Girl Act (19 page)

“You’ve never really told me about Grandma,” I said.

“My sister Helen could take leftovers and turn them into a new meal, I’ve never met anybody else who could do that,” he said proudly.

I felt as if he wanted to break down, but he wouldn’t let himself—he was the last of the five children born to Slavic immigrants in America, pride is pride, I guess.

He abruptly picked up speed with Twist and that was my signal, as if he was a director who wanted a scene change. So I dropped back and let him continue without me. He was going to walk the whole length of the Charles River—that much I knew. I headed back into Harvard Square because I wanted to be in a crowd, I wanted to be surrounded by people, even strangers.

Smack in the middle of it, I imagined being in Ridley Scott’s movie
Aliens
, playing Sigourney Weaver’s part of Ripley. Me with a machine gun in my hand—ready to blast death—the thing, the real thing, that no one can ever run away from. The movie scene faded from the front of my mind, as I walked through Harvard University, pretending I was attending it to get my PhD; pretending I was a brilliant, learned woman.

I kept blocking out the thought of my Aunt Helen’s lifeless body, of my father being in the room to hear her last breath. It should have been me who was with her, I think. There were things I wanted to say, mostly just ‘thank you.” Ugh.

I walked up the steps to the library, and opened the heavy door, and slipped passed the guard, continuing to act like a real Harvard University woman, wandering through a long row of bookshelves. I love such movie scenes; there must be over a hundred movies with scenes filmed in libraries. It’s homey, and it feels safe, like a church or temple, the world of books. I don’t know when the tears started to fall, but they did. I made no sound. Just my eyes cried.

I found a desk facing a courtyard window and stared at a New England tree, lush with green leaves. I cried more, only this time over violence, war, diseases, crime, even white-collar crime, over bad TV shows, rotten movies and stupid money-grubbing remakes, over rich vs. the poor—over making it in Hollywood vs. not making it, over everything I could think of. Finally I decided that I should form a crying corporation that produces jars of tears to sell for $29.99 with free shipping. I imagined going on the QVC channel in a bright dress, perky hair and loads of glossy make-up, selling to everyone in the world, because so many people don’t cry, or won’t cry. I figured that after that, I might as well open up crying schools or academies where people could learn to cry. Night classes, day classes and, of course, online crying classes.

Then I thought about my early years of attending acting classes and how we had had to do scenes from all the classic plays of Shakespeare and Beckett, Chekhov, Miller, O’Neal, Ibsen, Pinter, Foote, Hellman, Wilson, Rabe, Wasserstein, McNally, Kushner, Shepard, Mamet, and a dozen other greats. The one that suddenly stood out in my mind was Thornton Wilder’s Our Town, the classic play about death. In it the whole town is dead and one-by-one they come back to tell their stories. And it hit me in my stomach, that my aunt was no longer a living, vibrant human being—now only a memory, a ghost in my mind. That in the future I would point to a photo of her and say, “That’s my Aunt Helen, I wish you had met her,” and that hurt, it hurt so bad I felt like screaming in the prestigious library—like a crazy lady.

One of the greatest ‘crazy’ films (in my opinion) is
Frances
starring Jessica Lange. It’s based on the real actress Frances Farmer who made it in Hollywood. Jessica Lange not only got to be the lead actress in it, but she got to act alongside her real-life love Sam Shepard (back when they were still a couple). Now that’s called making it big in both ways. Shepard’s character, Harry York, says,
“Frances, you’re crazy,
” and Lange’s character, Frances Farmer, says, “
Don’t tell anybody
.” That just about killed me. I guess I’m a sucker for drama films—I like long monologues, and the way everyone lashes out at each other. And I like the cinematography. Frances Farmer was the subject of at least three books and films, but the one quote I always remember that the real Frances Farmer actually said, (not what a Hollywood screenwriter decided she should say), “I
have learned that to have a good friend is the purest of all God’s gifts, for it is love that has no exchange of payment.
” And, well, aside from my Aunt Helen being my aunt, she was my good friend, and I’ll always feel that way.

I was done crying; my eyes were red-rimmed and I was ready to walk out of the library smarter—a lot smarter.

The morning was over, and I wished I had had a camera crew following me. Okay, so technically, I hate reality TV, but this was the one time I wished I had been filmed crying, because I don’t think I’ll ever cry that much again.

Jealousy is healthy. It has to be, because I sometimes have it. Tristan was in Laurel’s backyard, having just constructed half of an outdoor wedding canopy, a raised stage with four wooden poles. The door bell rang nonstop with deliveries of all the wedding stuff Laurel had ordered from various online sites. I was in charge of signing for everything and texting her what had arrived. Shadow was watching Tristan work when I stomped outside, annoyed that all the fuss was about her and not me.

