Annalise Bucklehamy, Everyone! – Susan Brink O’Flaherty

March 29, 2026

“Anyone named Dick is either dead or on his way out!” Annalise shouts from inside the draining tub of hot water she only just filled. She’s out of her Budapest bath oil, so what’s the point?
        Her agent is selling her hard on the reboot of Fantasy Island. His nasally voice tins through the speaker phone. “Dick knows what sells. The show’s money. You’ll be the female Ricardo Montalban.”
        “I don’t even have an accent!” The water is halfway gone, revealing bubbles of epoxy from the shitty reglazing the landlord had done when Annalise took the goddam apartment last month. Screw Davis and his electric hot baby mamma, Pippa. Couple of turds. The baby sucks, too.
        As the water recedes, her A-cup boob job only accentuates bloated, liver-spotted thighs and a two-month-old pedicure––chipped hot pink nails bring attention to the grotesquely misshapen pinky toe on her right foot.
        “Are you drinking already? It’s only ten.”
        Annalise has tried to make it to noon, but ever since Pippa was announced as the star of the upcoming Netflix series, MILF in Rome, Annalise’s good mood has arrivederci-d.
        “This is what’s coming in, Annie. You need the money. We need the money. If things don’t change––”
        “Oh, to hell with you and WME anyway.” Annalise downs the remaining Mimosa from her Venti Starbucks coffee mug. “Hang up, Trevor. I’m wet and my phone’s across the room. God!”
        She waits until her agent-turned-used-car-salesman has hung up before carefully standing, holding the wall for support. Acid or maybe a little puke reaches the back of her throat, but she holds it down.
        Something hits her bathroom window.
        “Shit.” The shade is pulled, so she can’t see. Annalise hopes it’s not another hummingbird crashing into the glass. Last time that happened, the upstairs neighbor ended up having to break the sweet thing’s neck to put it out of its misery. Annalise couldn’t watch.
        There’s the sound again, followed by voices, the crunch of branches.
        Fucking kids. “Go away!” Bunch of Beverly Hills High losers. She could kill TMZ for publishing her address. Her attorney said it was a matter of public record. Right before she fired him.
        Annalise doesn’t bother putting on her blonde wig. In her mirror’s reflection, the gray stubble that coats her round head gives her the look of a chemo patient.
        Another knock on the window, and a splat that sounds like a tomato or, worse, an egg. She quickly pulls her melba chenille robe from the hook, and without drying her body, ties it as best she can––the damn thing barely covers her hoo-ha. Put it on the list.
        She storms out of the bathroom, down the wood floors of her hallway, water dripping down her chafing inner thighs to her ankles. Annalise barrels out the front door, yelling “I’m calling the police!” She hobbles down the two cement steps of the duplex to the small front yard.
        Across the street, three people juke around, but they’re not kids. Shit––the paparazzi.
        One of the guys turns, holding up his lens. This is all she needs: photos of a practically bald, pasty Annalise Bucklehamy in nothing but a shortie robe––what used to be gams (now tree trunks), with bubble-wrap cellulite.
        “Where’s your hair, Annalise? Did Davis take that, too?” He shouts as a UPS truck flies by.
        “I’ll sue you!” Annalise is wobbly. She needs a drink. Something much stronger.
        The one guy lowers his camera, and the other two appear by his side, but they’re not looking at Annalise. They’re clocking something else. Good, maybe the cops are heading this way.
        Above, a buzzing sound, but it’s not a bird. Annalise tilts her fuzzy head back to search for the source. Her robe inches up a little, so she pulls at the bottom to make sure she’s not flashing anyone. A drone. Annalise flips it off, but her head suddenly spins. Warm spit forms in her mouth, then queasiness. The drone still buzzes directly above her, and out of the corner of her eye, the three bloodsuckers stand there, but they’re not taking any pictures.
        “Ladies and gentlemen…” An approaching man’s voice booms as if through a PA system. “Can it be?” For a second, she wonders if she’s died, and God is speaking.
        Annalise turns to see a Starline double decker convertible bus, loaded with tourists in their t-shirts and zinc-covered noses, mouths agape as it slowly approaches. She wants to run, but her legs are leaden.
        “Is that the Annalise Bucklehamy?” The tour guide’s amplified voice reverberates off the duplexes that line Charleville Drive. A couple neighbors have made their way outside. The drone drops into the scene. “Former Academy Award winner, everyone.” The bus stops abruptly, the squeal of worn brake pads only brings more attention.
        Fuck my life.
        “What are you working on, Annalise?” The pimple-faced goon asks. His thin lips molest the microphone.
        Acid rises––orange juice. That motherfucking question. That sick, twisted, heinous question. Torture. Hell.
        “What am I working on?” Defuse, Annalise. Don’t––“Polishing off a bottle of Asti Spumante, wishing it was Dom fucking Perignon.” She can’t believe she said that out loud. Her voice is shrill, old. Annalise cackles, like she’s a fucking stand-up comedian. A few tourists generously laugh along. To think that she lunched almost daily at The Peninsula, only two blocks away. That her Hollywood mane was once insured by Sotheby’s and her voice was lauded as “the sexiest in the world.” What good role is there for a sixty-year-old has-been who was duped, dumped, and taken to the cleaners by a man whose only real talent was his jawline and being married to her?
        The host of Fantasy Island reboot, apparently. Pathetic.
        The three paparazzi snap photos while the drone whizzes across the street and then back. A couple cars honk but the bus stays put.
        The guide is now out on the bus step with a goddam microphone pressed to his lips. “We don’t usually have such…luck…”
        The sun is hot on Annalise’s head. Her gut tightens and she farts, but luckily, it’s silent. She pulls out the sides of her chenille robe, and curtsies. Then, she makes her way back up the steps as she hears the voice over the PA system one last time.
        “Annalise Bucklehamy, everyone.”