by Andrea Adler
“Look, ah, I live with an older woman who is waiting for me to make dinner,” I said nervously, trying to wedge myself off the bed, “like I promised.” I looked at my watch. “Oh my God, it’s seven-thirty. I really do have to go.”
I leapt from the floating bed and headed toward the door, while she sat there swinging a feather boa around her head, threatening me in booming tones with a terminal curse—I think it was loss of hair—if I left.
I left anyway.
Emma jumped when I walked in the door, and pretended to look busy—she must have been sleeping in her high-back—and hurriedly picked up the script lying open on her lap. Newspapers and crossword puzzles were piled on the table next to her. She’d already eaten, she told me, but there was some chicken soup on the stove.
“What a day!” I blew out a sigh.
In her childlike voice, she replied, “Come sit down; tell me about it.”
Emma wanted to hear the minutiae of my day. So I sat down and began to pour it out. From the time I walked into the theater early that morning down to Ginger’s potions and the threat of losing my hair. She loved hearing the stories and asked questions about every member of the company. How I felt about each one and how they reacted to Ginger’s direction. She asked about the overall climate of the company and if the New York LaPapa was different from the L.A. LaPapa. I didn’t know the answer to that, but promised to ask. She would have made a great journalist. She was all about the details.
It was clear that she needed to be pried away from the high-back she had been glued to the last few weeks, so I said, “Hey, Emma, we have the day off tomorrow. How would you like to take a trip to the farmers’ market?”
She turned to me and smiled. It was heartwarming and instantly melted my heart.
Now there are farmers’ markets, and there are farmers’ markets. This particular one was by far the most extraordinary ethnic enclave in the U.S., as it served the Conservative, Reform, and Orthodox Jews in the L.A. area. Sidewalks for two city blocks were jam-packed with short men wearing yarmulkes; zaftig women clad in ankle-length billowy skirts; and children with long, corkscrewing side curls. Everyone was rushing, bumping into each other, for what seemed to me no apparent reason. The scene was frenetic. People crowded around store windows, pushing and shoving … yelling at the top of their lungs, even when they stood right next to you. It was a microcosm of the Big Apple, where it seemed most of these people were from. Perhaps, on these tiny side streets off Fairfax Avenue, they were able to re-create the city they loved and missed.
The stores all sold the exact same items: kosher canned goods, chopped liver, toys, bathing suits, underwear, umbrellas, cheese, pickles. How they all sold the same products and stayed in business, I couldn’t figure out. Yiddish and Hebrew notices were taped on the windows, posters of Israeli cities leaned propped against soup cans, and regardless of which of the stores you walked into, it smelled the same—like kosher hot dogs and sauerkraut.
Emma seemed totally in her element. Among this whirling activity, she came alive. And I mean alive! Her eyes moved from one side of the store to the other, looking at all the items she didn’t need. I secretly loved watching her in action, her frail body straining to its full height as she screamed her order to the chubby yarmulke’ed clerks behind the high deli and meat counters: “I’ll have two dozen bagels, a pound and a half of cream cheese with chives, and a pound of Nova. But I want to taste the Nova before you cut. I’ll take six pieces of gefilte fish, a pound of potato salad, and two pieces of salmon. When did the salmon come in?” she asked with traces of a Brooklyn accent that I’d never heard before today. “Yesterday,” the clerk said, so she didn’t get any. Only if the salmon came in that morning would she buy. Emma liked her fish fresh, and she wanted her money’s worth.
Shopping completed, she turned with the flair of a duchess, counted out change to the impatient cashier, and waited calmly for me to open the door. I was her humble servant, happy to follow the royal elder around. It was the least I could do. Besides, who else had the chutzpah, the class, and the ability to blend them both so well? Today Emma’s spirit had been revealed. Her true essence was boldly displayed without hesitation or reserve. Unleashed from the confined space of her tiny apartment, Emma was a wondrous spectacle to observe, indeed.
