“More, I want more.”
“What if I tell you I have no more to give? I enjoy sleeping with you. I like your company. I am not into the Valentine’s day definition of love.”
“Are you sleeping with Ashton Carlisle?”
“See, now that sort of question, the implication behind it, implies possession. To me you’re saying, ‘I own you so I must know everything you do.’ I have my own life. We share part of it, you and I, and it feels good when we’re together. The other part is my business. You only cause yourself grief when you invade it.”
“But Juliet, we’ve been—well, I guess you could say, together, for several years now. It doesn’t go anywhere. And I’m not very good at sharing someone I love.”
“Poor boy,” she said, placing her hand on the side of his head. “I’m certainly aware that you see our connection as one-sided. You are definitely into the love and commitment thing, and I’m into living for the present. It’s a different way of looking at the world.”
“That’s all it is to you: a different way of looking at the world? What about loyalty, what about compassion for someone close to you? Doesn’t any of that enter into it?”
“I can see it does for you.”
“But not for you.” He stopped and gathered himself up. “I don’t think I can do this any more.”
“Do what? See me? Go to bed with me? Your penis will miss me, Harry, even if your heart feels unfulfilled.”
“It’s not only about my penis. It’s about two people with an affinity for each other—and what do they do about that? If I hear you correctly, nothing, just let it go on the way it is, no questions asked, a superficial relationship.”
“But, don’t you see, it isn’t superficial. We are friends. I do cherish our friendship, and every so often I enjoy celebrating it with you in a physical way.”
He stopped. It was an impasse. He was beginning to get it.
His response was slightly altered from a moment earlier: “I’m not sure I can do this anymore.”
Juliet picked up on the vacillation, and said, “Yes you can.”
Same oppressive traffic on the way back, only he didn’t notice. His heart was heavy with frustration, Juliet’s familiar reasoning once more keeping him outside, homeless in a way, a beggar pleading for, but never quite getting, the handout he wanted.
If that were all, he might have stashed it away with an, “Oh well, at least I’m still on her radar screen,” but it wasn’t; he was deeply disappointed in himself. To have a meaningless, rootless love affair with someone for several years was one thing, but to know, absolutely know, it was less than satisfying and still do nothing about it, was unconscionable. He was spineless, a mouse, no, not a mouse, a rat, a lowly, crawling thing, a corner-animal, afraid to face the light, fearful—and this was it, the crux of the whole thing—of losing whatever brittle connection existed. To be alone, have no one, to give up even the anticipation of a periodic intimacy, however non-intimate it was, seemed too much to forfeit.
That, it seemed to him, as he sat like a badly digesting meal in the belly of Los Angeles’ absurd traffic scene, was his life’s theme, what plagued him, the weakness that kept him from the universal goal of happiness. He had, he decided, no guts. He was a coward.
SIX
C owardice does not discriminate when it comes to subject matter; having no nerve for one face-off carries over to having no nerve in others.
Harry began to understand, painfully, that was why he never confronted his parents either, never stood up to their controls. He was, for heaven’s sakes, a man now, no longer a child, no longer under their umbrella. Even financially, he could hold his own. Not to confront Juliet, not to level with his parents—these indecisions contaminated his life.
The cure for the pain is in the pain, he remembered his friend saying. But what did that mean? How would he do that? It was less scary to avoid kissing Juliet off and to steer clear of educating his parents about his childhood resentments, than to confront them; a lot easier, as Juliet declared, to live for the present, enjoy his current assignment, treasure his fellow cast members, and be glad he had a good friend like Katy Bloom. But that would not mean going into the pain to root it out. Something had to change.
Something did, but it was not what Harry expected, nor did it sit well with him, though he skirted the why of that feeling.
A major backer of the Odyssey Theater, the ensemble group to which Katy returned when Seascape at the Playhouse ended, was a man, Randolph “Randy” Gold. He was a well-connected contractor on the west side of Los Angeles, a theater buff, and a man divorced for eight years, with no children and absolutely no ties with his ex. He saw each play a couple of times, as if the productions were partly his, invested emotionally as well as financially in their success.
