All the scenes during my three-day visit to the set show me struggling with myself, my marriage, my addiction. Grant told me they’d filmed the scenes of Sally in recovery at the beginning of the shoot.
About an hour later, the actor playing the dangerous man slinks down the stairs as if he really had committed adultery. He is sweaty. His hair is messy. He looks done in.
I feel done in.
Upstairs, the set once again open, I watch Sally calling her (my?) husband, long distance, after her (my?) lover has left. She sits on the floor in a robe, a bottle of wine beside her. As if the sex scene has unnerved her, Sally struggles to remember her lines—for the first time since I arrived on set. She props the script by the nightstand, hidden from the camera. She speaks the typed words that plead with my husband to never stop loving her, pleading her own love, too: lying and not. Sincere and not. From guilt, from fear, she promises an impossibly better marriage. Scripted words I once spoke . . . memorized lines I imagined a wife should say even as, in the quicksand denial of addiction, I didn’t know the definition of love, of husband, of wife.
It’s not true that my only other acting experience was as Little Red Riding Hood.
In real life, I convinced a cuckolded husband that I loved him. Lost and confused, I convinced dangerous men—as well as myself—that I loved them as well. It was guerrilla theater. It was psychodrama. It was theater of the absurd. Even, at times, black comedy. What it wasn’t, was pretty.
A paperback edition of my book is slated for publication, to coincide with the movie. For the new cover, I send my editor an old photograph of myself taken beside a boardwalk at the New Jersey shore. It represents the way I’ve always envisioned the part of me that’s an addict. I wear a black-leather jacket. My fist clamps a hip. I look cool, detached, seductive. I lean against a wood pillar. Carved into it are the words:
Love
Is
Here
Every
Day!
The photo is dark and grainy. My editor explains that the art department can’t sharpen it up. It won’t work for the cover.
Grant had taken a photo of Sally posed against a similar background, with the same slogan. The publisher uses that image on the cover instead.
It’s unnerving at first. Later I grow comfortable with this doppelgänger.
After all, there are—have been—so many other selves, real and imagined. For years, I never even knew to label myself a sex addict. I merely thought of my life as an out-of-control mess, one failed dress rehearsal after another, as I tried out various identities, hoping to find one that would fit. I was convinced that eventually I’d lose everything: friends, husband, job, house. I envisioned myself as one of those ladies, all my worldly possessions in two paper bags. I would live in a refrigerator carton over a subway grate in New York City.
At the same time (never mind the contradiction), I also fantasized that, eventually, one of the illicit men would fall in love with me. We’d melodramatically run off together into the happily-ever-after (faux) sunset.
No version—not real life, not the book, not the screenplay, not even the Hollywood movie—manages to bring that ending to life. Who I am, now, is a woman thankful for more realistic endings.
The premiere of the movie is scheduled for April 19. I haven’t seen the final cut. I’m a wreck during the weeks leading up to it.
Even though the book I wrote reveals more secrets than the movie, still, only people who really want to know about my experience read it. Plus, a reader imagines scenes as she wishes. For the movie, however, anyone casually channel surfing might suddenly land smack in the middle of my life. You will see this and this and this on the television screen. I fear my secrets are more naked, more exposed on a TV screen in living color.
Besides, you can’t possibly know when any one person might be reading your book. But now it’s exactly 9:00 p.m., April 19. Here is your life on TV!
Another part of me, however, looks forward to the movie, as if it will provide answers, shed light on my life. After all, I haven’t yet seen my recovery.
My first reaction to the movie is to be dumbstruck by the music. A soundtrack!
In real life, my own background music tracked my moods and phases. As a child—listening to the “Terry Theme” from Charlie Chaplin’s movie Limelight—I fantasized being a lost ballerina saved by a tramp. One Pat Boone song after another enhanced my teenage dreams. Jim Morrison and The Doors pounded my hard-core sex addict years. Frank Sinatra, old enough to be my father and the favorite singer of the married maroon-scarf man, crooned “The Lady Is a Tramp” and “Strangers in the Night.” More recently, postrecovery, I endlessly played Elton John’s “I’m Still Standing.”
The party scene rolls onto the screen.
A photograph!
