“I’m fine. Really,” I explained, suddenly worried I might have left the check on my desk, which would make Celia really concerned about my financial state.
“Here it is!” I happily declared as I found the check being used as a bookmark in a volume on the History of Puppetry.
“Let me call my guy,” Alex promised as I handed over the check. “I’ll get someone out there right away.”
“Oh no,” I visibly shuddered. “What if they find me out…”
Alex leaned back in his chair with the confidence of a Power Broker. “Look---if anyone asks, just tell them you’re my girlfriend and you’re staying there for a few days. But no one’s gonna ask. The repair guys don’t even speak English. Trust me. You’re absolutely safe.”
Celia was the only girl from my high school class who lived in New York. And, like myself, possibly the only classmate without a hyphenated-name. But now even that was about to change. She was the woman who had everything. Rich, successful, smart, and super nice. Nice is never underestimated in my book. It was probably due to those assets that she never entered the modeling profession----though she certainly could have. Celia was more than pretty; she was a classic blonde beauty. A modern-day Grace Kelly. Perfect clothes. Never a hair out of place. Even the nuns at our school, who avoided pointing out physical attributes, couldn’t help but remark that Celia “has such a nice smile”.
She had another quality that was envied by every girl in our class---the ability to somehow simply have things go her way. It was more than luck. In Celia’s life, there seemed to be nothing even remotely like a bad day, bad Karma, Murphy’s Law, rain on her parade, or any number of Yiddish words describing a predilection for misfortune.
Celia had been kissed by the gods. Even if there was a tiny problem in her life, it somehow made her more interesting and attractive. Like Ingrid Bergman lamenting in a bar in Casablanca while the piano played under her sorrow. The problem always resolved by reel’s end.
Back in high school, when things went horribly wrong for me or my friends, we had a saying:
This would never happen to Celia.
Running out of gas, computer problems, showing up at prom wearing the same dress as Susie Federhoffer----none of this would ever touch Celia.
She had the perfect, perfect life.
That night, as I crept quietly up the five flights of stairs, I began to tremble at the thought of workmen for the building (English-speaking or otherwise) entering the apartment and discovering my true identity. I’d tried so hard to keep my head down the past nine months---but knew that baby would eventually come out.
“Dorrie, now that Celia’s engaged, maybe you can take over the lease?” my Mom offered on the phone that night.
“Um….it doesn’t work like that, Mom. Not in New York.” I always kept my voice down when talking about the apartment IN the apartment. The walls might have ears. “It’s an old lease so the rent is really low. It’s complicated.”
“Oh honey, are you a squatter?”
“No! I’m paying rent. I’m an illegal sublet. Completely different. But if they find out I’m here, they’ll kick me out, gut and remodel this place and charge five times the rent. It’s cut throat here, Mom. I’ve just got to get a better job so I can afford an apartment. But I’ve got an interview tomorrow at my friend’s temp agency. I’ll let you know how it goes.”
“Well, I hope you get it, honey. Make sure you shave your legs.”
Where that came from, I have no idea.
The next morning I arrived ten minutes early for my job interview. I believe that being on time means being ten minutes early. That’s the kind of conscientious worker I am.
I spent an hour taking a typing and computer test, and then was ushered into a cubicle to meet a 40-something woman named Jan. She nibbled at candy corn out of a Christmas dish on her desk as she glanced at my resume, seemingly unimpressed.
“I also have a theatre resume,” I offered up.
“Oh, that’s right,” she suddenly gave me an actual look. “You’re Steve’s friend. Dorrie the director. I remember now.”
Normally it took a week to get an interview with this temp agency, but Steve made a call and got me in the next day.
“Steve is such a doll,” she went on. “The ladies love whenever we send him. Such a cutie-pie. You’re a little older than him, aren’t you?”
“A little. But I type seventy words a minute and I’m proficient in…”
“I see you’ve done some internships,” she cut me off.
“Yes. I’ve worked with several of the off-off Broadway theatres in the city and…”
“None of them led to a job?”
“Well, no. Not yet!” I smiled and crossed my fingers hopefully, trying to show my good cheer and optimism. “I’m also currently employed full-time as a temporary administrative assistant and receptionist, so I do have reception skills.”
“Then why are you looking for temp work with us?”
“I’m…just looking to make a career change.”
