by Sarah Lassez
Then I was cast in another movie. Working again not only meant money, which tends to come in handy for that whole survival aspect of life, but also served to reinforce my agent’s frail memory of who I was. Though I wouldn’t be making bankloads of cash on the film, it was another great role (I played an innocent girl whom a psycho plots to kill), and the movie starred an ex-Brat-Packer whom I’d worshipped during some of my most formative/traumatized years—a chunk of time in the eighties when I’d failed to adjust from my old posh private school in Australia to my new tough high school in New York.
Yes, the ex-Brat-Packer and I would become best friends. We’d try on each other’s lipstick, and laugh over the fact that during those high school years I’d endured the wrath of the most popular cliques, evil girls who used to insult my outfits loudly and cruelly, though sometimes they tired of speaking and simply hissed when they spotted me in the hallways. To me their picking on my thrift-store finery was a clear indication that my Australian hipness was just too avant-garde for them and their penchant for feathered hair and rhinestones. Though, I admit I did go through a dress-like-a-carrot stage, an unfortunate time when I insisted on wearing bright orange shoes, thick orange tights, a blaring orange miniskirt, and a fluorescent green top. But still, I thought I looked pretty darn cool.
It was when I hid in my room, pretending to be sick in order to evade the harassment, that I watched the ex-Brat-Packer’s movies over and over, sometimes throwing Grease into the lineup—even though that movie was a harsh reminder that my powers of concentration and determination had failed, as upon my move to the states, John Travolta was nowhere to be found. At any rate, I’d known at the time that the then-Brat-Packer would see me as the cool fashionista I was, and I imagined that one day she’d be my best friend and after school would pick me up in her convertible, music blasting as we tore off to get an ice cream cone or go roller skating or partake in any number of ridiculous activities my fourteen-year-old mind could conjure. Then, of course, all the evil popular girls would be so jealous they’d spontaneously combust, the Aqua Net–juiced flames leaving nothing but piles of ashes and rhinestones on the sidewalk.
And now it was actually going to happen. The ex-Brat-Packer and I would be best friends! The only problem was that the movie in which I was cast was set to shoot in Detroit. Not that I had anything against Detroit. I mean, I’d never been there—though I’d heard they made lovely cars—but in my experience, going on location for months is a little like going off to summer camp: It could be great and you might make lots of friends, or you could be miserable and be praying nightly for someone to come save you. And usually when on location, I get stuffed away in a tiny brown-carpeted hovel, a place where the fake wood–paneled television (with its two maddeningly fuzzy channels) hovers in the upper corner of the room and some poor soul has undertaken the colossal challenge of bolting down everything that can be bolted, the only exception being the Bible in the nightstand drawer. If I’m lucky, I walk away with a bag full of horribly drying mini shampoo bottles that I will never use but take anyway so I can add them to the collection of hotel freebies I keep hidden in my bathroom.
An aside about the hotel freebies: There are a few motivations at play. First, I tend to collect. Doesn’t matter what it is; I’ll collect it. Second, I enjoy the sport of raiding a maid’s unattended cart. Third, I’m an actress with no steady income, so my life is spent in constant preparation for Rock Bottom, a land where I could very possibly end up too poor to buy shampoo and where I would be forced to stand in a cold shower with wet and latherless hair. But now, thanks to my foresight, should that time come, I may not be able to eat, but damnit, I’ll have clean hair and a couple dozen plastic disposable shower caps.
And one thing I’ve learned: The kind of freebies provided directly reflects the class of hotel you’re staying in. Bottom rung would be a place that only provides an infuriatingly tiny wedge—alas, a splinter—of soap, and a sad little bottle of shampoo. A step up would involve conditioner, lotion, and a shower cap, sometimes even face soap. Higher still would be a place with mini sewing kits, as everyone knows that the finer establishments encourage their guests to mend their clothes. Above that I’ve yet to encounter, though in my fantasies there are free little bottles of Chanel products and those great oversized fluffy robes, which the hotel wouldn’t charge you hundreds of dollars for, should one accidentally find its way into your suitcase.
