Born To Be Wild

Honey Boy barked.

And suddenly Puker was there, snapping photos over a paramedic’s shoulder, gri

“I’ve got a restraining order on you, Puker. I’m going to put you in jail for this.” She didn’t know if she’d said the words out loud because Puker didn’t stop clicking until a paramedic shoved him out of the way.

“Nah, the restraining order expired last week,” Puker called out, and snapped more photos.

“Get out of the way, you moron,” a woman said. “Not you, dear. You hang in there. We’ll have you to the hospital in under twelve minutes.” Mary Lisa felt a hand on her forearm. She felt it stroking her even as she floated away.

THREE

The first soap: In 1930, Chicago radio station WGN started a fifteen-minute daily serialized drama set in the home of an Irish American widow and her young unmarried daughter.

UCLA Medical Clinic in Santa Monica

Mary Lisa sat on the edge of the stainless steel gurney, her sneakered feet dangling. She felt wonderfully loopy. She wiggled her hip. No pain, not a single zing. Drugs were magic. She started singing Le

At least she hadn’t needed stitches anywhere. But she could see the directors’ eyes rolling back in their heads when they saw the scrapes and bruises on her arms and neck. Because of the grinding schedule, there were four directors now on Born to Be Wild, each responsible for one or more hour of airtime a week. Mavis in wardrobe, who loved to turn Sunday out with lots of skin showing, wouldn’t be happy either. She studied the half dozen Band-Aids dotted here and there, and thought them very nicely designed.

Strange that they’d left her alone all of a sudden. They were probably waiting for the pain meds to kick in so they wouldn’t have to hear her whine. She hadn’t really whined much, she’d been pretty stoic, truth be told, only whimpered a bit.

She eased her panties back up and pulled the crinkly paper gown over her as best she could, not that she really cared. She threw back her head to finish giving her all to “Yesterday.” When she was four years old, she hadn’t understood it very well, but she’d had a great little memory.

A man stuck his head through the curtain, not a doctor, but a lovely slender man in a light sports coat and tan slacks. He was in his early thirties, black haired, with soft brown eyes that nonetheless looked quite shrewd. At the moment he also looked amused as he stood there politely, evidently waiting for her to finish the song. She gri

He stuck out his hand, gently took hers. “Hello, Ms. Beverly. I’m Detective Vasquez of the Lost Hills Station in Calabasas. We handle any problems in Malibu. Let me say that I like how you sing that song, as do most of the people in the waiting room. In fact there was a bit of a singalong happening. Sounds like you’re a happy camper.”

“Ain’t drugs great? And they’re legal so you can’t arrest me. Do you know what? I really like police officers.” She realized she was still holding his hand. She didn’t want to let go because his hand was big and warm. When he finally managed to get his hand back, he lightly patted her on the shoulder. “Hey, Deputy Lindstrom said you played kissyface with a car.”

“More like kissy-hip,” Mary Lisa said and touched her fingertips to her side. “I’m growing a bruise the size of a continent, Australia, most likely. It’s got mountains and valleys. Do you think it’d be okay if purple represented rivers?”

“Why not?” He stared at her, his eyes crinkling in amusement again, but his voice was quite serious. “The doctors say you were very lucky, that you’re not really hurt.” He smiled, showing white teeth and kindness. “You’re an actress, right?”

She nodded. “Much of the time, yeah.”

“There’s a photographer out there, a ski

“His name’s Puker Hodges and you described him perfectly. He’s good at what he does. He can disappear behind a dead bush when he wants to. I saw him in Malibu today before that car hit me. The jerk snapped pictures of me when they were loading me into the ambulance. He must have followed the ambulance here. I wonder how long it will be before one of them shows up on the cover of the National Enquirer.”

“If you’re recognizable, not long at all, I would imagine. Puker?”

“That’s what I call him. I think his real name is Poker. That’s weird too, isn’t it?”

Detective Vasquez pulled out a small notebook and a pen. “I hear you’re a soap star.”

She nodded. “I play Sunday Cavendish on Born to Be Wild.”

He stared at her a moment, then gri

She sat there, sneakered feet dangling, and preened, but only for a moment. Then she gave a deep sigh. “That’s nice, thanks for telling me. Now, I don’t suppose you caught the jerk who hit me?”

“Not yet, and that’s why I’m here.”

He’d dropped his voice a half octave and he sounded dead serious again.

“Oh dear. You stopped smiling and my hip started throbbing at the same time. Bummer.”

Nurse Blenkens whisked back the flimsy curtain at the edge of the alcove and stopped short when she saw the man. “You must be the police officer, right?”

“Detective Vasquez, ma’am.”

Nurse Blenkens said, “You’ll have to leave for a moment. You can speak to her once I’ve helped her get dressed.” She pointed unceremoniously toward the hallway and started untying Mary Lisa’s gown.

“Sure thing. I’ll be outside in the waiting room, Ms. Beverly.” Bless her cop, he pulled the curtain closed on his way out.

When Mary Lisa was back in her clothes, Nurse Blenkens said, “I really like that T-shirt. There’s just a little smudge on it. You’re hurting again, aren’t you? It’s all right, I only gave you enough of the doctor’s order to take the edge off, to see how you’d react to it. Since you’re not driving, I can give you another shot before you leave, if you like.”

She was soon rubbing Mary Lisa’s arm where she’d pulled out the needle. “Now, here are the pain meds I promised you. You can take one every four hours. They should keep you singing-there was an old guy with a broken leg in the waiting room singing along with you. Nice. Now remember you promised to check with your doctor on Monday. Come back if you feel ill or the pain gets worse. There’s going to be a big bruise on your hip, nothing for it except maybe some ice. The doctors all say it’s superficial. You’ll have to wait for it to fade, I’m afraid, actress or not. I’m sure all your makeup people can cover the smaller bruises on your face and shoulders. Oh, yes, would you give me your autograph? It’s for my nephew, Tommy. He’s a grotty little thirteen-year-old, but an excellent snow-boarder. Makes his parents hopeful.”