I walked away from our little shopping spree at the farmers’ market—once again, with a whole new understanding of who Emma was. And found myself wondering just how limited my vision was—of Emma … and myself.
Chapter 15
Going quickly when one’s tasks are finished
Is without blame.
My patience was running thin. We had yet to find a script we could all agree on. My tolerance for Ginger and her “magic” antics had reached saturation level. God, how I wanted to leave La Papa! Walk away from the witchy tyrant’s clutches. But something inside me said, Don’t leave just yet! I didn’t have to throw the I Ching on this one. I listened to that little voice inside me and was surprised to see a confirmation so quickly. The next day the entire group unanimously selected a play: Miss Pinsky Plays Ragtime, by Israel Sheldrake. LaPapa was finally going to put on a show.
I was cast as Miss Pinsky, a sixty-five-year-old woman who held forth on the negative aspects of sexual exploitation. By using a funny nasal voice, I beat out the other members clamoring for the role and got the part! I didn’t think Emma would be jubilant with my achievement, since the role was more of a comical caricature than a three-dimensional person with deep psychological challenges. But when I told her about Miss Pinsky and showed her the script, she was so excited that she began working on the character’s costume, mannerisms, and emotional subtext, as if the play were opening at the West End in London.
“There’s a god-awful pea-green dress in my closet that would be ideal for Miss Pinsky,” she said, with a wry smile.
I looked at her strangely as she motioned to me to go and fetch the dress from her room. I followed the direction of her hand and leafed through the row of vintage dresses hanging in her closet. I found the one she described for me—a classic 1950s sheath—and brought it out.
“Yes, that’s the one! Put it on. There’s also a wig in the purple hatbox on the top shelf of the closet. Zelda bought it for me for a costume party last year.”
“Did you ever have to wear it?”
“Heavens, no. Even if I lost all my hair, I wouldn’t be caught dead in that thing.”
“This is so cool! It must have cost a fortune.”
I put the wig on over my hair and looked in the mirror. “You think I should wear this?” It was a dull gray bouffant wig, a style popular in the sixties.
“Of course you should. How else are you going to stand out? Look at the competition in this city. If you act like everybody else, who’s going to notice you?”
“I hardly look like anyone else, Emma.”
“Just leave it, and put on the dress.”
I did as I was told.
“Very good. Now, stand across the room.”
I obeyed, baby-stepping, so as not to split the rear seam; the dress felt, and undoubtedly looked, like it was three sizes too small.
“Now stand over there and start at the beginning of the monologue.”
“Yes, ma’am.” I started the monologue.
“Allow your hand gestures to be more expressive, but be specific. And make sure your voice cracks. There is more humor in the character when the voice is shaky.”
Over the next weeks, Emma spent hours coaching me, pointing out inconsistencies in my delivery, flaws in my inflections, exaggerating my hand movements, telling me when to establish eye contact with the audience and when not to. She was ruthless in her attempt to create a perfectionist out of me, and … well, she did a rather superb job. For two weekends we performed at the Vanguard Theater, and for two weeks Emma was the ultimate coach: in the audience for every show, watching every hand movement, making sure my voice had resonance even while it was nasal. She took laborious n
otes and made sure I followed through on all her suggestions. Thank God for her keen perceptions. Emma was a much better director than Ginger could ever be.
The play was a lukewarm success thanks to the Los Angeles Times reviewer who wrote a horrible review. He did, however, favor Miss Pinsky (due to the abundance of laughter from the audience). The success of my performance left Emma with a quiet sense of satisfaction, while I was left anxiously awaiting the next role.
Regardless of the positive reviews, I could no longer work with Ginger. I called her the day after the end of the show’s run and told her I had to take a leave of absence, as an invalid woman needed twenty-four-hour attention. Not wanting to close any doors, I also told her I’d had a great time working with her and would highly recommend LaPapa to other actors and actresses I knew. It was a fabrication, but I didn’t want to take any chances in case her spells did indeed work. I needed my hair.
