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FanFic
The Richard Dawson Experience
Last UpDated: 23 March 2002.
Site Copyright © 2000-2002. Lisa Inc., All Rights Reserved.
Story Copyright © 2001. Casey Rattigan Inc., All Rights Reserved.
TIME OF THE SEASON
[Sequel to French Twist]March 24th, 1967
Some turning points in life are only evident in hindsight; others are revealed as such in the twinkling of an eye.
Tracy and I were stopped at a red light in the cozy darkness of the Jaguar, making our way home through the busy, snow-stalled cross-town traffic after the New York premiere of a much-talked-about British film. He was unusually pensive and quiet; we'd only been to a couple of gala premieres before, and after both of those he'd been eager to discuss the merits--or lack thereof--of the films in question at a party somewhere. But tonight was a different story altogether.
I was dying to ask him what was on his mind as he sat silently behind the wheel, lost in thought. But I knew he'd tell me, when the time was right...
"I'm thinking of my mother, darlin'," he said at last. With a soft smile, Tracy turned to me and gently reached out to squeeze my hand, just as the light turned green.
"My mother," he began, "wasn't the town's richest lady by far, but she was always one of the most beautifully dressed, to the very end." He sighed a little, remembering. "When the latest fashions happened to suit her, she bought piles of new clothes and wore them marvelously. But whenever the new craze didn't flatter her, she'd simply sit it out. She'd wear her good, sturdy British wool sweaters and skirts, until the wheel of fashion turned again. And it always did turn..."
I intertwined my fingers with my husband's, knowing full well what he was trying to say.
"That film was a little much for my taste too, Tracy."
"It isn't so much that I'm against change, mind you...and it isn't that I've never heard those words before, although I can't say I've heard them in many other major-studio pictures. And I could have done without seeing quite so much of the lead actor's birthday gear, to be perfectly frank." Tracy sighed, eloquently. "I'm afraid I might be a bit old-hat for the new trends in cinema, my flower. I'm well over thirty, I bathe regularly, and I prefer to keep my clothes on--"
"Pity, that last one," I teased.
"You are a saucy bird," Tracy replied, with a grin. "Perhaps you'd prefer all America to see what it's been missing?"
"No!" Laughing, I continued. "Not that the sight of you in the nude wouldn't be a big help in returning beauty to the silver screen, but--."
"You flatter me, my dear Lacey," he said. "By all means, do
go on..."
Later that night, we changed into some rather unglamourous-but-warm flannel pajamas (one shared pair--he wore the bottoms and I wore the top) and slipped into bed. Tracy was still a bit subdued, and as I switched off the lamp on the nightstand and curled up beside him in the darkness, I could almost hear the thoughts running through his mind.
So much had changed. It seemed just then, in 1967, that the whole world had suddenly gone from black and white to Day-Glo color, and no one over a certain age had had a chance to shield themselves from the glare. Three years before, the Beatles were cheeky British lads crooning innocuous love songs in matching gray suits; now they were bearded, flower-bedecked gurus who sang in dreamy backwards-tracked tones about Strawberry Fields. The sort of movie scripts Tracy had been getting were changing, too--and not for the better. "I don't mind the occasional spot of self-parody," he'd said a week ago, as he banished yet another "aging-playboy" role to the no pile, "but it's a bit alarming when they seem to think I'm not in on the joke. Drambuie, indeed..."
Propping myself up on my elbow in bed, watching in the dim light as my beautiful husband drifted off to sleep, I had to smile. The world might have been entering a brand new era of peace and understanding--or it might have been heading for hell in a handbasket. No one knew just how the Love Generation would change things. But there was one thing, I knew, that would never, ever change...
I gently ran my hand through Tracy's hair as he slept; with a tiny, drowsy smile, he turned his head a little to kiss my palm, sighed, then fell into slumber once more.
I love you, Mr. Rattigan...
The next morning, I was treated to a splendid little breakfast in bed--cappuccino and croissants, warm and tasty. My husband sat the tray before me triumphantly, wearing nothing but his pajama bottoms and a bright twinkle in his green eyes.
"I've had a rather interesting offer this morning," he said, without preamble.
With a laugh, I reached over and fed him the flaky corner of a croissant, smiling as he tried in vain to lick a stray crumb from his lips.
"You might get another interesting offer this morning if you're not careful."
"This is going to be a wonderful day," Tracy grinned, before going smugly silent.
"All right, I'll bite..."
"I certainly hope so, my dear--"
"Sorry, old American slang," I said, shaking my head. "I mean I'll bite as in I'll ask--what was the interesting offer?"
"Well," Tracy began, "while you were sleeping so beautifully, a telegram came from Rob Petrie."
"Oh! I've missed them so much since they moved out West--everything's okay, right?"
"Everything's fine, love--it was more of a business message, actually. Rob's filling in as a writer on a new project--a game show, of all things. He wanted to know if I'd be a celebrity panelist for the second week of shows."
"And you said yes?"
"Naturally." Tracy sat down on the bed beside me and picked up his coffee cup, pinky extended. "My agent will think I'm barmy, of course, but Robbie's a dear old friend and a brilliant writer. How could I say no? Besides..." A sly grin began to form on his face, and I wondered what the next bit of news would be. "Laura, that clever girl, seems to think that our usual room at the Beverly is a bit impersonal, now that we've got such close friends in town. She's found a charming little furnished house for us to rent on Malibu Beach for a couple of weeks." He closed his eyes and pressed his warm lips to my ear. "Sun...sand...a private beach...a dip in the moonlight..."
