by J. J. Murray
Thank you for trying to help. At least YOU are. No one else is, especially my agent. He sent me a script today that isn’t worth the paper wasted on it. If I had a dog, I’d use it to collect the poop. It might be the worst script ever written. They want me to play a character named Lauren in an interracial sitcom called Gray Areas. How “neat” is that? I get to play myself, but my real self would never say what’s in this script. Let me give you a taste of what someone ignorant thinks is comedy. . . .
Patrick read the first scene of Gray Areas without laughing. He reread the scene and shook his head so much, he started to get dizzy. This is . . . this is rotten! They’re actually serious about putting this on TV? They can’t be! Ignorant is right. This script should be illegal.
See what I mean? I’d have to be insane to take that role.
And on top of all this, I have been trying for years to get on Saturday Night Live, but they already have Erika James, that skinny piece of driftwood, and I bet they give her the role of “the Loneliest Woman in the World.” I love that character. She gets to verbally castrate the host at some point during every show, and it’s completely ad-lib. I would love to do that, especially if The Nameless One is hosting. Erika James can’t do ad-lib, and she can’t do improv. She’d freeze up like the icicle she is. I would rock that role.
Sorry I rambled. I haven’t been having a good time. I should just turn that Gray Areas mess down and worry about my health. What do you think?
Lauren
Despite his heartfelt concerns for Lauren’s life and health, Patrick smiled.
Lauren Short, actress, wants my opinion. A talented, intelligent woman, the kind of woman every man dreams of simply meeting for a few seconds, wants my opinion. A woman waiting to find out if she’s dying . . . He shook his head. God, help her, please. Let that test be negative, okay?
A woman with the weight of the world on her shoulders wants my advice.
He looked through the frosted window beside his bed at the deli across the street.
My burrito can wait.
I hope I can help her smile.
Lauren:
Yes, the script is ridiculous. I was offended. I don’t smell like a wet puppy. I smell bad after a full day’s work, but I do not smell like a wet puppy. More like an Irish wolfhound. And I don’t think I have a “shovel” back there. I know how to use one, though. The shovel, I mean. :~)
I don’t hang out at any of the places (except church) the script says I’m supposed to. Who goes to Hell’s Kitchen to shop? The name alone should tell you something, right? That place is mostly industrial. She might go there to buy a car or pay too much for clothes in the Garment District.
If I ever saw this show, I’d turn it off quickly. Watching the Weather Channel would be more exciting. Watching my fingernails grow would be more entertaining. Watching water drip in a sink would be more hilarious. Rainy days are funnier.
And having Erika James play “the Loneliest Woman in the World” is an outrage. I’ve seen her, and she is terrible. Erika James wouldn’t get a starring role in a kindergarten class play. If she played the tree, she’d have to be a birch tree, and she’d want to be front and center with a speaking role. “I am a tree. Hear me bark!” Erika James doesn’t have the intelligence to know that a tree in a kindergarten class play doesn’t speak. It just stands there, looking treelike, which is exactly how she acted in that Eddie Murphy movie. Wooden. Erika James is a skinny piece of light tan wood.
But you are . . . amazing.
Maybe you can make that Gray Areas show work. Let them know how false it is and turn it into something awesome.
I am not the person who should be giving you advice on anything to do with acting, but I do know that work is work when you can get it. Sometimes you have to make work, work for you. (Did that make sense?) Maybe this will all work out for you. I hope it does.
I am so sorry to hear about all your misfortunes, especially that test. I’ll be praying for you. I’ll light a candle at St. Agnes for you, too.
How are you now?
Patrick
5
He should be writing the script, Lauren thought as she read Patrick’s e-mail. The two of us could write a better script.
She smiled. Patrick knows how to use his shovel. I wonder if he meant it to mean the way I’ve taken it. I’ll bet he did. What does an Irish wolfhound smell like? Those are some seriously big dogs. Maybe Patrick’s a big guy. I have attracted yet another white man, though his last name isn’t white. Esposito? Maybe he’s mixed with something. He has to be mixed up to think I’m amazing. And he’s praying for me and lighting a candle. That’s so sweet. No man on earth has ever done that for me.
