by Sarina Bowen
Mine don’t, though. I’ve had a good ten years to get used to this kind of rejection. “It happens to every actress. Even Emma Watson.”
It must. Or at least it used to. Maybe.
Though I can’t really see Emma Watson selling tampons.
Cassidy tosses the phone onto the couch between us. “I’m disgusted for you. Those other women were so boring. I wouldn’t buy a sandwich from them. Let alone something intimate. Don’t you think?”
“I think…” I set my fork down, too. “There’s no way to tell you what I think without sounding like a crazy person. But it’s starting to get to me.”
“What is?”
“I’m tired of wondering why I don’t get cast. Is it my talent? Is it my preparation? Or is it my skin color. I mean—they say they want diverse casting, you know? But what they really mean is a really tan white girl and not an actual woman of color.”
“Shit,” Cassidy whispers. And this girl never swears. “I think that would make me crazy, too.”
“Sometimes it’s all I think about,” I confess. “Leading roles are very white. It’s even more true for women than men.”
Cassidy chews slowly. “But Meg. You’re so beautiful. And talented! I just don’t understand why you’re not cast in anything you show up for.”
“That is a very nice thing to say. But beauty is subjective. And it’s also making me crazy.”
It was my choice, though, to pick a job where looks matter so much. As a consequence, I probably spend more time looking in the mirror than your average accountant or veterinarian. When I do, I see features that are a really nice blend of my mom, who is a white Dutch lady, and my dad, who’s Jamaican American. I’m a striking mixture of the two of them. And my gut is 90% sure that it’s holding back my acting career.
But it’s even more complex than that. Sometimes, casting wants someone who is ethnic but not too ethnic. Take my sister, Sadie. People think she’s Indian, or Spanish, or just really tan. She has a golden hue that’s quite popular in Hollywood right now. She’s ethnic in a way that, to them, is interesting without specificity.
But I look more like our father. I press my hair for auditions, but it naturally has a lot of texture. And my skin tone is darker than Sadie’s. My gut says that a pharmaceutical executive somewhere decided not to alienate his white tampon consumers by putting me in that ad.
Or maybe my audition just wasn’t as good as I thought it was. I don’t know which. And the soul-killing truth is that I never will.
But I know two things for sure. One: I’m not supposed to say these things out loud. Because it sounds like whining and blaming other people for my career failures.
And two: this kind of circular thinking can really drive a girl insane. Which I know because I’m already there.
“I don’t think…” Cassidy says slowly. “I don’t think I ever want a job that depends on someone’s biased opinion of whether or not I’m pretty.”
“You’re…” I almost say you’re beautiful. Because she is. But that’s not the point. “You’re wiser than I am, then. Because it’s a real drag having to trade on your face. And that’s why I’m trying to find something else to do with my life. I need to get off the audition treadmill before I lose my mind.”
We both pick up our wine glasses at the same time. I take a deep gulp.
“What’s the weirdest thing anyone ever said to you at an audition?” Cassidy asks.
I let out a sigh. “Usually they don’t bother telling you why you didn’t get a callback. They just say ‘Next!’ But one time I handed over my audition card and the woman said—‘We already have a black girl.’”
Cassidy makes a horrified gulping sound and then chokes on her sip of wine. So I pound her on the back.
Me, I don’t choke anymore. I just get sad.
When I was in my early twenties, rejection didn’t bother me so much. I knew success wouldn’t be easy, and I was prepared to wait. But lately I’m just tired. I’m no longer sure if I’m auditioning out of love or out of pure stubbornness.
How do you know when it’s time to give up? What should I do with the rest of my life?
I don’t think those answers are going to find me tonight. Right now I just want to drink this wine and eat good food with my friend. It’s a good start.
“Oooooh.”
When the first moan arrives, I don’t even hear it. I’ve grown accustomed to living in a sex palace.
“Aaaaaah! Aaaaah!” the woman next door says. She sounds like she’s stepping into really cold water.
But Cassidy sits up straight, her eyes popping wide.
