Jinxed Read online

The limo driver waves his cellphone at me, interrupting my reverie. “Excuse me, Ms. Barnes, I have the production assistant on the line—”

  “She wants to speak with me?”

  “I think she just wants to make sure you remembered the hat.”

  “Tell her it’s here on my lap.” I look down at the thin cardboard box bound with grosgrain ribbon, not bothering to mention I almost did forget it back at the hotel.

  “Ms. Barnes has it,” he says into the phone, then laughs and catches my eye in the rearview mirror. Affecting a haughty Colonel Blimp accent, he says, “Gwen told me to tell you, ‘Awfully good of you, my dear.’”

  My molars clamp as I hear him utter the popular catchphrase that, thanks to a TV series I starred in, became a national fad for a while. I manage a smile, knowing what’s expected of me. “Just tell her, ‘All in a day’s work,’” just as my character, Jinx, would have responded to her boss, known only as the Magician.

  The driver flashes me another look in the rearview mirror and winks knowingly. “I bet you get this all the time.”

  “Jinxed again!” I sigh, with the practiced weariness that always gets another chuckle.

  The Holiday specials were two-hour television movies, part of a rotating wheel of detective shows that aired once a month for several seasons. Each production was geared toward a holiday: Valentine’s Day, Halloween, Mother’s Day, even Groundhog Day. Winston Sykes, faking a British accent and sporting a monocle, played a magician; I was his assistant, Jinx. Winnie and I solved crimes, all of them holiday themed. My costume, a swallowtail jacket with satin shorts and a top hat, was a Marlene Dietrich rip-off (Morocco, The Blue Angel), but a younger generation will always associate that sexy getup with me.

  “All in a day’s work” has become a lifetime’s work, and why would I complain? It’s the whole reason I’m appearing on The Today Show. My mother in Nebraska has been alerted. My sister-in-law in Milwaukee has sent out an all-points bulletin to nieces and nephews, who surely have better things to do than watch Auntie Meg teach Savannah Guthrie how to fling the famous top hat around like Oddjob slinging his metal bowler at James Bond.

  Speaking of special agents . . . I wrap my fingers around the cellphone in my pocket, tempted to send Jack a text. Something funny and a bit naughty like: Thinking of u, hoping it was good for u 2. I hesitate and decide against it. If indeed he’s in the throes of investigating the death of the Ukrainian teenager, it’s not the distraction he needs right now.

  I leave my phone in my pocket and instead drum my fingers on the thin cardboard box that holds Jinx’s top hat. My friend Donna, a fan and inveterate collector of showbiz memorabilia, acquired it at a church charity auction. If I lose the hat, I’m done for. Not only would I sacrifice a friendship, I’d be forced to give up Donna’s generous room and board in her Holmby Hills estate. Without Donna’s largesse, I’d be living in my car, the redoubtable Ritz-Volvo.

  With a roof over my head that doesn’t come with four wheels and a dashboard, I’m managing to get back on my feet. My agent is helping me find enough acting work to keep me literally off the streets, even if it means sucking it up to do television commercials for decrepit, diseased and leaking body parts. As Pat points out, “All the gals are on TV selling something, honey, and some of ’em have Academy Awards on their mantels.”

  She’s right. Spokeswomen of my generation are hawking adult diapers, not tampons. Denture fixative, not Doublemint gum. I think Pat takes a certain pleasure in sending me out on commercial calls for acid reflux, hair loss, brittle bones and retirement communities. But who, other than someone with Oscar-caliber talent, can spew streams of dense copy with caveats about side effects that result in death and still make you want to buy the stuff? One does long to do a nice hair-color ad that only claims to cover the gray.

  In my case, I’m happily collecting residuals on a commercial for a sleep aid (in which I spend most of the spot tucked into bed with my eyes closed) that’s keeping my Volvo tanked up and insured. The subject of getting a place of my own hasn’t come up yet. Donna seems to like my company, and I’m not cut out to live like a hermit. If I’d found it that much fun rattling around on my own, I wouldn’t have leapt so eagerly into the disastrous second marriage that eventually left me without a home. I could kick myself, but why add injury to insult?

  But this is no time to dwell on the past, especially on a morning blazing with sunshine and the fun of an appearance on The Today Show. With that thought in mind, I pull my cellphone from my pocket and tap out: Thinking of u, hoping it was good for u 2.