She quickly replied:
Patrick:
Erika James isn’t skinny. She’s an anorexic piece of balsa wood. She would splinter into a million pieces if she actually had to speak for more than five seconds at a time without cue cards written in big, bold letters. They may even have to spell out words phonetically for her. She has the acting range of a paraplegic snail and the stage presence of a dust bunny.
Thank you for asking how I am. You’re the only one who has asked that. My agent just wants me to make him some money again. I made that man a bunch of money once, and now he wants me to make him some more money with Gray Areas. He isn’t going to make much.
Thank you for caring, Patrick. And please don’t stop. : )
How am I now? I’m okay. Not great. Just okay. I’m still worried to death about the results of that test, and I haven’t been sleeping or eating much. Your encouraging words have helped me a great deal. And while I haven’t had much to smile about lately, your e-mails have made me smile. : )
Work is indeed work, and I should be thankful to get anything after taking a seven-year “vacation” and not knowing what my future holds. I’ll probably do Gray Areas. I am getting older but not necessarily wiser, I guess. I wish you could fix this script. You’re funny. And real.
At any rate, I will make numerous suggestions to the script, and if they don’t want to make the changes, I’ll just go off script whenever we’re taping. ; )
Are you a writer by chance? You write very well.
Thanks for writing back. I look forward to your next e-mail.
Lauren
Lauren watched her in-box for several moments. I wonder where he is. She checked the times Patrick sent his previous e-mails. He only writes late at night. What could that mean? Maybe that’s the only time he has to write.
After no e-mail from Patrick appeared, she called Todd. “I’ll do the reading.”
“I’m glad you came to your senses,” Todd said.
“Work is work when you can get it,” Lauren said. Thank you for reminding me of that, Patrick. “Have you talked to the SNL people yet?”
“No,” Todd said. “It’s only been one day. I have other clients, you know.”
“Keep pestering them for me, though, okay?”
“I will,” Todd said. “They’ll expect you at Tumbleweed’s main studio in Studio City at nine sharp tomorrow morning.”
“Okay,” Lauren said.
It’s about time I left this apartment. The paparazzi will appreciate me leaving, too. They have to be bored out there in the parking lot. They’ve been taking numerous pictures of my car, which is splatted with bird poop.
“I’ve just sent you the next scene attached to an e-mail,” Todd said, “and it is much better than the first.”
“I doubt it,” Lauren said.
“Trust me,” Todd said. “You’ll see. Bye.”
Lauren didn’t see.
If anything, the next scene made the first scene worse.
LAUREN
(Sees hot white guy. Voice-over: He’ll do. He has brown eyes, but at least he has an ass.) You like what you see?
HOT GUY
What?
LAUREN
I said, do you like what you see?
HOT GUY
(Holds up a clay vase
.) It’s not in very good condition. I wouldn’t pay more than five dollars for it.
LAUREN
(Voice-over: This man is slow. Are all white men this slow? I guess I have to spell it out for him.) I meant, (poses) do you like what you see of me?
HOT GUY
(Looks her over.) Should I?
LAUREN
(Voice-over: Maybe I need to be blunt.) Are you interested ?
HOT GUY
In you?
LAUREN
(Voice-over: No. In the vase, you idiot!) Yes. In me. Do you want to go out, maybe hook up, maybe go back to my place and get a little busy?
HOT GUY
My husband might mind. . . .
LAUREN
(Voice-over: Figures . . .) I’m sorry. I thought . . . Yeah, I wouldn’t pay a penny over four dollars for that sorry vase....
Oh, this is tragically stereotypical! Lauren thought. The first white guy she tries to hook up with is gay. How often does that happen in real life? Okay, it happened to me—with my third try—but come on! I know art can imitate life, but it’s almost as if A. Smith wrote this part specifically for me!
After nothing from Patrick appeared in her in-box, Lauren settled under her covers and fell asleep, and for some reason, she dreamed she was shopping for vases....
