I bought a pair of blue Pumas that weekend and threw away my bottle of tequila. There was too much to do-- start my new job, forget about Thea and Christine, find Hugo-- to be drinking.

Monday. The stage door opened up to Helen De Traversay's trailer. Next to her was Hillary Nugent's trailer, then Marvin Mueller 's, and the last trailer belonged to Albert Cavanaugh. He was an ornery midget-- a little person-- whom I passed on my way into Helen's trailer to drop off her clothes.

"Watch it," he grunted and I blinked nervously at the guy at my knees, before entering the door labeled, "HELEN."

She had on the bell bottom jeans for the seventies costume party her character was having. The length was good, but they were about five inches too big in the waist and hips.

She looked up to me as I entered, "What do you think? Perfect fit?"

"If you were pregnant."

"Well, that's not likely." Was she trying to tell me something I already knew? "Can you fix them? "

I pulled at the waist, opened my box of sewing supplies, and started to pin around the waist line.

Her trailer was a mess. She was a slob, that was obvious. The morning's breakfast-- scrambled eggs and toast-- trailed along the tan carpeted floor while several coffee cups were scattered around the room with only a sip taken from each.

"Hey, did you hear about Queen Elizabeth urging Diana to date?"

"No," I said not sure if this was a joke or not.

"Yeah," she said. "But only while OJ is in town."

I laughed, not only to oblige her, but because she was so desperately animated that you couldn't help but crack up. Her face cringed up and her arms blindly flailed about like non-verbal gibberish. I started to pull and pin the seam that ran along the center of her butt.

"Well, I got to work on that one but there's definitely a joke there, don't you think?"

"Huh, oh yeah. It was funny, but I don't know much about jokes."

She immediately turned as if shocked I would say such a thing, and the pin I was about to clasp into it's head came loose in my hand, stabbing her full force in her left cheek.

"Ahhhhhh." She jumped five feet and landed on the floor, grabbing her ass.

"Oh-my-God! I'm sorry, I'm sorry." She sneered, turning her head slowly when a laugh burst as loud and boisterous as my fat Uncle Harvey's laugh after four scotches. I couldn't help but laugh along. She was totally cute.

I took the pants, sewed them, and had them back to her within the time I established. The phone rang in her trailer. She answered it, said hello, and handed me her signature pullover shirt that needed pressing-- and then quickly stepped into the rear bedroom and shut the door.

I ironed and thought about who it was that had made her exit into the other room. It could have been her agent, her mother, her sister-- someone who accepted Helen for the lesbian she was. Wouldn't that be great, I thought? What I didn't want to think was that it was chick, Helen's chick. Oh shit, what was I thinking? This dyke was the queen of all dykes. I mean, rumor had it she dates some big time celebrities-- and preferred black chicks. What chance did I have?

I smelled something that brought my thoughts to reality. It was smoke, something burning. Oh shit! I lifted the iron and saw her shirt-- a black iron print across it.

"Hey, Fran," Helen yelled. "You got my shirt?" She opened the door and walked over to see the ruin. I was sweating and my temperature was rising. Helen could see the color of my face turning red at high speed. "Hey, don't sweat it. I'll go without the shirt this week." She had on the newly sewed jeans and I looked at her ass as she walked to the trailer door. She turned and said, "It'll keep the audience on their toes."

No shirt I thought, Jesus Christ! And all because I burned it. I watched her from the trailer window as she approached the nine producers and explained the blunder. I nervously grinned and waved.

*****

"Ladies and gentleman, here's Helen."

She came running out to the television audience before taping began, waving and smiling to the audience's out of control applauds. She ate it up and then with one swift move my eyes bulged, my mouth dropped and my stomach was lost in a sea of acid.

She bowed and all you could hear was RIIIIIIP.

I froze as the audience watched in stunned silence. Helen stood up straight and the pants fell slack. The entire seam ripped and nothing was left of the waist. Laughter filled the auditorium as she held and covered the best she could. She looked at me standing in the corner of the stage and said, "Ladies and gentleman, my new costumer." She waved me out and I acknowledged the cackling audience. When I looked back at Helen I saw she was smiling, thank God, and sent me a wink that made it all better-- until I turned to see the producers fuming. In their eyes, I had messed up big time but more importantly-- I was standing on stage by the side of their star Helen. It was obviously taboo.