“I don’t know…”
“You can do this, Dorrie.”
“Well, I’m not doing anything else with my life,” I moped.
“And that’s the attitude that’s got to go. I know you have it in you. You just been sitting on it too long. So you make like Marc Anthony on J.Lo and you tap that big ass.”
“Could I just see that diploma?”
I had to ask. Especially because all the frames on the wall were conveniently covered in Christmas wrap.
“Ay mierda! Stupid fucking receptionist. I told her not to wrap my diploma. I swear to god I’m going to fire that puta! Tonta!” she yelled in the direction of the reception area as she pulled a frame off the wall and ripped off the wrapping.
“Here. Merry Christmas,” she said as she handed me the diploma.
Dr. Emily Prince. NYU. Not too shabby.
“And that ain’t no Affirmative Action bullshit, either!”
Maybe she was right. Maybe I had been sabotaging myself. A little bit of Christmas Spirit? Simple enough. What did I have to lose?
“Next,” Little Miss Sunshine said the next morning as she handed some change to a customer.
“I’ll have a small coffee, please,” I said simply.
“Would you like to try our…” and then she looked up. “Oh. Sorry. Small coffee. Coming right up.”
“Um…” I said as she reached towards the coffee urn. “I’ll try that Christmas blend.”
“Really?”
“Yeah.”
She seemed unsure as she poured the Christmas blend into the festive red and green paper cup.
“I’m sorry about yesterday. It was just…”
“Bad day, huh?”
“Yeah.”
“Don’t worry about it. I’ve seen worse. Some people are monsters before they’ve had their morning coffee. Here, this will cheer you up,” she said as she slid something across the counter. “It’s a Walnut Eggnog Biscotti. They’re really yummy. My treat. Merry Christmas!”
Oh god, she was going to make me say it.
“Merry Christmas.”
She smiled. Like I made her day or something. And I had a free biscotti. I guess this wasn’t too bad. I could maybe keep this up for a week; after that, I’d have to strangle someone. I can’t wish people a Merry Christmas for six more weeks. And what about Thanksgiving? After all, people don’t start wishing you a Happy New Year till at least the day after Christmas. And by the way, shouldn’t there be a cut-off date for that? I’ve had people continue wishing me a Happy New Year all thru January; as if I needed a month’s worth of reminders that I’d already tanked on my resolutions.
On the way to work, I stopped by the drugstore to pick up some Christmas candy. I’m not a candy person, but someone else might enjoy partaking in a piece. I could continue to spread my holiday cheer, by simply pouring a bag of candy into a dish and leaving it on my reception desk. This way, I wouldn’t have to actually say “Merry Christmas.” A piece of peppermint candy would say it all.
Later that morning, I got my first Christmas present.
“This is for you,” Timmy said as he handed me the small, silver-wrapped box. “It’s just a little something to thank you for helping me.”
My “help” consisted of giving Timmy my number and advising him to just wear something simple like a pair of Khaki pants and a colorful shirt. I did take a frantic phone call a few days earlier when he was having a dilemma at Macy’s over purchasing the red or the green golf tee. In the end, they were on sale and he now had an employee discount, so he picked up both.
“Go ahead! Open it!” he squeaked.
Inside the box was a pin. A huge, be-jeweled pin in the shape of a Christmas wreath. The sort of gift you buy for Grandma for what you think might possibly be her last Christmas.
“You really shouldn’t have,” I said, as I shielded my eyes from the cubic zirconia reflecting off the Christmas lights around my desk.
“It’s just costume jewelry. But it reminded me of you.”
Exactly what about an old lady pin patently meant for a one-foot-in-the-grave grandma reminded him of me, I have no idea.
“Put it on! Let me see!” he clapped and pleaded. So I did.
“Oh!----it just lights up your face.”
“Pretty much lights up the entire office. But thanks.”
“Okay muffin, let’s get you made-up,” Deb said as she put her arm around Timmy and led him off to the make-up table. “Here you go, Brooklyn,” she said to the make-up artist who was unpacking near my desk. “I want you to powder his face with sunshine.”
“That’s the model?” Brooklyn leaned in to me as she opened a bag of sponges.
“Yeah. His name’s Timmy.”
“Wow. Good thing I trained as a mortician.”
While Brooklyn began sponging him down, Steve popped his head in the door.
“You busy?”
“Not really. Come on in.”