"Sold!" With a laugh, Tracy kissed my cheek and returned to his cappuccino. "But never mind me--what will Jerry say? You know how he feels about you being overexposed on television..."
"I know, I know," sighed Tracy. "The public won't take you seriously as a movie actor if you're in their living room night after night, etcetera and so on. Just remember--Jerry's the one who wanted me to do Come Spy With Me, was he not?"
I laughed, remembering the night we saw what turned out to be the most cringe-inducing spy movie ever made, bar none.
"It had a great theme song, anyway. Not a total loss."
"That was a catchy tune, wasn't it? They'd have done better to just let Smokey Robinson write the whole picture."
"Hear, hear," I answered. "So, my dear spy--when do we leave for the beach?"
"Let's see." With a smile, Tracy lifted his pocket watch from the nightstand. "I'll make a few calls about the rental house right away. If we shower and pack before noon, we can catch a plane at--"
"Wait a minute...why does this seem very familiar, somehow?"
"Oh, you mean my whisking you away on a moment's notice?" he asked,
mock-innocently. "Well, my darlin' Lacey, it worked out so splendidly
last time..."
March 25th, 1967
For such a well thought out place, Studio 33 at Television City was amazingly easy to get lost in.
We arrived in L.A. about midnight, fell into Rob and Laura's guest room
around one, and left for the studio early the next morning, a bit before
Punch-Out's
taping day was set to begin. I was as fascinated as a little kid
by the clever, colorful set--curvy, futuristic looking grids that seemed
to float in mid air, over a two-contestant podium (more of a space pod,
really)
and a four-seater panel area. A board with stylized computer
reels showed asterisks where, presumably, answers would be revealed, and
the whole design was done up in lively tones of lime green and eggshell
white, with traces of sky blue and chrome as accents. Only the enormous
array of bulky studio lights overhead broke the illusion of ultra-modern
coziness.
"Punch-Out? Sounds a bit more like a boxing game than a quiz show," Tracy said to Rob, and a look passed between Rob and Bill Vallasi, the show's director.
"Told you, Bill," Rob said, smiling. "Tracy, the Punch
in the title refers to computer punch cards--IBM cards for surveys. Punch-Out
is basically a glorified opinion poll played for laughs, and it's a lot
easier to watch than it is to explain. We've got the whole weekend
to talk about the format if you have any questions, but you're both welcome
to stay for as long as you like--I have a feeling that being in the audience
will tell you everything you need to know..."
From Television City in Hollywood, it's time for Punch-Out!
Applause filled the studio as the host, a game-show veteran named Biff Jensen, skipped down the steps, bowed to the panel, smiled at the two contestants and waved at the audience.
"Now that's what I call an affable fellow," I whispered to Tracy.
"Is he? I wouldn't know," Tracy replied, winking. "Can't say I've ever affed anyone before..."
"Thank you, thanks so much," Biff said. " Welcome to Punch-Out, where these four esteemed performers--"
"Esteemed performers? Where?" joked panelist number one, the lead actor of a folksy but funny hit sitcom.
"--will try to help these two players win up to five thousand dollars in cash! Let's welcome our current champion, Barbara Ann Zimmer, and her challenger, Sawyer Madden!"
Mr. Madden, a fairly astringent-looking man in a black suit and a bow-tie, took his place on the stage and introduced himself, and the game began. Rob was right--it was indeed easier to watch than to explain, but it involved computer surveys and a multiple choice question. Contestants wrote their answers down first and put their "punchcards" in a slot, then the panelists had a go at it--explaining, in sometimes mildly risqué detail, just why they thought seventy-five (or twenty-five, fifty or ninety) percent of people surveyed said that they'd had a "romantic fantasy" about a co-worker. (That particular question, it seemed to me, was going to lead to at least one inter-panel date after the show, judging by all the flirting going on on the four-seater.)
"Okay, Sawyer--now that you've heard our panel's opinions, would you like to switch your answer to one of theirs? Remember, you get two points if your switched answer is correct, and four points if you stick to your first answer, and it comes up on top. What'll it be?"
"Well, Biff, despite all that terrific help--I'll stick to my answer, thanks." A bell chimed, and Sawyer's card was revealed. Biff, affable as he was, couldn't help but very slightly raise a brow at the contestant's sarcastic tone.
"I'm guessing old Sawyer passed the audition on pure charm," Tracy muttered.
Bouncing back nicely, Biff smiled and made his way to the board with the computer reels.
"All right, Sawyer, let's see how you've done, shall we? The answer
is--seventy-five percent! The challenger takes the lead with four
points." Sawyer nodded, a bit smugly. "We'll get to Barbara's first question
right after we get to this..."
Sawyer trounced Barbara. He went on to trounce Fran, and a housewife named Betty, and Nicole from England. (I believe Tracy was especially rooting for her!) Finally, the first three shows of the five-show "week" were taped, and everyone involved grabbed a bite to eat while a new audience was brought in.