He felt a strong pull for Katy. That he was eighteen years older than she did not seem to be an issue. He began to pursue her, with flowers—where the note always cited her outstanding performance—with thoughtful cards that expressed appreciation for her talent and, yes, her beauty, and finally with an invitation for dinner. She accepted. She liked him. He was open and direct, and she gauged that he was a progressive man, tuned into world affairs, and certainly responsive to the arts.
One evening, when Harry called, she said, breathlessly, “I can’t talk right now, I’m late for a date.” Next day, he wondered if he could stop over, and of course she said yes.
Carmona had suggested he hold off on committing to another role for a couple of weeks, that he was exploring some interesting possibilities for Harry. But his agent, Nan Bartell, railed at the idea: “He doesn’t represent you, I do. I’m your agent. I have feelers out and we’re going to hit something big any day now.” Harry was disposed to follow Carmona’s advice. That gave him some open time, allowed him the freedom to visit his friends at any hour of the day, and at their convenience.
Hot, green, decaffeinated, herbal tea, was what he drank at Katy’s, her preference and his acquiescence. He liked it okay, preferred coffee, though he rarely drank more than a cup or two a day.
“So, are you coming back to the Odyssey? They’d be happy to have you.”
“Carmona thinks something will hit in a couple of weeks. I thought I’d sit out for a while.”
“Mm. Next fall’s lineup is about to be finalized. I think we’re going to do the new Shanley play, and a revival of Children of a Lesser God. De Genera’s got a really wonderful deaf woman to play the lead.”
“Neat.”
“What’s with Juliet? Finished with that far east movie?”
“It’s in the editing process. She bought a townhouse in Santa Monica. About to move.”
“In the money now, well, good for her.”
“Uh, so are you dating someone?”
“Actually, I have a boyfriend.”
“A boyfriend?”
“This guy, Randy, is an angel at the Odyssey. You may have seen him around. He comes to all the shows.”
“Randy Gold?”
“Yes. He’s a sweet man. It doesn’t hurt that he has a little bank account too.”
“But, he’s quite a bit older.”
“I’m twenty-seven and he’s forty-five. Not so big a spread.”
“I think it’s big,” he said with irritation.
Katy’s brow creased and she tilted her head slightly. What was this, Harry showing signs of jealousy?
“Come on, old friend, he’s young at heart.”
“Have you…oh, never mind.”
“What?”
“Nothing. Uh, I’m glad you’re so happy.”
“I didn’t say I was so happy. It feels good. He treats me well.”
“Love is over-rated.”
“I don’t know about that. It’s just hard to find.”
“Even if you find it, when it’s one-sided, it hurts.”
“I know, Harry. I’m sorry. Your experience with Juliet is frustrating.”
“I hope yours isn’t one sid
ed,” he said, both sincere care and censure in his tone.
She smiled, not in derision, not in triumph, but in sadness—to love one person and settle for another, to her, was the ultimate hurt.
“Thanks for your good wishes. So far, I don’t have any idea if there is love involved. It feels nice. I feel cared about when I’m around him.”
He flashed on his own shortcomings, negligence on his part that his expressions of affection for Juliet did not show her, deeply enough, that he cared about her. As for Katy, if he were pursuing her, he knew he could make her feel special; after all, she was special.
“He’d be a fool if he treated you in a shabby way.”
She laughed and said, “I’d be a fool if I took it.”
“I’d better go. I’m expecting my agent to call.”
“Got a new project?”
“Maybe.”
“Harry, you’re upset.”
“Uh, I’m fine.”
“You don’t seem fine.
“I said I’m fine. It’s Juliet. I’ll work it out. You’ve got your own relationship to deal with.”
He left without hugging her, without a smile, his newest burden mysterious and shadowy, yet vexing.
