Postcards From the Edge

by Carrie Fisher

  “Possibilities shouldn’t be endless,” Suzanne said.

  “They are, though,” said Lucy. “There are so many different ways to be famous. You could shoot the Pope and he could forgive you.”

  “What you don’t want,” said Suzanne, “is to be known as the person who shot the Pope who he’s still pissed off at.”

  Lucy laughed and sipped her tea. “So,” she said, “I called him this morning.”

  “The Colonel?” said Suzanne. “You asshole.”

  “I admit it, I’m an asshole,” said Lucy. “I left him a message that said, ‘Hi, it’s me, of the Philadelphia mes,’ which was funny. I mean, if I’m going to be an asshole, at least I’m a funny asshole.” She took one last drag and put out her cigarette. “What am I going to do? Until I find someone else, I’m going to think about him. I have to keep a man in my head. It keeps my posture good.”

  “And your grammar bad,” Suzanne said.

  Lucy lit another cigarette. “Oh, you won’t believe who I ran into in New York,” she said. “Jane Peters.”

  “Was she with Roland Parks?”

  “No,” said Lucy, “but she did have the baby.”

  Suzanne sighed. “She’s so beautiful, and she married one of the wealthiest men in the business, and they’ve got this cute kid . . . She’s got the perfect life, and she wants you to know it. She walks around like life’s helium is in her clothes.”

  “Tell me about it,” said Lucy. “I met her in Bendel’s and she went on and on about how great their marriage is, and how their relationship is so solid they don’t even have to work on it. On and on. She actually said to me, ‘I never thought I would be so happy. If you had told me when I was young that I was going to be this happy, I would have laughed. I would have laughed.’ She actually repeated it.”

  “I don’t know,” said Suzanne. “Maybe there’s some kind of joy I’ve never experienced, where you’re just flouncing around and giving everybody minute-by-minute updates on your never-ending glee. I don’t know, or maybe she’s just relieved that it’s not as bad as she thought it would be.”

  “On the other hand,” said Lucy, “you can’t expect her to walk around with a glum face saying, ‘This is a nightmare. I wish I was poor and living in a little apartment and not working as an actress again.’ ”

  “I think Jane should have a brochure printed up with career and relationship highlights. You know, pictures of them entwined on the couch watching TV, pictures of them laughing gaily with their agents over lunch at Le Dôme, or flying on their private jet to their private Hawaiian island. Then when she ran into any of us who might not be quite so fortunate, she could just hand us a flyer.”

  “You should tell her that,” Lucy said, laughing.

  “I sort of did,” said Suzanne. “She was going on about this one day, and I told her I’d give her my address so she could send me the brochure. I mean, it’s not a conversation, you know? ‘Roland and I just bought a place in the south of France.’ What’s my comeback? ‘Cary Grant proposed to me the other day’? I mean, if someone tells you they feel bad, you say, ‘Yeah, I felt bad once,’ or, ‘I feel bad, too.’ You isolate the area where there’s a basis for comparison. But if somebody says she’s married to a billionaire and they have this perfect life—not just that they’re having a really good time, but that they have a perfect life—what’s your comeback? ‘Breakfast this morning was tough on my kidneys’? Where is the comeback? I said to her, ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’ ”

  “Still,” Lucy said, “you have to admit, if you’re gonna sell out, sell out for the big numbers. Sometimes I feel like I’m auctioning myself off to the lowest bidder.” She sipped her tea. “Maybe I was dropped as a child.”

  “You’re still dropped,” said Suzanne. “I don’t get it. You make yourself completely available and de-emphasize everything in your life. You put yourself totally at their disposal. A guy should be in your life because of who you are, not because of what you do to get him with who you’re not.”

  “Why don’t we open a gift shop?” said Lucy.

  “We should open a gift shop?” said Suzanne. “What is this, Non-Sequitur Day?”

  Their food arrived. It was the first meal Suzanne had had set in front of her since Mary’s bacon sandwich. “I used to think that if I ate very slowly, I wouldn’t gain weight,” she said, her fork poised above her crepe. “You know, when you wolf it all down it feels like you’ve eaten a lot, but a little at a time . . . Oh, forget it.” She began eating very quickly.

