There is not one female comic who was beautiful as a little girl.
—Joan Rivers
Brenda Woolley was standing on a tiny gantry slung across the receiving bay. Harsh lights hit the side of the Iceman. Soft lights lit the face of Brenda. Beside her an old man in a grey blanket stared vacantly around him like a poor blasted Lear on the heath. She ignored him, except when the cameras turned, at which time she would sing dauntingly loud at him. At the moment she was very irritated. What was supposed to be a simple shot had already taken two hours.
“Take me down,” she said. The gantry operator lowered the whole contraption to the deck level.
“What’s going on?” she demanded loudly of everyone in particular.
“Sorry, Brenda love, we’re having problems with the sound.”
“With my sound?”
“No, not you, dear, the problem’s on our end.”
Instant frost.
“Did you call me dear?”
She gave the young man a withering glance. After that no one came near her. She stood in the pool of light on the narrow gantry trying to look as though she wasn’t standing on a tiny platform with an old man who was busy talking to himself. She had reached the all-powerful stage of divahood, when she could terrify with looks. Ah, divadom, divaness, how divine to be a diva, a goddess, a prima donna, that state which makes grown men want to dress up like female singers. When she had first seen herself impersonated, by no less than three young men at once (they called themselves the Brenda Woolley Four) she had been shocked. They seemed like a gross caricature with their outrageous full glam makeup, their sequined sheath dresses, so like hers and yet somehow so much larger than life. But soon she became reconciled to it, even to enjoy it. Now she encouraged it. Sure, there was something a teeny bit unflattering in their portrayals, but still it was camp. It meant she had arrived. She was a diva.
The real reason for the delay was the banner. They were having trouble accommodating it in the shot. This was partly due to its size, but mainly to its length. It stretched forever behind her, screaming boldly, THE BRENDA WOOLLEY EXPERIENCE FOR THE REFUGEES.
Ferret-face, the fox terrier woman, watched every monitor intently. She would not let them record until she was satisfied. At the moment she was lecturing the director on how he must keep the name BRENDA WOOLLEY in shot behind the old man, and not the word REFUGEES. He was accepting the advice through gritted teeth.
Amidst this scene of chaos Boo was standing on the deck next to the Amazing Keith. They were watching the old man next to Brenda, muttering to himself under the blanket.
“Poor thing’s gaga,” said Keith.
“Yes, and he’s almost as bad,” said Boo.
“Thank you, good night, and don’t forget your waitress,” said Keith.
“Boo, is that you, dear?”
It was Brenda. She was holding her hand over her eyes, peering into the darkness where he stood. Oh shit. He’d been spotted.
“Everybody, this is Boo. A very funny man.”
The spotlight searched for him, trapped him. He grinned.
“Come over here, Boo, and keep me company. I’m all alone here.” Apparently the old man didn’t exist. As Boo walked over to her, the grizzled old man began singing softly. It was an old song, a song of nostalgia, of distant sad places. Yearning for a homeland far away. Brenda looked with disapproval, as though she had something tart in her mouth. She was the singer.
“Nice song, old feller,” said Boo as he passed him, and then to appease Brenda he added, “You notice they always sing songs about crappy places? Ever notice that, eh? Rainy, damp, nostalgic places where nobody in their right minds wants to live. And another thing,” said Boo, warming to his theme, “you notice they’ve always left these places. ‘How I wish I could go back to Bonny Blantyre!’” he sang. “Well, why the hell don’t you; instead of just singing about it all the time.” Boo could hear appreciative laughs from the darkness around, but Brenda seemed lost in her own thoughts, for she suddenly seized his hand and, patting it gently, said, “Ah, Boo, dear Boo”—she was gazing into the middle distance—“don’t you sometimes wonder what life is all about?”
He stared at her, then looked behind him for a second.
“You shitting me?” he asked.
But Brenda was lost in her reverie. She suddenly clasped him close to her bosom. He found himself in an irresistible bear hug, with his face pressed against her considerable thorax. He thought for a second he was going to choke, but she finally released him with a deep satisfied sigh.
“Now that’s what we need more of. Hugs.”
Boo straightened his neck gingerly.
“If we could all learn to hug one another. The galaxy would be a much better place.”
She looked at Boo for approval. He nodded and grinned. How could he get away from here?
“Do you believe in God?”
Her words picked up by her body mike echoed around the makeshift stage area. Hundreds of people were included in this intimate conversation. Technicians high in the air giggled. Some reached for their recorders. Psychobabble like this was highly prized amongst them, and it looked like Brenda was off on a roll.
“I mean, do you ever stop and wonder what it’s all about?” Her thoughts bounced around, banging into things, like someone bumping into furniture in an old shuttered house.
