In a surprisingly masculine voice, Cher says, “I’m Madonna from Drag-o-Grams with an apology from Ben.”
Madonna? “You mean Cher…”
“My name is Madonna, but I’ll be singing Cher.”
“So you’re not from UPS.”
“Not in a million years.”
I stare at her and am flabbergasted by the idea of this being a man. Madonna’s Cher costume appears to be authentic from the time — the tiniest black sheer teddy that’s so high cut, there isn’t more than a landing strip around the girly bits, or, in this case, boy bits.
I’m obviously staring because Madonna explains, “Fitting into this costume requires a strap and wrap.” What is he talking about? Before I can ask, he explains, “I need to strap it down and then wrap it tightly in plastic wrap. It’s hotter than hell, but it hides the goods.”
“Oh.” I mean, really, what else is there to say? I call out, “Charley, you might want to come over here for this.”
She trots out of the bathroom, takes one look at Cher, then at me, before telling our guest, “So, no UPS?”
“Nope,” Madonna exclaims in a very deep voice. Then she bends over and turns on a boom box. When the intro for “If I Could Turn Back Time” starts to play, I can barely grasp what’s happening.
While Cher (or Madonna) sings about how if she could reach the stars, she’d give them all to me, I stare in awe.
Then, like someone flipped a switch, I burst into an ugly cry. No delicate sobbing for this Libra. I sound like I’m being drawn and quartered in some kind of medieval torture ceremony. I’m so loud that Madonna stops singing half-way through the song and throws her brawny arms around me.
“There, there, Serafina,” she says. “I know Ben was horrible to you. I watched the whole thing live. But you’ve got to know that he feels awful about how everything went down.”
“Then why doesn’t he tell me that himself?” I demand before blowing my nose on a tissue that Charley hands me.
“He said you won’t take his calls or texts.”
“He should have come here himself,” I say.
“Would you have let him in?” Madonna asks, sounding so sure of herself.
“Whose side are you on?” I demand while pushing her away and putting my hands on my hips.
“I’m on the side of love, honey. Ben asked me to call him before I performed, and I’ve never heard such a sorry sack. That man is full of regret and would do anything to make up his past misdeeds to you.”
“Anything?” Charley asks.
“I’m pretty sure,” Madonna tells her. “That man sounded lower than an earthworm in hell. So much so, I decided to do this job myself.” She confides, “I’m the owner of the company and hardly ever go out on calls anymore, but this was a special case. Now, can I finish singing my song?”
“From the top,” Charley tells her with a giant smile on her face. Something is going on in that girl’s mind and it’s making me nervous.
After Madonna is through, I hand her a twenty-dollar tip and thank her for such an amazing performance. Only in New York City can you get such a high-quality sing-o-gram.
“Do you have a business card, Madonna?” Charley asks.
“Who are you planning on sending a singing telegram to?” I demand.
“What? You don’t think my parents would totally jam to some vintage Alanis Morissette?”
“Oh, honey, we don’t do her. At Drag-o-Gram we stay away from the angsty stuff. How about some Aretha or Beyonce? Bert sings the hell out of both those ladies.”
“I think my parents could both do with giving me a little respect,” she says. “I’ll be in touch.”
Madonna offers a weird curtsy that doesn’t quite fit the look as she adds some parting advice. “Being that no one can actually turn back time, Serafina, sometimes you just have to forgive and forget. Take it from me, you don’t want to miss out on life with your soul mate just because you’re too proud to take him back. Pride won’t warm your bed at night.”
“Thanks for that, Madonna. I’ll definitely think about it.” Yet even as I shut the door, I don’t know if I have the courage to pick up the phone and call Ben. After all, he isn’t the only one who needs to ask for forgiveness.
Forty-Four
Ben
Email from [email protected]
* * *
Subject: Wake Up America! Appearance
* * *
Ben,
* * *
Top brass has decided you need to go on the show one more time to undo some of the damage. The masses seem fixated on seeing you apologize to Ms. Lopez and that Gwen woman so I’m sending you to do that. Once you’ve accomplished your mission, Carla will take over for you.
* * *
Be at the studio Monday at the usual time.
Dev
* * *
I never thought I’d say this, but thank the Lord for morning television viewers across America. Their interest in my sorry life might just be what gets me Serafina back. Lord knows chocolate, flowers, and a singing telegram didn’t do the trick.
I’m so determined not to blow it, I took a trip back to Namaste Friends and got myself the most Gemini of all the Gemini outfits they had. I’m currently waiting backstage in something called a super-soft and breathable Thai yoga shirt with a Nehru collar and long sleeves. It’s bright yellow (and, true to its advertising, is super-soft). Astrid paired it with some loose yoga pants in a dark grey and added a hemp necklace that has rose quartz beads sewn into it to “reset my heart chakra” (whatever that means). I’m hoping when Serafina sees my outfit, she’ll realize how much I’m trying to change. If this were Grease, I’d be Olivia Newton John to Sera’s John Travolta.
Justin walks into the dressing room and stops in his tracks when he sees me. “Whoa. That’s … a new look.”
“Too much?” I ask, feeling silly all of a sudden.
“Ah … hmm … I guess just not what I was expecting.”
“Maybe I should change.” The way he hesitates makes me nervous that maybe this isn’t the right look for me after all.
He shakes his head. “No time. We’ve got to get your mic on.”
I follow him backstage, my heart pounding as I wait for my one shot at winning back the woman I love. I can hear Serafina out there chatting with Hal and Lacey, and I’m sure she looks as gorgeous as ever. My pulse is racing so fast, I feel like it’s taken on the cadence of the William Tell Overture.
I feel decidedly dizzy while I listen to their conversation. “We’ve got a special surprise for you, Serafina,” Hal says. “Courtesy of your assistant, Charley.”
I can see them from where I’m standing and Serafina raises one eyebrow while she shifts uncomfortably in her chair.