Just North of Whoville

by Turiskylie, Joyce

  So I agreed.

  Truth is, I was stalling. Playing for time. Conning the con artist.

  I figured that by saying yes, I’d stave off a lay-off. At least for a few weeks while I got trained-in. “Agent-in-training” certainly looked better than “temp” on my resume. Surely I could parlay this into a better position before I was forced to flip the switch on one of my own.

  At rehearsal that night, “my own” read-thru the new script. Nate had worked miracles with only a week. We’d had plenty of time to chit-chat on the long car ride to Coney Island and I gave him a lot of tips, but I was still impressed that he’d managed to re-write an entire script in only a week.

  Well, almost.

  “I’m sorry,” Steve said as he reached the end of the script. “I think I’m missing some pages at the end.”

  “Yeah. Me, too,” Marc said as he held up his unfinished script.

  They all looked to Nate. He pointed to me.

  “I’m sorry. I just had a problem with the ending. No offense, Nate.”

  “None taken. I was just going by the film.”

  “What’s the problem?” Steve asked. “Anything we can do as actors to help?”

  “It’s not you guys. It’s just the piece overall. I think I’m fighting the happy ending.”

  “But it has to have a happy ending,” Marc explained. “It’s a Christmas story.”

  “Think so?” Steve countered. “Meet Dorrie.”

  “Hey come on, I like a happy ending as much as the next guy. But do they all have to end happily? I mean, in real life, everyone doesn’t have a great Christmas every year.”

  “But it’s George Bailey!” Steve yelled at me. “If he can’t have a miraculous Christmas, then what hope is there for the rest of us?”

  “I’m just saying, wouldn’t an audience feel more connected with George Bailey if his Christmas turned out kind of crappy or mediocre just like ours?”

  “Dorrie,” Steve held up his hands, “it’s CHRISTMAS! Save the big gloomy Russian finale for Easter. Please, I’m begging you.”

  “I didn’t say I wanted it to be depressing. It’s probably just director’s block or something. Right?” I looked to Nate for confirmation.

  “Oh, sure,” he said casually. “But you open in two weeks.”

  It seemed like only yesterday we had almost seven weeks to put this thing together.

  “If you want,” Nate suggested after the rehearsal, “I’ll drive you out to Coney Island and we can hash out a new ending.

  “Oh…that’s okay.”

  “Are you sure? It’s no problem…”

  “Actually…um…I have to stop by Alex’s place. To get my cat. Alex isn’t coming home till late tonight, so I figured it would be a good time”

  It was too many lies. Waaaaaaay too many lies. But there was no way I was going all the way out to Coney Island at nine o’clock at night. I wouldn’t get back till almost midnight.

  “Oh, great! I’m going that way, myself,” he suddenly declared. “I’ll drop you off.”

  But as we drove to “my” apartment, I could just feel the whole thing falling apart. Luckily, I was able to keep the conversation strictly business. Not that I necessarily wanted to, but what’s the point in having a social life if you’re living on the street? And what would happen to Heidi? I couldn’t put her in a shelter. She’d have to come with me. I’d be one of those homeless people with pets.

  There used to be a homeless guy with a cat who hung out at 53rd and Lex with a big sign that said “Help me and my kitty.” I used to pass him all the time. The first time I saw him, I ran into a bodega and bought a couple of cans of cat food to donate to the cause. Don’t know why I never thought to pick up a sandwich for the guy. But I noticed him stash the cat food under a nearby box. A week later, I took a close look and saw that the box was full of cat food and cat supplies. All people seemed to care about was the cat. Maybe he ate the cat food. Who knows?

  But as Nate pulled up to my building, I suddenly worried that a month from now, that would be me. Out in the cold. With a big sign saying “Help me and my kitty.” Only no one would even see my kitty because she’d be hiding under a dirty blanket or in a trash can.

  I wouldn’t even get to eat cat food.

  The bottom line was, I’d have to move back home. Admit I’d failed and leave New York. I’d almost rather be homeless.

  “Hey,” Nate said as we stood in front of the building. “If Alex isn’t going to be home for awhile, you wanna go upstairs and keep brainstorming on this ending for a bit?”

  “Um…yeah. Sure.” I said with more than a little trepidation. Frankly, I had no idea where my priorities were at this point. Apartment? Relationship? The play? Overall, I suppose I was looking for some much-needed instant gratification. If I could quickly brush the ending to this play out of the way, that would at least be one thing I could check off the scroll-like Things-To-Do list.