  Lucy laughed. “Your follow-through leaves a little something to be desired,” she said.

  They finished eating in under ten minutes and drove back to Suzanne’s house, where they intended to discuss their evening plans. As it happened, neither of them had any. “It’s not like it’s a weekend,” said Lucy, pulling into the driveway. “That would be really tragic.”

  There was a package in front of Suzanne’s door from her agent, apparently a script. Lucy squeezed her arm and said, “Today is the first day of the rest of your life.” They went into the kitchen, and Suzanne got a Diet Coke out of the refrigerator while Lucy called her service for messages.

  “What should I do?” she said frantically when she hung up. “What should I do? Barry called. They want me to sub for somebody on The Richard Collins Show. Tonight! Should I do it?”

  “I don’t know. Do you want to do it?”

  “If you came with me I’d want to do it,” Lucy said. “I have to admit I’ve been feeling the need to be televised lately. I think maybe I could be funny. If you and I were backstage kibitzing before, then maybe I could just zoom out there . . . I mean, this guy is sort of funny.”

  “I’ve heard Richard Collins is funny at the expense of his guests,” Suzanne said. “He makes sure he’s funny first, and then you get what’s left.”

  “Yeah, well,” said Lucy. “Do you know who’s on the show?”

  “Oh, now we’re getting to it.” Suzanne laughed. “No, who’s on the show?”

  “Larry Walker.”

  “Larry Walker, the painter?”

  “Yeah,” said Lucy, “it’s a late-night show, he gets all these weird artsy types. I’ve always wanted to meet Larry Walker, I love his work. Portia Lamm has one of his pieces. Did you ever see it? That one with the moonlight shining on the long, long hot dog? Come on, this is like spontaneity.”

  “That would be a good name for a perfume,” Suzanne said. “What about hair and makeup?”

  “They said they’d do all that at the studio. Come on, you don’t have anything to do tonight.”

  “Well, I did have kind of a standing date with the bed, but I may have done all I can do there,” Suzanne said. “All right, I’ll come.”

  “I’m afraid,” Lucy said. “I’m afraid I’ll go out of control and talk about Bob.”

  “Colonel Bob?”

  “I’m afraid I’ll talk about Colonel Bob,” Lucy said. “I’m such an extemporaniac. What if he makes me feel dumb and I reveal everything just to defend myself?”

  “Are you sure you want to do this?” Suzanne asked. “Why don’t you call your manager and talk to him about it? Call Barry.”

  “You’re so practical,” Lucy said. “That’s what being in bed so long has given you: a real strong, pragmatic, practical streak. It’s like you belong in your thirties.”

  “Great,” Suzanne said. “Go call Barry.”

  “Wait a minute, let me just be sure I’m getting this,” Lucy said. “Are you suggesting that I call Barry?”

  “Go call Barry.”

  While Lucy called Barry, Suzanne went into the bedroom to check her machine. Three messages.

  “Funny. Suzanne, this is Mark. Listen, we’ve got this TV movie here, I guess it’s all right, and the guy has written me a note. Apparently he knows you. Anyway, it’s a pretty straightforward treatment of a subject I think you’re familiar with. It’s called Rehab! and it’s shooting on location in town starting in late
October. I’m messengering it to you, it should be there this afternoon. This guy might . . . He tried to get your number, but I wouldn’t give it to him. He claims he knows you . . . Anyway, the script is all right, a little melodramatic, maybe, and they want you for the role of Katie. Two people have been cast: Joe is being played by Bernard Stevens, who was the Skipper character in that black version of Gilligan’s Island that bombed last year, and Sam is Kurt Hampton. He’s new, he just did a television film called Way Out There. So it’s largely being cast with television people. It has a good scheduling time and it’s a fairly credible project, I guess. The implication seems to be that if the ratings are good, they’ll do a sequel for the May sweeps. I just don’t know how you feel about the subject matter. Give me a call later on today. Bye. 859-4236.”

  “Suzanne, hi, it’s Sid. Listen, remember that creep Alex Daniels from the clinic? The guy who went out and ODed about a week after I left? He called and pressured me into giving him your number. I hope you don’t mind, and I’m sure you do, but he said he was working in Hollywood now, so I thought . . . I just wanted to warn you, he’s gonna call, and I’m sorry. You can get me at my office, 724-3996. I’m sorry if you’re mad, and if you’re not, call me anyway.”