"Robbie, old boy--do tell me we'll have a new champion by the time I'm sitting on your space pod--"
"It's the strangest thing, Tracy," said Rob, shaking his head.
"So far, Punch-Out has never had a contestant hang on for more than
three games, and so far this guy hasn't even managed to miss a question.
He's a smart one, but...well, he's not exactly Mr. Personality, is he?"
Sipping a Pepsi, Rob sighed and continued. "Still, there are some
extremely strict rules in place for game shows, and nobody can be disqualified
on the basis of abrasiveness. Looks like we're stuck with him."
We'd originally planned to say our goodbyes during the break, but we decided to sit tight for the remaining two shows, out of sheer morbid curiosity. As it happened, we weren't the only audience members who stayed all day--Sawyer pointed out his aunt, a bespectacled, pleasant-looking lady who literally wept at her nephew's good fortune, dabbing at her eyes and checking her mascara in a mirror as Sawyer won--and won, and won...
"Join us again on Monday with our returning champion, Sawyer Madden--you'll come back, Sawyer, won't you?"
Sawyer's lip curled into something vaguely resembling a smile.
"Wild horses couldn't keep me away...Biff."
"And here are the panelists you'll see next week..." A pause for
the spot where a clip of the next panel would be edited in, a handshake,
a wave, a blast of theme music, and Punch-Out finally wrapped for
the day.
"So--what did you think?" I asked Tracy as we headed back to the parking lot. I tied a bright Pucci scarf around my hair while he put the top down on the rented Thunderbird convertible and started the engine.
"I think the show itself is going to be a hit, my flower--heaven knows
there are an infinite number of hams to sit on the panel, so Punch-Out
should
run indefinitely," he answered as he eased the car down Beverly Boulevard.
"But there's something rather troubling about our Sawyer fellow--that winning
streak of his seems a bit suspicious, somehow." A hint of a smile
crossed Tracy's lips, and he took my hand while he slowed the car down
for a red light. "Let's hope he spends some of his winnings on a
copy of How to Win Friends and Influence People, what?"
March 26, 1967
By the following afternoon, I was seriously re-thinking my status as a confirmed New Yorker.
Laura wasn't helping. As a matter of fact, my old friend was practically a walking billboard for the joys of California Living. In the months since I'd seen her last, she'd become a devoted beachcomber, with a gorgeous tan, natural sunstreaks in her dark hair, and an enviable ability to look terrific in fashionable colors like bright orange and shocking pink--two shades that never would have made it into her wardrobe back in New Rochelle. (I felt distinctly Eastern in my navy blue sleeveless shift dress and spectator slingbacks.) While Rob put in a half-day at a Punch-Out meeting, and Tracy met with his presumably furious agent Jerry, Laura and I caught up with each other in the sun, under the red-and-white awning at Wil Wright's ice cream parlor on Ventura Boulevard.
"You don't miss New York at all, Laura?"
"Oh...sometimes," she answered, scooping up the last of her hot fudge sundae. "I miss Buddy, of course--you couldn't pry him out of New York with a crowbar, though. I miss the pizza--never take New York pizza for granted, Lacey; it just isn't the same anyplace else. And I miss Broadway, and the museums, and the Village, you know. But I'm crazy about the warm beaches here, and Ritchie just seems to be thriving in our new neighborhood. Southern California is a fantastic place for kids--so much to do, and so much room to do it in...." Laura's face turned a little red, and she spoke again, quickly. "I mean, if you and Tracy are planning to..."
"It's okay, Laura," I said. "When and if the time is right...we will. You'll be the first to know, besides my father--I promise."
"I'll hold you to that." With a smile, Laura looked at her watch
and lowered her spoon into her empty dish. "Perfect timing.
If we head out soon, we'll get to Rob's office just as his meeting is breaking
up..."
"Any news about our returning champion, Rob?" Laura asked as we walked through Rob's door.
"Not a thing, honey," he answered. "He appears to be perfectly legitimate, unfortunately. Leave it to us to find the only fellow in Los Angeles with a computer for a brain and a punchcard for a personality..." With a shake of his head, Rob changed the subject. "So, Lacey, did my lovely wife give you the big speech about the wonders of West Coast living?"
I laughed a little as Rob gathered his briefcase and snapped off the lamp on his desk. "Just a condensed version, I think. And she made a great case for it, actually!" We left the office as a pretty custodian, complete with false eyelashes, entered with a huge rolling trash bin and a broom.
"Wow--even the cleaning ladies are glamorous out here," I whispered.
"That's standard Hollywood procedure, actually," Laura said with a grin. "No matter what your day job is, you want to look fantastic--you never know when some director might decide to make you a star..."
"Speaking of stars," Rob said, "we'd better get over to the Morris building before Tracy wonders what happened to all of us. I believe we have a detour to Malibu planned this afternoon, don't we?"
"Wait until you see this place," said Laura. "If this house doesn't
make you two think about moving out here, nothing will."
Just a few hours later, I was feeling very Californian, indeed. The owner of the house had, if anything, understated the charms of the compact, cozy, sunny beachfront hideaway--skylights, hardwood floors with cozy scatter rugs, a huge freestanding fireplace and a stunning view of the Pacific Ocean through an enormous picture window in the upstairs bedroom and a screened-in sun porch below.