“YES! YES! YES! YES! HARDER!” screams the woman next door.
“Oh my,” Cassidy says, blinking behind her glasses. “That’s...loud.”
“Trust me, it’s louder in my bedroom. Or on the deck.” And I should know.
Cassidy fans herself. “Maybe we should leave. I feel like a pervert right now.”
“Pfft!” I wave away her objection. “Finish your dinner. Besides, you’re just walking a mile in my proverbial kicks. It’s like this every night, and some of the daytime hours, too. Just wait until the finale.”
I get up and head for the kitchen to bus my plate. The sound of Hot Cop’s lucky girlfriend grows even louder.
But I don’t hear his voice this time. That’s unusual. Where are his gruff commands? The manly grunting? And then the panty-dropping moment of silence before his satisfied moan?
And—sue me—I miss it. That voice stars in all my dirty fantasies these days. I don’t even feel guilty, either. If he didn’t want me to hear, he’d keep it down. He’s lived here longer than I have. He must know how sounds carry.
Then his girlfriend starts barking. Actually barking. Cassidy and I look at each other, wide-eyed, and then bust out laughing.
“Oh, wait!” I say, barely being able to speak. “That’s an actual dog. I think.”
Cassidy surprises me then. “Let’s go find out for sure!”
I look at her for a beat. This is not the Cassidy I’ve grown to know and love. Cassidy is a rule-follower. A good girl. Then I notice that her hair is starting to come out of its topknot. And her cheeks are flushed. This is drunk Cassidy. All hail drunk Cassidy!
“Okay, let’s!” I agree.
Five minutes later, they’re still going at it. Which is good, because that is how long it’s taken me to convince Cassidy to strap on my old rock-climbing gear. I’m holding the pulley system with a carabiner. The plan is that I’ll hold onto her, secured with climbing gear, while she leans out as far as she can around the divider. With the binoculars, she should just be able to see into the apartment. If the windows are open.
Please, lord, let them be open.
“Oh, I don’t know about this,” Cassidy says as I check the straps.
“Shush. Drink this. It’s Courage Juice.”
“It’s wine,” she says, clearly not fooled.
“Whatever. It’s Friday night and this is the most exciting thing to happen in either of our lives since Aquaman hit the theaters.”
Cassidy nods. It’s go time.
“Climb over the railing now,” I whisper.
She puts a foot on my folding chair and lifts herself up.
I might be officially drunk right now, but it’s okay because I’ve secured the climbing gear around my own body. I have so many questions. Did Hot Cop get a dog? Or are they doing a little bit of role play? And why is he so quiet?
Wait. Maybe the girlfriend is home alone? Is there such thing as a barking vibrator?
Ew.
“Cassidy,” I whisper. I’m in a deep lunge and Cassidy is slowly leaning over the balcony. “Cassidy!” I try again. I’m straining all my muscles to hold the rope in exactly the right position.
She’s carefully focusing the binoculars. When Cassidy is on task, there’s little that can distract her. Not even earthquakes or orgasms, or both.
“I can see them!” she whispers back. But it’s one of those stage whispers
that’s actually incredibly loud. Drunk people aren’t subtle.
“Is it just her?” I ask. This lunge is starting to burn. I really need to work out more. Or at all. I give a little more slack on the rope.
“Nope. There’s two of them! And hooooo boy!” Cassidy gives me the thumbs up.
I have never wanted to see anything so badly.
“Your cop friend is really skinny,” she says. “Or is she a giant?”
“What?” My cop...my next-door neighbor is not a small man. He’s huge. I imagine all of him is huge.
“So scrawny! I thought you said he was hunky?”
Even though I’m drunk right now, something clicks into place. There is sex happening next door, in Hot Cop’s apartment. But Hot Cop isn’t the one who’s having it.
Holy hell! Hot Cop’s girlfriend is cheating!
“Omigosh!” Cassidy cries. She’s really leaning out over forty-five feet of airspace, now. “Is this what it’s like to watch porn?”