I’m not as pretty as Sally Pressman . . . or Elizabeth Taylor. I want to look like a movie star. I want to share their beauty. I share their Jewishness, so why not? But maybe that’s not really me, anyway, snapping the photo. How can it be me when I’m here, sitting in a room in my house in Michigan? I feel as if I’m having an out-of-body experience. I’m disguised as a photographer. Sally is disguised as me. Or she is me. She cries when I would have cried. She feels lost when I’m lost.
After the movie is over, I receive an e-mail at my own e-mail address but with the salutation “Dear Sally Pressman.” I reply that I am, in fact, me—which is essentially what I myself have been struggling to articulate for years. Or articulate who I’ve been struggling to be.
Sally hands me her copy of my book to autograph, right before I leave the set in Vancouver. She’d scrawled stars and check marks in the margins to note certain passages. Some sentences are underlined, others highlighted. I sign my name on the title page, with a blue pen, along with a little message.
I regret that I never asked Sally for her autograph. But what would she have signed for me? A loop of celluloid? My copy of the salmon-colored schedule of scenes? Perhaps she could have signed her name beside the line about Sue’s sorted past.
Of course the word “sorted” was meant to be “sordid.” But I like the mistake. In the movie, in my book, in my flesh-and-blood life, I’ve sorted through selves, as if through old photographs, in order to discover one image that’s the one authentic me. How many costumes and masks did I change to wander through one small life?
A few weeks after the movie airs, toward the end of May, I’m in a local health food store purchasing a package of gingersnaps and a vial of lavender oil. I hand the woman my Visa card. She glances at the name. She asks if I’m the writer, the one in the TV movie? I nod. She gets so flustered she has trouble placing my items in the bag. She says she can hardly wait to tell her daughter that she met me. I sign my name on the Visa slip with an extra flourish, hand it back to her, and tell her that my life will be rebroadcast over the upcoming holiday weekend.
Gentle Reader,
Now, as the end draws near, can enlightenment finally descend upon my sordid and sorted past, as seen on TV, starring a Jewish actress in the story of my lost life?
If so, praise Be to Christ, God, Yahweh, Buddha, Allah, Vishnu, Shiva, Jehovah, Elohim, Zeus, Jove, Zoroaster, and the Whale who ate Jonah!
But just in case this actress impersonating me isn’t enough, let us not forget that Pat Boone hugged this little gefilte. No, not, admittedly, like a laying on of hands. But certainly like a Good Father, a Father who praises his precious round gefilte, a Father who sees his daughter not, in fact, as a gefilte, but as a girl, a flower pushing aside concrete . . . as the good, blossoming Jewish soul she (finally) is, or will now (almost, or at last) grow up to be.
What are the odds that I would have an audience with Pat Boone, who calls himself an “adopted Jew”—while I wanted to be adopted by him? What are the odds that he, this father of four, would be the one to finally see me? And who would have thought that Pat Boone and I would both glow, as if together, in the limelight . . . even though, for me, that role lasted
only a moment . . . while the role of being me goes on, and on.
S.W.S.
An Argument for the Existence of Free Will and/or Pat Boone’s Induction into the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame
Call me Sue.
Byline: Girl Reporter.
Daily Planet.
Dateline: Metropolis.
In the a.m. (on one day in the past, present, or future) approached by Male Caucasian Editor, Perry White, smoking a stogie.
SECRET ASSIGNMENT!
COVERT OPERATION!!
INTERNAL and/or EXTERNAL INVESTIGATION!!!
SUE BAD-HABITS GIRL REPORTER lights a Chesterfield. Takes a drag. Exhales. Pulls typed copy of current article out of her Underwood typewriter: “Ever-Changing Daily Forecast for Metropolis, U. S. A.: gray, dark, overcast, cloudy, murky, unknown. Or: sunny, smiley faces, happy halos of light.” Likes to give citizenry options. Better than writing obits.
Editor White leans forward to whisper details of Secret Assignment. SUE ON-THE-BALL GIRL REPORTER glances around. Eavesdroppers?
Clark Kent, across room, pounds typewriter keys. Pauses. Leans back in chair. Surreptitiously removes glasses. Wipes them on handkerchief with peacock-blue border. Slides glasses back on. Gazes out window. A bird, maybe a pigeon, flies past. The drone of an airplane rattles glass.
It’s a bird. It’s a plane . . .
Perry White, slipping a Top Secret file folder onto SUE TRUSTWORTHY GIRL REPORTER’s desk, cryptically says, “Unknown Forces at work who, in the future, will prevent Pat Boone from being inducted into Rock and Roll Hall of Fame. Discover identity of Unknown Forces. Be prepared for possible Obliteration of Enemy.”