"An honest landlord," Tracy said, after we'd shaken her hand, said our goodbyes to Rob and Laura, and brought in our bags. "She ought to be bronzed, that one." With a sigh, he leaned forward and gently kissed my brow. "It's a pity I have some work to do, or I'd join you on the beach right away."
"That's okay--I can see why you'd want to read that script as soon as possible." I shook my head in wonder. "I just can't believe Jerry actually wants you to do a TV series, after all those months of talking you out of it..."
"He seems to think The Riot is going to be a smash hit--I've never seen him so enthusiastic about an offer. If I don't read it now and give him a call tonight, he's likely to come over and talk our ears off until the wee hours. And frankly, my little cabbage," Tracy added, slowly pressing his lips to my hand in a way that made me grin, "I can think of far more enjoyable ways of spending our first evening in this lovely old cottage, yes?"
Yes indeed, I pondered silently, savoring the moment as his twinkling pale green eyes captured mine.
"Tracy?"
"Yes?"
Sighing, I moved closer to him, gently tugged at his collar and gave him a long, deep kiss that left us both beaming.
"Read fast."
In a flash, I slipped out of my dress and into my favorite sea-blue bikini and walked down the narrow path to the quiet private beach, camera in hand. If anything, the photographic options here were endless--the way the late-afternoon sunlight danced on the gently rolling surf kept me snapping away, hoping to capture the brilliant sparkle of the blue Pacific...
"Will this be an entire roll of nature scenes, or would you like a model?"
Tracy walked up beside me, windblown and barefoot, dressed in a pair of bright white tennis shorts and a navy blue polo shirt, looking absolutely scrumptious. I remembered the sexy tan he'd had the first time we met, long ago at Laura's holiday party, and I wondered if he'd return to New York in two weeks similarly bronzed.
"Sorry, my mind wandered," I finally said, looking up at him. "You know, all my models have to pass an audition..."
"The old casting couch, eh?" Grinning, he slipped his arm around my waist, and together we made our way across the glimmering warm sand and back to the house. "The sacrifices I make for show business..."
"And while we're discussing show business--how far did you get with The Riot?"
"Far enough to know that Jerry might be on to something, love" said Tracy, holding the door open for me. "It's completely different from anything else on the air at the moment--quick sketches, sight-gags, blackouts, satire and a bit of music--sort of a 1960's version of the vaudeville turns I used to do back in the pubs as a lad, but with a lot more pizzazz--and a much faster pace, as well. You really ought to have a look at it--" he began, then a wicked smile crossed his face as he sat down on the roomy, flowered sofa swing that graced the sun porch and pulled me into his lap. "--later."
I sat there contentedly, enjoying the feel of his strong bare legs beneath mine, loving the way the early-sunset light cast tones of gold into his beautiful gray-green eyes.
"Lacey," he said softly, lacing his fingers between mine, "if I take this show, it'll mean living here in Los Angeles for the duration. How would you feel about that?"
Taking a deep breath, I put my head on his shoulder and closed my eyes.
"Tracy, I'm old-fashioned enough to want to be wherever you are. And besides--there's as much work for a freelance photographer here as there is back East, right? I'm flexible--"
"I know," he said with a funny little growl, making me giggle. "I must, say, though--I'm rather sentimental about New York, my dear."
"You are?"
"Yes, indeed." He lightly ran his hand through my hair. "It was on a wintry street in New York that an adorable, weary, kind little stewardess looked up at me on her doorstep, left her pink lipstick on my collar and quite thoroughly stole my heart. Haven't seen it since, I'm afraid..."
"Oh, Tracy..." I threw my arms around his shoulders and kissed him, passionately, while the porch swing began to rock slowly back and forth with a tiny creak. Tracy's warm lips sought mine eagerly; my heart began to beat in sweet anticipation as my husband nuzzled my neck, then eased the strap of my blue bikini top from my shoulder.
"Looks like you've caught a bit of sun already," he murmured. Teasingly, he traced the lightest of circles around the tan line on my shoulder with his fingertip, nibbling my neck all the while, before easing the bright blue fabric away from my breast and playfully flicking its tip with his tongue. I smiled and tugged at his polo shirt, pulling it over his head and tossing it across the porch and into the house with a dramatic flip of my wrist.
"Yes, my darlin'..." he said, as his graceful fingers reached up to undo the knot at the front of my bikini top, "...I believe California will look very, very good on you--"
And then, there was the unmistakable--and thoroughly unwelcome--sound of the doorbell.
"I didn't hear that, did you?" Tracy mumbled into my bosom, as I shook my head.
"Hear what?"
Ring, ring. A pause, and a knock. Ring, ring...
I sat up and shrugged. "I have a terrible feeling whoever it is isn't going to go away, Tracy." Reluctantly, I slid off his lap and onto my feet. "Wonder who it could be, anyway? No one knows we're here yet, except the Petries and the Punch-Out bunch and--"
"Jerry," said Tracy ruefully, slipping back into his shirt and
kissing my cheek while the bell rang out again. "I'd know that ring
anywhere, my love." With a hearty laugh, Tracy shot me a lusty, appreciative
look. "I think you'd better go upstairs and change, my lovely Mrs.