  The town car turns onto 48th Street, Rockefeller Plaza nearby. “Not too much commotion here this morning,” the driver says. “At least Justin Bieber isn’t doing the show today. These teenyboppers camp out around here for days. Not me, not in this heat I wouldn’t.” He looks into the rearview mirror and winks. “Well, maybe for you, I would. I gotta tell ya, as a kid I had a poster of you on my bedroom wall.”

  “Really,” I murmur. No need to say more. The look in his eye tells me what his adolescent fantasies were. I’d just as soon he kept them to himself. Besides—and this is happening to me more and more lately—I could’ve sworn that the driver, trim and sporting a dapper cookie-duster mustache, was close to my age.

  “You kidding me? Every guy at school had one of those posters,” he says, pulling up at a side entrance. “You musta made millions.”

  “In my dreams! Farrah Fawcett had a better manager than me.”

  He laughs. “Well, you were hot stuff, lemme tell you. I mean—hey, sorry, you still are—know what I mean?”

  I know what he means. “Well, I hope you kept the poster. I hear there’s quite a market for them on eBay.”

  He laughs uncomfortably and I know in a flash that he had one of those mothers who threw away every adolescent treasure the moment he left home. That’s why there’s eBay.

  The driver pulls over and stops. “Lemme get your garment bag for you,” he says, sliding out and opening my door. Hot, soggy air envelops me as I step onto the pavement. The driver hands me the garment bag, toasty warm from the trunk. “Have a good show, Miss Barnes. And listen, hope you didn’t mind—”

  “I’m flattered. And thanks. I’m glad you have such good memories of Holiday.”

  “You’re the best. Sorry I won’t be driving you back, but it was great meeting you.”

  A young woman with choppy blond hair and a chirpy voice scurries up to me. “I’m Gwen,” she says, reaching for the garment bag. “Let me give you a hand with that.” She flashes me a smile and stands back, holding the side door to the lobby. I tighten my grip on the box containing Jinx’s top hat and hurry inside the building.

  “We’ll check you in first, then drop your stuff off. We usually go straight to the green room, but we’ve set aside a dressing room for you,” Gwen says, striding ahead, her short skirt flipping saucily with each step. “Anything you need, just let me know.”

  “Thanks. Some water would be great.”

  “No problem. There should be some in your room.”

  I sign in with an NBC page at the security desk, then follow Gwen down stairs and through a labyrinth of corridors. Near the end of a hallway, she ushers me into a small dressing room. I drop my bag on the dressing table next to a plate of fruit and two bottles of water.

  Gwen hooks the garment bag on a rack and flicks on lights encircling a mirror attached to a wall above the dressing table. “Settle in and I’ll be back in a minute.” She’s about to leave, then turns back. “You want to see if anything needs a touch-up?”

  “Good idea.” I unzip the bag and shake out a black lightweight linen jacket that I’ll wear over my tank top. “It looks fine. Why don’t I go into makeup if they’re ready for me.”

  “Hey, you’re easy!” Her smile is bright, her voice chummy. “My God, I was just a kid when I used to watch you on television. I’m just so thrilled to meet you. I can’t wait to see you do your famous hat tricks. Everyone’s excited!”
She laughs again. “Let me check with makeup and I’ll be right back.”

  “Great. Ready when you are.” She bounds out the door. I close it after her, then tuck my hands in my armpits to warm them. I’m freezing. I suspect it’s due more to nerves than the Klondike chill in the room. Gwen has managed to gush all the right things to make me tense up about performing the hat tricks. A little practice warm-up wouldn’t hurt.

  I untie the ribbons on the box and slide out the flat satin disk. With a flourish, I snap the mechanism and the top hat pops open. To television audiences, Jinx’s hat is as iconic as Columbo’s beat-up raincoat or Barnabas Collins’ wolf-head cane. Maybe someday Donna will bequeath the top hat to the Smithsonian, like Archie Bunker’s rocking chair.