At home, in his silent and increasingly barren apartment, he sat alone for over an hour. Idiot! Asshole! Prick! Now you've alienated your best friend as well. Who is left?
SEVEN
F or the elderly, time is an adversary, to be watched with caution, somewhat like the last few minutes in a close basketball game when the announcer notes, “Time is becoming a factor.” For the young, time meanders, is an ally, often cited in “I’ll do it later,” or “I’m not in the mood right now.” The disparities are obvious: for the one, a stunning awareness that the play, somehow, has whisked by and the final act is running out, and for the other, an abstraction, trivial.
Two thorny years sprinted or ambled away, depending on one’s perceptions.
“But, I don’t want to go to Hawaii in April. I have an opportunity for a juicy role at the Geffen. I can’t let it slip by.”
“Look, Katy, I have an option on a townhouse in Maui. April is the perfect time. There will be other parts.”
Same old story. She was beginning to realize that her agenda was subordinate. Neat man, this Randy Gold, but why did it always have to be about him? Why were the other person’s needs less important?
“This is a lead role, in a revival of a Stoppard play called Jumpers. It kind of mirrors his own life—his first marriage was breaking up when he wrote it, and in the play the marriage between a professor of moral philosophy and his glamorous actor wife is going down the tubes. It’s a buoyant comedy, but with typical Stoppard absurdity, and for the performers, it’s elegant and challenging.”
“You’ve been in seven different plays in the last two years. No one will forget you. Other opportunities are bound to come up.”
“But, you don’t have to worry about your time. You can take off whenever you want. I need to earn my way.”
“I’m paying for it!” he said, with irritation. “It has nothing to do with money. It’s whether or not I’m your priority.”
He always turned it onto her, made her the villain in the piece. It confused her, planted doubt in her sense of herself as an empathic person. “I guess I don’t see it that way. I know you don’t agree, but to me it’s you not giving equal weight to my activities. You disrespect my work and my choices.”
“I don’t disrespect anything about you—except maybe that you don’t trust my judgment. I enjoy your acting. Your performances give me a lot of pleasure. It’s just that theater is make-believe, and you and I have a real-life relationship that needs to be honored.”
Now what? How would she answer that? His reasoning seemed so self-centered. “Randy,” she said slowly and with a grim-faced resolve, “I will not be the back two legs of a couch. Any union has to be an equal enterprise. My judgment is as valuable as yours. So, don’t trivialize what I do and explain it away that I am dishonoring you and me. I’m not. I’m standing firm on my rights as a full partner in our relationship. In fact, if I’m not, then you and I don’t have a relationship.”
“What nonsense! Don’t I…haven’t I treated you well? Don’t I give you all kinds of things? Presents? Travel? Elegant living? I’m a generous man, well respected, successful, you know, on top of the heap. All I’m asking is that you believe in me, and defer, now and then, to my wishes.”
“A two-way street. I defer too often to your wishes. Now and then, you have to defer to mine.”
He slammed his open hand on the small, round table in the Starbucks across from the Odyssey Theater, rattling the cups and spilling a few swirls of coffee.
Heads swiveled and eyes stared as Randy said, in a fierce whisper, “That is horseshit! You don’t appreciate what you have in me.”
A twinge of fear danced around Katy; he had never been physically violent with her, but this was a trespass she could not ignore, an overstepping of civility, especially between two people who had been intimate with each other.
“Randy!” she said with clear alarm in her voice, “you need to calm down. I am not good with anger, and certainly not with any physical show of it.”
“Really? Well, one thing I demand from a woman is respect. When you refuse to consider my wishes, that’s a lack of respect.”
“I respect so much about you. I don’t appreciate bullying in any form.”
“Who’s bullying?”
“That’s what it feels like when you try to get your way by intimidation.”
He was silent, Katy not sure if it was a strategic pose, or whether he was truly considering her admonition. Finally, as far as she was concerned still ambiguously, he replied, “I’ll try to watch myself. No intimidation, only logic and credibility. You’ll see that I only want what’s best for us.”
