14
“What is that?” Jane says, looking alarmed.
I’ve slumped farther into the abyss. I’m not making enough money. I’m down to one shift at the club, due to Herb’s bizarre system, which now includes rewarding the servers who have the most shifts with even more shifts, so those of us who’ve been penalized for any reason are having a tough time finding our way back in. At least I still have the Friday shift, whose take can almost, but not quite, cover my rent. Even catering has been slow lately.
Russell Blakely’s movie is wrapping in a few weeks, and Jane is finally not working nights anymore. She comes down the circular staircase wearing vintage ’60s go-go boots, which have different colors of patent leather sewn together in a kind of patchwork pattern, a short blue suede skirt, and a red bomber jacket with a faux fur collar she found at Bolton’s on Eighth Street. Bolton’s is supposed to be this great discount store, and Jane always finds something there, while I usually just end up with another pair of discounted black tights. Jane already has her signature sunglasses on, which means she’s serious about leaving. Nothing would normally slow her exit. That’s how I know, for sure, the stuff in the bowl I am holding must look as bad as I thought.
“Wow, look at you! Where’d you get the boots?” Maybe I can distract her by talking about fashion.
“Don’t try to distract me by talking about fashion. Seriously, what is that?”
“It’s, uh, food?”
“For an astronaut?”
“No, it’s this wonderful new diet food? I bought it off the television.” I’ve been trying to keep my spirits up by experimenting with different diets. So far, none of them have worked. But this time is different.
“You paid money for that?”
“Oh yes, Jane, and it’s so worth it. It’s called TastiLife, and it’s not just a quick-fix diet, it’s a fabulously tasty new way of life!”
“Okaay,” Jane says gingerly.
Why does she look so suspicious? I must make her understand. “Jane. I know it looks weird, but James Franklin was saying in class the other day that everyone on his set did it. In Hollywood.”
“Really? Hollywood?” Jane squeals in false delight.
“Jane, seriously. Have you seen those commercials? ‘Eleven million losers and counting’?”
“Yes, I’ve seen the people in the commercials who hold their old, giant fat pants away from their tiny new selves. So … that guy James told you to do this?”
“Yes, but not—he wasn’t telling me I needed it or anything. We were just talking after class—and anyway, I brought it up. I was just making conversation, asking him about his movie, and he was just being helpful by telling me what some of the pros do.”
“Mmm-hmm,” Jane says doubtfully. “But when did you start doing this? I didn’t see any of it in the fridge.”
“Yeah, no, that’s the best part—you don’t have to refrigerate it. It comes in a box. It’s freeze-dried in a package and you just take it out and soak it!”
“You soak it?”
“It sounds weird, I know, but it’s actually very convenient because you can take it anywhere, you know, on the go?”
“Why can’t you just eat actual healthy food, the kind that doesn’t require soaking?”
“Well, obviously, because I can’t be trusted to control myself. This teaches you portion control. Everything you need is in each packet, so it takes the guesswork out of dieting.”
“You sound like you’ve joined a cult. What happens when you have to go back to the real world, the world where you have to think for yourself?”
“Hopefully I’ll be so weak and frail that food will have lost its appeal entirely.”
“Great plan. And who’s on Leeza today?”
“I’m pretty sure today’s show is ‘Women Who Wish Their Best Friends Would Stop Judging Them.’ ”
“Har-har. I’m going to work now. Do you want me to take the TV cord with me?”
“Jane. Goodbye.”
After she leaves, I hover in the living room, eyeing the television warily. I know Jane’s just teasing—it’s not as though I have a real problem with Leeza, though I do happen to know that today’s episode is called “Amazing Animals,” and it’s supposed to include a dog who can actually tie people’s shoes. And Jane is sort of right, I guess, that I’ve fallen into a pattern of watching more television during the day. It started when the residual checks for my Niagara commercial began to slow down, and I wanted to make sure they weren’t making a mistake—secretly running the commercial a dozen times a day and just forgetting to pay me or something—so I started scouring the daytime channels to see if I could count how many times it was playing and compare that to what my checks said.
Leeza was on, and she was talking about inspiring yourself, and I felt like I was really bettering myself by listening to her advice. A lot of the shows have weight-loss advice, which is where I got the great cabbage soup diet, which would have worked, I’m sure, if only I didn’t hate cabbage. She has celebrities on, too, and people who’ve overcome daunting odds of various kinds, and I never know when I’ll have to play a character who isn’t close to me but might remind me of someone I saw on Leeza. So really, you could call the time I spend with Leeza almost educational.
