31
You have nine messages.
BEEEP
Yes, hello, this call is for Frances Bakes? Or, sorry, Frances Backs? I’m calling from the office of Dr. Leslie Miles, nutritionist. I have an appointment for you tomorrow, Thursday, at nine A.M. If we don’t hear back from you in the next hour, or if for any reason you have to reschedule, you’ll unfortunately be placed back on the wait list. The wait list is currently fifty-two months long. Thank you.
BEEEP
Hi, Franny, it’s Gina from the Brill Agency. Wondering if—do you have any problems with feminine hygiene? As a product, I mean. And also—can you ride a horse? They need someone who can ride a horse on the beach. Or on a mountain or something. Anyway, let me know!
BEEEP
Franny! It’s Katie. We’re all here (Hi, Franny!). Shush, you guys. You’re so awesome on the show! That laugh! We’re just at the first commercial break, but wow. Great job. This is so exciting!
BEEEP
Franny, it’s Casey. I’m watching you! And leaving you a message! At the same time! You’re so funny. And seriously, those jeans make you look tiny, are you like a twenty-seven now? Are you still doing that TastiLife thing?
BEEEP
Dude, it’s Deena. You stole the show. They’re f*cking nuts if they don’t bring you back. The last time that show was this funny was the late eighties. Although I’m not sure how they can keep pretending Kathy is in her thirties. Also, I’m working on Law and Order next week. Can you believe it? Drinks on me.
BEEEP
Hello, hon, it’s your father. Mary and I watched the show tonight, at her apartment as requested, so that I was able to view you in this new invention they’ve come up with called color. Amazing how unnecessarily big these television screens are becoming. At any rate, I thought you seemed a very interesting character, although I wish they’d given you more lines, as you’re certainly deserving of some. Mary says I should also tell you that you looked very pretty, although I believe that goes without saying. At any rate, I’m—we’re both—very proud.
BEEEP
Hello, uh (clears throat), this is Dan, uh, from downstairs? I just wanted to say that as funny as you were on the show last night, that still doesn’t justify you hogging most of my beer. I’m calling to invite you to dinner, perhaps at the upstairs Chinese place whose actual name no one can ever remember, to discuss the script I’m writing, which may or may not have been inspired by you. This is a formal business invitation only, with no strings attached, unless you should find at some point in the future that I belong in any of the odd geometric shapes your feelings sometimes take. Okay, see you soon. When you get home. To our apartment. Our apartment. That sounds kind of nice, don’t you think?
BEEEP
Hello, Ms. Banks (labored breath), this is Barney Sparks, your AGENT. The ratings were much better than expected AND I got a lovely call this morning from an old friend of mine on the COAST who’s producing a half-hour pilot (coughs). He saw you last night and would like to put you on tape to audition for his show. It’s a series for a new CABLE channel and there’s NO money, BUT, if they like you they’ll fly you to Los ANGELES next week for a test. Are you available, dear? (cough, cough)
BEEEP
Franny. It’s me again. James. Please call me. I’m sorry.
BEEEP
I’m shivering, either from the air-conditioning in the hair-and-makeup trailer, which is blowing full blast on the back of my neck, or from nerves, or possibly both. I’ve been in Los Angeles for only a few hours, but I’ve already noticed there seem to be only two temperatures: too hot and too cold. There’s an empty ache in my stomach, and I know I should have eaten more on the plane from New York this morning than the coffee and half a bagel I managed to choke down, but every time I went to take another bite, my stomach would sort of flip and my heart would start to thump unevenly in an odd mix of excitement and dread.
I could hardly even enjoy being in first class, something I’d never experienced before. The seats were so roomy and comfortable that for the first hour I didn’t even notice the buttons by the armrest that make the back recline. It was perfectly comfortable the way it was. There was a bottle of lotion near the sink in the tiny bathroom and the headphones for the movie were free. But I kept thinking how much more fun it would be if I were traveling with Jane or Dan, pretending to be important executives, accepting a mimosa from the flight attendant’s outstretched tray or building our own sundaes from the ingredients on the dessert cart. I was simultaneously too nervous and too sleepy to really appreciate the experience. Instead, I spent the first two hours of the flight studying my lines and the last three accidentally falling asleep, which I regret now that I’ve met the other two girls I’m auditioning with today: a lanky brunette with milky skin and bright blue eyes, and a gorgeous tall blonde with a pixie haircut and dimples that flash adorably whenever she smiles, which seems to be most of the time. They both live here in Los Angeles and have tested for things before, I gather from the chirpy snippets of their conversation I’m trying my best not to overhear.
“Have you lost, like, a ton of weight since we tested for Cubicles?” the brunette asks.
“I know, I like, totally got the ’rex somehow,” the blonde replies, rolling her eyes.
“Lucky,” the brunette says, narrowing her eyes in envy.