  “Avoiding . . . ? How did you . . . ? Oh, oh, right, you’re joking. Uh, Suzanne, I don’t know if you remember me or not. This is Alex. We were in the drug clinic together. Alex Daniels? Do you remember me? Anyway, great message. I see you’ve still got your sense of humor. Are you still going to meetings? I’ve looked for you but I’ve never seen you at one, but I mostly go to the cocaine meetings . . . Anyway . . . Do you remember me, by the way? I’m calling because . . . I got your number from . . . I hope you don’t mind, but I got it from Sid. Anyway, remember I had told you about how I was maybe gonna write a script? Well, I did, and it’s getting made. I’ve been working on this for a year and this is like the third draft and it’s a go project, and I wanted to wait to be sure before I called. I hope you don’t mind, but I used your name in the pitch . . . Jesus, I’m going on too long here, sorry . . . I used your name, and also you told me to keep a journal and that really helped. Anyway, I’ve written a character sort of loosely based on you . . . Well, not that loosely. She’s an actress, her name is Katie . . . I hope you’re not mad. I hope you’re flattered, because that was a very big thing in my life, it had real impact . . . Anyway, your agent said you’d have it today, which is why I’m calling. The network is very excited about using you, although they did pitch some other names, people they said had higher TVQ. But you’re obviously ideal for the part. I mean, I did write it for you and, I don’t know, I hope you like it. If you have any questions, I can be reached through my secretary at my office at the studio, or at my new apartment in Century City . . . This is going to be so embarrassing if you don’t remember me. Oh, my numbers. I’m at 870-6324 or 965-0372. I’m sorry to have used so much of your tape. I’m the guy . . . I pushed you in the swing. Bye.”

  Lucy came into the room. “Barry said—”

  “Wait! I just want to play you this message,” said Suzanne.

  “We’re going,” Lucy said. “We have to be there at five thirty. They’re sending a car.”

  “All right, we’ll be there. Let me just play you this.” She rewound the tape. “Remember I told you about the drug clinic and all that?”

  “Remember the drug clinic?” said Lucy. “No. No, were you in a drug clinic? It wasn’t something you like talked about for a while, was it?”

  “Just shut up for a second,” Suzanne said. “Did I tell you about the guy . . . There was this guy who left, and he went out to some hotel room in the valley and literally exploded, and then he came back. Alex? Did I tell you about Alex?”

  “I remember stuff about the black guy,” said Lucy. “The disc jockey from hell. And the fat one I met at that Italian restaurant that night. Who’s Alex?”

  “All right, all right,” Suzanne said. “I told you about this guy. You forgot, you have too much of a life. Listen to this.” She played back Alex’s message.

  “He’s a total jerk, right?” Lucy said when it ended. “I do remember hearing about him.”

  “I have to say, he sounds better,” said Suzanne. “You cannot believe what this guy was like.” She held up the package. “We’ll read it in the car.”

  “Who else is on the show?” Suzanne asked, as their limo headed north on the Hollywood Freeway toward Burbank.

  “There’s Larry Walker, and some author, and somebody else, I don’t know who,” Lucy said. “I shouldn’t be so nervous, right? I mean, this isn’t the Carson show.”

  Suzanne pulled the Rehab! script out of her bag and opened to a random page. “Sam says, ‘Did you see the new guy?’ ” she read, “and Joe says, ‘I think he’s still high on something.’ Sam says, ‘He says he knows Manson,’ and Joe says, ‘Shoot! It’s safer out there doing drugs than—’ ”

  “Do I look nervous?” Lucy said. “I shouldn’t be doing this.”

  “Here’s a Katie scene,” Suzanne said, flipping through the script. “She’s sitting on a big floral sofa, and she’s yelling at somebody . . . She’s yelling at her father. ‘I’m afraid to tell you how I feel! Feelings are weak, and weakness isn’t allowed, is it?’ I’ve seen this! This was in that antidrug training film they kept showing us, Hooked on a Line. ‘You patronize me for having feelings. You’re so superior to your own feelings.’ He must have taken a tape recorder in with him. Is this legal?”