The next morning, Lauren showered, ate a light breakfast of toast and grape jelly, and stood in front of her clothes closet.
What I wear today has to show that I am capable, confident, and competent, she thought. I can’t go slinking out past the paparazzi looking defeated. I have to wear something that says, “Hey, Lauren Short looks great! Her breakup hasn’t hurt her one bit! That woman still has it going on! She has come out of this mess with flying colors!”
She laughed at herself.
I have to stop taking myself so seriously. It’s only a reading, and no matter what I wear, someone in the media out there will make something negative out of it. I’ll probably end up on some worst-dressed list by the end of the week.
She put on comfortable jeans, a turquoise blouse, a black blazer, and some black Dansko clogs. This outfit says I’m comfortable and I’m ready for anything.
I hope I’m ready.
Lauren walked out to her emerald-green 2008 Jaguar XK convertible, a vestige from her more successful days, and past only three paparazzi camped out today near the pool. None of the photographers rushed her, instead lazily snapping pictures of her as she walked by.
“Where are you headed?” one of them asked.
Lauren opened her car door and got in. As soon as she started up the Jaguar, she put the convertible top down. “I am going to a reading.”
The tallest of the three photographers approached. “You up for a movie?”
“TV,” Lauren said. She adjusted her mirrors and put on some cheap sunglasses.
“So soon?” the tallest one said.
“I have to get back on the horse,” Lauren said. Though this show may be my hearse.
“What show?” he asked.
“It’s called Gray Areas,” Lauren said.
“Never heard of it,” he said. He shrugged at the other photographers, and they shrugged back.
“It’s in the pilot stage now,” Lauren said. “You’ll hear about it soon.”
They took several more pictures and turned away.
I am definitely losing my appeal, Lauren thought. Seven years ago a swarm of photographers would have been here, and they would be daring me to run them over. I wonder how much they can get for a picture of me now.
“Hey!” Lauren yelled.
The tallest photographer strolled over. “Yeah?”
“What’s the going rate for a picture of me these days?” Lauren asked.
He shrugged. “As much as I can get, I guess.”
“Give me a ballpark,” Lauren said. “A thousand?”
“Not the way you look,” he said. “I’d be lucky to get two-fifty.”
Ouch. “And how do I look?” Lauren asked.
He snapped one more picture. “Happy.”
Lauren smiled. “I am happy.”
The man sighed. “Happy doesn’t sell.”
“You mean if I came out here all sad and dressed horribly, you’d make more money?” Lauren asked.
“Yeah,” the man said. “You’re supposed to be . . . I don’t know . . . broken up. You just got dumped by Chazz Jackson, right?”
“I’m not broken up,” Lauren said. “And I dumped him.”
“Yeah?” the man asked.
“Yeah. And I bet you can make more than a grand.”
“I used to make that much for pictures of you and Chazz,” the man said. “Without Chazz, I don’t know.”
“Well, sell it this way,” Lauren said. “Here’s a picture of Lauren Short on her way to jump-start her career, and unlike what you might expect, she’s actually happy.”
“I don’t know,” the man said. “It sounds too nice, and nice doesn’t sell in this town.”
“Should I frown, then?” Lauren asked.
“It would help,” the man said.
Lauren laughed. “I’m too happy to frown, man. Have a good one.”
After half an hour of fighting traffic on the 405 and the 101, Lauren arrived at Tumbleweed’s low-slung studio.
It looks more like a strip mall than a studio, Lauren thought. Oh, I have really come down in the world. I’m going to work in a strip mall.
After finding a spot in the visitors’ parking lot, she found a security guard, who escorted her to a low-ceilinged soundstage, where she met the director, Randy Ware, and Barbie Perry, her character’s buxom sidekick. They sat around a card table and highlighted scripts in front of them.
“I am so glad to be working with you, Miss Short,” Randy said.
“It is truly an honor,” Barbie said. “I saw Feel the Love twenty times when I was eight. I wanted to be Angel so badly.”