  I put on the linen jacket before practicing my routine, praying that I haven’t lost my touch. Fortunately, like riding a bicycle, it all comes back. When I first got the role, I trained with an old vaudeville showgirl who was living out her years at a Hollywood retirement home. The fact that her name was Roxie only added to the charm of the peroxide blonde, who still had terrific legs and a tiny waist at seventy-plus years of age. She’d worked with bubbles, fans, flags, feathers and veils of every description, but hat tricks were her specialty. She was only too happy to show me the moves I needed to play a magician’s assistant.

  I snap my heels together and extend my hand, hoping I can still manage to roll the hat down my arm onto my fingertips. On the third attempt, I get it right—then try again and again until I can do it with ease. I twirl the hat in my fingers, snap it, toss it, catch it and fling it in the air just right so it will fall on my head, cocked perfectly. I concentrate so completely on my rehearsal that I’m unaware Gwen has entered my dressing room until she claps her hands.

  “Wow! Terrific!” she says. “I’d love to watch more, but I gotta get you into makeup. You ready?”

  “All yours,” I huff, trying to catch my breath. “Let’s go.”

  We wind through a maze of corridors to the green room and an adjacent brightly lit makeup room. A plump young woman wearing bib overalls and a tee shirt gives me a sunny smile as she introduces herself as Lydia. I greet her, sliding into a makeup chair still warm from the last occupant.

  “Any allergies? Contact lenses? Something I should know about?”

  “No, just careful around the nose. It’s prosthetic.”

  She laughs and I settle back in the chair. It takes me a while to figure out that the glint in her mouth is a metal knob piercing her tongue. I’ve already taken in the studs and rings adorning her ears, nose and eyebrow. I won’t let myself think about what’s going on under the overalls.

  For the next half hour or more, while Lydia dabs at my face, I stare into the middle distance, trying to keep my eyes off the glittering tongue stud. Every filling in my mouth cries out, my glands empathetically secreting metallic-tasting saliva. I can’t imagine what happens when Lydia eats something cold like ice cream, or drinks hot coffee. Or chews gum. Maybe, like dentures, she stores the hardware in a glass of water by her bedside at night. Try as I might, I can’t halt my brain’s morbid speculations.

  I’m grateful when Gwen arrives to shepherd me into the green room to wait for my segment. Fortunately, the sweet rolls, bagels and cream cheese are thoroughly picked over and I don’t indulge. I watch the monitor, feeling my hands grow icy with anticipation. Savannah is sitting on the couch chatting amiably with an author about—what? My ears have shut down. I’m not listening to the interview so much as watching Savannah’s lively girlish gestures. Anxiety mounts. What am I doing here, anyway? I’ve been prepped in advance during a long telephone interview with a producer, but my mind is blank, my fingers icy as Popsicles.

  During the commercial break, I’m led, freshly fluffed and powdered, to the stage area. I perch on a stool, glancing over my shoulder at the crowd gathered outside in sweltering Rockefeller Plaza watching a segment with Al Roker, Matt Lauer, Natalie Morales and Savannah. A camera swings into place for a close-up of me as Savannah announces our upcoming interview. “It’s just so neat,” she says to Matt. “Who can forget Jinx and that hat!”

  “And I hear you’re getting a lesson from the pro,” Matt teases. “Have you been getting some coaching on the side?”

  “If only! I feel like butterfingers already.”

  My three seconds on camera trying not to look overly exuberant or just plain silly feels like an eternity. The red light flicks off before I do something dumb like wave at the camera. I catch a glimpse of Savannah trotting into the studio, at least two feet taller and ten pounds slimmer than I had imagined. She stands crane-like on one foot, sifting through a handful of pages, then glances over at me, fanning her fingers in greeting. A moment later, she slides onto the other stool, hooks the heel of one shoe on a rung and grins at me with a twelve-year-old child’s wide-eyed wonderment.

  “I’ve just been dying to meet you. What fun! But I’m so nervous I’ll do it all wrong.”

  “Don’t be. I’m nervous enough for both of us.” She laughs and I sit up straighter, stretching one leg to the floor in a pose I hope makes me look a little slimmer and taller.

  “You working on anything now?” she asks.

  “Yes, a little independent project called Forsaken.”

  “Great! Want me to mention it?”

  “Better not,” I say quickly. “It’s still in production.” What am I thinking? It’s a webisode with a two-buck budget!

  The floor manager gives a countdown and I hear the first few notes of the Holiday theme music, an easy jazz riff that washes over me in a wave of nostalgia.

