Chapter 46: Cheese It! The Cops!

WE ATTRACTED a great bunch of actresses, none of whom claimed to be an actress. In addition to our sociologist, musician, software engineer, chef, teacher, and journalist, we collected an artist, a mathematician, a race car driver, a pilot, a policewoman (who didn’t know she was auditioning when she came in to investigate our operation), an accountant, and a doctor. I had sex on set with four of them. I had sex with two more when they visited the mansion. And six had been very sexual but hadn’t jumped on me yet. One had been more reserved sexually than the others, but she was quick-witted and had an incredible screen presence. The plan in the mini-series was to eliminate seven. I was already sorry to be losing them, even before I knew which ones would go.

When we finally had all the participants in line, Doug summoned them all with instructions for moving into the mansion. Peninnah, in her forethought, had designed the mansion so we could feasibly house as many as twenty or more guests. The mansion would be where a lot of the production was filmed. But we’d be doing active training at the company as well. And of course, we had to have some outings as a group and one-on-one.

To celebrate the start of production, we held a big party at the mansion with our actresses, the senior staff at Space Pioneers, a few Hollywood types that Doug knew, and a select few that I brought out of Areola.

I heard a resounding slap across the room that brought the party to silence. I hurried over to where Leroy Reese, the president of Space Pioneers, Inc., was lying on the floor at the feet of Lalonda, the policewoman. He’d made a pass at her and she didn’t appreciate it.

Lalonda had surprised us all by really getting into her audition. Apparently, she’d done some theatrics in high school and college, but didn’t pursue it as a career. She’d come into the studio based on a whispered rumor that we were producing porn without a permit. She had no official business there, but simply asked if she could watch an audition.

She chose a good time to come in because we had a B-list actress come in with her agent and a contract in hand. Doug intercepted the agent and explained the rules. We would pay $500 for the audition, but required a signed release in advance to use any footage in our mini-series, just like they would have if they were auditioning for America’s Got Talent or some such. The agent wanted to see a script before he agreed to the terms. It was pretty bland, depending on the actress to bring something to it as part of the improv. He agreed and the actress—Brandy Something, if I recall—signed the contract for the audition. Doug wrote the check, but held it until after the audition.

It was terrible. Hollywood had a cookie-cutter industry in which every actress of minor talent was pressed and molded until she came out white, blonde, and D-cup endowed. I think there was a rule about them not weighing more than 110 pounds—ten of which had to be carried on their chests. They reminded me more of the groupies who were around the theatre in Greece than they did of any real actress I’d met.

We interviewed and the voice was like having a mouse on set. When we got to the improv, she stopped to think for a minute before every response. Nothing like ruining any timing and interaction. We suffered through it. When we asked the big question, she tossed down the script and stormed off the set.

“Bernie! Why are we even here? If I found out it was all real? You’ve got to be kidding. What do they take me for?”

Doug handed the agent the check.

“You need the money, doll. This is the best I could get without putting you in porn.”

“At least in porn they’d appreciate my tits. I think that guy is gay. I’m getting out of here.”

And they left.

“Well, there went a wasted $500,” I said. “We can’t possibly even use that footage for outtakes. It was just too boring.”

“Excuse me.”

I looked up to see Lalonda. She was a nice-looking black woman in a casual suit. I was impressed with how tall she was—at least six feet. Black hair in an afro that matched her dark skin. Good looking and powerful looking. We didn’t have anyone like that in our cast.

“Hi. Sorry you didn’t get to see a better audition than that. I’m afraid we don’t have any more scheduled for today,” Doug said.

“Um ... I was wondering if this was open auditions. I mean, I don’t have a resume or headshot with me, but I’d like to audition. I think I saw what you’re looking for.”

“We can set up an appointment,” Doug said.

“No, we can do it now,” Peninnah broke in. “You just said we don’t have anything else on the schedule. Everything is set and I’m sure Bob would love to see someone who actually wants to be here. What’s your name, honey?”

I would bet that if any of the rest of us had addressed the ebony goddess in that way, we’d have been laid out on the floor, but Pen just slipped into people’s inner circle without them even knowing it. Today she was in perfectly fine form with running shorts and a bra top on, the diamond dangling in her navel. The six-inch high heels were quick evidence, however, that she had not been out for the jog the rest of her outfit suggested.

By the time Lalonda had introduced herself, Peninnah had her seated at the table with us for an interview.

I’d had dealings with law enforcement during the course of my life—from Drakomaxos’s thugs, to State Troopers. I was once stopped by a policeman near Houston who strode up to the car and said, “Do you know why I pulled you over?”

I said, “Well, I’m not a donut shop and I didn’t rob a bank, so no, sir, I don’t know why.” That got me a $200 ticket for what probably would have been a warning.

