My heart says I have a wonderful opportunity here. And that just because I wouldn’t be living with Gram anymore, it doesn’t mean I’ll not be able to visit her often to check up on her, spend time with her, and make sure she’s okay. She lived a lot of years alone before I moved in with her. And though she’s gotten older…now I’m feeling like shit again. Grandpa Danny walked out on her, and I’m sure she feels like I’m abandoning her as well.
But?
I want her to applaud my decision. I want her to be happy for me.
She will. No, strike that. Maybe she will. But understand for now that it’s difficult for her. At least as hard as it is for you to be comfortable with your choice.
This isn’t easy.
Of course not, Alice. It’s not supposed to be. It’s life.
Well, at least I can take comfort in recognizing that I’m not the first or only person ever to agonize over decisions like this, right?
You must be joking. Join the club, Alice. Time to take responsibilty for your actions and your decisions. Heck, girl, it’s time to take action and make decisions.
“I am so glad you don’t own a piano,” Dorian wheezed, straining to haul a box of books up Eric’s front stoop. I’d rented a small U-Haul to transport my stuff, which consisted primarily of clothes, books, collectibles, and CDs. Dorian was the designated driver, since neither Izzy nor I have licenses, being the true dyed-in-the wool Bronx girls that we are. Moving day became a Tom-Sawyer-like adventure, since I’d managed to convince Dorian that in helping me schlep my stuff, he was getting a free workout, thereby gaining considerable strides toward the “six-pack” abdominal definition he so coveted. Izzy was just glad to get out of the house and away from Dominick for a few hours. I’ve never known two people who love each other as much as they profess to do, to fight so much. They argue even more than my parents do, which is quite a feat.
And where was Eric during all this? Bart Harrison demanded his presence even though it was a Saturday, so Eric was in the office from early morning until about four P.M., when he came home to find us relaxing in his garden. Over Chinese take-out and champagne on Eric’s slate patio, my best friends waxed rhapsodic over my new verdant view. “If I woke up to this every morning,” Dorian mused, I’d never go anywhere. I’d probably just sit out here and drink all day. Or maybe I’d become a screenwriter.”
“You could do both,” Izzy offered helpfully. “I’ve been told it’s possible.” She refilled her champagne glass. “Alice, you have to let me know how the morning commute into midtown is from out here. If it’s not too heinous, maybe I can get Dominick to look for a rental in the neighborhood.” She leaned back in her chair and focused her gaze on the ivy tendrils climbing the trellises on Eric’s garden walls. “I could sure use a change from looking straight into the kitchen across the way. I know what everyone in Apartment 3-C, including their dog, has for breakfast. And sometimes the only way Dominick and I can drown out the sound of their knock-down drag-outs is to fight even louder ourselves.” She laughed ruefully. “Jesus, I sound like a broken record. That’s all I ever seem to talk about, isn’t it? Don’t answer that; it was rhetorical.” Izzy raised her glass. “Well, here’s to healthy relationships.” She looked at me and Eric. “Somebody’s gotta have ’em, right?”
Eric reached across the table, took my hand in his, and nodded. He noticed a tear beginning to trickle out of the corner of my eye. “You okay, muppet?” he asked. “I love you. You know that, don’t you?”
“Uh-huh. I’m very happy. I was just thinking about Gram, that’s all. I need to know that she’s going to be okay.”
“Hey, I’ve got that covered,” Dorian said softly. “I decided to take her up on the tap-dancing lessons after all, so I’ll be going over there a few times a week for a couple of hours. She’s even offered to feed me dinner.” I chuckled at Dorian’s ability to make things somehow inure to everyone’s benefit. It was a gift. “That’s what friends are for,” he added.
“Dorian, you crack me up,” Izzy said.
He rose from the wrought-iron garden chair and approached a branch dangling over the back wall of the garden, laden with some sort of bright red berries. “I wonder if these would be any good in the champagne,” he said, grasping a handful.
“I wouldn’t do that if I were you,” Eric cautioned.
“Why? Is it poaching or something to take them?”
