By the time I’ve gotten ready, wearing white linen slacks and a blue tank top and — sick of the trainer’s ponytail — opting for hair pinned back in a classic chignon, the clouds have passed and it’s a beautiful Miami Beach evening. It’s still hot and balmy as the sun goes down and insects whir dreamily, and I’m wading confidently through that sexy, tropical air back into my car, content the coast is clear. The Caddy’s old stereo is broken, but I have my CDs and put on some Cuban hip hop I bought for five bucks from a hustler on Washington. I never usually do that but this kid had the most amazingly cute eyes. Musically, a gamble, but in this case it’s paid off, heavy samba rhythms filling the air as a sneakily cool Spanish vocal kicks in. I wish I knew what the fuck they were singing about.
I take the MacArthur over the Biscayne Bay and down to Coral Gables, parking a block from the bookstore and walking there. I hate Miami proper, I’m a SoBe bum, but the Gables is one of the few mainland spots I can tolerate, and it’s largely due to this place. Books & Books is a classy store, with a great patio cafe, a corner of which is usually occupied by some cool musicians. I’ve even picked up a couple of guys and a chick here, on separate occasions.
I’m sitting keying in my day’s calorie and exercise data on the Lifemap TM phone app, as the crowd fills up around me. A woman with frizzy dark hair and glasses steps up to the podium, and I can see Michelle Parish, a bit smaller than I imagined, sitting behind her, all frisky and enthusiastic, just like she is on Shed That Gut!
The other woman, sharp-faced with alert, keen, birdlike movements, prepares to intro Michelle, but to my shock, her face expands in recognition as she suddenly catches my eye. — I’d just like to say that we have a local hero in the audience tonight, and she points right at me. — The brave lady who disarmed the gunman on the Julia Tuttle!
To avoid shrinking into my seat, I look around with a forced grin. There’s a split-second pause, before the whole room, about a hundred people, bursts into applause, led by Michelle, who’s on her feet, clapping with ferocity. Oh. My. God. No. Get out of town!
I’m examining the expectant faces and want to just crawl away. Fuck that. Take it. Own it. And I feel my spine stiffen as I nod, with a self-effacing smile; false, yes, but I’m making an effort. And why the fuck not? I stepped up. I saved two innocent men from a fucking psycho. Just take it. I stood the fuck up! I came forward!
The applause dies down and the intro continues, then Michelle gets up and does her thing. At around 5’3", 110 lbs, she’s a pocket dynamo, telling us about something called Morning Pages. — I don’t know if anybody has come across Julia Cameron of The Artist’s Way fame, and Morning Pages. . Michelle peers over the top of her glasses, a hottie who doesn’t know it, as a forest of hands rise, — . . good. I swear by them. They are so easy to do. You must write — longhand preferably — three pages, around 750 words, each morning. Stream of consciousness, uncensored stuff; anything that comes into your head. There are no right or wrong ways to do this. This frees up your thoughts for the rest of the day. I’d add one caveat: do not do this with a snack in your hand!
Some laughter, and then we’re down to business as Michelle brilliantly disses the South Beach low-carb diet. This is so what I came to hear, not artsy writing shit. — A diet without an exercise program is like an exercise program without a diet, just another useless fad, Michelle says, focused like a stone-cold killer, those bright eyes burning me. I’m digging the way her head moves to the side on that surprisingly long neck, and her perky little breasts straining against that tight blouse. — People don’t get obese by eating the wrong stuff or by living a sedentary lifestyle. They do it through both. The attack on obesity has to be holistic. The fad diet is dead!
Cue big cheers from the audience, many of whom are from the personal-training community. I recognize one needy bitch who works out of Crunch, and a fag from Equinox. But only one is getting a quick chat with Michelle afterward. I’m straight up there, and even the most competitive motherfuckers in the training fraternity stand the fuck down and let this hero be the first to get into Michelle’s face. As well as the chat, I’m rewarded with her business card and her personal email address! — Drop me an email, Lucy, we should talk, she smiles, then turns wearily, with an apologetic shrug, to face the demanding crowd.
I’m driving back home, almost in a state of rapture. I press the remote to open the gates. I park in the rear lot and head up to my apartment. The back-stair bulb on the second floor needs to be replaced. It’s dark, and I can’t see jack. Then a noise, a blast of music and some voices above me. I feel my body tense, but it’s only kids from the apartment below heading out. The young DJ guy who lives there nods to me, as his entourage file past. I get into the apartment and head straight for my laptop.
4. CONTACT 1
To: lucypattybrennan@hardass.com
From: thelmajtempleton@vh1.com
Subject: TV pilot
Lucy,
Lovely to meet you at your apartment this morning!
As soon as you decide on your representation issue, do let me know, as I’d like to get things rolling on this pilot as fast as possible. In the meantime, I’m enclosing a document outlining some of our ideas for the show, which we’ll expand upon more at our meeting, which I’ve scheduled for tomorrow afternoon. Does that still work for you? I stress that these are only ideas at this point, nothing is written in stone, and your own input will obviously be invaluable. We were looking at the photographs and footage again, and my colleagues here in production all agree: we have a highly photogenic, potential TV star on our hands. We are so looking forward to working with you!
Please don’t worry too much about any news crews or paparazzi outside your door. News people, God bless them, are not burdened with great attention spans. They will soon flock to an Ocean Drive hotel once they hear that some American Idol contestant got drunk at the bar or brought somebody back to their room. Again, getting good management/PR representation will help you negotiate that intrusion. As I said, I’ve taken the liberty of passing on your details to Valerie Mercando.
Best wishes,
Thelma
Fuck, yeah!
To: lucypattybrennan@hardass.com
From: valeriemercando@mercandoprinc.com
Subject: Representation
Dear Lucy,
My name is Valerie Mercando, and I run a PR agency here in Miami representing a diverse client base of models, photographers, artists, actors, and reality-television stars. I obtained your contact details from Thelma Templeton, whom I understand you met recently.
At Mercando PR, we understand that the client is the star. With over 40 years of combined experience, Valerie and Juanita Mercando have carved out an innovative reputation as the leading premium client-centered boutique agency in South Florida. If you were to consider becoming one of our clients, let me assure you that you would be well looked after. We feel that your heroism has captured the imagination and hearts of the South Florida community, and further afield.
We would love to be able to work closely with yourself, publishers, and broadcasters, to ensure that the Lucy Brennan brand is represented as strongly as it deserves to be.
As a starting point, we have some firm ideas about a revamping of your website.