“Isn’t it obvious?” I say, as the soft sound of urine finally hits the awaiting water below for the second time. “Now can you help me up?”

Take from that what you will about my progress at RIPT.

IF YOU ENJOY MY BLOG, CHECK OUT MY BOOKS: THE RED ROCK CAFE, THE NEW YORK CATCH & THE NEW YORK SOCIALITE.