Oh, thanks for making me feel old, Barbie. “Well, it’s good to be here,” Lauren said. “I might be a little rusty, so bear with me.”
“It’s like riding a bike,” Randy said.
No, it isn’t. Rosalind Russell once said, “Acting is standing up naked and turning around very slowly,” and right now, I’m afraid to turn around at any speed.
“Randy, before we begin, I have to tell you something.” Lauren glanced at Barbie. “This script needs work. This script needs an overhaul. This script is bad. I’ve read hundreds of scripts, and this might be the all-time worst script in world history.”
Randy blinked rapidly. “Really? I think it’s pretty good.”
“I think it’s funny,” Barbie said.
My costar and director are idiots. “Many of these lines are beyond wrong. Don’t be surprised if I go off script often today.”
“For our purposes today,” Randy said, “please read the script as written, Lauren.”
“No half-intelligent woman would say these lines,” Lauren said.
“This is only a reading, Lauren,” Randy said. “We can smooth out the rough edges later.”
They began the scene, and when Lauren read, “He’d probably shock me every time he touched me,” she read it with absolutely no emotion.
“Come on, Lauren,” Randy said. “Put some fire into it.”
“Fire?” Lauren said. “The writer should be fired.”
“Lauren, please,” Randy said. “Put some emotion into it.”
“Oh,” Lauren said. “You want me to read it blacker.”
“You know what I mean,” Randy said. “Camp it up. This is comedy.”
“This is a joke,” Lauren said.
“Girl, don’t you mess this up for me,” Barbie whispered. “I need this. I got bills.”
“What are you whispering for?” Lauren asked. “Randy can hear you. I need this, too, but this excretion won’t get out of the pilot stage with writing like this.”
“So it isn’t going to win any Emmys,” Barbie said. “But whether it’s good or
not, it’s a paycheck, and I need a paycheck to pay back my college loans. Please read the line.”
You want me to camp it up? I’ll camp it up. Lauren stood, waved her hands, and threw out her hip. “Girrrl, did you see the rest of his sorry butt? His face was hairier than a Sasquatch on Rogaine. Puh-lease. Honey, I bet he’s all frickin’ static clingy from his frickin’ toes to his frickin’ nose. He’d probably frickin’ shock me every time he frickin’ touched me!”
Randy smiled. “Fantastic! Wow! I like your additions, too. Very real.” He wrote down a few. “Perfect, Lauren. It sounds natural. Keep going off script like that.”
Barbie held up her hand to give Lauren some dap.
Lauren left Barbie’s hand hanging. “Randy, I was mocking the script.”
“I know,” Randy said, “and it was funny. I hope you keep doing it. Your overacting is going to make this show go! I am so happy to be working with you!”
Oh, God, Lauren thought. I hate myself so much right now.
Where’s the exit?
6
Before Patrick lumbered home after another long day’s work, he stopped by St. Agnes on Sackett Street to light a candle and say a prayer for Lauren.
“God, keep Lauren safe in Your hands,” he prayed. “And if it’s not too much trouble, let us . . . I don’t know . . . help us get to know each other better. Amen.”
After lighting another candle for his mother, Patrick went home to shower off the day.
He had spent the morning and most of the afternoon snaking the main sewer drain in the basement on Baltic until it cleared, because the Ouderkerks in 1A and the Schoon-makers in 2B, descendants of Dutch families who had lived in Brooklyn since 1675, had called him within seconds of each other, each complaining that their toilets were nearly overflowing. By the time he had arrived, he had received calls from the Vanderbeeks in 2A and the Gildersleeves in 1B, more Dutch families who did not appreciate pungent brown ponds in their toilets. Instead of checking out the four toilets, Patrick had gone straight to the basement and had found it already thick with backed-up sewage. He had deployed the snake he had left there for just such an emergency and had sat on an overturned plastic bucket for an hour as the snake chewed its way to the main line and the lake of goo sucked itself slowly back down the drain. While he had waited, he had heard from the other four tenants on Baltic, each loud and nagging.