  My eyes fasten on the teleprompter and I read along with Savannah as she says, “Growing up I loved this show . . . Holiday was so bright and sparkly, just like Jinx, the adorable magician’s assistant played by Meg Barnes. Welcome, Meg.”

  “Thanks, Savannah. I’m glad to be here.”

  “Sorry, but I keep wanting to call you Jinx.”

  “Go ahead. Lots of people do. I only wish Winston Sykes could join us.”

  “You were quite a team. And full disclosure, everyone, I was one of those little girls out in the backyard trying to do all those hat tricks. Really, I was one of your biggest fans. What do you think made the show so popular?”

  That’s my cue. I talk about the first Holiday show, a Christmas special that was such a ratings hit it spawned a series. Savannah asks me about Winston Sykes, the Magician with the monocle and posh English accent. I remind her he was actually Canadian and has now retired to live north of the border.

  “You know, I think it was the chemistry between Winnie and me, like Moonlighting in the eighties, with Bruce Willis and Cybill Shepherd. The key to the show is that teasing, bickering, opposites-attract relationship. And the stories were fun, sort of whimsical.”

  “And now it’s back. That famous Fourth of July episode with the great chase sequence inside the Statue of Liberty is airing Saturday night . . . Can’t wait to see it again! And the whole series is coming out now on Blu-ray for the twentieth anniversary of the show.”

  “You know, I haven’t seen it since it aired . . . ”

  “Well, I hope you haven’t forgotten the signature moves.”

  I hand her the collapsed hat that’s been nestling in my lap. Savannah squeals with pleasure. “Thanks, Jinx!” She holds the satin disk up to the camera and then hands it back to me. “Go on—pop it!”

  “All in a day’s work.” With a flourish, I snap the brim and Jinx’s magician’s hat pops open.

  “Okay, now show me how it works. I’ll stand over here.”

  I collapse the hat again, then sail it toward her. She reaches for the whirling disk, but gets whacked on the elbow instead.

  “Whew! That thing’s lethal!” she yelps.

  “That’s the whole idea. It’s how Jinx knocked out the bad guys.”

  Savannah Frisbees the hat back to me, but the disk nosedives to the floor. “Whoa, what’s wrong with me?”

  I s
how off a few of Jinx’s best moves, even managing to twirl and do a fancy backhand throw. There was a time when I could sling the disk while managing a one-handed cartwheel, too. But that was then. Today I’d land in the ER. For a finale, I snap the hat open and flip it onto my head, cocked over one eye, and wink. “Jinxed again.”

  “Oh, wow! Thank you so much for being on the show today. I’m so glad Holiday is coming back as a new series!”

  The segment ends with a commercial break. My mouth falls open, her words buzzing in my ears. “What? A new series?”

  “That’s what I hear. It’s on our network. Hey, you were terrific!” Savannah gives my arm a quick tap and hurries off to prepare for another segment.

  “She’s right. Terrific!” Gwen says, handing me my shoulder bag. I fall into step behind her as she leads me back to my dressing room. “You were the highlight of the show today. By the way, your phone was vibrating. I think you’ve got some admirers ringing.”

  I fish my cellphone out of my bag and check the voicemail. The first message is from Donna, of course, tuning in from Los Angeles, where she’s caught the network feed online. I sling the bag onto my shoulder and call her back. “So what’d you think?”

  “For an old duffer, you still have the chops, Meg. You were spectacular!”

  “Thanks. I can’t believe it, but I was actually a bit nervous. It’s been a while since I’ve done one of these interview things.”

  “Well, it didn’t show. And what’s this about the series coming back?”

  “That’s what I’d like to know. I’m a bit long in the tooth for Jinx, but—”

  “Fingers crossed, Meg. That would be great.”

  I rotate the top hat in my hand, imagining myself back on the lot shooting a series again. “Listen, Donna. Let me call you back when we can talk, okay?”

  “Sure, I’m here. And I mean it, you were terrific!”

  “Thanks. I’ll catch up with you later.”

  What could be better than a return to Holiday? My mind reels at the thought of starring in a series again. Following Gwen down the corridor to my dressing room, I feel almost dizzy imagining myself back playing Jinx—a role I love!