At the end of the day, Texas Jesus leads the whole company in Garth Brooks’s “I’ve Got Friends in Low Places” around the electric piano he brought from Texas. Nothing like Garth Brooks to open up the primordial wound.
• • •
It has been two blissful weeks of singing, massaging, and visualizing winning Oscars and our deaths. The only turd in the punch bowl is Hans. He’s convinced that I’ve broken the contract and am having sex with one of the Texas actors and continues to shoot me furious looks throughout the day. Sadly, he’s wrong.
This morning Nico announced that the company is ready for the next level and she will be pairing people up to work on scenes. No performances yet. We’re at least a year away from that. She’s got a remarkable ability to sense what people need; where they are blocked; who’s most likely to be killed by whom. Hans and I will be working together on a scene from the play Danny and the Deep Blue Sea by John Patrick Shanley.
Hans will be playing the role of Danny, a truck driver prone to violent outbursts whose nickname is the Animal. Nico would like me to play the role of Roberta, a divorced mother haunted by memories of an ugly sexual incident in her past. It’s a real madcap comedy. Playing a victimized lady is a stretch for me and will require real acting skills. All Hans has to do is show up.
Twenty minutes into the first rehearsal and Hans, the man who cried tears of joy on our first date when I made him spaghetti, and who less than a month ago was throwing up into my trash can and asking me to marry him, has tried to strangle me twice. Nico doesn’t believe in blocking, so whenever Hans gets a whim to put his hands around my throat, he throws in a few little flourishes of strangling and blames his wound. I get one line out and then spend the rest of the scene trying to dodge his lunges at me.
“I need a break,” I say, and run toward the door. He runs right after me and grabs my arm to pull me back into the scene. “Stop! Curtain! Half time! Let go! Ow! Ow! Ow! Your nails are digging into me! That’s me talking! Not the character—Sarah or—”
I can’t remember my character’s name. Stumbling out of the room I collapse in the hallway in tears, yelling “Stop it! I can’t breathe! I can’t breathe!” Hans is hunched over his backpack getting a drink of water.
“What are you talking about? Why can’t you breathe? I’m not touching you!”
He suggests we take a break. I guess he needs to ice down his wrists so he can keep strangling me without getting carpal tunnel and make it through the rest of the rehearsal.
I scream one more “ow” and run to find Nico.
“Nico, I don’t think Hans and I should be scene partners. He and I were once engaged to be married and now he’s trying to kill me.”
Nico was already smiling when she saw me limping toward her, checking my body for blood, and now she’s full-on laughing. It’s not a laughing-at-me laugh; more like an “Oh, humanity, aren’t you delightful?” laugh.
“Girlfriend, what’s Roberta’s main characteristic?”
Roberta! That’s her name. I’d only read the full script once and was focusing on our four-page scene, so to be honest I wasn’t completely sure. “Compassion?”
Nico makes the “wrong answer” buzzer sound that they use in game shows.
“She’s mistrustful of men. She’s been hurt by a lot of men. It’s all she’s known.”
God, she sounds awful.
Nico wants me to do homework before our next rehearsal. I hate homework. It gets in the way of pot smoking.
My homework is that for the next twenty-four hours I am to silently repeat the following sentence to myself: “He can’t hurt me; I can hurt him.” I still think that if she could have simply made “no strangling” a rule, that would solve all our problems.
The next day, here I am again, ten minutes into rehearsal with Hans on top of me with his hands around my throat.
That’s it. I’m quitting.
“Did you do the homework I gave you?”
I tell her yes, but the truth is I made a few adjustments. Like changing “He can’t hurt me; I can hurt him” to “He can’t hurt me. Oh yes, he can, guard your solar plexus, he hates me.”
Nico reaches out and puts her elegant hand-model hand on my shoulder.
“Lauren, the world is divided into two different kinds of people. The Okays and the Not Okays. There are those of us who know in the deepest core of their being that they are Okay and there are those of us who have had a few doozies thrown our way and know in the deepest core of our being that we are Not Okay. So, sister, which one do you think you are?”
Is that a rhetorical question?