Rattigan, or he'll be far more interested in managing your career..."
"Ah, Jerry!" I heard Tracy say as he opened the front door. As I changed clothes in the master bedroom, I eavesdropped rather shamelessly, keeping my fingers crossed that Jerry's visit would be a very short one.
"Tracy, old boy--you just happen to be on my way home, so I figured I'd pop in and see what you thought about The Riot...say, where's your lovely bride?"
"She's upstairs, slipping into something less comfortable," Tracy answered. I smiled, imagining the wink he'd have thrown to me, if I'd been there to see it. Tracy's reply was a hint, albeit a subtle one, and I stood there on the blue shag throw rug, hoping against hope that Jerry would take it...
"Well, tell the little lady..." Hmmmpf, I thought--little lady, indeed! "...to come on down. I brought you a pizza from the best place in town, and I don't want it to get cold. We have a lot to talk about tonight..."
I came on down--dressed in my navy blue shift dress again--and we talked about a lot, over pizza that, as Laura warned, was tasty but not quite up to New York standards. We found out that The Riot's producers were so eager to have Tracy in the cast that they were making Jerry's life miserable. "If they got a genuine Swinging London movie star on board, they'd probably have an org--oh, pardon me, Lacey," Jerry quickly added, red-faced.
"Oh, the irony," whispered Tracy, and I excused myself and briskly headed for the kitchen, barely able to contain my laughter.
Besides contractual details on The Riot, the other news was that Punch-Out's staff was working overtime to think up some new rules for the game, to be implemented after Sawyer Madden's reign of terror was finally over; and that Tracy's appearance on the panel had been moved up to tomorrow morning.
"Rob Petrie tried calling, and then he passed the message on to me--I guess the phone was off the hook."
"Imagine that," Tracy said, smiling innocently.
"Glad I was able to have a word with you both, but I'd better be going." Jerry stood up and checked his flashy gold wristwatch, then gathered the papers he'd scattered over the coffee table. "You're going to need your beauty sleep, you know..."
We said our goodbyes, warmly, at the front door, under a surprisingly starry sky. I genuinely liked Jerry, despite--or maybe because of--his Sammy Glickish, show-biz abruptness. How could he help it if his timing was invariably rotten?
Tracy looked up at the stars with a sigh, as Jerry's Mercedes retreated into the night.
"A tragic waste of a glorious sunset..."
March 26, 1967
Never mind the television show of the same name--this was the day the real riot happened.
It started off as planned, of course. We left Malibu with plenty of time to spare. ("Always add twenty minutes to your driving time, just in case," Laura had warned us.) I chose my least-Eastern, sunniest dress--a yellow zip-front Mary Quant mini that I knew my husband dearly loved on me.
"Besides," I said, as we parked in the lot at Television City, "in a color like this, you'll always know where I am..."
I popped backstage with Tracy, said hello to Rob, and had a chance to meet the rest of the panelists--one, as it turned out, had already been signed for The Riot, and she and her husband were eager to find out if the rumors of Tracy's imminent casting were true. Needless to say, I was puzzled.
"There are rumors already?" Turning to look at Tracy and Rob, I was greeted with a winsome smile and a shrug, respectively. "But he only got the offer yesterday..."
"Never underestimate the power of the Hollywood grapevine, my dear," Tracy winked.
"I think I'd better stick to my side of the camera," I laughed, just as a short bell went off in the studio. "Sounds like the audience is almost about to be let in, so I'd better get settled--have fun!"
"See you at sunset, darlin'," Tracy whispered as he kissed my cheek.
Backstage was a maze, of course--by the time I sorted out where I was going, the audience was well on its way in. From my awkward angle at far stage left, I could see a page helping Sawyer Madden's extravagantly mascaraed aunt to her seat in the second row...
"Hey!" I called out to an usher, a teenager who jumped back at the sound of my voice. "Pardon me--I need to get back there right away--"
"I'm sorry, ma'am, I'm afraid--"
"I'm a panelist's wife--it's urgent--please!"
He looked at me with a classic deer-in-the-headlights expression, and I realized he was probably new at the job.
"Perhaps we could do it this way--I'll head out to the lobby and try to get hold of my husband by phone--okay?"
"Okay, ma'am..."
"The lobby's this way, right?" And I walked--ran, really--past
him and back in the general direction of the dressing rooms...
"Hello?" I knocked on a door, and a beautiful teenage girl dressed in a mini made entirely of silver paillette sequins beckoned me inside.
"Boy, am I glad to see you," she exclaimed, pulling me into the dressing room. "Cary was just about to go into orbit. Better get dressed quick!"
"Lada, you decent?" A rapid knock, and a young man dressed in full Carnaby Street regalia--a striped double-breasted jacket, high-collared shirt and shiny black boots--stepped in, frowning. "C'mon, you two, the Redcoats have a plane to catch--"
"The Redcoats?" I realized, with a thumping heart, that I must have made a very wrong turn. "I'm sorry--I'm looking for the Punch-Out dressing rooms--"
"Oh, for heaven's sakes, another flaky dancer," Cary groaned. "Look, I don't care if you're supposed to be on Walter Cronkite tonight--get dressed and be out on the set in ten minutes, or get ready to be kicked out of Television City for good--got it?" And with a mighty slam of the door, he was gone.