But the thing is, Pinetree Lodge, the soap opera, is on right after that. When I first started watching, it was just for a few minutes right after Leeza and before the first commercial break. I was more fascinated than interested. I would use the show as a kind of acting exercise, challenging myself with the hokey dialogue, saying the lines out loud to myself, just to see if I could make the scenes feel more real than the actors on the show did. I wondered if it was the actors’ fault that the whole thing seemed so ridiculous, or if there is truly nothing you can do to make it less phony, given how phony it looks.
But now I’ve fallen into the habit of watching both shows every day without fail, and sometimes I even leave the TV on longer and watch Studs and Love Connection, two shows I can’t possibly justify as being enriching in any measurable way. I blame Dan partially, who has barely been around. I don’t know where he’s been doing his writing lately, but it isn’t our living room, and if only he were here more I’d probably be too embarrassed to lie on the couch all afternoon.
Because if I’m being really honest with myself, I’m legitimately hooked on Pinetree Lodge now, in that I think about the characters during the day as though they’re real people and I worry about them over the weekend. “How will CoCo Breckenridge hide the facts of her murderous twin’s disappearance?” I find myself wondering. Every Friday I resolve to stop watching, but once Monday comes I can’t resist seeing how the cliffhanger was resolved.
Sometimes, when I get really frustrated, I fantasize about firing Joe Melville, but I wouldn’t want to hurt his feelings, and it seems a little redundant to tell someone to stop calling you who already never calls. Presumably, he’s embarrassed to have made a mistake, and perhaps hopes that if he ignores me long enough we can pretend our meeting never happened and can both be saved the shame of confronting our failures. Which puts me back in the place where I’m feeling bad for Joe Melville. I’ll admit, it’s sort of a sick relationship to have with someone who is hardly in your life.
Leeza doesn’t come on until noon, and I’m regularly sleeping until then now, because there’s no reason to get up any earlier. Jane is treating it as a big deal, as if there’s something really wrong with me. She calls me from work every day just to make sure I get up.
“I’m worried about you. You’re depressed.”
“I’m fine.”
“My roommate, Frances Farmer,” Jane says, melodramatically.
“I’m a sensitive, creative type. I’m going through something.”
“If I come home to you eating a pint of Häagen-Dazs and watching When Harry Met Sally, I’m calling the police.”
“What are they going to do, arrest me for being a cliché?”
So when the phone rings at eleven thirty that morning I lunge for it, grabbing it on the second ring. I’ll pretend to Jane I’m in good spirits. I’ll act peppy, as if I’ve been up for hours.
“Psychic Friends Network, Dionne Warwick speaking,” I trill.
“Uh, hello? This is Richard calling from Absolute Artists. Is Franny there?”
I sit up, as if he might be able to see through the telephone that I was lying down at an undignified hour, still in the shorts and tank top I slept in. I clear my throat and try to make my voice sound more awake.
“It’s me. It’s her.” That doesn’t sound right. “It is I.”
“Hello, I. Did I wake you up?”
“No. I’m awake. I, um, have a cold.”
“Oh, shoot. Is it a really bad one? Joe has an audition for you.”
“I’ve just made an extremely speedy recovery.”
“Great!”
“Great!”
“So, it’s today …”
“Today?”
“In about two hours.”
“Today?”
Oh no. I’ve done nothing for two weeks but sleep late, and drag myself to class and the odd shift at the club. I haven’t worked out. I’ve barely been out. I’m unprepared. I’m doughy.
“Sounds great!”
“Sorry it’s so last minute. They need to replace someone on Pinetree Lodge.”
“On what?”
“Pinetree Lodge, the soap? Excuse me, the daytime drama? Do you know it?”
“You’re kidding me.”
“Uh, no. Are you a fan?”
My heart is pounding out of my chest. I can’t believe it. Pinetree Lodge! Am I a fan? I’m more than a fan. I’m a student, a devotee. I could write a thesis on my knowledge of Pinetree Lodge. What luck! Maybe this is going to be okay. Maybe I’m not repulsive and mushy after all. I’m a genius who has been in studious self-imposed exile whilst honing my craft, waiting for this day to come, with patience and nobility. It was meant to be!
“Yes! I know it. I know it a little too well, actually.”
“Great. Then just get over there as quickly as you can. They’re closing the session at two P.M. I’ll fax you the sides and the appointment info. Just call us with any questions, and break a leg.”
“Thanks.”
