by Mary Carter
I nod and try to get the image of a midget in a trench coat out of my mind. I really was going to have to start reading the newspaper. So I would probably run into Trina after all. But that’s okay. I’m not a file clerk! I am going to have to call Jane the first chance I get and tell her I’ve been promoted to Steve Landon’s assistant. Looks like the Saints aren’t going to punish me for stealing the scarf after all. Margaret finally opens the door, and I step grandly over the threshold into my new home.
“Melanie, this is Steve Beck. He’s the file lead. He reports directly to Trina Wilcox, who is Steve Landon’s assistant.”
I can’t speak. I am still struggling with the fact that instead of a fancy office with a view of the East River, I am actually standing in a file room. And as file rooms go, it is completely hideous. Whereas the rest of the building has the feel of a SoHo loft, the file room could be in a hospital basement for all of its charm. Tan steel cabinets are shoved against drab white walls like rows of teeth awaiting a root canal. Steve Beck is a short, fat boy with red hair and thick, gold glasses. He is standing behind a card table buried in papers. He barely looks up as his thick fingers continue to sort various papers into mysterious piles while Margaret makes the introductions. Before I can tell her that I was kidding, that I too am a paralegal, she races out of the dungeon, leaving me alone with file boy from hell.
“Get to work,” Steve Beck says. He has a high-pitched voice and his nose whistles when he talks. Well hello to you too. “You’ll have to be a little bit more specific,” I say, biting back a hundred insults. “I’m new,” I add in case he is a little slow. He sighs, adjusts his gold-rimmed glasses, and grunts and drops to the floor. My first thought is that he’s having a heart attack and that I’m going to have to do mouth to mouth on this guy. I took CPR training a couple of years ago and had actually been looking forward to using it. But in all the rescue fantasies I had engaged in over the past couple of years, none of them had involved a rude, nose-whistling, pudgy file clerk.
Just as I start looking around for a piece of plastic to use as a barrier between our lips, he pops back up with a cardboard box sagging in his arms. “You can start with these,” he says, lurching across the room and launching the box on me like a hand grenade. I stagger back a few steps as the box hits my chest, and it’s a miracle I don’t fall for the fourth time today. “Client files,” he wheezes. “File them alphabetically, last name first.”
“You’re kidding me,” I say. He answers with a dirty look. “I mean don’t they have some type of electronic filing system here?” I ask.
“No.”
“Oh. Well, they should.”
“They don’t. So file them, Goldilocks.”
“Excuse me?”
“Look, I don’t have time to babysit you. Just do it.”
“My name is Melanie.”
“Whatever.”
I swallow the urge to beat him within an inch of his life. Hell hath no fury like an out-of-work actress and all that. But he isn’t worth it. He is already an overweight file clerk with a nasal condition—what more could I do to him? Three hours of filing later, I’ve had it. My eyes are blurring from staring at tiny typed names, and my hands are aching from hauling overstuffed boxes up and down the dingy rows. Not only am I getting paid less and losing brain cells by the second, it’s also hard manual labor. I resolve right here and now that I will start auditioning again. Otherwise I’ll be doomed to a life of temping and thieving. Tomorrow, I will get the Backstage newspaper, dig my headshots out of the closet, and tweak my resume. I will eat only lean meats and veggies for the next seven days, learn Pilates, and start taking a multivitamin with calcium.
Don’t get me wrong, I’m not just about vanity. I know it takes more than a beautiful face and body to be a really great actress. I learned that lesson at a very young age. I was in the third grade and Mrs. Miller had just announced that our class was going to put on a production of Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs. The next day we would read a few lines from the script and she would assign roles. In that instance, I knew my destiny. I was born to be Snow White. By the time class ended that day, I had whipped myself into such a frenzy that once home I dressed in rags and went about the house pricking my thumb with my mother’s sewing needles, bleeding all over our yellow shag carpet and sobbing “Why can’t I be a normal girl?” I think I was getting Cinderella, Sleeping Beauty, Snow White, and Pinocchio all mixed up, but nevertheless for a third grader I was putting on a stunning performance.