“You don’t know?” I ask, forgetting to whisper. We have got to get this girl some more life experience.
She leans out a little farther, and now I’m starting to question our life choices. “You have to come back now,” I say, straining in my harness. “You’re heavier than you look.” She has a glassy look in her eye, though. “Cassidy, don’t go toward the light.”
“He’s got three legs!” She sounds overjoyed.
“Three legs?” What the...
Then Cassidy realizes her mistake. “OH MY GOD THAT’S NOT A LEG! It’s not a leg!! Abort mission! Pull me in! Pull me in!!”
I’m using all my strength to pull her back. But that’s difficult when you’re both drunk and dying of laughter. Who is this skinny, little man with a penis so large that Cassidy thought it was another appendage? There’s no way that it’s my cop.
I give one final heave, and Cassidy reels back toward me. I try to catch her. I really do. But momentum is a scary thing. The moment she lands in my arms, we both just crash to the deck, a jumble of ropes and limbs and shrieks of laughter.
That’s when I hear the skitter of claws coming toward us on the other side of the fence. “ARF ARF ARF ARFFFF!” yips a dog.
“YES YES YES!” screams the neighbor lady.
She doesn’t even care. She’s banging a skinny dude with a dog, while her boyfriend is at work, and I am not okay with it. Does she not know how good she has it? Does she not know how hard it is to find a gruff-voiced dirty talker who holds your plant in the elevator?
Is she out of her mind?
I stand up and dust myself off. I’m disgusted for Mac Maguire. But on the plus side, I think I’ve finally figured out what I want to do with my life, at least short-term. There’s something rare in Hot Cop’s gray eyes, and it makes me want to help him. I know what it feels like to be lied to. He needs to know the truth. And she needs to go.
My new mission in life: take that bitch down.
5 Too Abrupt
Maguire
“She’s not my girlfriend,” I say for the hundredth time to Lance. “Eyes on the property.”
We’re on stakeout in a quiet neighborhood. Not my favorite job duty. We’re sitting in an unmarked car outside a car repair shop. My boss is waiting on a search warrant for this property, and it’s our job to make sure the perp doesn’t leave the premises with stolen goods or light the place on fire before the search can begin.
It’s an important job, but not an exciting one. And worse, it gives Lance a lot of time to hassle me about my personal life.
“Does she stay overnight?”
“Yes,” I say reluctantly.
“Does she sleep in your bed?”
“Define sleep?”
“In the middle of the night, if you wanted some action, could you move your hand between her velvet thighs and stroke her quivering core until she’s begging for your thick, throbbing…”
“HEY!” I bark, shutting him up. “This is my real life, not one of your books.”
Lance has not had a girlfriend in a while. He listens to erotic romance audiobooks instead. Sometimes, he plays me excerpts of his favorites.
“But hypothetically,” he presses.
“Hypothetically, no,” I grumble. “She’s staying in the guest room. We only share a bed when we’re gettin’ it on.”
“What?” he gasps. “You made that girl sleep in the other room? For this long?”
“That’s not weird,” I say. “We’re not playing house.”
“Dude.” He shakes his big silly head. “That is super weird. But it doesn’t matter. In the next chapter, you’ll realize you’re fooling yourself. It will happen any second now. Maybe when you’re trapped in an elevator together. Or it might happen when she defends you from your crazy ex.”
“I don’t have a crazy ex,” I say pointlessly.
“Um, yes you do.” He gives me a pitying glance. “Anyway. It might happen when you rescue her from a warehouse fire, or from the alpha dog of a neighboring wolf pack…”
I groan. His taste in genre fiction is far-ranging. “If she was a shapeshifter, I would already know at this point.”
“That’s what you think. Have you ever been together during a full moon?”
This is what I have to deal with on a daily basis.
“Either way,” he says. “One day soon you’ll look at her and it will all fall into place.”