At any rate, it’s been a rare and lucky day when I’ve encountered the mini sewing kits—and even in those places, I was afraid to touch the bedspread and insisted on wearing flip-flops in the shower. So, getting ready to head off to Detroit, I packed my conditioner, lotion, face soap, and flip-flops. I was prepared for the worst and resigned to using their shampoo at least until I got my per diem, which would then be blown on one horribly expensive shampoo containing some inane ingredient like white truffles or crushed diamonds, something that would ultimately make no difference to my hair and leave me feeling so guilty it would be months till I bought another bottle.
But then something happened. I arrived in Detroit—during what I swear was a monsoon—and was taken to a place that lacked a pulsating neon MOTEL! DISCOUNT ROOMS! sign. Utterly confused, I played along with what I knew was a cruel mistake and checked in to a beautiful hotel. We’re talking crystal chandeliers, cherrywood-lined walls, and a lobby with a fireplace where continental breakfasts would never ever be served.
An actual bellboy led me down the hall and stepped out of the way once he’d opened the door to Room 611; he then waited for me to stride inside. But I couldn’t. I couldn’t because what I saw was dark walnut living room furniture, flowers on the coffee table and dining room table, and French doors that led to the bedroom. (A bedroom!) So naturally I assumed I’d been brought to meet the director, which pissed me off because the shirt I was wearing had fallen victim to the ill-fated combination of a Bloody Mary and turbulence, and I was quite certain the humidity and rain had caused my hair to grow taller. Taller hair is never a good thing. Where was this director who insisted on seeing me at my worst? I stood at the threshold and scanned the room. No one was there. In fact, I didn’t see any luggage or signs of inhabitance. The bellboy was now watching me with concern. Tentatively I stepped inside. This couldn’t be my room, could it? My suite?
It was. And it got better. In the large marble bathroom was a huge, gorgeous, cat-piss-free bathtub—with water pressure, I guessed, unlike my little apartment where if anyone in any part of the building flushed a toilet, your hopes of a relaxing bath would fizzle and you’d end up angry and attempting to make the best of a puddle. And, I spotted with unadulterated glee, lined alongside said gorgeous tub was an array of Crabtree & Evelyn bath products. I felt tears well in my eyes as I approached the dazzling tub, running my hand down its smooth porcelain side. You and I, I thought, we will get to know each other.
“Just down the street,” the bellboy said, “is a bath store.”
I looked back at him. He had a young face but was cute. Very cute. No, Sarah, he’s like twelve. I quickly tipped him so he’d leave.
Left alone with my tub, I immediately understood my new mission in life: to never leave this porcelain vessel. Sure, I may have to be on-set part of the day, doing that whole acting thing, but everything else—eating dinner, learning my lines, talking on the phone—all other activities could be conducted while I was turning into a prune and breathing in the vapors of over-priced aromatherapy products. I was so excited.
And on top of all this, I realized the next morning, I never had to clean. As I left for the day, I glanced over my shoulder. The bed was in a severe state of disarray, not unlike the bed in The Exorcist, and yet I knew that when I returned it would have magically repaired itself and the down pillow would have somehow birthed another chocolate for my sweet-toothed, sex-deprived self.
I was in heaven.
But then, as tends to happen to me, I was plucked from the soft nest of my life and dropped into some
thorny scorching lobby of hell.
Enter the man. There he was—my “Danger, danger!” radar homed in on him the second I arrived on-set—an actor. The not-too-tall, dark-haired, dark-eyed actor Gina had predicted. The second I saw him I knew I was toast. For fun, let’s just call him That Dickhead Actor.
The weeks progressed and I fell into a rather shocked state of bliss. I couldn’t believe it: He was into me. Really into me. He was dangerously handsome with long dark lashes and warm mahogany eyes that somehow always looked as though they’d found a crack into my soul that all others before had ignored. All his professing and flattering and soulful gazes made me feel as though something inside me had come unhinged and was swinging wildly in the gust of his affection. So, naturally, I dove straight in and did my usual swim in the Denial River. He’s different. He’s a working actor and in no way, shape, or form a waiter. (As if in the past the waiter part had been the problem.)