  “Let’s not talk about this yet, okay?” Lucy said. “Let’s talk about Larry Walker and do I look okay? Is this lipstick too dark for television?”

  “Let me see,” said Suzanne. “No, it’s not, but blot it down. That’s way too much gloss. The light will hit it and no one will be able to see your face.”

  “I always see people with lip gloss on television, and I never like how it looks,” Lucy said. “But they’re always wearing it, so I figure maybe I should. Maybe it’s lucky.”

  “The famous lucky lip gloss,” said Suzanne. “That’s brilliant.”

  “I’m really glad you’re coming with me,” Lucy said. “This is real buddy work. Maybe you’ll like Larry Walker.”

  “He’s an artist, and artists . . . This is going to sound like a generalization, but artists suffer for their craft,” said Suzanne. “That makes me very tense.”

  “You might think he’s cute,” Lucy said. “Keep your mind open, unless I like him. If I like Larry Walker, then don’t keep your mind open. Close it like a clam. But there are some other people on the show, maybe somebody else’ll be cute.”

  “My dream is not to meet someone on a talk show,” Suzanne said.

  “What are you, above the talk show?” Lucy said. “I think talk shows are the singles bars for celebrities. Where do you think I met Andrew Keyes? I met him on a talk show in Chicago when I was promoting Hot Countries.”

  “Really? I didn’t know that. I thought you met him at a party, and here I’ve been going to all these parties looking for my Andrew Keyes.”

  “You’re funny, though,” Lucy said. “You’d be good on talk shows.”

  “That’s what I’m afraid of. I’m afraid I’d be good, and I’d end up the Joanne Worley of my generation.”

  “I think you should forget all these ideas you have that stop you from doing things,” Lucy said. “That’s why you’re in bed all the time, because unfortunately you made that one movie where they paid you a little bit too much, and now you can afford to stay in bed.”

  “I don’t see why we’re having an argument.”

  “We’re not. All I’m saying is you should go on a talk show every so often. Because you’re funny.”

  “What, everyone has to know I’m funny?” said Suzanne. “Or I’m not funny anymore?”

  “No, you should keep it a big bad secret,” Lucy said, “so that only you and your bedclothes know. And your clicker.”

  “My clicker,” said Suzanne, “thinks I’m incredibly amu
sing. It asked me out the other day. I didn’t want to tell you.”

  “Okay,” said Lucy, lighting yet another cigarette. “So what should I talk about? Help me.”

  “Well, don’t get pretentious. You know how when you get nervous you get pretentious to protect yourself?”

  “Is that true?” said Lucy. “That’s weird. You’re kidding. You’ve always thought that? I feel bad now.”

  “No, I don’t mean it bad,” said Suzanne. “I think it’s good pretentious. Everybody’s got their quirks. You just quote William Somerset Maugham when you’re nervous. Some people sweat.”

  “Should I talk about No Survivors? I mean, it’s not coming out until November, but I can say what it was like to work with Rolf Eduard, and that it isn’t a remake of Freedom Train like everyone thinks. What else?”

  “Why don’t you say the thing about singles bars for celebrities?” Suzanne suggested. “Say that’s why you’re on.”

  “But can I do that without sounding slutty?”

  “Yeah, I think so,” Suzanne said. “I mean, don’t flirt with the guy on the air, okay?”

  “What do you think I am, a putz or something?” Lucy said. “I’m not going to flirt with him on the air. I don’t even flirt with them, I let them flirt with me.”

  “Why do I feel like I’m the practical one of the two of us?” Suzanne said. “I’m like a ditz in my own life, but as soon as I’m in yours, I have something to do. Cleaning up the mess as you go.”

  “I don’t know, I think I’m good for you that way,” Lucy said. “I make you feel like you’re stable, when you’re completely not.”

  “This is really revealing about our relationship,” said Suzanne. “Who knew we would find out all this stuff on the way to Burbank to do a talk show? Does this thing have an audience?”

  “No,” said Lucy, “which is why I’m doing it. Otherwise I’d really be sick now. But I can always do these. For Hot Countries they had me doing early-morning shows and there was no audience and I was brilliant.”