“Nope. Sorry.” I’m not fooling myself at all. Nicole is not my girlfriend, even though her two-night stay has turned into a couple of weeks. But it hasn’t made me have any Big Realizations. It’s only made me itchy. “She’s very fond of my handcuffs, though. Honestly, my whole life is a cliché.”
“Clichés are not all bad,” Lance says. “I could use me some heaving bosoms right now. They’d be more fun than your grumpy ass.”
He’s right. My ass is grumpy, because I’m living with someone I don’t really love. I need to break it off with her, which is a shame because I still need a date for my sister’s wedding.
But I can’t. I realize that now. It would send the wrong signal to Nicole.
I can feel my anxiety start to ratchet up. I need a good workout. Or a good fuck. And not with Nicole. Somehow, when I’m with her, it’s sorta like being alone. We aren’t connecting at all, except, obviously, in the physical way. Truth is, I need my space back.
Maybe I just need out of this damn squad car.
If I get the promotion I want, I wouldn’t have to do stakeouts anymore. In fact, it might change the entire trajectory of my life.
“Hey, I have a question for you,” I say to Lance.
“And I have an answer! It’s true. I can actually fuck a woman three different ways AT THE SAME TIME. This is why you need to stop reading that dipshit Whatshisname, and start reading some real books. You’ll actually learn something.”
There’s a lot to unpack there.
The “dipshit” he’s referring to is Hemingway. I read Hemingway. I read classics in general. Actually, I read something from the canon, and then I read something from the NY Times Bestseller list. It’s all about balance.
“That was not my question,” I say, though I’ve almost forgotten what my question is. “Why do you think they keep passing me over for the taskforce promotion?”
I assume Lance will mull that one over. Chew on it a little bit. But nope. Big nope. “You’re Mr. Closed-Off. You’re too abrupt. You have the social intelligence of a cardboard box. You don’t think inside the box...you sit in a box, then draw a box around yourself then you think inside THAT.”
Huh.
“But none of that matters. I’m a cop. Cops report facts. I do it well.”
Lance shakes his head. “You are a terrific cop. But if you believe that’s the only thing that matters, you’re super gullible. And I bet you believe them when they say Oh, I totally came!” Lance makes his voice go all feminine like and then he starts laughing.
Me? Too abrupt for a promotion? Thinking inside the box? That is
a lot of bullshit. And they totally came. I’d know.
Although…one hookup complained that I wasn’t “emotionally available.” I told her all my emotions were located in my dick and if she sat on it, she’d know everything she needed to know about me.
For the record, I was joking.
A cop does not need to be emotionally available. I don’t know what the hell Lance is talking about.
I also sort of want to know how to fuck someone three ways at the same time. Seems like that would require imagination. Or dexterity.
Just as I’m trying to picture it, three cruisers roll down the street, lights on.
“The warrant came through,” Lance says.
“You think?” I roll my eyes as the radio crackles, and my boss’s voice starts giving instructions.
We’re relieved of our duties.
“Lunch?” Lance asks.
“Sure.”
“Where do you want to go? And don’t say Ye Olde Tavern.”
“I’m done with that place,” I promise him.
If only I was done thinking about my neighbor.
6 Boxers, Cufflinks, and a Little B&E
Meg
Life sure is a lot more interesting when you have a mission. Or a role to play. That’s one of the reasons I’ve always enjoyed acting. It gives me purpose. Makes me feel more alive.
It’s two days after the big discovery, and I’m on my way home from work. My new job is at another restaurant—The Hip Burger. It’s the same grind as at all my other food service jobs, except here I get to wear shorts and a T-shirt and tennis shoes. It’s all about comfort now. And tips, of course. It’s a high-turnover bar, so what I lose in huge bills for bridal showers, I gain in serving quick meals to people who leave obnoxious piles of cash behind because they’re too drunk to calculate the tip.
My bank account had a good night. And I’m still a little wired. So instead of heading straight home, I hit the 24-hour Meijer for a little late-night shopping. After all, a good theater production needs props. Tomorrow could be a big moment for me.
Operation Sting the Bitch is on.