So I wasn’t at all prepared for the next day when Mrs. Miller announced to the entire third-grade class that Lara Thomas was to play Snow White. I stared at my bandaged, bloodied thumb and turned to stone in my seat.
“And Melanie Zeitgar will play the role of the Wicked Queen.”
What? I stared at Mrs. Miller’s bright pink mouth, trying to make sense of what she had just said. Me? The Wicked Queen? Somehow I managed to sit there in my seat and not vomit. Somehow I ignored the snickers from Lara and the rest of the girls as they glanced at me to see how I was taking the news. Somehow I managed not to hurt anyone. Ironically, and again ever the method actress, that afternoon I stole an apple off Mrs. Miller’s desk and chewed on it all the way home.
“Why, Melanie darling,” my mother said later that evening when I dissolved on the kitchen floor in a puddle of grief and rage, “Snow White is nothing. Anyone can play Snow White. The Wicked Queen is a much bigger part. Without her it would be nothing but some little girl humming and skipping around the stage, and who wants to look at that? Honey, it takes a real actress to play the Wicked Queen.”
My tears came to an immediate halt as the linoleum floor and I took in this new information. I lifted my head for a moment to see if she were making a joke. She looked pretty serious. And suddenly this incredible feeling of raw, blinding power surged through me. Mother is right. Snow White is nothing, I thought as a vision of Lara Thomas and her little brown pigtails floated before me. She’s nothing. And boy, is she going to be one sorry Snow White.
I had all of my lines memorized by the next day, my real lines, the lines of a real actress. “Lady Pendula,” I announced in a booming voice, “shall I wear the red dress or the blue?” Every head in the class snapped to my attention, and Mrs. Miller’s bright pink mouth fell open in surprise. I had commanded the stage! And from that day on, Snow White didn’t stand a chance. I was the Wicked Queen. I practiced her voice, her walk, her evil cackling when she pretended to be the old witch bringing the apple to (pathetic) Snow White. The kid playing the mirror on the wall actually shook when I talked to him. Snow White was a joke, a pale shivering stick, a pathetic pawn on my stage.
And my glory and reign lasted throughout rehearsals until the opening night, where I was so into my character that in a fit of Queenly rage I hauled off and smacked Snow White clear across the face before either of us knew what hit her. A week later, when I was allowed to come back to school, I was relegated to backstage duty and Lisa Hardy took over my reign as the Wicked Queen. But despite the suspension and the letters of apology, Dear Lara, I’m reel sorry if I smacked you (just in case there was any question in anyone’s mind if I did or not), and three weeks in a row of no television, I still would have done it all over again. It had been the best night of my life, and from that day forward, I was a real actress.
That’s it! Remembering my roots has infused me with a new passion for my craft. I’m going to really throw myself back into the swing of things.
Once I’m thin I’ll go on at least five auditions per week. That’s only one a day. I can do one a day. I’ll work it out so that it replaces my lunch hour. Temp agencies know that we’re all struggling actors, so they’ll just have to live with it or fire me. Otherwise I am going to die right here next to twelve boxes of expired lawsuits. Steve Beck is boring me to tears. He has allergies, and every few minutes he breaks the silence with a loud, crackly sniff. There is no chance of engaging him in mindless, witty banter. I suddenly yearn for Trin
a Wilcox, even if she does still hate me. When noon hits, I drop my box with a satisfying thud.
Chapter 6
“Time for lunch,” I say happily.
“Not yours,” Steve says with a sniff.
“Pardon me?”
“My lunch is noon to one. Yours is one to one-thirty.”
“One to one-thirty? You’re saying I only get half an hour?”
“That’s correct.”
“But you get an hour?”
“Right again.”
“That’s not fair,” I stammer.
Steve shrugs. “You didn’t start until 9:30. So you get half an hour. Unless you want to stay until 6:30.”
“Six-thirty? I go home at five.”
“Six.”
“Five.” I suddenly feel like I’m ten years old arguing with my brother, Zach, over Monopoly. I always thought that the money for any fines you incurred should go in the middle, giving people a fighting chance to win it all back if they land on the Free Parking square. Zach was a stickler that the fines went to the bank. He was a lawyer at thirteen—cheeky little bastard. Except Zach I loved/hated and this guy I hate/hate.