I duck my head down, focusing on the script I’ve already been over a hundred times. This is my job, I allow myself to think, and picturing it makes me smile. Positive thoughts.
Jeff and Jeff turned out to be the New York casting directors for Mr. Montague, the cable pilot about a decadent millionaire playboy. They had me do my scenes as Belinda the dog-walker over and over, laughing appreciatively every time.
“A little more of that ditzy voice, I think,” Jeff said encouragingly. “That feels like her.”
“Yeah, try it again all breathy like that,” the other Jeff agreed.
A few days later, the call came from Los Angeles, and the director flew out to meet a few of us, and I had to do the scenes all over again for him. “She’s our favorite,” tight-sweater Jeff whispered to him loudly over the back of his hand, giving me a wink. The second call came soon after—that of all the people they saw in New York, I was the only one they were flying to L.A. for a test.
“SUCCESS!” Barney wheezed into the phone.
The director will be here in Los Angeles today, along with a few producers and The Network and The Studio, who I picture as an assortment of people who wear suits and nod in unison, just like The Client was on my commercial. Everything happened so fast that the last few days have been a blur. Travel plans were made and my deal had to be negotiated quickly. I missed my appointment with Dr. Leslie Miles, and I didn’t have time to have that dinner with Dan, or to consider how—or even if—I wanted to respond to the message from James Franklin. If I get the job, I’ll make seven thousand five hundred dollars every episode we film, which is just a little over half of what I made all of last year, so I’m doing my best to stay focused.
I’m keeping my eyes on my own paper.
My father wanted to meet me in the city the day before I left. “Let’s go to the Oak Bar at The Plaza,” he said, with unusual flourish.
“Really? Dad, I don’t know—I have so much to do for the trip.”
“This is a special accomplishment. And I want to see you before you go.”
“Well, okay then. Would you like to … should we invite …?” I stammered.
“I think just us, don’t you?”
“That sounds nice,” I said, relieved.
At the subway token booth, I splurged and used one of the crisp twenty-dollar bills fresh from the cash machine I’d just visited in preparation for my trip. “I’ll take five, please,” I said, recklessly spending the $6.25, even though it made no sense since I’d be leaving the next day. The token clerk hardly flinched, but in the almost imperceptible widening of her eyes—something I suppose I could have imagined but assured myself I didn’t—it kind of seemed like she was giving me the New York City token-booth clerk version of a thumbs-up.
My father was tucked in a leather chair in a corner of the bar, under a massive mural of a snowy horse-and-carriage scene. With his crumpled newspaper and brown cable-knit cardigan, he looked comfortable and warm in contrast.
“There she is!” he smiled when he saw me, putting down his half-finished crossword, and my heart swelled at the sight of him. We’d been here twice before: after my college graduation, and then for his fiftieth birthday, and I was proud my trip to Los Angeles ranked among those other reasons to celebrate.
He was, as usual, full of questions about the part, and the cable station that he’d never heard of before. “But how can they charge people to watch television? Television is free,” he said awhile later, nursing a gin and tonic.
“Regular television is free. But cable is, in some ways, better than regular television.”
“Then why don’t they air the cable shows on regular television and make better free television?”
“Well, because, they do things on cable that you can’t do on regular TV.”
“Like what?”
“Well, there’s—you can curse on cable, and show nudity.”
“I’d pay more just to hear proper English and have everyone keep their clothes on,” he said with a mocking frown. “And you said the salary is less on cable than it would be on a network?”
“Yes. That’s what Barney told me.”
“But if they’re charging me and the rest of the audience to watch, shouldn’t you get paid more than what you’d get acting on the free channels?”
“I think it has something to do with the ads on network TV.”
“So you’re telling me if I sit through the ads for those strange air-freshener capsules, my daughter’s salary somehow gets higher?”
“I guess. Something like that.”
He threw his hands up in surrender. “It makes no sense to me,” he said, squinting happily. “But I hope you get it. I’ve never been to Los Angeles.”
Until that moment, I hadn’t really thought about the fact that getting the job would mean I’d have to move, away from my father and my friends. And Dan. I shut my eyes and squeezed them tightly. I couldn’t think about that yet. “I love you, Dad.”
“Me too, hon.”
Afterward, there was a wait for a cab, and so we stood side by side on the carpeted stairway outside the hotel, watching as the doorman in the gold braid—trimmed cap expertly signaled to the passing taxis, waving them into the entrance, then gesturing grandly to the next passenger in line.
“You know, Franny, she would’ve been so proud,” my father said, his voice a little raspy. I was taken aback at his mention of my mother—we seemed to talk about her less these days. My eyes filled up instantly at the thought of her, and what she might think of me today, and tears stung my eyelids. But I kept looking straight ahead, willing myself not to cry, not here.