“I’ll see,” she said, settling for ambiguity herself.
Though her work had been fulfilling, no cosmic break had come her way. It had to be, her fellow actors thought, and perhaps Katy acknowledged, that she refused to sleep her way to fame. Or, it could be because her beauty was wholesome and esoteric rather than a flaunted sensuality; fame always seemed to settle on the licentious and the wicked.
That her interpretations bordered on the brilliant was not denied by theater people and the Odyssey treasured her affiliation with them. On occasion, as with the Pasadena Playhouse two years earlier, she would be invited by another venue for a role, and would take a leave from her home base for a few months, only to return to the Odyssey, to their and her mutual satisfaction.
Now, the larger and more influential Geffen Playhouse in Westwood, the theater where Juliet got her big break in Sam Shephard’s Buried Child, was casting for Jumpers, a Tom Stoppard satire on the absurdities of moral philosophy imbedded in a failing marriage. It was a particularly intricate role and would be a plum if she could get it.
While Katy was a bit younger than the part called for, the director liked her style and elegance, and was toying with the idea of appropriate make-up permitting Katy to fit the role. The decision had not yet been made. She was waiting. It would be a marvelous opportunity.
The ongoing friction between them was not whimsy, hardly a minor disturbance; she had been put off by Randy’s constant self-indulgence for over a year, and this latest insistence, on her work being placed on hold to meet his desires, exacerbated the situation. But she was not sure what to do about it. In so many other ways, he had enriched her life: Hawaii once before, the Yucatan last winter, presents of all kinds, gatherings with celebrities; in all, a whirlwind of elegance. How could she dismiss those perks?
His focus, she was beginning to see, was not a casual or intermittent conceit, but a steady, serious kind of vanity that made him unpalatable. She needed to know more about those symptoms, and it was one topic she could not address with Harry.
John Carmona at the Pasadena Playhouse had become a mentor of sorts, and she knew he had so
me kind of psychology background. She called him and asked to meet—he was more than delighted, and she drove to the theater and entered his pleasant, if underwhelming office.
“Well, cutie, what’s disturbing you? A talent like yours ought to bring some sense of tranquility.”
“It’s a personal thing, and I’m not sure I ought to burden you with it, but I need some guidance.”
“Okay, spill it and I’ll try to guide.”
“I’ve had this boyfriend…”
She laid out the scenario and Carmona listened the way a shrink might, nodding, clarifying on occasion, never interrupting, supportive in his manner, clearly empathic. When, after some five minutes of narration, she seemed to trail off, gloomy and dejected, he nodded silently and sat perfectly still for a long moment.
“Katy, my young friend,” he said at last, in a somber tone, “this boyfriend of yours is a classic case of Narcissism. I’ve seen it a lot in actors. This one is a self-adoring entrepreneur, who has little space for others. I’m surprised you’ve hung in there this long.”
“Because of all the other things, I guess, the affection and the lavish proffering of gifts. He can be charming, generous. And then he turns it around and demands.”
“Sure, that’s part of the pattern. There’s a good little book about it if you want to read up on the topic. I think it’s called Trapped in the Mirror, or something like that. I can get it for you. You know, it is said that the French Revolution was engendered by Louis XIV expressing his monomaniacal comment, ‘L’etat, c’moi,’ I am the state—his own ego so enormous that he believed his wants were France’s. And charm is a vital element of Narcissists. They are constantly selling themselves.”
“How could I fall into something like this?”
He looked at her with compelling affection. “Look, Katy, you are a precious young woman, super talented, attractive, a superb catch for some man, and yet you are single. When you are single—in your case single because of an addiction, which I’ll address in a moment—you tend to be lonely. When you are lonely, you pick up on a man, maybe any man, who expresses warmth and fondness for you. It assuages the loneliness.”
Famous Page 16
