Hollywood and Maine

by Allison Whittenberg

  “Think of how Raymond feels,” Millicent said.

  “Raymond completely overreacted,” I said.

  “And you wouldn’t do the same?” Cissy asked. “If he was flirting with some girl?”

  “I don’t flirt.”

  “Why are you getting mixed up with Demetrius all over again? Haven’t you learned your lesson?”

  “All he’s doing is going over some commercial ads. You know he studied acting.”

  Millicent took a large bite of her apple. “That must be why he’s so fake.”

  I was doubtful Demetrius would show, so on my own I rehearsed before a mirror. I did Lauren Bacall from Raymond’s book. She was only nineteen (four years and two months older than me) when she starred opposite that much older, somewhat shorter Humphrey Bogart in To Have and Have Not. She was a former model who never really studied acting, yet she scorched the screen with her poise and maturity. I practiced her immortal lines: “You know how to whistle, don’t you? Just put your lips together and blow.”

  I said it a half-dozen times, emphasizing different words. I took my voice down an octave to sound worldly like Bacall. Afterwards, my throat was sore, but at least I proved to myself that I could nail it.

  After that, I practiced putting on makeup. I had deep-set eyes and wore spectacles, so I really had to go some to make them pop. According to the Glamour magazine that I borrowed from the library, I had to outline thickly around my lids.

  “What are you putting in your eye?” Tracy John asked, horrified, as he entered the room.

  “I’m not putting anything in my eye,” I said, and put my glasses back on. I turned away from the mirror. “How do I look?”

  Tracy John came toward me, studied me closely, and concluded, “The same.”

  I put some blush on his cheeks.

  “You look beautiful!” I said.

  He tried to rub it off, but any makeup artist would have told him that just makes it worse. I asked him to stand still and blotted the blush off him with a damp cloth.

  “Is it gone?” he asked.

  With his bright eyes and ruddy lips, Tracy John naturally had the kind of face that cosmetics sought to create by illusion. I pushed his button nose. “It’s all gone, but you are still beautiful. What’s up?”

  “He’s back.”

  “Who?” I asked.

  “The jive turkey,” he said.

  Demetrius had made a special guest appearance after all. “That’s Mr. Jive Turkey to you,” I said.

  He led me to the stairway so we could spy on who was downstairs.

  “He’s not Spider-Man,” Tracy John told me.

  I replied, “And you’re not the Green Hornet.”

  “What’s he doing here?”

  “He said he wanted to help me practice for an audition.”

  “What’s an audition?” Tracy John asked.

  After I told him, he said, “I’d like to see you in an audition.”

  “Follow me, then.”

  We came down the steps. At the sight of Tracy John, Demetrius rolled his eyes grandly. “Does he have to sit in?”

  “Tracy John is more than welcome to.”

  Tracy John settled on the couch for all of two seconds; then he got up and ran out of the room.

  “Where are you going?” I called after him. When my question went unanswered, Demetrius seemed relieved.

  Tracy John came back into the room with Leo.

  That really miffed Demetrius. “Don’t you two have something else to do?”

  “Nope,” they said in unison, settling in.

  Tracy John clapped his hands. “Take it from the top.”

  Demetrius took to the center of the room and leafed through his papers. “Here’s an interesting one,” he said, then lapsed into a breathing exercise and a few shoulder rolls. Finally, he read from the sheet, “I would love to stop smoking.”

  “When did you start?” Leo asked.

  “Ohhhhhhhhh, I’m going to tell,” Tracy John said.

  Demetrius turned to me. “Must I put up with these interruptions?”

  “Why don’t you read something else, Demetrius?” I asked him.

  “I guess I’ll have to.” He shuffled through the sheets and pulled out a new ad. He exaggerated his inhales and exhales, did more shoulder rolls, and asked, “Are you looking for a soft drink that’s crisp and clean?”

  “No,” Tracy John called out.

  Demetrius pointed at Tracy John. “I thought you were going to keep quiet.”

  “You asked the question,” Leo said.

  Demetrius shook it off and asked, “Where was I before I was so rudely interrupted?”