“I worry that you expect the worst sometimes, because of what happened,” he continued softly, and I managed just a small nod. “Imagine the best for yourself now and then, won’t you, hon?”
My vision was blurry from the tears I’d held back, but when I wiped my eyes and looked up again, I suddenly recognized what had been right in front of me this whole time, the dramatic, almost theatrical backdrop that loomed large, setting the stage behind the doorman hailing a cab, and a strange, throaty laugh escaped me.
Dad gave me an odd look. “What is it?”
As I admired the water cascading down the tiers of the fountain across from the hotel, I remembered the conversation I had with Dan all those months ago, when we hardly knew each other, and when everything I wanted had seemed so far out of reach. And I thought how wonderful it was to see her tonight, the glorious bronze goddess statue shining at the very top.
I looked over at my dad, smiling. “It’s—Abundance,” I told him.
“There you go,” Linda, the hairstylist, says, and I look up from the script in my lap to see that while I’ve been daydreaming, my hair has been ironed stick straight. It’s completely smooth and shiny-looking, an effect I’ve attempted unsuccessfully a thousand times in the past. But now I look more like a stock broker than a goofy dog-walker. All my other auditions for this part were with my other hair, my real hair, and although it strikes me as somewhat funny that I’m suddenly protective of the aspect of my appearance that drives me the most crazy, I also have a wave of panic that the people I’ve been auditioning for won’t even recognize me.
“Oh—wow—it looks great. But, um, it’s a little different than …”
“The producers asked that all the girls have their hair blown out today,” she says, flashing a smile that tells me that’s the end of our discussion. “Now, down two chairs to Makeup!”
“Oh. Great. Thanks.” I’ll have to resign myself once again to accepting all the decisions made about me that don’t seem to factor me into the equation. I shuffle down to where the dimply blond is just finishing up with a tiny, pale makeup artist wearing a beret and a worried expression.
“It’s just, I’m not really a red lipstick person?” the blond says from the chair to her own reflection and then stands to examine her face more closely, bringing it just inches from the mirror and narrowing her eyes. She shakes her head and takes a tissue from a nearby box, then wipes off her perfectly applied shiny cherry gloss. The tissue makes a messy smudge around her mouth, leaving her lips looking stained and dry. She steps back from the mirror, pleased with her work. “Like that,” she says to the makeup artist. “I like it blotted.”
The makeup artist nods and smiles weakly, and the blonde struts down to Hair as I slide into her recently vacated chair.
“Sally,” the makeup artist says nervously from beneath her beret, and I shake her hand, which feels cold and a little damp.
Sally methodically goes about cleaning her station, snapping shut the open compacts and putting the used brushes aside. She peers at my face closely for a moment, then lightly brushes her thumb over my cheek. “You feel a little dry,” she says, though not unkindly.
“I just flew in from New York this morning,” I say apologetically. She nods, as if she knows exactly what to do in that case, and begins to assemble a new group of brushes and glossy plastic containers in an assortment of sizes and shapes, lining them up around the perimeter of her workspace.
“Do you have any preferences or allergies I should know about?” she asks, and I hesitate for a second before shaking my head no. It’s silly, but I’m reminded of the first time I was ever asked that, on the Niagara detergent shoot, and I have to force down the feeling of disappointment that even after all I’ve been through, I still don’t have an answer to such a simple question.
As she continues to set up her station, I think I see her hands trembling. Or is that my imagination? Maybe she’s cold from the air-conditioning, too.
“Is that blowing on you?” I say, pointing to the vent on the ceiling. “Because I’m freezing.”
She steals a glance at me from beneath her beret and says under her breath, “Sorry, no. I mean yes, but it’s not that.” She ducks her head shyly. “It’s just that it’s my first day—my hands are shaking because I’m new.”
“Oh,” is all I can think of to say, and then I smile in what I hope is an encouraging way.
Sally smoothes a cotton ball over my face, then begins to apply a thin layer of foundation with a silky brush.
I don’t know why I’m so surprised that someone else is new. I guess it’s sort of a shock to realize anyone could be more of a novice than I am. In the last three years I’ve become used to always being the one in the room with the least experience, and it never occurred to me that someday that wouldn’t be the case, that someday it would be someone else’s first day.
Sally starts to bring a now familiar object close to my face, something that was completely foreign to me only a few months ago, and though it’s small, something about it reminds me of how many things I’ve learned since the day I set my deadline three years ago, things both profound and trivial. Not just these smallest of signs, but larger ones, too, that tell me I’ve changed: being able to recognize the meaning in the story my mother named me after, the warmth in Barney Sparks’s voice, and the sincerity in Dan’s brown eyes—all of them telling me that maybe, little by little, I’m heading in the right direction.
Now just inches away, Sally is looking at me expectantly. “Shall I …”
I take the eyelash curler from her outstretched hand.
“Thanks,” I say with confidence. “I can do it.”