New homework assignment: Silently chant “I’m okay. I’m okay. I’m okay” to myself nonstop, starting now. Not “I’m the best” or “I deserve to have all my dreams come true” or “Jesus sent me”; just “I’m okay.”
If I discover that I’ve stopped chanting it, no problem; start up again.
“I’m okay, I’m okay, I’m okay, I’m okay, I’m dumb. I’m okay. I can feel my fat butt shaking behind me. Oops. I’m okay.”
The next day I feel completely different. Rehearsal begins as it always does—with Hans running at me with his hands up like Frankenstein, but today he suddenly stops a foot away from me. He looks disoriented for a moment, turns, and walks away. This happens three times in a row. Did Nico put him up to this? Are they trying to empower the Not Okay girl? Stop thinking that! Get back to your mantra, you fat, insecure cow! I mean, I’m okay, I’m okay, I’m okay.
Hans walks toward me and every time stops like he’s hit a wall. He can’t get near me. His confusion turns into anger. His years and years of being rejected by women can’t be taken out on me, so he starts a fistfight with the only vulnerable person left in the room. Himself. With a primal scream, he grabs the front of his turtleneck with both hands and rips it off of his body, leaving only the collar around his neck, and crumples to the floor in sobs. He looks like a deranged priest.
Why is Nico wasting her time running a theater company? This “I’m okay” thing is a gold mine. Our troops need her. As well as bank tellers, teenage girls, junkies, and airplane pilots.
“I’m okay” is changing my entire life. My Dutch used to be limited to words like “yummy” or “clean the toilet,” but suddenly my Dutch gets better and I can order stamps at the post office. Specific types of stamps like the ones for postcards even. My bike was stolen for the eighth time this month, and I convinced the junkie dragging it down the sidewalk to give it back to me. In Dutch. All it took was a little calming of the “Shut up, shut up, you ignorant monkey” voice in my head.
A few days later, there is no scene rehearsal because it’s all-company training day. We’re in the middle of filling each other’s compliment pots when Nico walks in. She looks like hell. Greasy hair stuck to her scalp. Mascara smeared.
“Y’all, this is the worst day of my entire life. I’ve been passing out all morning. Throwing up. Dizzy spells. You name it.”
My god, she’s dying. She gave us all she had and we sucked her dry. She’s like the spider in Charlotte’s Web who helped Wilbur the pig see how special he was. Just as I see that I’m “some pig,” I’ll have to carry on without her. I’ll be back to being a plain old pig within a month.
Terrified, we all sit waiting for her to tell us what’s going on, watching her roll a cigarette with shaky fingers. Nico’s fingers are stained yellow from nicotine. I’d never noticed that before. I also had never noticed how important curling-iron use is for Nico’s ability to maintain a “functioning human being” look.
Finally she speaks.
R.T., Hewlett-Packard moneyman, left the country.
“Y’all, he lost his mind. Had a complete mental collapse.”
If she had known he was so unstable, she would have never gone into business with him. “R.T. had secrets and a dark side.”
Nobody knows what to say
besides “Oh shit.”
She promises the Amsterdam-American Alliance Theater will live on. “I couldn’t pay anyone, but you know I’d love for you all to continue the work. Especially the brave ones. Y’all know who y’all are.”
She looks directly at me. I smile and wave at her. Perhaps not the most appropriate reaction.
Nico steps outside to give us a moment to discuss as a group what we’d like to do. I’m anxious to hear the Texas boys’ take on all of this. They know Nico and they know R.T. Has this sort of thing ever happened before? Is R.T. at the Cockring as we speak and all will be forgiven by the time he sobers up tomorrow? But I can’t ask them because Nico motions for them to follow her outside. In times of crisis she likes to be wrapped in the warm blanket of hot Texas boys.
Once she’s out of the room, Orla, a shy Danish dancer, famous for giving people what she referred to as “instinctual massages,” stands up. “This is crazy bullshit. I’m going home,” she says and walks out the door. After she’s gone, the entire company votes to quit. They file out of the building in “the dream is dead” complete silence.