  What drama! “Are you looking for—” I filled in.

  “I’ve got it,” he snapped at me. More loud breathing, more shrugs.

  “Why does he keep doing that?” Tracy John asked me.

  “I am centering myself!” Demetrius yelled; then he took one more cleansing breath. “Now, where was I?”

  When silence followed, I cast him an inquiring glance. Had he truly lost his place? Did he require a prompt?

  “Are you looking for—” I began.

  Finally, he went into his rendition. “Are you looking for a soft drink that’s crisp and clean? Made with ten percent real fruit juice, all-new Raspberry Cola is the drink for you.”

  In the English language, there are thousands of subtleties. Demetrius recognized none of them. To top that off, he had stilted herky-jerky arm movements as he pantomimed the opening of the bottle and said, “Pure refreshment.”

  At least my brother and cousin waited till Demetrius’s conclusion before erupting with laughter.

  “And what is so funny?” Demetrius asked them.

  Leo got ahold of himself and said, “You’re not exactly convincing.”

  “Did I ask for a critique?”

  “It’s not like they booed you, Demetrius,” I said.

  “What do they know about talent?”

  “Like we’ve never seen a commercial before,” Leo said.

  “Well, maybe that wasn’t my best reading, but how can I possibly deliver a credible performance with you two constantly chiming in?”

  “You ought to be used to audiences,” Leo said.

  “Yeah,” Tracy John said.

  “I’ve been studying since before you were born,” Demetrius told Tracy John. He made a large theatrical gesture with his hand, and he bored into Leo with his eyes and said, “And I’ve been to New York City.”

  “What does that mean?” Tracy John asked.

  Instead of answering his question, Demetrius kept right on with his tirade. “There is no way I can showcase my skills”—he paused and gave my brother and cousin a disparaging look—“under these conditions.”

  “Is that what you came here for, Demetrius, to perform? I thought you were going to coach me through an audition,” I said.

  He gathered up his paperwork. “It’s best to follow by example, Maine. But I’m afraid I will have to deprive you of that.”

  “I wish you’d deprived us of the whole thing,” Leo said.

  Demetrius made a hasty exit stage left.

  “What a spoiled brat!” Tracy John exclaimed.

  I nodded. Anyone would conclude that Demetrius prancing about like he was Sidney Poitier fresh from Guess Who’s Coming to Dinner was sure strange.

  “Someone ought to give him an award,” Leo said.

  Tracy John and I craned our necks in his direction.

  Leo said, gesturing as if to place the words in the air, “World’s Worst Actor.”

  fifteen

  Shakespeare wrote, “All the world’s a stage / And all the men and women merely players.” Certain that that would be the end of Demetrius’s appearance in the movie of my life, I took my turn to roll my shoulders and inhale deeply, then exhale—in a sigh of relief.

  However, the next day when I passed Demetrius and Dinah in the hall, he had the gall to wink at me. I drew back in horror; then I narrowe
d my eyes at him as if to tell him I was onto his game. Raymond was right beside me, and his tiny cramped shoulders looked agitated. He seemed more bothered than Dinah did.

  Back home that afternoon, things really exploded. It started innocently enough. Tracy John told Raymond and me about the fishing trip he was going to go on with Uncle E. Out of the blue, he asked my boyfriend, “Would you like to go fishing with us?”

  Raymond nodded eagerly. “Sure, that sounds like fun.”

  I had to laugh, and told my cousin, “Tracy John, he’s just saying that to be polite.”

  My cousin turned to Raymond. “Are you just saying that to be polite, or do you really want to go fishing?”

  “I would love to,” Raymond said. His enthusiasm sounded even more sincere.

  “Good, I’m going to go tell Leo.”

  After Tracy John left the room, I asked, “What was all that about?”

  “Why don’t you tell me, Maine?”

  “You don’t want to get stuck out on some lake with them. They use worms as bait. Real worms.”

  “I’m not afraid of real worms.”

  “You aren’t?”

  “No.”

  “You don’t want to go fishing. You don’t even eat fish.”