"Miss..."
"Lada," she smiled, serenely adjusting her long blonde hairpiece.
"Lada--I'm trying to get to Studio 33. There's a major problem on Punch-Out--"
"Oh! That explains it, then. This is 31, and you might as well forget it until they break and change audiences--they're In Progress now, and they won't let you in anyway. Are you a contestant?"
"No, my husband's on the panel--"
"Groovy--who is he?" I told her.
"Wow! He is outtasight." With an friendly flip of her hair, she grabbed an identical silver dress from a rolling rack and handed it to me. "Listen, Mrs. Rattigan--"
"Lacey," I said.
"Lacey, Cary's a total whacko--and he will have you escorted
off the lot if you flake out on him. I've seen him do it to a dancer
or two." A conspiratorial little smile formed on Lada's pretty
young face. "Besides, if you go on and he ends up having to reshoot
the Redcoats, it'd serve him right, the bully. In the meantime, if
you wanna stay here long enough to be around for the Punch-Out break...how
good are you at doing the Frug?"
I don't believe this, I thought a few minutes later, as I stood inside a lighted cage before an op-art backdrop, wearing a tiny sparkling silver mini, high silver go-go boots, a long shiny hairpiece and what I'm sure was the same deer-in-the-headlights expression my friend the usher had worn a few moments before. I don't believe this is happening...
And now, It's All Happening presents the top single on the charts this week--"Heaven When You Smile" by Britain's fabulous Redcoats!
"Dance!" Lada shouted from her cage opposite mine, and the minute
the music started, I closed my eyes and pretended I was at home in front
of the telly dancing up a storm, as the Redcoats lip-synched their hit
song on a stage between us...
"Whoo-hoo! Go, Mrs. Rattigan!" I opened my eyes, and the song was over; Lada, bless her heart, gave me a round of applause as the director yelled cut. "You're a real mover!"
"Mrs. Rattigan? Hey, are you any relation to Tracy?" The Redcoats' lead singer looked up at me, and I realized he must have met my husband a while back, when the Redcoats hid out at Rob and Laura's for a few days.
"That's his wife," said my new friend Lada, with an odd note of pride in her voice.
"This is going to sound strange--but Rob Petrie's in a bit of a tight spot right now--right next door." The drummer helped me out of the cage and onto my feet. "I need to ask you a huge favor..."
"Sure, anything for Rob, love."
"Can you lend me a coat?"
A page--this one was a veteran, I suspected--led me into the studio when the audience was changed after the third episode of Punch-Out was taped, and I suppose I must have made a bizarre fashion statement in my floor-length, bright red British military coat. With a smile, I took a seat next to Sawyer Madden's aunt, who held her handkerchief in one hand and her mirror in the other, ready to weep tears of joy once more.
From Television City in Hollywood, it's time for Punch-Out!
"Thank you so much," said Biff, bouncing down the steps of the set. With a bow, he greeted the contestants and the panel, then addressed the camera. "Welcome to Punch-Out, where one of these two players will have a chance to win five thousand dollars! Let's meet our record-breaking returning champion, Sawyer Madden!" Biff nodded to Sawyer, who gave a half-wave from his chair on the contestant turntable. "Welcome back, Sawyer--is your lovely aunt with us again today?"
Sawyer nodded, and the cameraman at stage left aimed the bulky Norelco PC-60 camera in our direction. Tracy glanced at the monitor just as I slipped out of the coat.
"And who's that charming lady sitting next to Mrs. Madden...good heavens!" joked Biff.
The studio lights bounced madly off the sequined silver go-go dress, and Tracy grinned in surprise as the audience laughed.
"Just something you found at the back of the closet this morning, love?"
"A hand for Mrs. Tracy Rattigan, ladies and gentlemen," Biff called out, amiably. "Stand up and take a bow..."
Making a mental note to punch Biff in the arm later on--he must have recognized the Happening costume right off the bat--I stood up in all my micro-mini-dressed glory and sat down very quickly, blushing up a storm as a few wolf-whistles rang out.
"Can we get on with this, Biff, old boy?" Tracy pulled out his pocket watch and stage-winked. "I have an important engagement after the show..."
Smiles and laughter all around, with two notable exceptions--Sawyer
Madden, who looked positively stricken, and his "aunt", who glared at me,
gave a heavy sigh, and quietly put her mirror in her purse.
Later that night, a quick review of the unedited tapes at the wrap session confirmed my suspicion--Sawyer's "aunt"--Mrs. Sawyer Madden, as it turned out--was using one of the oldest tricks in the book to beat the Punch-Out computers at their space-age game.
"Look at that, Rob--notice how every time Biff reads the correct choice, there's a little flash at stage left?"
"Well, I'll be darned, Lacey," Rob muttered, rubbing his chin. Biff walked up behind us, studying the screen thoughtfully.
"So all that weeping and mascara-fixing was just an excuse to whip out the old hand mirror and give a signal," Biff declared. "I guess the only question left is how she knew all the right answers in the first place."
"Simple," I grinned, enjoying my Nancy Drew moment in the spotlight. "Chances are, she's upstairs with the police and the producers right now, talking about her second job--as your cleaning lady, Rob."
"You mean--the girl with the makeup and the--oh, boy!"