  There were no fears of the cat suddenly coming out of hiding and ruining my last excuse to be in the building. But, just to be sure, I quickly ran up the stairs ahead of him on the premise that I wanted to be absolutely positive that Alex wasn’t home. I quickly flew into the doorway, hid any potentially incriminating evidence that I continued to live there, tossed Alex’s Ted’s Ribs and Chicken t-shirt on the couch, spritzed the cheap cologne around the room, and called out loudly, “Alex! Alex! Are you here?”

  This would not only provide the necessary cover, but would also ensure that the cat would not come out of hiding for hours. To be extra sure, I stomped on the floor and banged a pot around.

  Sorry, Heidi.

  A moment later, Nate walked in and I began calling for my hiding cat.

  “Heidi! Come out Heidi!”

  “You’re really quick on those stairs,” he said, a bit out of breath. “So, where’s this elusive cat? I’ve never even seen… Oh wait,” he said as he looked at the floor. “Yup. You have a cat.”

  “That’s a Heidi hairball, all right,” I said as I went to the kitchen for some paper towels. “She’s hard to catch. She’s one of those hiding cats.”

  “That’s a breed?”

  “Yeah. Scaredy Cat. I don’t know what she’s…”

  “Hey! Look!” Nate called to me. “It’s a Wonderful Life is on.”

  In the apartment across the street, on a large plasma TV, the last few moments of It’s a Wonderful Life flickered across the screen.

  We both stood there for a moment watching and thinking the same thing----how were we going to end the play?

  “I know it’s an iconic moment in film, but it’s just so sappy,” I said as I watched Jimmy Stewart cry tears of happiness.

  “All happy endings are sappy. Even Shakespeare wrote sappy endings.”

  Maybe everyone was right. Maybe I was a Grinch. Or a Scrooge. On screen, George Bailey picked up his little girl and held her in his arms. He looked so happy. Blessed and relieved at the same time. But I just didn’t get it.

  “I’m sorry,” I let out. “It just bugs me. He’s so thankful. For what?”

  “To have people that care about him. To get back some of what he gave.”

  And then it hit me.

  “But they OWE him!” I blurted out. “He sacrificed his whole life for that stupid town. All his hopes and dreams. Then, when he’s at the end of his rope, they finally step up in the last reel and throw a couple of bucks in a jar. And he’s grateful? He was too nice, that’s his problem. Maybe if they hadn’t shit all over him for years he wouldn’t be in that position to begin with. That’s like someone trying to choke you to death and you’re grateful to them when they stop.”

  I was too riled up to notice that Nate had started laughing at my tirade. Like I was a stand-up comic doing a bit.

  “I’m sorry,” I apologized. “That sounds horrible.”

  “No. It was just funny watching you get all heated over a holiday classic. It makes sense, though. Okay---let me ask you something: It’s Christmas Eve and
George Bailey feels so hopeless that he’s going to jump off a bridge. Why would anyone rather jump off a bridge than ask for help?”

  “Maybe he feels like he doesn’t deserve help.”

  “But you think he’s a good person, right?”

  “Yeah. He’s a nice person.”

  “Then why wouldn’t he think they would help him?”

  “Well, they never did before.”

  “But he didn’t ask.”

  “You shouldn’t always have to ask.”

  “Okay,” he smiled. “Then I won’t.”

  And then he kissed me.

  “Dorrie!” I heard a voice from behind. It was Alex standing in the doorway.

  “How could you do this to me?” he said in yet another Oscar-winning performance. I had to think quickly.

  “Alex. We broke up. Remember?” I said, trying to jolt his memory.

  “Hey, Alex, um---I’m sorry,” Nate started to fumble for words.

  “Nate,” I tried to stop him. “It’s okay. Because we broke up, Alex. Remember?”

  “Yeah. I remember, but…” he was trying to ad-lib, and it wasn’t going to be good.

  “You told me that you had a work-thing tonight so I told you I was going to stop by.” I tried to give him his cue. “Remember? To get my cat.”

  Pick up your cue! Pick up your cue!

  “You have a cat?”

  Oh no. Oh god no. It was over.

  “Wow,” Nate said as he looked at us both, “that cat really does hide.”

  “Oh, yeah---the cat,” Alex chimed in. “Right.”

  “I should be going,” Nate said as he edged towards the door and accidentally stepped in the hairball.

  “Oh…Nate, I’m sorry about this,” I apologized and handed him some paper towels.

  “It’s okay. You guys probably need to talk or something,” he said as he wiped the hairball off his shoe, but lost his balance and slipped in the rest of the hairball. “I really should go,” he picked himself up and practically ran out the door.