  “Like I said, I would love to go fishing, Maine.”

  “You’re going to be bored out of your mind, stuck out there all day.”

  “You know that for a fact?”

  “You’re not exactly the manly rugged type.”

  “What are you trying to say?” Raymond asked, lapsing into his Mr. Hyde demeanor.

  “You’re not the manly rugged type,” I repeated.

  “I’m putting my foot down,” he said heatedly.

  “You can put whatever you want down, Raymond,” I told him.

  He rose to his feet. “All my life people have put me in a box. I didn’t grow up with people who do things like fish, but that doesn’t mean I’ve never wanted to. You’ve put me in a cardboard box, and you’re hung up on that—that—that clown!”

  “You don’t make sense. How is this about Demetrius? Tracy John would never ask Demetrius to go fishing with him. Tracy John doesn’t even like Demetrius.”

  “Tracy John is an excellent judge of character,” he said as he went to the door.

  “Where are you going?” I asked him.

  His parting words were: “I’m not going to stay in a cardboard box, Maine.”

  Men … Having brothers, a boy cousin, Daddy, and uncles in my life, you would think I would have a clear understanding of them. But I didn’t even comprehend women, and I am one.

  Later that evening, Leo tried to break it down for me.

  “You shouldn’t have said he wasn’t rugged. That’s like calling him a sissy,” Leo told me.

  “I never called him a sissy.”

  “I said it was like calling him a sissy, Maine. Don’t you get it? There are certain things you can’t do if you are a guy.”

  I scratched through my thick Afro to get to my scalp. “What can’t you do as a male?”

  “Like, act polite like he does.”

  “Oh, Leo, please.”

  “And walk around with books like he does.”

  “How are books feminine? Most are written by men. In some countries, women are forbidden to read.”

  “You still don’t understand. Look, I take dance lessons.”

  “No kidding, Leo.”

  “People say things after that.”

  “Like what?”

  “Things.”

  “Things like, ‘You’re a good dancer.’ ”

  Leo shook his head and said, “It’s just hard.…”

  More cryptic gobbledygook. I swear, sometimes I think the world decides to become unglued all at once. What was I supposed to do, lie to my boyfriend and tell him he was a he-man? Everybody was so touchy. I’d have to remember to ask my friend Cissy to find out if she ever minded being called a sissy.

  Along this same theme, I overheard Daddy and Tracy John in the living room later that evening.

  “When Uppercase E got to be about Leo’s age, he started to turn. It’s all right to be smart when you’re little and make like you want to learn, but as you get older, it’s tough. And Escalus used to love to sing in the choir, both school and church. But it got tougher to show that side of himself. Uppercase E changed overnight. Next time I looked around, he was going in a totally different direction. I barely recognized him.”

  “What did he look like, Unc?” Tracy John asked.

  “Well, one day he came walking in the house in a snakeskin jacket.”

  Tracy John’s mouth flew open; then he asked, “What kind of snakes?”

  “Green ones. Pretty soon, everything was going wrong. Uppercase E was no dummy, but he started having trouble in school and fell in with the wrong crowd.”

  I got closer to the door frame. This was, after all, the crucial part. I wanted to hear more about Uncle E’s leap from choirboy to criminal.

  “Some mighty terrible things happen when you stop being yourself,” Daddy told Tracy John.

  “I’m glad Uncle E’s not on the lam no more. I can’t wait till we all go fishing. It’s great to have him here.” Tracy John sounded so happy, it touched my heart.

  “One thing’s for sure, Tracy John, everybody needs a home.”

  Awwwww. In fact, double awwwww. Though I didn’t get the answers I wanted, eavesdropping on the two of them was better than watching The Wonderful World of Disney. Plus, it really made me think, not so much about Uncle E as about Raymond.

  I didn’t want Raymond to get caught up in a world of crime, so the next day I planned to tell him he was an alpha male. That was my intention, but as soon as I saw him in the hall, he gave me a look that was so frosty, I decided to return the favor. Then he outright scowled at me, and I grimaced back at him. I know this sounds immature of me, but he started it. I jettisoned the idea of stroking Raymond’s bruised ego.