Eric grinned. “Nope, they’re my berries, but I don’t want you to sue me if you eat them and end up in the hospital. It may be pretty out here, but it’s still New York. They came through and sprayed for the West Nile Virus a couple of weeks ago. So who knows what poison is all over them.”
“You never tasted them?” I asked.
Eric shook his head. “I’m not much of a risk-taker. A real chickenshit,” he kidded.
Dorian returned to the table, berry-less, champagne glass in hand, looking glum. “I would have tried them,” he said.
“That’s because they’re growing wild, so you wouldn’t have had to pay for them,” Izzy teased. When Dorian looked insulted and hurt, Izzy apologized and quickly changed the subject. “Okay, someone’s got to ask this. I’ve been waiting for months now and it’s never been brought up. The suspense has been killing me. Eric, why do you call Alice ‘muppet’?”
“I’ve been dying to know this, too,” I concurred, “but I’ve been too afraid of the answer.”
Eric laughed. “Have you ever seen Alice dance?”
“Is she worse than me?” Dorian asked. “I’ve got no rhythm.”
“She looks like that blond muppet chick that hangs around with the band. You know, Animal and Dr. Teeth and those guys.”
What the hell was he talking about? “Eric, when have you ever seen me dance like that?”
He ran his hand down the side of his face and rested his chin in his palm. “The very first day I came down to the document-coding room at Newter & Spade, you had a set of headphones on. You were bopping around to whatever song you were listening to—unless it was a meditation tape,” he joked. “And you looked exactly like that blond muppet.”
“I think you’re far too familiar with Sesame Street for a man your age,” I teased.
“For the record, I want you both to know that this remark was made by a woman in her thirties who just moved in with her boyfriend and brought her baby doll with her. And I’m not talking about a negligee,” Eric told Izzy and Dorian. “Not that I mind; I’ve still got my very first teddy bear. It’s just that—”
“You want the jury to note the irony in Ms. Finnegan’s casting aspersions on the content of your television viewing habits,” Izzy said, mimicking Eric’s legal jargon.
We killed off about three bottles of bubbly. Good thing we’d already returned the U-Haul. Dorian and Izzy insisted on taking the train back into Manhattan, so Eric and I tipsily staggered uphill to the station with them, saw them safely off, then took a walk around the neighborhood. I hadn’t realized that I now lived several blocks from the subway. Even though I’d been spending a lot of time at Eric’s since we’d started dating, I hadn’t thought too much about the commute. It might take some getting used to on a daily basis. Oh, well, at least it would be good exercise.
We were approaching midsummer. After a few weeks, I did indeed grow accustomed to the routine, although there were a few times when I was unlucky enough to end up in an unair-conditioned car in a crowded train stalled between stations. Being squashed amid hundreds of straphangers packed like sardines, armpits raised to reach the railings, is not exactly a pleasant experience. I’d arrive at work feeling like I could use a second shower.
Coming home, though, was often a blessing. As I walked down Seventh Avenue toward my new home, I could feel my body relaxing, adjusting to the slower, more leisurely pace of life. The sidewalks teemed with kids at play, there were a number of artsy-craftsy emporiums to browse in, affordable restaurants—and my garden, my new-found greatest joy. Most often, I had the patio to myself in
the early to mid-evenings, since Eric was invariably working late on one case or another. He was still going full steam ahead on the tobacco class-action suit, and the investigation of Newter & Spade’s activities with regard to AllGood Telecom was also very much on the firm’s front burner. The combination of negative press, plus an evident financial downturn meant that the law office had hired fewer summer associates than ever before, so this season Eric was working even harder. Of course the summer associate deal was a source of embarrassment to Newter & Spade. They pretended it was business as usual all around, but I noticed plenty of anxious faces, including Eric’s, in their corridors of power. Any source of concern to him became a matter of interest to me as well, though I was tremendously relieved that it wasn’t my career on the line all the time.