That Dickhead Actor was promising, and thus my days were threaded with visions of our future life together. He was from New York, and in my free time, when he was working, I soaked in my tub and decorated our future brownstone. The interior, I decided, would be all dark wood and red velvet, and we’d have a big four-poster bed in which to eat chocolate-covered strawberries while lost in a tangle of our twelve-thousand-thread-count (I tend to aim high) ivory sheets. The decision, by the way, to have ivory sheets rather than white was difficult and time-consuming and did slightly interfere with my memorizing my lines—but how could I picture us in bed if I couldn’t properly see the bed?
So impressed and convinced was I, that I actually braced myself for the scolding of the century and called Gina to share my joy. (“Why would you do that?” she wailed. “Why?!”) I tried telling her he was the man she’d predicted—she should be proud!—but she didn’t care. She informed me I was demented and begged me to date the grip, the gaffer, anyone but the actor.
Then one day That Dickhead Actor simply changed his mind about me. Just like that he changed his mind—as if I were a dinner he’d ordered and sent back just to piss off the chef. I was so confused by the complete turnaround that for a second I actually doubted myself. Had I made up an entire romance in my head? Maybe he was ignoring me because nothing had ever happened? He’s probably scared because I keep planting myself around each corner so he can run into me! I’m a freak!
But no. It was real. It had happened. I was once again brokenhearted—and, sadly, that made perfect sense. To add to the fun, the ex-Brat-Packer and I had a blowout, an argument ill-timed, as it was during a scene where I was gagged, hysterically crying, and tied to a bed while she threatened to kill me with a knife. When she stormed off the set, everyone went after her, forgetting all about me as I continued to bawl and writhe in my ropes. After that, things between us were never the same.
I was miserable. My driver Karen saw it all unfold and tried to help. Knowing I had several days off with nothing to do but hide in my hotel room—curled into a fetal position and weeping—she’d made plans to introduce me to her friend Aurelia.
“You have nothing else to do.”
My head was against the window. Everywhere I went I perfected a posture of defeat. “Yes, I do.”
“You’re not spending three days crying.”
“I like crying.”
“But you’ll have fun with Aurelia. And guess what?” She smiled. “She’s a psychic.”
The way she said the word “psychic” was the way an adult says “ice cream” to a child who’s about to have her tonsils ripped out. And it worked. I lifted my head from the window. Never before had I been to a real psychic. “She’s a psychic?” I asked.
Like I said, it was the beginning of the end.
Frankly, I was disappointed when I met Aurelia. Karen had told me Aurelia was Hungarian, and I just knew she’d be my gypsy psychic; would open the door in a swirl of exotic smoke, jasmine, and patchouli; dressed in bright colors and flowing scarves and mystery; her voice deep and thick with an accent that would scare children. Instead, not only did she not have an accent, but she also had one of the smoothest, silkiest voices I’d ever heard. The girl could’ve made a fortune in radio. And scarves? Mystery? Nope. What she had was jeans, a sweatshirt from the Gap, and long blond hair swept up in a tight ponytail. For all intents and purposes she looked as though she’d just escaped from a local sorority. This was my gypsy psychic?
I’d also—and this is somewhat embarrassing to admit, but it appears I’ve lost all pride—harbored a secret fantasy that she’d take one look at me and gasp at the bright future she immediately saw. Yes, I’d had visions of her opening the door and being overcome by images of my success in a way that normally never happened to her.
“This,” I imagined her gravelly voice saying as her kohl-lined eyes widened, “normally never happens to me. Usually I need to read cards to see the future, but with you I see it so clearly! It exudes from you! You will be a famous actress! Like Julia Roberts famous! People will give you free clothing and makeup. Success! I see it all! This is very exciting for me, that one day I can say I read your cards. Would you mind signing those napkins over there? I also see myself selling your autograph for a lot of money.”
I know it’s ridiculous, but I did hope for something like that when she opened the door. Just a fraction of it, maybe. So again, I was slightly disappointed when she simply introduced herself and asked me if I wanted a Coke. Though, actually, I did want a Coke.