“My temp agency told me that I was to work from nine to five,” I say in the haughtiest tone I can muster. “I can deal with lunch at one. But I’ll be taking an hour and I’ll be leaving at five.” There. Take that file boy. Steve picks up a lunch sack and heads to the door while I turn back to my files. We both know I’ve won that round, so there’s no need to rub it in.
“You’ll have to take this up with Trina Wilcox,” he says from the doorway as he’s departing. “I believe you two know each other?” He meets my eyes, and when he sees the look of horror creep into them, he smiles for the first and only time all day.
The minute he leaves I stop working and call Kim again. “Hi, Mel,” she says instead of hello. Fucking caller ID. “How did it go with Jane?”
“Didn’t you get my message?” I say in a whisper just in case Steve is lurking in the hallway.
“Um. I don’t think so,” she says.
I roll my eyes. Kim handles questions like a politician up for re-election. “About Trina?”
“Trina?”
“Wilcox,” I say. And then I wait. One never knows whether Kim is actually thinking about what you’ve said or merely parroting your words as a stalling tactic.
“What about her?” she says finally.
“She hates me, doesn’t she?” I whine.
“Oh God,” Kim says. “You’ve seen the Web site.”
Time stops. I have this nagging feeling that I do not want to know what Kim is talking about. I should just skip it. What do I care if Trina Wilcox hates me? I’m a good person. This isn’t about me, it’s about her. Sticks and stones. Don’t worry, Melanie, in the scheme of things, who really cares? You’re supposed to care about cancer and AIDS and terrorists. You’re supposed to do your best to be kind to children, animals and the elderly. If you hang up now, I bargain with myself, I’ll let you steal something on your lunch hour. It won’t count. You’ll still take back the scarf at five, but you can take a little something. It will make you feel better.
“What Web site?” I demand. If Kim had been thinking she would have realized I was clueless and stopped there. But in addition to her beauty Kim was blessed with a childlike innocence, and picking up on subtleties was not her forte.
“Trina’s Web site,” she says again. “And I swear, Melanie—nobody thinks it’s funny. I didn’t know about it until she showed it to everybody at the Fruit of the Loom audition. But don’t worry—she’s the one who came off looking bad. Even the banana thought she was a bitch.” I pause here, not only because unlike me Kim uses cuss words sparingly and I’m thrown that she’s just called Trina a bitch, but for the second time today I have a weird image stuck in my mind. Great. Now I’m thinking about a naked midget and a banana. It served to momentarily distract me from the matter at hand. “Do you hate me for not telling you, Melanie?” Kim says quietly. “I just didn’t want you to get hurt. She’s just jealous.”
I open my mouth to say something but nothing comes out. What is she talking about? Why would I be on a Web site?
“And before you ask,” Kim continues, “the answer is no. You don’t look that fat in real life.”
I slide down the file cabinet and sink to the floor. “I look fat?” I say, trying not to cry. I still don’t even know what she’s talking about, but anytime anyone says “you don’t look that fat in real life”—take it from me—it’s never a good thing.
“And I’m not judging you,” Kim continues. “Honestly, if that’s what you’re into—who am I to judge?”
“What? What am I into?”
“I wouldn’t have believed it was you except you’re wearing my pink diva shirt.” Pink diva shirt, pink diva shirt, pink diva shirt. “You can have it by the way. I could never wear it again now.”
“Kim—”
“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean it that way. I just have too many clothes. You know that—you’ve seen my closet—”
“Kim, listen—”
“But don’t you think it’s kind of funny? I mean, you should almost be flattered, it’s had like a million hits so far.” A million hits? I stare at the ceiling and pray to the Saint of the Drunk and Stupid to jog my memory. Pink diva shirt, pink diva shirt, pink diva shirt. Think, think, think. Nothing is coming to mind. I know the shirt. I know Kim has a pink diva shirt. I did borrow it once too, didn’t I? When did I, when did I, when did I?