As far as my theatrical endeavors were going, things were typically slow during the summer, so there weren’t too many auditions worth attending. I think I’d been living in Brooklyn for close to a month before I had a reason to awaken in the pre-dawn hours in order to get to the Actors’ Equity building by daybreak, get the audition over with, and report to my computer terminal at Newter & Spade before ten A.M. A major regional Shakespeare festival with more endowments than Pamela Anderson was looking for replacements for their season and a number of roles were right up my alley.
Eric hadn’t come home until after midnight, and he needed his sleep, so I didn’t want to wake him at five A.M. to ask him to accompany me to the subway. After downing two cups of high-test black coffee and dressing nicely in a floaty summer floral print dress and strappy sandals, I headed up the hill toward the station. The streets were desolate; the sun hadn’t even begun to consider rising and shining. I commiserated with it. I waited for the subway for about ten minutes and made sure to enter the center car where the conductor is stationed. At that early hour, I had the car all to myself. At the next stop, a young man got on and wedged himself into one of the corner seats as though the train were packed with passengers. By the time we arrived at the last stop in Brooklyn before heading under the East River into Manhattan, there were barely a handful of other riders on board.
When I prepare for an audition, I sometimes mutter to myself, reworking my monologue over and over in my head, ensuring that the words and the emotions behind them are such second nature to me that whatever nerves or anxiety I have about auditioning are transcended once I launch into my speech. I was focused on my thoughts, running through my monologue, and I honestly can’t recall whether I was very softly giving voice to the speech or whether I was only mouthing the words when the young man approached me.
“Hey.”
I looked up.
“You’re bothering me.”
A stab of panic hit my gut. We were in the tunnel now; it would be a few minutes before we reached the next station. The other passengers had their noses buried in books or newspapers. “I’m sorry,” I stammered. I already knew something was wrong.
The man got even closer. I could smell his breath, the odor of his skin, a repugnantly sweaty masculine scent. “Gimme your wallet,” he said in a quiet, even voice. Before I could consider a response, whether physical or verbal, I heard a click and saw his blade stop just centimeters from my midriff.
I’ve never studied martial arts except in theater classes where the aim is not to injure your opponent, even though you’re supposed to be giving the appearance of inflicting bodily harm. I have no self-defense training whatsoever. Even if I had known what to do, would I have been able to summon the wherewithal to execute it anyway? A million thoughts flashed through my brain. I thought about Eric asleep in our bed. About Gram as my life’s guiding light. About ending up in a pool of blood over a few dollars and some credit cards.
Apparently I was spending too much time thinking.
“I said, bitch—” the man slapped my face. Very hard. I felt my head go back and hit the wall of the subway car. I tasted blood and my cheek immediately began to throb like crazy. “I said, gimme your fucking wallet!” He hit me again, on the same side of my face, and grabbed my purse—which I had been wearing over my head and across my chest—breaking the shoulder strap. The sharp tug on the leather sliced into the back of my neck. The laceration stung me.
No one looked up. They remained frozen in their seats, looking toward the ground, undoubtedly wishing they were somewhere else.
My assailant whipped around and faced the rest of the car, menacingly brandishing his knife, “Don’t nobody move!” he commanded. As the train lumbered into the next station, he fumbled through my purse for my wallet. Because of the configuration of the stations, the conductor had been in the next car, having had to open the doors on the opposite side of the train at the last station in Brooklyn. The mugger located the zippered compartment where my wallet had been stashed just as the doors were opening. He took the wallet, threw my purse on the floor, dashed out of the subway car, and raced up the nearest set of stairs that led to the street before I could even approach the conductor.
I was shaking. My face must have resembled a piece of meat. It hurt too much to cry. Finally, another passenger came to my aid and helped me retrieve my damaged purse and the rest of its contents, including my makeup kit, which had opened and spilled stuff all over the place. It was going to take more than Max Factor to repair the damage, I was certain.