As Aurelia fixed my drink, I took the opportunity to inspect her kitchen. It was a discerningly decorated room, save for the avocado-colored appliances, which immediately told me she was renting and the landlord was cheap. But other than the hideous green remnants of the 1970s, everything was cheerful and reassuring. White cotton curtains on the windows, colorful mixing bowls stacked on the counter, pot holders with smiling pigs, and something that must’ve been a pantry covered by a long red gingham curtain. Always into things I shouldn’t be, I was immediately drawn to the secret room.
“Oh!” Aurelia gasped as I pulled the curtain aside.
I didn’t know what to say. “It’s a, uh, it’s a uh, uh—”
“Altar.”
“Right, it’s an altar.”
Because, yes, it was an altar. I mean, at some point it had been a normal breakfast table crammed inside a pantry, but now that table was something on which no one would ever expect to find a plate of bacon and eggs. Adorned with a dark purple velvet cloth, it was covered with crystals, silver candles, and dried rose petals, then creatively set off with a cauldron on the left and a carved wood pentagram in the center. Perched innocently next to a ceramic chalice was a double-edged dagger. I stared. This was no sorority girl. Aurelia, I was learning, was all about incongruity, like a millionaire who clips coupons or a lawyer not a fan of confrontation. With her, nothing was as it seemed.
I leaned in, examining a little copper-colored bowl filled with a dark powdery substance. “What’s this?”
“My ex-boyfriend’s blood.”
“Oh, sure.” Holy shit.
“I’m kidding. It’s merlot, or it was merlot. I’m Wiccan. Wine’s used to symbolize blood.” She smiled and handed me my Coke. “Do you want a straw? I have those fun curly ones.”
“No, thanks. So that’s cool, you’re a witch.” What does one say to this? I could think of a few spell requests, but after that I was stumped for witch conversation. And the funny thing was that Aurelia looked remarkably like an angel, a doll-like porcelain angel with clear fair skin, striking blue eyes, and golden hair. Looking at her, one would actually expect to find her in a long white dress with a white satin ribbon, stuck on a doll stand and placed in a curio cabinet for old ladies to coo over—and yet here she was, in her Gap sweatshirt and actually a witch.
She tightened her ponytail. “Think Glinda the Good Witch, not the Wicked Witch of the West.”
“Okay,” I said, though my eyes flickered to her feet to check for striped socks.
We s
at down at the table, and Aurelia lit a lavender-scented candle. Now, lavender is supposed to be relaxing, soothing, but my reaction was instead that of pure terror. There it was; the candle was lit. Soon I would know everything. What if she told me she didn’t see me acting at all, but saw me as a very successful receptionist? Or that she saw me as a very contented never-been-married older woman with a family of cats that piss in the tub? “This is great!” she’d say. “I see you as very happy and not at all upset that no one loves you!” I pushed the image from my mind, frantically breathed in the lavender, and commanded myself to relax.
She placed three decks of tarot cards on the table, closed her eyes briefly, and breathed in deeply. “I’d like you to pick one.”
The pressure. In one of those decks would be my future. Well, I suppose my future would be in all of them, but I could already see that each would have its own unique method of delivery. The first seemed determined to announce the future with detailed disturbing and bleak drawings, images of people suffering, bent beneath the weight of stones, skewered by swords, tied up and blindfolded beneath gray and menacing skies. Even if that deck told me my future held happiness and love, I’d be scared. The second deck was less detailed but equally as frightening. But then there was the last one, and this deck immediately radiated a pleasing nonhostile feel; the cards were round, and the pictures were pretty and done in soft pastels. I tapped that deck, and Aurelia smiled. Clearly I wasn’t the only one who’d requested a pretty pastel future.
“Now for a quick prayer.” She closed her eyes. “I call upon the great spirit God/Goddess that is All to be here in conscious loving support. And I ask that all parts of you be present and open and relaxed. I also call upon the guides of Sarah to help me in giving the most truthful, empowering, and accurate reading possible.”