After he took the opportunity to say “nice pin” in a sarcastic way, he handed me a stack of headshots and resumes. Though I generally preferred casting friends, Steve wanted to go all out and hold actual auditions for the play. He claimed he wanted to do this “all professional-like”; but my gut told me he just wanted to make sure he got a really hot “Mary” to play opposite his “George”.
“Are you here about the Smiling Class?” Jamie said as she walked by and saw Steve at my desk.
“Um…no,” I answered for him. “This is my friend Steve. He’s just dropping off some things for me.”
“Oh,” she said, continuing to check him out. “You should think about modeling. Here’s my card. Call me,” she said like a dominatrix eager to shake him down for a spanking.
“What the hell is a Smiling Class?” he asked after she was out of sight.
“Say ‘cheese’!”
“Cheese.”
“That’s it. I just saved you four hundred dollars.”
Across the room, Mitchell put on some music for the test shots. Even in his khaki pants, I could see Timmy trying to bring sexy back.
Deb and Jamie had stepped out for a smoke break, so I decided to step in.
“Timmy----we talked about this. You want to show your personality. Forget about being a model. Just be yourself.”
“Okay,” he replied with a bit of uncertainty. “But it’s kind of hard to turn the sexy off.”
“Well…you just need to tighten that faucet for this one. Okay? You’ve got to pull out the personality. The real you.”
“What if this is the real me?” he said, almost terrified of his own sexiness.
I looked over at Timmy’s wardrobe suitcase and saw a bit of red and green faux-fur sticking out from the side.
“Here,” I said as I pulled out his elf costume. “Put this on. We’re gonna get you some work.”
As Timmy ran off behind the changing screen and I switched the CD to Christmas music, I went over to Mitchell to discuss the change in plans. As we began rearranging the set with some of the Christmas décor, Deb suddenly appeared.
“Well. Dorrie. I didn’t know you were an agent.”
“I’m…I’m not.”
“Exactly. So just go back to your desk and answer the phone. That’s what we pay you for.”
With my tail between my legs, I made my way back to my desk and popped open a peppermint stick to ease the pain.
“What’s wrong?” Steve asked.
“I can’t work for these people anymore. I can’t do this. It’s just wrong.”
“Mitchy-poo,” Deb said in her fake flirty voice as she rubbed up against Mitch. “It’s gonna to be another rough one, I’m afraid. But I’ve almost got him sold on the photographer’s retreat with you, so flirt a little.”
“Ta-dah!” Timmy said as he jumped out from behind the screen wearing his elf costume. His eyes scanned the room for me. He finally saw me at my desk and I gave my nod of approval.
“I’m not sure that’s the right look,” Deb scru
nched up her face.
“I like it,” Mitchell piped in. “We can have some fun with this.”
“Well,” Deb forced a smile. “If you’re okay with it, Mitch.”
“Yay!” Timmy jumped up and down, jingling the bells on his shoes.
“Okay sugar,” Mitchell said as he raised his lens, “let me see you jingle those big, fat bells.”
8
“What so great about Ted’s Ribs and Chicken?” I asked Celia the next day as we perused glassware at an artsy shop in Soho.
“It’s an old college thing for Alex,” she replied with that mix of warmth and wifely patience she’d already mastered. While my life was a continual mad dash of damage repair, Celia continued building on a strong foundation. Just having coffee with her made me feel as if I, too, could build my own dream life. Sure I was positioned over swamp land in an earthquake zone---but it could happen.
That afternoon, she asked me to help her begin setting up her Wedding Registry. For a few brief shining hours, I could exist in her Camelot.
But a pricey glass shop was a scary place for me. I kept my hands in my pockets, my purse trained steadily at my side, and held back a strong urge to sneeze as I walked past a spun-glass figurine of a Yorkie valued at six thousand dollars.
As I started wondering about the etymology of the word “figurine”, Celia asked, “Would you be my bridesmaid?”
“Me?”
“I’ll pay for everything---the dress and shoes and…”
“Oh god. Celia….no…don’t…”
“I know things are tight for you right now, but I really want you there.”
“I’ll be there. I promise. But I’ll take care of it myself.”
“No. It’s my treat.”
“No! No!” I almost knocked over a crystal bouquet of azaleas. “You don’t have to pay me to be in your wedding. That’s ridiculous. God…am I that much of a fuck-up?”
“I wouldn’t ask a fuck-up to be my bridesmaid. I asked you.”
“Well…it’s a package deal.”
“I’m sorry. I wish I could help you with this stuff. But most of my friends are in design or fashion…”
“Okay---just shut up. I’m fine.”