Lois Lane strolls into office. Dreamy look on dreamy face. Instead of her usual black pumps, wears bobby socks and white buck shoes. Clutches a copy of Pat Boone’s book ’Twixt Twelve and Twenty. Clark Kent’s gaze pierces the cover. The laser intensity could bore holes. He scowls.
SUE OBSERVANT GIRL REPORTER considers changing weather forecast: Lightning, thunder, mayhem, nuclear winter.
Editor White blows smoke rings. Gives Sue meaningful look.
Sue gives him her SUE GIRL-REPORTER-ON-THE-JOB look. Stubs out Chesterfield in ashtray. Peeks inside Top Secret file folder.
It’s a . . .
. . . comic book?!?! . . . a DC National, May 1959 edition, which raises the dark specter of conspiracy!? On the cover: Superman’s Girl Friend Lois Lane “featuring ‘Pat Boone in Superman’s Mystery Song!’” On the left-hand side, Superman, red cape swirling, swoops into the scene where Lois Lane sings while playing a piano. Pat Boone, beside her, strums a guitar. (Does he play a guitar in real life? SUE FACTUAL GIRL REPORTER REQUESTS A FACT CHECKER.) Superman realizes he must use all of his superpowers to stop the song from becoming popular.
Why?, SUE EVER-INQUISITIVE GIRL REPORTER asks herself. Is Superman orchestrating the sabotage of Pat Boone’s induction into the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame?! What’s his beef? Jealousy? Under the influence of liberals? SUE PARANOID GIRL REPORTER turns comic book over so no one can see the lead story line.
“Why the Pat Boone book?” SUE SOUNDING-INNOCENT GIRL REPORTER asks Lois Lane.
Lois Lane sits at her desk. Removes plastic cover from typewriter. Places book beside it. Trails her fingers across Pat Boone’s image. “Didn’t you see the billboard downtown? ‘One Day Only. Pat Boone at the Rialto.’”
Pat Boone right here in Metropolis!?
Sue sticks a No. 2 yellow Ticonderoga pencil behind ear. Palms sweat. Eyes narrow. Takes a deep breath. SUE OLFACTORY-SENSES-ON-HIGH-ALERT GIRL REPORTER smells a rat.
What are the odds that four items involving Pat Boone converge in Metropolis at the same time?
1) GIRL REPORTER is instructed to conduct an internal-external covert operation–investigation into why Pat Boone won’t be inducted into Rock and Roll Hall of Fame in the future.
2)Lois Lane enters Daily Planet holding Pat Boone’s best-selling book.
3)Clark Kent scowls at it.
4)Pat Boone just so happens to be here, today.
A coincidence? SUE CYNICAL GIRL REPORTER doesn’t think so.
Lois Lane (who in 2014 will be known as LoLa on Entertainment Tonight) sighs. She says, “I want Pat Boone’s autograph on the book! I’ve worn out the grooves on all my Pat Boone albums. I have every product endorsed by him. The Pat Boone Toothbrush. The Pat Boone Transistor Radio. The Pat Boone Jewel Box. The Pat Boone Pen and Pencil Set. The Pat Boone Portable Record Player. The Pat Boone White Bucks (of course). The Pat Boone Secret Decoder Ring. The Pat Boone Acne Cream. The Pat Boone Bomb Shelter. The Pat Boone personally autographed New King James version of the Holy Bible. Almost as if he wrote it himself!!”
Clark Kent worriedly runs his fingers through his jet-black hair.
“And his new hit is sweeping the country,” Lois Lane exclaims.
“Won’t Superman be jealous?” Clark Kent asks.
“Why should he? I just like Pat Boone’s music. Besides, Superman flies like a bird above jealousy.”
SUE GIRL REPORTER EXTRAORDINAIRE, in order to get to bottom of conspiracy, lifts receiver on her black rotary phone. Works her sources. Calls the Rialto. Tracks down Gerry Smith, Pat Boone’s road manager. Lands an interview! Yes, Pat Boone is free to meet with SUE GO-GET-’EM GIRL REPORTER at 3:00 p.m. at the Daily Planet!