Chapter 16
Difficulties and obstructions
throw a man back upon himself.
I woke up grumpy, irritable. It was far from a peaceful sleep. I’d had that recurring dream again. The one accompanied by shadows and a sense of menace. The vagueness of the images was upsetting, too. The only thing I remembered, on waking, was the fact that I didn’t want to be there, but somehow I couldn’t get away, a looming figure was coming closer to me … and … I was a young child.
The dream left me jumpy, anxious. I sat up in bed feeling off-kilter. To add to my disgruntled state, there was no reason for me to get up. LaPapa was over. There were no pending auditions. There were certainly no men banging down my door for dates!
Ah … a boyfriend. Someone to cuddle with, go to the zoo with, or hike up the Santa Monica Mountains and have a picnic with.
I’m not asking for much here—whoever happens to be listening. Besides … I have all this energy now from working out and eating well. What am I supposed to do with it? I have never been good at waiting or pausing for things to happen. The in-between stages make me crazy!
I got up and did some sit-ups next to the bed.
The fact is, no matter what I do or don’t do, where I go or don’t go, I feel agitated and insecure. I work on maintaining a positive attitude. I try to absorb Emma’s words, the I Ching’s virtues of patience. I try to remain egoless and empty and cautious.
I made the bed, picked up the clothes from the floor, and put them in the hamper.
I try to “let go” and surrender, but it takes years for even the greatest saints to give up their attachments—years! Besides, they don’t have to worry about being thin or having a perfect body.
I took my jeans and shirt into the bathroom.
These great beings can go off to some remote place and sit under a tree until they reach enlightenment or travel barefoot through the Himalayas until they renounce their attachments. I don’t have that luxury. I have to live in Los Angeles, earn a living, make car payments, and jump through hoops to get a SAG card.
I turned on a blasting hot shower and stepped in.
I had to work on gluttony and resentment, and I had miles to swim before I crossed that ocean of enlightenment.
Try giving up a habit so ingrained in your nature that you wouldn’t know how to exist without it. Try giving up anger, jealousy, and sarcasm. And those were just a few of the biggies I hadn’t begun to tackle. The state of Buddhahood was far from being real for me.
I turned off the water, stepped out of the shower in time to hear the phone: Ring … ring. I quickly pulled on my jeans and shirt.
Ring.
“Do you want me to get that, Emma?” I yelled. No reply.
Ring.
“Emma, are you going to get that?” No answer.
I dashed to the living room and picked up the receiver. “Hello?”
“You must be Sandra. This is Bert.”
Well, well, well … Bert Klein. This must be my lucky day! Why, Emma had mentioned only the other day that Bert was about to make his mark as an independent film producer. She was so proud, so pleased that the industry was finally beginning to take her Bert seriously. “After all,” she’d said, “he has worked very hard for this breakthrough.”
From what I knew, this man hadn’t had an ounce of struggle to overcome in his entire life. The day Bert was born his future was cast in Carrara marble. The Klein family had been established movie moguls for two generations. All Bert had to do was mention the name Klein and the yellow brick road rolled out in front of him as he drove (I’d bet) his red Mercedes through the gates of Columbia Pictures. And she was proud of him? Give me a breath of fresh air!
The scripts he sent were second-rate at best—low-budget films without any substance, at least the ones I’d sneaked a peek at while Emma was napping. But his lack of taste didn’t matter to Emma. His family legacy, and my jealousy, made no difference. Emma saw Bert very differently from how I did.
Perhaps I’ll find out why. To add to the intensity of their relationship and drive me completely nuts was the fact that, no matter how close Emma and I became, if I asked her anything about Bert, an invisible wall would come up between us. She’d throw up a NO TRESPASSING sign in bold neon, letting me know this particular terrain was off-limits. Was I jealous? You bet. Today, however, I wanted, really wanted, to get beyond my jealousy and not be consumed by it. But hard as I tried, I hadn’t reached that place in my spiritual evolution.
“Hello, Bert.”