Nico stands right outside the front door, watching us leave, with a sad smile on her face. She thanks each member and apologizes as they pass her.
My hope was to quickly scurry by her without making eye contact, but I’m the last one out the door and she calls me over. Most of the company, including Hans, are unlocking their bikes, watching to see if I’m going to stop and talk to her. How can I not?
“You know what the worst part of all this is, girlfriend?”
That we’ve all quit our jobs, we’ve been working full-time for more than a month, we thought this was going to change our lives, and today was the day we were supposed to get our first paycheck?
“No, Nico, what’s the worst part?”
“The worst part of all of this is that today was the day I was going to announce the first play of our season. Burn This, by Lanford Wilson, and you were gonna be in the cast. I’ve already booked the second stage at the main theater in town, the Stadsschouwburg. It was going to be a big ole deal.”
This strikes me as an embarrassingly transparent tactic. A bit too “Oh, hey, don’t go yet. I was just about to buy you a car. Guess you don’t want a new car” for me.
Nico tells me not to tell the others but I was the only one of the new company members who understood wound work. “It’s a rare gift, Ms. Thing. You’ve got direct access to that wound. You know who else does?”
A stabbing victim? I have no idea who else does and I don’t care. This is a huge blow. I, too, would like to be wrapped in a warm blanket of Texas boys and need to know ASAP if our contracts are null and void so I can get to work on making that happen.
“Meryl Streep has direct access to her wound. Marlon Brando, Anthony Hopkins, all the great actors. Oh, Lauren, it breaks my heart. You would have made an amazing Anna. She’s such an interesting character. Smart and tough but she won’t let herself admit love—”
Okay. Here we go. Now Nico sees me as someone who can’t be vulnerable—
“And she’s the lead role.”
Wait. Hold on, there. She’s the lead?
You know, now that I take a moment to reflect, does anyone really know me? No. And do you know why? I simply can’t let my guard down. Letting my guard down is tantamount to certain death. It’s like I was born to play Anna.
I’m glad the others quit. Get rid of those greedy people who want to be paid. Gross.
The entire company quit except for the four Nico cast in Burn This.
Before I could have sex with Billie, R.T. stopped paying the Texas boys’ rent and sent them one-way tickets back to Houston. It’s not fair. My feet get cold when I watch TV. There must be Texas boy blankets all over Houston—why couldn’t he leave one behind?
It’s opening night. You’d think I was about to be on Broadway, I’m so out of my mind with opening-night jitters. I don’t have to be at the theater for another two hours and I’m out of my mind. All two hundred seats have been sold. I’d throw up I’m so nervous, but I’ve been unable to eat. If I wasn’t so busy being excited, I’d dry-heave. I’m pacing my flat in a purple silk robe I bought at H&M because I thought it seemed actress-y, going over my opening-night mantra “I am not too fat to be seen as a dancer. There are lots of fat dancers.”
I’m a little sad rehearsals are over because they were beyond life-changing. Nico outdid herself. One of the male leads, Patrick, an actor from Canada, is convinced that Nico cured him of his diabetes with an “I don’t have diabetes” mantra. Thanks to my “I’m Meryl Streep” mantra, as long as I don’t look in a mirror I’m convinced I’m Meryl Streep. Every rehearsal ended with all of us saying “In the name of Nico.” It started out as a joke but we’ve been doing it so much it’s started to feel very much not like a joke. It’s not a joke. The play is incredible and it’s all because of our wound work. Our mantras. Our trust. The original company died, but as Nico always says, “You can’t always get what you want, but you get what you need.”
My phone rings.
It’s Nico.
“Lauren, this is the worst day of my life.”
Uh-oh. Wait. I thought the other day was the worst day of her life. Please tell me she hasn’t already topped it.
“They’re shutting us down.”
Nico didn’t get the rights to the play. She asked for them, but Lanford Wilson said no. He wants another theater in Amsterdam to premiere the show and has already given them the rights. Nico kept on rehearsing hoping Lanford would be too busy dusting his Tonys to notice. The theater got a letter at six thirty tonight from Lanford Wilson’s people telling them to shut it down.