Oh, the night of Trina’s party. The famous party where she accused me of stealing her pearl soap dish. The party where Ray and I made our first public appearance as a couple and made love on a pile of coats. Beautiful, magic Ray. How many days has it been since he’s called me? Is it eight? Nine? It feels like longer. He’ll call. He’s a guy. They have to do their caveman thing. It’s not personal; it’s just what they do. It means he likes me. Just the thought of Ray is restoring peace and balance to the panic that is rolling around in my brain. Who cares about a Web site? I, Melanie Zeitgar, am dating Ray Arbor. Ray. Arbor. Isn’t that a beautiful name? Like a sunny field of trees.
“Oh God. You don’t think that’s why Ray hasn’t called you, do you?” Kim asks, setting my sunny field of trees ablaze. “Because of the Web site?”
I’ve never been hit by a train. As a kid, my brother and I would walk along the railroad tracks near our house picking up smooth blue glass and flattened pennies, listening attentively for the sound of a whistle, anticipating the delicious feel of vibrations on the tracks. Zach would torture me with stories of kids “just like us” who had been innocently walking the tracks when, blam, here comes the train and there’s nowhere to go and now they’re dead. Just like the movie Stand by Me based on Steven King’s short story “The Body,” every kid secretly dreams of narrowly escaping a speeding train.
But now that I know the feeling, the fantasy is gone. It’s none other than raw dread. I can feel it in my bones. I’m on the tracks and the train is coming. I have one last chance to hide. One last little chance to throw my body flat against the retaining wall, taste the bitter bite of concrete, feel the sun on my shoulders for the last time, and most likely pee my pants as the tracks start to vibrate from the force of steel hurling toward me at eighty miles an hour. “What is the Web address?” I groan as the train streaks by. “What’s the fucking Web address?”
Not only am I locked in a tiny room with no windows and a psycho file boy, I’m also sans computer. I have to see the Web site. Why in the world would I be on a Web site? I peek into the hallway. It’s as quiet as the desert. I head down the hallway back toward the reception area and enter the first office I come across. This is more like it. This office has gleaming hardwood floors and floor to ceiling windows with a great view of the Empire State Building. There is a leather couch and chair, a bamboo coffee table, and a mahogany desk. The walls are adorned with black-and-white photos of New York City from the twenties to today. I li
ke the person who lives here and I wish I had more time to snoop around, but Steve Beck is going to be back from lunch any minute now. He’s the type who will finish ten minutes early just so he can catch you doing something wrong, and it’s obvious that he’s Trina’s little pawn.
The computer is right there on the desk. I have yet to move past the entrance. So far, I’m safe. If anyone came by now, I’d say I was just admiring the photos from afar. I could even claim to be a bit of a photographer myself. Aren’t we all? The computer may be password protected and it will be a mute point, but I still have to have a story in case someone sees me. Think, Melanie. What is a good excuse? Why would I be snooping around on a computer my first day here? If someone comes in, I’ll have to make up some kind of e-mail emergency. It is now or never.
The computer is already logged on and I am relieved to see an AOL icon on the desktop. I sign in as a guest, log in my screen name and password, and within seconds the cursor blinks in the http address line. My hands shake as I type in the Web address, fuming at the title. Shemalediva.com.
I wait another few seconds and then suddenly the entire screen is filled with a picture of the ugliest woman I have ever seen. She is on her knees and her mouth is thrown back in ecstasy. Strangest of all, she looks like she has a large wooden penis. Her hands are wrapped around it and she appears to be masturbating. And, if you’re not yet completely horrified—here’s the part I really can’t swallow. Here’s the part that has me bolted to the spot, staring in slack-jawed, nauseating terror. She is me.
Chapter 7
I can’t stand. I sink into the leather desk chair and continue to stare at my image. From the looks of my hair, the picture must have been taken toward the end of the evening. I was deliriously drunk and madly in love with Ray. We had just made love in Trina’s bedroom under a pile of coats and purses. In fact I had even managed to collect a few postcoital trinkets (a tube of ChapStick, a magnet that said ARE YOU A BITCH OR DO YOU JUST LIVE IN NEW YORK, and a pack of Camel Lights that I later give to an anorexic model).