I’ve got to hurry. But for a moment I stand there in the middle of my room, still holding the receiver, strangely frozen. I should shower. Should I shower? I should. But my hair. If I wash my hair, then I’ll have to dry it. I’ll shower but not wash my hair. I’ll put a towel on my head to keep my hair dry while I take a shower. Where’s my slutty outfit? Most of the girls on Pinetree Lodge are slutty, except the older star, Angela Bart, who’s slutty but in a classy, older way. Is that shirt clean? I’ll wear my Wonderbra. Where’s my Wonderbra?
I’m in and out of the shower in record time. I use the towel that was on my head to dry off. The moisture from the shower has done something helpful to my hair, for once. I can hear the fax machine whirring, the paper falling onto the floor. I’m curious to see the material. I’ll skim it before I get dressed to make sure I’m picking the right thing to wear.
I go to the machine and uncurl the first page.
ABSOLUTE ARTISTS–APPOINTMENT
SUBJECT: Franny Banks/Pinetree Lodge reading
WHEN: WEDNESDAY, APRIL 12, 1995
TIME: 2:30 P.M.
WHERE: ABC Studios, 49 West 66th St, 5th floor
WITH: Jeff Ross and Jeff Bernbaum, Casting
CHARACTER BREAKDOWN:
{ARKADIA SLOANE} 23–25 years old. Arkadia is the long-lost daughter of millionaire patriarch ELLIS SLOANE. Arkadia was believed to have been drowned by millionaire playboy Peter Livingston’s third wife, millionairess real estate maven ANGELA BART, who hoped to be named sole heir to his fortune, but is discovered to have survived the assassination attempt by making it to shore, although she was only eight months old. Exhibiting the pluck and sass that enabled her to survive as an infant, Arkadia arrives in Pinetree, ready to settle the score and break some hearts. MUST BE COMFORTABLE IN LINGERIE, MUST BE EXCEPTIONALLY BEAUTIFUL/PLEASE SUBMIT ALL ETHNICITIES.
INT. PINETREE LODGE LOBBY–DAY
ANGELA BART gives instructions to a bellhop as other hotel workers assist a few guests. Breathtakingly beautiful ARKADIA SLOANE enters, carrying a suitcase. She stops short in the lobby, spying Angela. One by one the workers and guests notice Arkadia. They stop what they are doing, paralyzed by her awe-inspiring beauty. Finally Angela also looks up.
ANGELA
Yes? Can I help you?
ARKADIA
(Giggles nervously.)
Yes! (regains composure) No. I’m sorry.
That’s just funny, coming from you.
ANGELA
I’m sorry, I’m Angela Bart. Do we know each other?
ARKADIA
I’m sorry to say we do.
ANGELA
If we’ve met before, I don’t remember. I’m sorry. You’re very beautiful, you know.
(Arkadia begins to sob uncontrollably.)
ARKADIA
Beautiful? Do I know I’m beautiful? No, I don’t know! My name is Arkadia Sloane, I know that! You tried to drown me when I was eight months old, I know that! Am I beautiful? That’s the ONLY thing I don’t know, Angela. I DO know that I was found on the banks of a stream by a kindly family of apple-pickers, in southern Vermont, whose crops were regularly the victim of blight and vermin, whose children had long since grown up and moved away, who didn’t need nor want another child, but who took me in, who—although kindly, as I said—believed that mirrors were the Devil’s handiwork. They believed in being honest and hardworking, but plain, as plain as possible! So I grew up without mirrors, without lipstick, without brushes or combs, without proper undergarments! But I made my way to New York City, and I scraped and I struggled, and I made a name for myself! In lingerie! Perhaps you’ve heard of my lingerie line, Arkadia’s Lament?
(Angela gasps.)
ANGELA
That’s YOU?
(Tears stream down Arkadia’s cheeks.)
ARKADIA
Yes Angela, that’s me. Now are you “sorry”? Are you “sorry” now?
ANGELA
Yes. I am. I told you I was, before knowing how truly sorry I was.
(Angela opens her arms wide, welcoming Arkadia.)
ANGELA (CONT’D)
But you’re wrong. You’re wrong about me. I’m so happy you’re here. Your father will be so happy, too, my darling. Please let me welcome you. Join me, everyone!
Patrons and hotel workers gather around Arkadia, AND IN UNISON …
EVERYONE
Welcome to Pinetree Lodge!
ANGLE on: Arkadia—surprised, happy, tired, and maybe even a bit defiant …
I lower the page and blink a few times.
Holy shit. I can’t do this.