"Every scrap of paper you threw away is probably in a file cabinet at the Madden house. I'm guessing it was hard work, but with some research and time---well, for five thousand dollars a pop, piecing together all your odds and ends and looking up the answers was worth the trouble."
"And you recognized her, my flower?"
I squeezed my husband's hand. "I'm a photographer, remember? Looking at the details is my job..."
"Hmmm...I'm rather enjoying looking at the details myself, tonight," said Tracy, as he gave me a wicked once-over. "Where did you pick up that smashing gear you're wearing?"
"Oh, this old thing?" I asked, wide-eyed. "Well, darling, I did a bit of inadvertent moonlighting as a dancer on It's All Happening today--"
"You're kidding me," Rob gasped, and Tracy shook his head in amused amazement.
"I kid you not--I took a wrong turn backstage, and there I was."
"You know, Lacey..." With a wink, Rob moved next to me and whispered play along. "I've always been curious about the new dances--Tracy, you have no objections, do you, buddy?"
"Not at all...I think," Tracy said, sounding a little doubtful.
"Now, how does that one go...the boy takes the girl by the waist like this--" Grinning, Rob very suddenly pulled me close, and I barely had time to catch my breath. "Then he takes a little turn, like so...or was it this way..."
"Whoops!" I let out a surprised shout as Rob gave me an old fashioned dancer's dip; when I looked up I saw my husband with his arms folded, nodding as if he'd heard a certain joke before.
"Oh Rob, do be a sport and jog old Tracy's memory, would you?
Now, I forget--did you prefer domestic or imported bubbly..."
The rest of the day was pretty busy--first, we returned the Happening costume. (Tracy seemed particularly sorry to see it go--I think he would have bought it for me outright, if that had been an option!) Then, there was a final meeting with the producers, and a rescheduling for the members of the panel. Finally, there was a quick call to Barbara, Sawyer's first victim, who was delighted to return to Punch-Out for another whirl.
When all was said and done, it was well past seven before we finally made a move to leave Television City that evening. The day's excitement had left me feeling strangely exhilarated and a little bit exhausted at the same time; Tracy also seemed to be in a most unusual mood.
"Before we go..."
"Yes, Tracy?"
"I don't think you really were able to get a proper look at the set, were you, my love?"
I studied my husband's handsome face, trying to sort out why neither of us seemed to be in a hurry to leave the scene of the crime, so to speak.
"Do you think we should?" I asked, as he led me by the hand back into Studio 33. "Everyone's probably gone by now, and I wouldn't want you to get into any trouble--"
"Darlin' Lacey, you've just saved this operation from being swindled out of fifteen thousand dollars," he laughed. "I don't think they'll begrudge you an after-hours studio tour." With a gentle tickle of my palm, he leaned close and added "C'mon, live a little--you've earned it..."
We slipped into the audience entrance door, and it was odd to experience the serene, darkened studio after all the chaos that had gone on earlier.
"The coat!" Dashing toward my former seat, I found the Redcoats' stage gear right where I left it. "I feel so bad--I completely forgot about it, and they were so nice about letting me borrow--"
"You're a sweetheart--relax." Tracy sat down and gently tugged at my hand, flipping up the armrest between us as I took the seat next to his. "Don't worry--the network will be happy to ship the coat out to the next stop on the Redcoats' tour. Meanwhile,"--he pulled the roomy coat over our shoulders, like a blanket--"it's rather cozy, isn't it?"
I nestled close to him, and he very softly ran his fingertips along my cheek, making me blush.
"Lacey, my love--what on earth did I do to deserve a wife as wonderful as you are?"
I could barely make out my husband's handsome features in the darkened studio, but somehow I could feel the love shining from his pale green eyes; and when he put his arm around my shoulder and kissed me, the feel of his soft, sweet lips upon mine was like a match being held to dry kindling. I was suddenly--and fiercely--aroused beyond words...
"Tracy," I whispered, nibbling his warm neck, savoring the intoxicating fragrance of his after-shave, "we'd better get home right away, or else..."
"Or else what?" The note of amusement in his low, sensual voice made me smile in the dark--I knew him well enough to know when I was being dared.
"Too late." With a deep breath, I put my arms around his shoulders, and while his strong hands circled my waist, I carefully arranged myself so that I straddled his lap.
"Here, Lacey?"
"I don't think I can wait any longer..." Wickedly, I pressed myself firmly against his lap and began to undo his tie. "And there seems to be firm and growing proof here that I'm not the only one...am I?"
"You naughty, naughty bird," my husband sighed with closed eyes, surrendering. Heart thumping, I bent forward and gave him another long, deep, wet kiss, running the tip of my tongue along the graceful curve of his lips, then drawing his tongue into my mouth and sucking it gently. I couldn't get enough of him; my hands were busy with the buttons on his crisp white shirt, even as my lips refused to let his go...
"Guilty as charged..." I murmured the words into his ear before I nibbled and kissed it slowly, knowing full well that that drove him a bit crazy. Tracy reached underneath the hem of my minidress and playfully squeezed my bottom with an adorably lusty little grunt. It was awkward, but I managed to move back enough to be able to bend down and kiss his delectable, lightly furry chest; when I got to his belly button, I had to slide completely off his lap in order to tickle it with the tip of my greedy tongue.
