Marjorie: “It says right here in your contract that no scenes will be filmed unless your face is properly lit.”

Joan: “And why would you have an issue with that? Seems fair to me, since you’re just a supporting player and I’m the star.”

Marjorie: “You are not properly lit, sweetie. It looks like your head has been photo-shopped onto the robot from that ‘Metropolis’ movie.”

Joan: “And that’s a bad thing?”

Marjorie: “Well, I suppose it’s not if you’re an emotionless automaton that will do anything it takes to remain relevant and popular.”

Joan: “Keep reading. That’s on page three.”

Marjorie: “Oh, right. Here it is. ‘Her Highness should not be expected to show empathy or compassion for anyone that cannot be used by Her Highness to further her career.’ That’s very interesting. Wait, what’s this footnote reference. Should I check the appendix?”

Joan: “No, don’t worry about that. It’s just a disclaimer that I’m allowed to show minimal compassion for those who manage to trigger an orgasm on my part during weekends in New England. It’s a minor clause, as most men can’t find the trigger using both hands.”

Marjorie: “I didn’t realize that these contracts got so detailed. Back in the day, we just showed up for work and hoped for the best. Say, do you suppose the clause wouldn’t be so minor if you slept with the right pair of hands?”

Joan: “What on earth do you mean by that? Surely it has nothing to do with those wretched rumors that I slow-danced with Tallulah Bankhead at the Academy Awards after-party. None of that is true. Except for the slow-dancing and the after-party and a shared room at the Chateau Marmont.”

Marjorie: “Uh huh. How interesting that you jumped right there. I think you need to take another look in the mirror.”

Joan: “And I think you need to remember that you are a mere underling.”

Marjorie: “I’m an underling who was in the bungalow next to yours at the Chateau Marmont. The sound of your triggering echoed up into the Hollywood Hills. I’ll just leave these photos here on your desk, so you can review them once the megawatt spotlight has been turned off and you regain your vision.”

Joan: “Are you blackmailing me? The nerve! You need to say something nice about me or I’ll have you fired.”

Marjorie: “It’s come to that, has it? Fine. I think you should run for political office.”

Joan: “That makes no sense. I’m not qualified.”

Marjorie: “But that’s just what the Republican Party is looking for. Unqualified candidates with no compassion or empathy who consistently lie about the things they’ve done in their past. You’re a perfect candidate! I’ll just leave the application here next to the photos of you and Tallulah tripping the light fantastic. Let me know when you hold your first political rally, so I can make sure that I’m not in town.”

Previously published in “Crusty Pie” and “Bonnywood Manor”. Please excuse the back-to-back Joan-fest. I was having a comment conversation with the lovely Melanie, and it reminded me of this companion piece. The story has been revised and expanded from the previous post, because that’s how it works here at Chateau Marmont.

Marjorie: “You mean Bonnywood Manor.”

Brian: “That’s what I said.”

Marjorie: “No you didn’t. Are your sure you’re not a Republican?”