Most of my encounters have been cordial. One ended with me leaving town just ahead of a lynch mob. One, however, was especially memorable.

No, it wasn’t the lynch mob. How could a lynch mob not be especially memorable? They didn’t really mean anything by it. It’s just that I was a San Francisco dandy in Silver City, Nevada in a gambling hall. And it wasn’t even that I was winning a lot of money. It had to do with a banker of some sort in San Francisco going broke and leaving a lot of miners unpaid. Didn’t really blame them all that much.

No, the memorable one was far more recent.

I think I mentioned that I liked to drive fast cars. The gasoline engine and automobile were as much an amazement to me after nearly 4,000 years of walking and riding horses as were the mighty steamships after the sailboats I’d been used to. But I was careful. I didn’t want to attract a lot of local attention by speeding through the city or getting in an accident. I’m basically a good law-abiding demon.

But as the 80s drew to a close, I was bitten by the bug to buy a new Trans Am 20th Anniversary Model. I suppose I had been influenced by the 1970s movie Smokey and the Bandit. Of course, I wanted a black one. But where could I go for a good road test? I wanted something long and straight and flat. What could be better than Kansas?

I-70 runs for 424 miles through Kansas. There were stops for tolls just outside of Topeka, but from there on, it was just over 350 miles to the Colorado State line. I figured that was enough to let the horses out to run.

I filled the tank with gas and entered the freeway in the middle of the night. No sense drawing attention to myself. I rolled up to milepost 350 and floored the powerful car. And I flew across Kansas. I had a notion that I could make it to Colorado in three hours.

I didn’t.

A little more than a hundred miles into my run with the needle pegged at about 105, I became aware of flashing red lights in the distance behind me. It didn’t dawn on me that they were after me. They seemed to get gradually closer, and when it was obvious the police cruiser had to be doing 120 to catch up to me, I pulled over like a dutiful citizen. The cruiser screeched to a halt behind me and a trooper stepped out of the car and approached me. I’d been drilled on proper protocol for these occasions, so I rolled down my window and placed my hands on the steering wheel with my license, registration, and insurance card in my fingers.

The trooper seemed to take a long time approaching me. I saw the flashlight beam scan my windows and then circle the car. Finally, the light came through the driver’s side window, directly into my face. I couldn’t really turn to look without being blinded.

“Let’s have the license and registration,” she said.

She! I’d been pulled over by a female state patrol trooper. I handed her the documents and tried to smile.

“Do you know how fast you were going?” she asked.

I wanted to say something smart, but couldn’t think of anything. And I had learned my lesson in Texas.

“Um ... My speedometer said 105. Did you get a radar reading with something different?” I asked, genuinely interested.

“I’ve been chasing you for twenty miles. I had to kick that old box of a cruiser up to 120 to catch you.” She sounded angry, but paused in her narration. Then she whooped! “Wow! What a rush! Is your heart beating as fast as mine?”

“I ... uh ... really enjoyed it.”

“I was almost disappointed you pulled over. I could have chased you all the way across the state! You know it’s going to cost you. Now that I’ve got you, I have to give you a ticket. How many miles do you have on this beauty?”

“Five thousand two-eighty. Just broken in, really.”

“And you just had to find out how fast it would go?”

“I thought I could make it from Topeka to Colorado in three hours,” I chuckled.

“Well, we screwed that up, didn’t we? You haven’t been drinking or anything serious like that have you?” she asked.

“No, ma’am.”

“Okay, I’m only going to cite you for speeding and not for reckless. Once that’s done, there’s a truck stop five miles on. I’ll follow you there and you can give me a full tour of this bird.”

I accepted the citation and my documents, still trying to figure out what was happening.

“Don’t try to outrun me,” she said. “It’s only five miles.”

I pulled onto the highway and carefully marked my speed at the new limit of sixty-five. She followed right on my bumper with her lights still flashing. We pulled into the truck stop and she motioned me over to the pumps. We both filled up.

“I want to drive it,” she said bluntly, while we were standing next to our cars. She wasn’t very big, but she’d handled the Crown Vic Pursuit with ease.

“How can we arrange that?” I asked.

“There’s a long straight stretch of state highway not far from here. Unlike the freeway, it’s not used much and we should have a ten-mile stretch. I’ll pull over to the parking area and you can pick me up there.” She hopped in her cruiser and parked it beside the café. I pulled up and got out, handing her the keys. She grinned at me and we headed out into the country.

That began one of the most fun nights I ever had in America. She could certainly drive. I’d held the speed to about 105 because I intended to drive it for three hours. She knew the road out in the country for twelve miles and started out like a drag racer. She was 0-60 in five seconds and ran through the gears as smoothly as a pro. After ten miles she let her foot off the gas and coasted the last two miles to bring the speed down to where she could brake. She’d moved the needle to near 140 mph. She was panting after the five-minute drive.