Suddenly she sneezed, then pulled a handful of tissues out of a box and blew her nose. Then she looked at my sweater.
“Is that cat hair?”
Though I seem to be perpetually covered in cat hair, most people doubt that I actually have a cat. But I do. It’s just that she likes to hide. Maybe because she was a stray when I found her pulling chicken bones out of a trash can in the Village not long after I moved to New York. I just took a shine to the little bottom-feeder, I guess.
I took her home, gave her a bath and got her to the vet. She’s in good health, she just likes to hide. Oddly, her name is Heidi. Pure coincidence.
That night, I’d agreed to meet Steve at the theatre to check it out. The Albatross Theatre, located in Noho, had seen better days. The painted albatross bird on the sign in front of the theatre obviously hadn’t been repainted since the seventies when they first opened their doors. Housed in an old church, the architecture, with its stained glass windows and Gothic archways, seemed incongruous with the sort of bare bones (and occasionally explicit) theatre it became known for in the drug-fueled seventies.
Recently, the old hippie vanguard that started the theatre turned over artistic control to a group of local artists who began turning it into a co-op venture; the shared responsibilities still in keeping with the flower child feel, if not the plays themselves. Various small theatre companies took turns vying for the theatre and its rehearsal spaces. None of them bringing in much revenue. But recently, a rock opera based on the pioneer expedition of The Donner Party took off. For some reason, the combination of electric guitars and 19th Century cannibalism struck a chord with the masses. I haven’t seen it yet. They say it’s going to win the Tony this year, so tickets are hard to come by. But the hit song, “Donner, Party of Five---Donner, Party of Four” is already considered a classic.
Last year, Steve became involved with Recycled Paper Theatre. Their mission statement was to put on old plays in new ways that spoke to new audiences. Mostly they just revived the classics in modern-day dress. But the artistic director’s father was an entertainment lawyer. He threw some money into the company and regularly called his showbiz friends to check out his son’s latest work. They were starting to get reviewed. Not likely the case for Steve’s play as the whole family was celebrating the holidays in Aspen. But Steve got the go-ahead to fill the space and take over the company for a few weeks over the Christmas break. Their last holiday show had been a production of Strindberg’s Easter; which, due to a scheduling conflict, opened in September. Apparently there were still some hard feelings with Blighted Watermelon, the theatre company that had snapped up their desired Lenten slot.
As he gave me a tour of the theatre and its various rehearsal rooms and offices, I gave him a recap of my interview with Jan.
“She made me feel like there was something wrong with me.”
“Did you smile? She likes people who smile.”
“Yes I smiled! And I shav
ed my legs!”
“Well that’s a little desperate.”
“I was eager and smiling my ass off. What more do they want?”
“What wrong with you? You’re so edgy lately.”
“I know. It’s not really me, is it? It’s the stupid holidays. I hate this time of year.”
And then I saw a vending machine with ice cream.
“Oooo----fudgesickles!”
I’d never seen a vending machine with ice cream bars. If anything can totally make my day it’s ice cream on a stick.
“And…she’s back,” Steve chimed in as I pulled quarters practically out of my ears.
“This is the best thing ever!” I squealed as I popped my coins into the machine.
“How can you not like Christmas?” Steve asked as I made my selection.
“It’s just…depressing. It reminds you of everything you don’t have.”
As I opened the vending machine slot, I discovered that the machine had made a mistake in my favor---two fudgesickles for the price of one.
“See. This is the pathetic kind of luck I have. No decent job, but two ice creams. Want one?” I offered.
“Can’t. I have an audition tomorrow. Dairy makes me all bloaty.”
It’s moments like this I thank god I’m not an actor. If I want a fudgesickle, I’m going to have it. Damn the torpedoes.
“Maybe things are looking up,” Steve suggested. “Two fudgesickles. This could be your year.”
Whenever anyone says it could be “my year” I just want to shoot them in the foot. People have been saying it’s going to be “my year” for ten years now. But I had two fudgesickles in hand, so I’d mellowed a bit. I popped the spare into my pocket and dove into my chocolate-y prize as I switched from complaining to brooding.
“I don’t know. Whatever I’m doing is not working. But I don’t know what else to do. I just want to quit everything, but quitting everything seems ever stupider. I’m at a dead end.”
“How about a career counselor?”