“Listen, girlfriend. We are all gonna meet at that café that sells hard-boiled eggs to talk about this.”
She asks me if I’m okay. No, I’m not. I’m not okay.
The whole cast goes and Nico never shows up.
I’ve been in a deep depression for the last few weeks. I’m listening to a lot of Garth Brooks.
Hans has fallen in love with a Swedish girl and he never stalks me anymore.
The good news is that I got my work permit and have been doing room service at a five-star hotel. The medium-to-pathetic news is that a one-night stand with a bartender named Mark who speaks English like Borat—a lot of “Cool, man. Real cool. High five!”—has turned into a series of one-night stands.
Initially, I’d seen Mark as a distraction from all the Texas drama. He was very tall and handsome. In the months that we’ve been seeing each other, he’s made it clear that he has a very strict policy of not seeing me during daylight hours, which at first I thought was very impressive. “He’s got such strong boundaries,” I told myself. “Plus, I have gigantic pores, so staying out of direct sunlight is a win-win!”
Last night, I lay there with my belly distended from hours of holding in gas listening to him describe the eyes of the only woman he’d ever loved as “specks of gold on a big green ball.”
Finally, he got up to leave and when I started to stand up to see him to the door and slam it behind him, the pressure of me sitting up pushed out a fart that sounded like a piano being dragged across a wooden floor. I’d hoped he’d been too busy putting his socks on to hear it, but he must have, because as he walked out the door he told me, “Just so you know, I don’t love you.” Or maybe the fart had nothing to do with it.
Tammy Lisa is creeping back.
A few days later, the buzzer for my front door goes off. It’s light out so I know it’s not Mark. It’s Nico. I can’t believe it. She looks smaller, but again it could just be a curling-iron issue. Her voice is completely changed. Gone are the deep Texas drawl and the “y’alls.” I don’t mean that suddenly she was like, “Haaay, get outta here—not for nothing—Sal from Long Island here,” but it might as well have been that, because the change was so dramatic.
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Weirdly, I forget that she is a liar who ruined all my dreams and am really happy to see her. She’d been such an important person in my life and then she’d vanished. I invite her up.
“I gotta stop trying to be some big guru changing everyone’s lives and having all the answers,” she says. “I gotta take care of myself. So I’m just going to take it easy. Eat hard-boiled eggs. Go on walks. Figure out how to make money since I’m illegal and dead broke. Maybe I’ll babysit.”
She wants time to take care of herself, figure out what she wants, and explore Amsterdam. And by the way, she’s homeless.
“Come live with me!” I blurt it out and realize immediately that I don’t want her to. If she’s here I can’t have Mark over. Or any guys. She knows me so well, she’ll know when I’m stoned.
Oh, who cares? How many more stoned nights of holding in farts do I need?
She needs me, and I can help her. How could I pass up the chance to live with the person who had been my greatest teacher? The fact that I know about her one big screw-up of all time just makes me feels closer to her.
Get on in here, you flawed human being. Oprah’s on in twenty minutes!
So she moves in.
It’s fun. Not to get maudlin, but I don’t think I’d realized how lonely I’d been. Thank god I have somebody keeping me from lying on the floor for hours bemoaning my outcast state. Loneliness is so hard to sit through, and now I don’t have to. We laugh and talk all the time. I feel awful admitting it, but since the company died she’s gained quite a bit of weight. It’s rare that I’m the skinny one in any group setting. Now I’m the skinny one first thing in the morning and throughout my whole day if I don’t leave my apartment.
After a month, it’s Nico’s thirty-fifth birthday, and I’m taking her out for Mexican food. I come home after work at the Hotel Pulitzer, pumped to start celebrating, and she’s lying on my bed—a fancy mattress on the floor. She bolts right up when I walk in. It’s startling.
“HEY, GIRL, IT’S MY BIRTHDAY! MAN, WHAT A DAY!”
She’s her HAPPY, laughing, shaking-yellow-fingers, rolling-cigarette-after-cigarette self. In fact, she’s better than ever.
Miss Fortune Page 7