  During English class, we sat as if royalty on thrones, side by side.

  Our words went out, but not between us. I made up my mind right then and there: I didn’t need him as a boyfriend, and I felt immediately relieved to be free of his funky old paranoid schizophrenic attitude.

  sixteen

  My older brother, Horace, wrote from time to time, updating us on how much he was taking advantage of the island hospitality. He hadn’t dispatched pictures of himself in his uniform in a while. Instead, the last photo he forwarded to us was of him in a natty Hawaiian shirt and groovy shorts, sipping a tropical drink decorated with pineapple pieces. In that shot, he was flanked by two local girls. They had wide noses, full lips, innocent faces, long, glossy black hair, and curvy but toned bodies. I flipped the photo over and saw that Horace had penned the words God Bless America.

  In the accompanying letter, PV2 Upshaw went on about how sick he was of the mess hall food. He also bemoaned Hawaii’s lack of seasons, describing the very little weather variations as “terminally beautiful.” He told us that occasionally a volcano erupted.

  The bulk of the correspondence was dedicated to Uncle E, but Horace closed with a postscript, some long-distance humor, just for me: “Daddy told me that you want to go Hollywood. I can’t believe my humble little sister has dreams of seeing her name in lights. I want to make sure, Maine, your newfound success doesn’t go to your head, but seeing as this letter won’t reach you for a week, I’m probably too late.”

  That evening, Daddy, Tracy John, and I went to pick up Uncle E from work at the discount furniture store on Fifty-second Street. It was a crawl of linked rooms. Tracy John took a left as Daddy went right. I followed my cousin, only to find him jumping on a display bed. With one scoop I pulled him down, and we continued toward the back of the store.

  We passed by a red crushed-velour chaise, and he stopped again.

  “What kind of sofa is that?” Tracy John asked.

  “It’s a fainting couch.”

  Tracy John gave me a quizzi
cal look.

  “You don’t know what fainting is?”

  He shook his head. I moved him to the side and demonstrated, pretending like I was receiving some shocking news. “What! In the year 1996, Tracy John gives up his position on the Dallas Cowboys to play baseball for the Philadelphia Phillies?” Then I held the back of my hand to my forehead and dissolved into the fall. I made sure the chaise was safely beneath me as I guided myself down.

  Next Tracy John gave it a try. “What! Maine is going to play for the Dallas Cowboys?” He got the shocking news part right, but he did too much of a direct drop.

  I offered this critique: “It’s got to be more of a surrender, as if you really blacked out.”

  “How do you wake them up?” he asked, still in character, lying on the chaise with his eyes closed.

  “You’re going to need a bucket of water.”

  His eyes opened. He seemed really interested in that.

  “Ice cold,” I told him. “And you dump it over their heads.”

  He sat up and told me, “I want to try it again.”

  He did, and he was still too robotic. It surprised me that such a natural athlete was so stiff.

  “Sometimes you can do a twirl like this.” I demonstrated what I meant.

  Imitating me, Tracy John spun like a top.

  Just then, a salesman came by asking an ominous “May I help you?”

  This store didn’t take the plastic covers off their furniture, so we weren’t harming anything, but still, I grabbed Tracy John’s hand, and we went where we were supposed to be. Around in the back of the store, I heard a gravelly voice say, “All right, we lift on three.… One.… two … and three.”

  There were two thickset men with blunt hands, a more sinewy Uncle E, and a happy medium, muscular Daddy (Daddy was always helping out), all hefting a massive rolltop desk. This thing was as big as a baby grand piano.

  My eyes stayed fastened to my uncle. He seemed to have the same amount of sweat on his brow as the other guys. Was he really reformed? Once the desk was off the truck and on the showroom floor, Uncle E punched out.

  Later that night, Tracy John and I practiced fainting some more. Leo got into the act and, of course, with all his dance training, was able to show both Tracy John and me up. What form! What grace! There was no contest. Leo was the best fake fainter in the house.