In preparation, SUE INVESTIGATIVE GIRL REPORTER dials the to-be-used-only-in-emergency outside telephone line that connects to the future. Calls Sarah Palin. Members of the conservative Tea Party. Right-to-lifers. Mike Huckabee. Glenn Beck. Rick Santorum. For opposing viewpoint calls gay, bisexual, lesbian, and transgender movement. Editors of Ms. magazine. Christian theologians. Rabbis. Future incarnations of Fats Domino, Little Richard, Mick Jagger. Director of the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame not yet built in Cleveland. Anonymous sources. Deep Throat. Foes. Fans.
Discovers that, in the year 2014, when Pat Boone will have been snubbed by the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame for the umpteenth time, you either
1)love Pat Boone;
2)are nostalgic for Pat Boone;
3)hate Pat Boone;
4)never heard of Pat Boone.
2:55 p.m.
Lois Lane powders nose. Clark Kent’s scowl deepens. Perry White—still a Caucasian Male Editor—rushes from private office, two stogies in his mouth, waving a third. “Pat Boone’s besieged by fans! Downtown is gridlock! He’ll never make it here!”
“Call 911!”
Clark Kent excuses himself. Rushes to the restroom. Comic book readers everywhere witness transformation. Clark Kent strips off his shirt. His pants. Beneath is his little peacock-blue-tights number, the insignia “S,” in red, on the chest. Putting aside personal feelings of jealousy toward Lois Lane’s feelings toward Pat Boone, he rises, as it were, to the occasion.
It’s SUPERMAN!!!
Now, across town, THE MAN OF STEEL zooms, faster than a speeding gefilte, above throngs of adoring fans until his laser eyesight pinpoints Pat Boone.
Superman swoops the teen idol up in his arms to deliver him to the Daily Planet office. Gently cradles a smiling Pat Boone against his manly chest. Darting around skyscrapers, they careen high above Metropolis. Pat Boone fails to notice future urban decay about to blight cities . . . fails to notice all-American boys and girls thinking about their future alter egos selling crack cocaine in the alley behind the Rialto. Today, Pat Boone’s white buck shoes remain spotless, like always, in Pat Boone’s world, spit-polished to perfection.
2:59 and 55 seconds.
Pat Boone strolls into the Daily Planet. Five seconds later Clark Kent “returns” from the men’s room, a thin line of sweat above his lip. He approaches Pat Boone, holds out his hand, and says, “The name is Kent. Clark Kent.”
A thought bubble appears over SUE EXPERT-AT-MOVIE-ALLUSIONS GIRL REPORTER’s head: “Well, if that’s not a rip-off, I don’t know what is.” She eyes Clark Kent suspiciously.
SUE INTREPID GIRL REPORTER clears throa
t and opens reporter pad. Pat Boone sits beside Sue’s desk.
“Just for the record: Your real name is Charles Eugene Boone, right?”
Pat Boone flashes his pearlies and chuckles. “So true. So true. My parents expected—wanted—a girl, so had picked out the name Patricia before I was born. Boy, did I surprise them, haha. But they called me Pat anyway. And it stuck.”
SUE ON-THE-HUNT-FOR-TRUTH GIRL REPORTER licks the tip of her No. 2 pencil: “But that must’ve seemed, well, strange. You ever feel like a Pat-ricia? Haha.”
“Not with a wife and four girls.”
Lois Lane swoons. Her dreamy eyes in her dreamy face dreamily gaze at Pat Boone.
Clark Kent dreamily gazes at Lois Lane dreamily gazing at Pat Boone.
SUE JUST-THE-FACTS GIRL REPORTER: “Review your accomplishments for our readers who will one day influence the vote on your induction into the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame! What’s your biggest hit?”
“‘Love Letters in the Sand.’ Five million copies. It was on the singles chart for over six months. I also set an all-time record, which has never been broken, of 220 consecutive weeks on the Billboard hit singles chart!”
“Impressive! And your hit TV show?”
“I’m the youngest entertainer to host my own TV show. But that almost fell through. Initially, Chesterfield cigarettes wanted to be the sponsor. But I could never be endorsed by something harmful to our young people. Schlitz beer offered next, but I turned them down, too. Thank goodness Chevy came along.”
Sue surreptitiously slides her pack of Chesterfields into her desk drawer.
“Moving on: Would you care to comment on the future Rock and Roll Hall of Fame induction snub that’s going to piss you off in a couple of decades or so?”
“Well, I would never say the word ‘piss’ in front of a girl. But you better believe it.”
Pat Boone Fan Club Page 21