They held the train in the station while the conductor summoned the police. This did not endear me to the now-increased number of riders who, despite my ravaged appear ance, were pissed off at the delay, and seemed to be holding it against me personally. By the time the Transit Authority cop arrived, the kid was long gone anyway, but the cop took a statement from me, wrote up my complaint, and said he’d do his best to track down my attacker. I didn’t really believe him, but at least he was sympathetic. I opted to just get back on a train and head to Actors’ Equity as originally planned, where I knew there’d be a clean bathroom, dressing area, and a number of functioning phones. I was sure I could bum a quarter off someone, so I could cancel my credit cards.
But not for a couple of hours yet. I forgot how early it still was. The union doesn’t open its doors, even to its membership, until eight A.M., even though performers line up for hours ahead of time on the filthy, smelly—especially in the summer—sidewalk waiting to secure an audition. When I arrived on West Forty-sixth Street, I scanned the line for familiar faces. There were already a dozen or so actors who had set up camp, with portable stick chairs and plenty of reading material.
My face had swollen so much that I could barely see out of my left eye. As I walked the length of the unemployment line, someone grabbed my arm. “Jesus, M, and J, what happened to you?!” Izzy exclaimed.
I reconstructed the incident for her. I felt entirely numb, surprising myself that I still couldn’t seem to cry. I touched my lip. It was tender and raw. Flecks of dried blood came off on my fingertip.
“You don’t seriously think you’re going to audition like this? C’mon with me.” She tapped the shoulder of the actor ahead of her on the line. “Would you mind holding our place, please?” When she got a nod of assent, she grabbed my hand and whisked me off to the McDonald’s on the corner, where she procured some ice and several fistfuls of paper napkins. “I don’t think you want to look at this right now,” she said, gently dabbing at my split lip. She reached around and felt the back of my head. “You’ve got a lump there, too,” she said, wiping blood off her fingers. “We’ve really got to clean you up.”
“Fuckfuckfuckfuckfuck,” I kept muttering.
Izzy gingerly gave me a hug. “Hey, sweetie, you’re alive and that’s what matters. And I know it doesn’t look pretty right now, but at least he didn’t bust any teeth, or your nose or your eye socket, so you won’t need plastic surgery.”
“Again?” I asked weakly, deliberately referring to my ill-fated audition for Lois Sarkisian. We both chuckled.
“Well, at least you’ve still got your sense of humor,” Izzy said.
“Do me a
favor, Iz.”
“What?”
“Don’t tell my grandmother. I know you. You’ll tell Dorian and Dorian will mention it to Gram when he goes for his next tap-dancing lesson, and she’ll freak out and get heart palpitations—literally—and I’ll be okay, so it’s not worth it to worry her.”
I couldn’t believe what happened when eight A.M. rolled around and they finally opened the building. Along with all the other performers, Izzy and I were ushered up the back stairs to the second-floor lounge and audition studios.
No one is admitted into this area until they flash a valid Actors’ Equity card, verifying that they are a union member in good standing. As I neared the front desk, I automatically reached into my purse for my wallet, only to remember that it had been stolen two and a half hours earlier. “I got mugged on the subway in from Brooklyn,” I explained to the Equity staffer.
“Sorry,” he said, “those are the rules.” He pointed to a sign that was posted on the wall.
“Look, I know that—and I know why you have those rules, and I’m sure they’re a grand idea…but…look,” I repeated. “Look at my face! You can see I’ve been assaulted. The guy took my wallet; my Equity card was inside it, yes, I am a member in good standing, just check the computer—”
“The administrative offices don’t open until nine-thirty,” the gatekeeper replied curtly, without a trace of sympathy. “You can wait outside until then.”
“Can’t she at least wait in the lounge?” Izzy asked, “until this can be straightened out?”
“Nope. Sorry. We’ve got rules.”
“Your rules are bullshit!” Izzy shouted at him, and started to drag me by the hand past his station, but the guy blocked my way.
I tried reason. “You think I’ve come all the way from Brooklyn and just happened to pick, of all places on the planet, the Actors’ Equity members’ lounge to get myself cleaned up after I’ve been mugged and beaten!”
“No, I think you might be sneaking in here to audition for a union job—”
Temporary Insanity Page 12