“How’s the ol’ career going?” he asked sarcastically.
I was ready for him. “It has its valleys.”
“It’s not too late to get a real-estate license, y’ know.”
“I’ll think about a career move when I hang up.”
He laughed. “I’m just jerking your chain. Is Emma there?”
“I have no idea where she is.” I really didn’t.
“Well, tell her I called. I have an invitation to a Halloween party for you both. I’m looking forward to meeting you.”
“And I you. Thanks for the invitation; I’ll give her the message.”
He slammed down the receiver without a good-bye, and I plopped down … right into Emma’s Victorian high-back. He’s a bigger creep than I’d imagined. I tried to remove his energy from my aura, an exercise Rachel had taught me, but his vibes didn’t seem to budge. Ensconced in her royal throne, I rested my head against the magnificent carved wood and green satin seat back. Feeling the smooth wood on the elegantly tapered arms, I thought, I’m finally going to meet the man with the scripts.
I let out an Aaahhhh, like a lion’s roar, to release the tension from my lungs. I did it again, louder this time: Aaahhhh. And again: Aaaahhhhhhh.
As I continued the Aaahhhh’s, a force of energy catapulted me from Emma’s chair. I shot up from the high-back, wrestled the furniture to the sides of the room, and began a ballet routine I’d memorized from dance class when I was twelve. I began with an adagio, extending my limbs, stretching my arms in a slow, fluid movement, followed by the quick petit allegro. Then I launched into my favorite—the tour jeté—where I ran, jumped, did a midair split, turned in the air, and landed in the most exquisite arabesque, looking out over my right hand, which was extended out toward the sun. I turned again and ran into a grand jeté, leaping straight ahead—and plummeting into the table lamp I thought I had moved far enough away. Ouch!
Ring.
I picked up the lamp (which thankfully had not broken), replaced the shade, and returned to Emma’s chair to pick up the phone.
“Hello?” I said, breathless.
“Hola, ¿cómo estás?”
“Rachel? Is that you?
“Sí, estoy aquí.”
“Oh my God. Where the hell have you been? I’ve been trying to reach you for weeks! Months!”
“¡Buenos Aires, mi hija!”
“Buenos Aires? Where are you now?”
“I’m at my apartment.”
“The one I drove by umpteen times? The apartment that no longer has a phone with a w
orking number? That apartment?”
Just then, Emma opened the door and teetered into the living room, also out of breath, and gave me a startled look. I wasn’t sure if she was startled because I was sitting in her chair or because the living-room furniture had been pushed back against the walls. I wiggled my eyebrows, waved my fingers, and immediately got up to return the furniture back to its proper place. Emma went into the kitchen. Rachel kept talking.
“I just came back to my apartment to pick up the rest of the boxes.”
“What do you mean? Where are you going?”
“It’s a long story …”
“God, Rachel. What is going on? Can you meet for lunch today?”
“Sí, Restaurante Brasserie.”
“Give me ten minutos.”
“I’ll see you in ten. Ciao!”
“Ciao!”
I put down the phone, quietly thanked the universe for Rachel’s return, and started toward my room. In record time, I had someplace to go. Then, remembering my manners, I stopped and peeked back into the kitchen.
“Hi, Emma. Where’ve you been?”
Emma headed toward her high-back, sat down, opened a large manila envelope, and pulled out a huge script. “Mr. Slabowski, one of the neighbors, stopped me at the mailbox, told me his wife was dying of cancer. He needed someone to talk to.”
She put the script down on the side table and reached for her bifocals.
“Oh, I’m sorry to hear that … I’m, ah … just on my way out to meet my friend Rachel for lunch.”
“How do you know this Rachel?” She looked at me curiously.
“Oh, we met at an audition when I first came out here.”
“Why don’t you invite her here for lunch?”
I started back down the hall to the bathroom, delaying a response.
“Uh, well, I haven’t seen her in so long. And you know how girls are. Gab, gab, gab! You’d be so bored.”