My tongue was greedy, indeed. It wasn't enough...
"Good heavens, Mrs. Rattigan," Tracy whispered--almost panted, really--as I slipped down below the seat and began to undo the buckle on his black leather belt.
"What?" I answered, almost unforgivably teasing him as my hands stopped in midair."You don't want me to?"
"Ask a silly question," he laughed breathlessly, raising his hips a bit.
Pulling the red coat over my shoulders like a cape, I unzipped his pants and eased them past his knees and down to his ankles. Tracy let out a lovely low moan, lifting his hips again while I enjoyed the firm, heavy feel of him in my hands. Soon, my hungry kisses followed, and I took a deep breath and delighted in the warm, sweet scent of his trim body and the wonderful taste of his smooth and sensitive skin. My husband sighed and reached for my hand, as I slowly drew his tasty flesh between my lips, swirling my tongue around him in gleeful exuberance.
"Yum," I said, feeling both silly and sexy--then I continued tracing a long, loving line with the tip of my tongue...
"Lacey, come here...please..." I made a few minor adjustments beneath the coat, and before I reluctantly ended my intimate kiss, I let go of his hand for a moment, only to hand him a little gift--my pink lace undies.
"Come here now..."
Wildly aroused and wasting no time whatsoever, I quickly climbed back into my husband's lap, straddling him and throwing my arms around his neck again while he yanked down the zipper at the front of my dress. Tracy groaned loudly, then raised his hips high, and I gasped at the deep, intense pleasure that filled me as his body urgently merged with mine. I rode him with abandon, knowing full well that neither of us would last too long--the feel of his hands firmly caressing my bosom and the sound of his long, low moans were far too exciting for me to bear.
"Lacey, my love?"
My husband's breath was ragged; he slowed down for a moment, torturing me sweetly, knowing I was right on the verge...
"Yes?"
"Kiss me..."
I thought my heart would melt then and there, as I pressed my lips to his once again. I was so close to the brink that the smallest motion would carry me away; Tracy swirled his sweet tongue around mine, and with a mighty thrust of his hips he sent me over the edge into a powerful, reverberating ecstasy, muffling my blissful moans with his tender, passionate kiss.
Still shuddering with pleasure, I moved with him again, never breaking our kiss, wanting to taste his lovely lips as he reached his peak...and a moment afterward, my husband clutched my hips tightly and let out an almost-silenced groan against my lips as the sweetest of sensations overpowered him...
We sat there for a while in the darkened studio under cover of the long red coat, catching our breath; indeed, I felt so deeply satisfied and content that I was in real danger of falling asleep on Tracy's shoulder.
"Come on, Mrs. Rattigan, wake up," he said softly, with a smile in his voice, gently stroking my hair . "I have a feeling the cleanup crew would be a bit surprised to find us here, my love."
I laughed, and he kissed me--again. Would there ever be such a
thing as too many kisses from Tracy Rattigan? Not in this lifetime...
That night, while Tracy filled Jerry in on the Punch-Out escapade--well, not all of it--by telephone, I curled up in the Eames chair with a tall glass of Tab and the script for The Riot. And by the next morning, I realized that my future--and Tracy's--was right where we were.
"You're sure about that?" Tracy asked me, as we enjoyed coffee at sunrise, on a blanket by the rolling Pacific.
"I'm sure," I answered. "Tracy, this is just perfect. I'm with Jerry--The Riot is going to be huge, and you, my darling husband, are going to be the best thing about it. This show is virtually made for you! It's with-it, it's quick, it's funny--"
"With-it?" Tracy gave me a cocky smile. "Really? At my age?"
"Sure!" I squeezed his hand. "Of course, there is one downside, though..."
"What's that, my flower?"
"It's television...so you'll have to keep your clothes on," I winked.
"Dear, sweet Mrs. Rattigan," he sighed, mock-sorrowfully. "Such
an innocent-looking, angelic face, and such a wicked, naughty, randy mind
behind it." He picked up his coffee cup and gazed out at the ocean,
with a sliver of a smile flitting across his lips. "Promise me you'll
never change, what?"
The rest of the week was uneventful, thank heaven--well, except for the following Saturday night, just after It's All Happening aired. The phone rang the minute the closing credits ran, and Tracy picked up the receiver with a knowing grin.
"Hello, Jerry," he said. Then, with a shake of his head, my husband
handed me the phone. "It's for you..."
The Riot is the highest-rated rerun on the RetroVision cable
channel, these days--and if you look closely at the "Wild Party" segments,
you'll see three dancers on platforms who do freeze-poses when the action
stops, so that the cast can tell a joke. One of them is my friend
Lada, who was signed to The Riot the moment that Happening was
cancelled, thanks to the wife of a certain star of the show. The
second is, of course, the beautiful black actress Carollanne Smythe, who
went on to far bigger and better things in the 1980's. And the third?
For the first season, that was a platform upon which several different
Friends of the Show made surprise appearances--among them, yours truly.
(Guess I'm a real mover, after all.)
All chaos broke loose in our lives once Tracy became a genuine TV star, of course--but most of the press coverage after the Punch-Out scandal was flattering. That business at the '68 Emmys was a little embarrasing, though--but that, as they say, is another story...