“I can’t afford that. And I’m in theatre, not marketing or accounting. It’s a whole different animal.”
“You’ve still got a few months left on your health insurance from that restaurant job, right?”
“So?”
“Talk to a shrink.”
“I’m not crazy. I’m just under-employed.”
“They’re counselors. They listen and give advice. Maybe there’s a deeper reason why you’re not succeeding? Besides, everyone in New York has a shrink.”
“You?”
“No. I’m perfectly…”
Just then, a cute girl walked past us thru the halls. Though Steve was already thirty, he still had a thing for college girls. Especially the pierced and tattooed ones. She fit the bill.
“Hey Diana!” he called out.
“Hey…” she turned around cautiously, as if she couldn’t remember how she knew him or his name or his face. But she was curious enough that when he wagged his finger at her to “come on over”, she complied.
“See,” Steve said using the lower depths of his vocal range. “I made you come with just one finger. Imagine what I could do with this whole hand.”
“Call me,” she simply said as she walked away with her ass swinging in the air.
Steve stood there with a stupid smile on his face.
“That works?” I asked.
“Yeah,” he replied with his own incredulity. “I don’t get it, either.”
Though I could easily write Steve off as a self-involved hound dog----maybe he did have a point. To be honest, it was a thought that hit even me from time-to-time.
Maybe I do need to see a psychiatrist.
It was always a horrible moment, because I knew I wasn’t crazy. In fact, I considered myself the sanest person I knew. I didn’t need medication or psychiatric care. I just needed a job. And damnit, I was qualified. I’d applied for hundreds of jobs since I’d been in New York. Why wasn’t I getting them? I’d asked myself this question a thousand times. Maybe it was time to ask someone who might have an answer.
A few sessions with a therapist----or career counselor, if you will, might help me discover what I’m doing wrong and how to change my behavior. How different would that be from walking into a bookstore and buying a few self-help books? In fact, it would be cheaper as, being a book-lover; I could easily spend a hundred dollars on maybe four books, none of which might work; whereas, with my insurance and its fifteen dollar co-pay, I could possibly have an answer from a trained professional after four sessions for the cost of sixty dollars. That’s a forty dollar savings.
Between this revelation and my vending machine fudgesickle, I felt like the happiest girl in the world. And at that very moment, a gorgeous dark-haired man in a brown bomber jacket came right up to me and smiled. Okay, he smiled at Steve, but I was in the vicinity.
“Hey! Steve-O! What are you doing here?”
“Trying to put together the show for Recycled Paper. You’re still in, right?”
“I’m totally in.”
“Great!” Steve said as he shook cute boy’s hand. “Dorrie, this is Nate. He’s writing the script for the show. I’m trying to convince Dorrie to direct. She’s a great director.”
“Hi,” I said and did the hand shake thing. Then I just stood there quietly while they talked shop. I may be sassy, but I’m also shy. I know----doesn’t make sense to me, either.
“That looks good,” I suddenly heard the Nate guy say as he pointed to my fudgesickle.
Without missing a beat, I put my hand in my pocket and handed him my spare.
“Want one?”
“Sure! Wow. You’re….like magic.”
“Ta-dah!” was all that came out of my mouth.
“We just got out of a read-thru for my new play. We’re going out for a drink down the street. You guys wanna come?”
“I’ve got an audition in the morning,” Steve replied. “But thanks for the invite.”
“No worries,” Nate replied and I definitely saw a glance my way. Sometimes I can make up things in my head, but that was definitely a glance.
“Hey!---thanks for the ice cream,” he added after the glance that was most certainly there. “Hope we get to work together.”
“Okay. Nice meeting you,” I replied numbly. After he left, Steve sounded like one of my gay friends as he snipped, “So---I’m guessing you’ll do the show?”
“All right.”
“That was really sad, Dorrie.”
“Shut up.”
“Why didn’t you go for a drink?”
“I can’t go if you don’t go. That would be weird.”
“I really do have an audition tomorrow. Young, handsome, Korean gangster.”
Despite his character flaws, Steve was a good-looking guy. I couldn’t fault him that.
“You pretty people have it so easy. You…and Celia…”
“You’re….attractive,” Steve squeezed the words out of his mouth. “I mean, if you were an actor…you could get character work.”
“Character work?”
Just North of Whoville Page 4