  “How could you do this to me?” I repeated back to Alex, recreating his stunning performance.

  “Isn’t that what I was supposed to say?”

  “Maybe back on page eighteen of the script. Catch up, Barrymore. We broke up. Remember?”

  “But…wouldn’t I still have feelings?”

  “Don’t get all Method on me now,” I said in exasperation.

  “Anyway, I just wanted to stop by and tell you that Celia’s sending a courier over tomorrow with my wallet and a few other things. She thinks I’m still living here so I gave her this address. He’ll be by around six, so just make sure you’re home.”

  “It’s your stuff, why can’t you be here?”

  “I promised Tanya I’d take her to Rao’s for dinner.”

  “You just got back together? How did you get a reservation at Rao’s?”

  “I made it last year. It’s…our anniversary. Cost me an arm and an ass.”

  “Well, you must be using a coupon because I still see an ass.”

  “Oh, funny. You’re getting mouthy in your old age. And since when are you so chummy with the building manager?”

  “And you’re getting senile in yours. Since when did you forget I had a cat?”

  “I’ve never even seen your cat.”

  “What did you think this was?” I said as I held up a dish of cat food.

  “I don’t know. Potpourri?”

  How a grown man who handled other people’s money could think that a dish on the floor filled with brown chunks that smelled like meat was potpourri was beyond my comprehension.

  What I could comprehend the next morning was that it was snowing. Not a blizzard. No crazy winds. Just a steady stream of thick cartoon-like snowflakes floating down past my window. Luckily, the roofers were far enough along in their task that they’d managed to put a tarp over their work. And lucky for me, I had my trusty snow boots to get me thru any snow that might accumulate during the day.

  Unluckily for me, I had to deal with New Yorkers.

  Because about fifty percent of New Yorkers do something that no one does in any other part of the country. An anomaly so bizarre, that when I first witnessed this behavior four years ago, I actually grabbed my cell phone and immediately began calling my friends back home to tell them the craziest thing I’d seen in NYC. Now before I say this, I should make it very clear that the behavior I am about to point out, is absolutely, positively true. This is no urban myth. I am not making this up. And this is---hold onto your hats…

  New Yorkers use umbrellas in the snow.

  Yes! It’s true! I had never seen such a thing in all my thirty years of living in the Midwest, where snow fell regularly and aplenty. In fact, were you to open an umbrella in the snow in Milwaukee people would actually point at you and laugh. Of course, then they might feel bad, and wonder if you might possibly “special” and they shouldn’t have laughed. After all, you might have wandered out of a facility of some sort and become discombobulated by the snowflakes. They might even alert a kindly policeman who would approach you slowly so as not to frighten you, and then ask in a soft and gentle voice, “Everything okay there, little man?”

  But New Yorkers think absolutely nothing of it. It snows and they open an umbrella, as if it were a perfectly normal thing to do.

  It is not.

  You do not use umbrellas in the snow. You use umbrellas in the rain. You use a HAT in the snow. Period. A hat. You can also wear a scarf. Or mittens. Or any other winter paraphernalia you so choose. You do not use an umbrella. Have you ever seen a Norman Rockwell painting of people walking in the snow with an umbrella? No. Because it is not right. It’s unnatural.

  Case closed.

  Nevertheless, I have calculated that approximately fifty percent of New Yorkers will open an umbrella in the snow. Why? I have absolutely no idea. I can only suspect in-breeding of some sort. And if I were ever to run for Mayor of New York City---my first prohibition would be against umbrellas in the snow. Why? Because they look stupid, first of all. Not very good PR for the city that is supposed to house the best and the brightest. Second, because New Yorkers are not very good with umbrellas to begin with. Even in a light rainfall, when some people might simply choose to pull up the hood of their jacket---this is not enough. You can’t do it. You NEED an umbrella. For protection. Because the other people walking down the street with their umbrellas don’t care about you. I’ve had my eye nearly poked out at least ten times in the past four years. And if I were Mayor of New York City, Reckless Umbrella Use would be a crime. It’s the number one unreported crime statistic in this city. It’s time for us to come out of the shadows and reclaim our sidewalks!

  The worst offenders walk down the narrow sidewalk with a giant beach umbrella that could cover a family of five. What kind of a selfish person would do this? If you were my friend, and you opened one of these Selfish Sidewalk Suckers in my presence… I don’t know if I would respect you anymore. And if you did it in the snow? It’s over. Don’t call me for cocktails. Because you and your umbrella have shown your true colors. And by the way, you know what I heard? Big umbrella, small….you know what.