“You’re so talented and you should be working.”
“Stop. Stop,” I ground the offers of help to a halt. “Look---this is the deal with the devil you make when you go into theatre. I’ll be fine,” I declared with more confidence than I’d had in years. “And I’ll be your bridesmaid.”
Where I was going to get the money for this, I had no idea. But they hadn’t set a date yet, so the earliest would be a spring wedding. I could have a whole different life by next spring.
It could happen.
That night, another hunk of the ceiling came down. No matter how much Christmas cheer I released into the world, I was still living on borrowed time.
In a moment of utter terror, I put in a call to Alex and left a message on his machine.
“Hi. It’s Dorrie. Um…more of the ceiling collapsed today. And I know I called before because the maintenance guys came by, so I’m sure you’re on top of this… But I started thinking… you know, maybe I can fix this myself. Because the thing is, with a leak, I knew they’d just be up on the roof so that was pretty safe. But with the whole interior thing… I mean, they’re gonna have to come in here…and inspect, and… I’m just worried they’re going to find me out. So maybe if you haven’t already called, just don’t say anything about the ceiling, okay. I have a few friends who do set design and I can maybe get them to help me fix this…”
But I knew I was a goner.
Maybe it was time to give up. Maybe this was a sign. Move back home to Milwaukee. Maybe get a teaching degree. Become one of those bitter drama teaches whose breath smelled suspiciously of Peppermint Schnapps.
The next morning when my alarm went off, I shot out of bed in a panic, fully thinking it was the Illegal Sublease Police knocking down my door. Like a felon on the lam, I jumped out of bed and quickly hopped in the shower, knowing the coppers would be on my tail any second now. As I lathered up, I realized that being in the shower left me at my most vulnerable. That’s when Norman Bates attacked. They’d probably been waiting for me take a shower. Oh no. I had to get out of here.
But as I shut off the hot water, the only sound was the distant scratch of Heidi pushing the litter around her box. Apparently no one had knocked or rang the bell. If they had, the cat would have gone into hiding like Anne Frank.
I tried to relax as I turned on the hair dryer; but it was difficult to relax knowing the sound would deafen me to their approach. Under the white noise of the hair dryer, I tried to think my way out of my predicament. In order to move, I’d need a few thousand dollars to cover a deposit, first (and possibly last) month’s rent and moving fees. With what I was making at ABC, it would take me over a year to save that kind of money. And by that time, they would be throwing smoke bombs in the windows and blaring heavy metal music to get me to disperse.
My own little Waco.
They’d bring in negotiators. Helicopters flying overheard. CNN would show up. Maybe even Jesse Jackson. It would be all over the news. They’d use that horrible picture of me taken at the cast party for Too Much Salt, a showcase featuring Jenn Baggs in the works of Chekhov. This last known photo of me with my left eye closed and my bangs plastered to my forehead would be displayed all over the national media. Clips from my previous directorial effort---Bedazzled: A Night With Porter Wagoner would be shown on all the networks. Why did I ever agree to direct that? Oh god why?
Eventually, they’d drag out my friends for interviews. Celia would look stunning as she purred into the camera, “Gosh, we tried so hard to help her. We gave her a place to live for almost a year, but she just couldn’t make it in New York. Dorrie, sweetie, if you’re listening, come out of the apartment and nobody will get hurt,” she pleaded as she flashed that convent-winning smile. Reporters would swiftly cut to a live remote from Milwaukee, Wisconsin.
“Honey,” my mother would begin as the tears started to fall down her cheek, “I just want you to know that we love you and if you need a place to live, you can always come home.”
“Dorrie,” my father would speak up, choking back the emotion, but trying to appeal to my mental state, “maybe we can turn the garage into a little theatre. I’ll put up some lights and some curtains and you can do your playacting with your stuffed animals like you used to. I have Mr. Zippy right here,” he would say as he held up a stuffed monkey. “Mr. Zippy misses doing Shakespeare and…we just want you back home where you’re safe, honey.”
And then the Chief of the Police would call a news conference.
“We are in touch with the suspect, a thirty-four year-old temp who calls herself Dorrie Krakowski. Our negotiators are working closely with Ms. Krakowski and we ask for your prayers and a few hours of silence so that Ms. Krakowski can get her cat to come out of hiding. We have every hope that if Ms. Krakowski can retrieve her cat, she will come out of the apartment and the situation will end peacefully.”
Just North of Whoville Page 9