“Deep down, I mean. What do you think it all means?”
“I think it means jack shit,” said Boo.
Brenda smiled tolerantly. These comedians, not really comfortable with philosophy.
“You see, I think we’ve all been here before, don’t you?”
Boo hesitated. “I was here yesterday,” he offered. “But I didn’t see you here.”
Somebody laughed out loud. Brenda ignored it.
“No not here here. But here,” and she waved her arms generously to include the galaxy and possibly several other worlds. “In a previous life.”
“I was here in a previous wife,” said Boo deadpan. Up in the lighting scaffolding someone appeared to be having a coughing fit.
“Have you seen God?” she said suddenly.
“He’s on the show?” said Boo.
“Silly man,” she said flirtatiously, tapping him lightly on the chest. “You know I have the endorsement of the Church.”
“Congratulations,” said Boo.
“Though I don’t believe in the sort of God everybody believes in.”
Oh God, a God snob!
“I do not believe in your sort of God.”
She made his sort of God seem like he wore dirty old clothing.
“But I do believe there is a presence. I feel there is something out there, beyond.” She gestured vaguely.
“The wall?” asked Boo innocently. A slight irritation crossed her face.
“No, not the wall,” she said. “Something out there beyond the wall.”
“The washroom?” he said.
“No, no, beyond the washroom.”
“Oh!” said Boo enlightened. “I get it! The dining room.”
Was he dumb or something?
“There is a kind of mystery in things…” began Brenda, though the final thought defeated her. “Call it love if you like.”
“Okay, I will, love,” said Boo. “Well, gotta go.”
“Do good and be kind to the little people,” said Brenda, on a roll.
“The short people?”
“Remember, those you meet on the way going up you meet on the way going down.”
“So be careful who you go down on,” said Boo. “Especially short people.”
“What?” said Brenda.
“Nothing,” said Boo. “Thanks for all the advice.”
“You’re welcome. If we can’t help each other, where are we?”
Probably on the Brenda Woolley show, thought Boo, but he had the presence of mind not to say it.
She embraced him once again. He wanted to squeal.
“I have so much enjoyed our little talk. Let’s do it again real soon.”
This was his cue. If he didn’t get out now, he never would. Boo wrenched himself free and scampered away into the safety of the surrounding darkness. There was ironic applause as he left.
From high up on the quartermaster’s deck Rogers looked down on this scene in total disbelief.
“This is it? We’re waiting for this…circus?”
Mitchell shrugged, secretly enjoying his discomfort.
“You can’t hurry Brenda Woolley, sir.”
“Two hours on this junk!”
“Hard to hurry her up once they’ve got going.”
“I’ll hurry her up.”
“I wouldn’t advise it, sir.”
“Oh wouldn’t you? There are people out there who need our help.”
“Yes sir.”
“How long are they going to be?”
“Shouldn’t be long now.”
What kind of a reply was that? Shouldn’t be long. Fucking Brits. Rogers walked away angrily. Mitchell smiled. Welcome to the Diana, he thought.
§
An outrageously camp young man in a headset was walking around talking animatedly to someone. He clicked his set off and walked forward to Brenda.
“Ready now, Brenda love. Sorry for all the delay.” She turned a gracious smile on the poor worm. She loved people apologizing.
“That’s all right, Terry, people have to do their jobs.”
Quelle bitch, thought Terry as he smiled nicely at her and showed her his new teeth.
“Take her up, Bob, and don’t drop her.”
The man in control of the gantry swung her up and off the deck. The movement startled the old man beside her. He looked around blankly as if unsure what he was doing there. Brenda ignored him and found a place on the small platform out of the light. She prepared for her entrance.
“All right, quiet everybody, we’re going for a take in five, four, three, two, one,” and he waved a finger firmly at the diva.
Brenda Woolley stepped forward into the spotlight.
“Hello. I’m Brenda Woolley.” She paused for a moment so they could edit in applause. “And this is my Concert for the Refugees.” A fanfare for the common man echoed round, and laser beams filled the sky with crazy patterns. The Iceman suddenly lit up behind her. It was carefully positioned to look like a huge wreck. She looked at it and then generously indicated the old man in the blanket by her side. Once again she waited for the applause (which would be huge) to die down. She nodded thoughtfully and thankfully to acknowledge the delight with which she had been greeted.
“And now I’d like to sing for you.”
The gantry swung her dramatically across the scene, but before they could cue the music, the sky was suddenly lit by a huge explosion.
“What the hell was that?” said Rogers.
“Oh God,” said Mitchell, “it must be the Johnnie Ray.”