“You’d think she could have waited until she returned,” I said, wanting Tristan to agree.

“She wants it all set up when they arrive, and for the guests, too,” he said, as if it was a smart decision on her part.

“Are we her minions?” I asked. He took the nail from between his lips and held it like a cigarette.

“I’m getting paid, luv. And, well, you’re one of her best friends,” he said.

“Tristan, feel free to not respond to everything I say,” I said in a snotty way, and he nodded and went back to hammering.

And then the nightmare arrived—in strawberry colored six-inch heels and a tight white dress: Deeda, the ‘decorator’ from Long Island.

“I’m in charge of pulling off the most unforgettable American-Italian picnic-wedding ever,” she said, as she walked around the backyard, not impressed, and deciding what needed fixing ASAP. Tristan sat down, awaiting instructions.

“Flat ass,” I said to him in passing, and he chuckled.

Deeda turned around and winked at him, which is one way of handling being laughed at. She took a seat at the makeshift table Tristan created with plywood and spread her ‘decorating’ book out for us, showing us the look Laurel wanted. My mouth watered. Soft white silk draping side panels around the canopy, off-white chairs surrounding it, and imported ivy hanging everywhere, red roses intertwined. Even the picnic menu had been chosen with elegant food in mind.

The last time I wanted a party celebration hosted for me in my Los Feliz studio apartment happened a few days after I was held at gunpoint. I had attended a commitment ceremony between a B-rated actor and a very established producer, a cool event held in Hancock Park (an upscale neighborhood) at the producer’s house. It was black velvet and red roses, with a heavy metal twist (the band). When I say black velvet, I mean the chairs were covered in it, as were all the tables, and even the napkins and the canopy that they stood under as they exchanged vows. It was gothic-meets-rock-meets-the smell of crushed roses. The place was swirling in roses and I loved it. The over-the-top style and design made it so fantastic. I was single at time, and went with three guys who happened to be gay and very close to the producer. I had seen the actor/groom on TV, but I didn’t know him personally. I ate the best hors d’oeuvres and drank sangria like it was lemonade.

I am not like Paloma and Laurel at parties. They seem to meet everyone, whereas I usually select a few people and have discussions about films, pets or travel, my three party topics.

Okay, so this time, I flirted with one of the cater-waiters. He was an actor, of course (think a young Richard Burton). It was easy, because we hit it off. He served me the most mouth-watering appetizers and kept my sangria glass full. I wasn’t driving because I had come in one of the other guy’s cars.

“Want to make out?” he asked, several hours into the party.

It wasn’t like we were going to start dating, it was more that, with all the love going on at the party, we were both desperate to have some ‘pretend’ stuff. I mean, I hadn’t been kissed in months, so I was really open to the idea.

“Sure,” I said.

We ended up in a jade-tile bathroom with a huge sunken tub (that easily could fit three people or four super slim people), and a black toilet and sink. Want to know real wealth? Go into the bathrooms of those who have made it in Hollywood and you’ll want to strip and use it. Okay, so I have that urge.

This time, I just leaned against the cold, jade-tile and let the super-cute cater-waiter- actor kiss me. It was so first-rate, I felt like informing all the guests. Some guys kiss to get in your pants, and some kiss because it feels so good, and they just might want to build a connection. I couldn’t judge his reason, because my mouth and lips were sangria intoxicated. When I told the three guys I had come with that I had been happily making out with a cater-waiter-actor, two were happy for me and ran off to copy.

“I’m jealous of you,” Ron said. Incidentally he’s 5’7”, thin, with black hair cut short in front, longer in back (not a mullet), and a freckled face. I tried to pick out a few guys for him, but he didn’t respond.

Meanwhile the cater-waiter-actor was back working the party and his boss was watching him, so we didn’t speak again until he slipped me his card as I was leaving.

Okay, so I might have called him if I hadn’t gotten held at gunpoint. The celebration ended and the other two other guys had ‘hooked’ up, so Ron and I walked to his dark blue Acura, which was parked a few houses up from the producer’s place. It was midnight and a Sunday. As we got to the car, Ron, who I really didn’t know that well, stopped me and said, “My life has no meaning. I don’t have a purpose. I feel useless.” He wasn’t drunk, which was a bummer. If he had been, I would have tossed his bony ass into his Acura and driven him home.

“I feel like I have no purpose, like I’m just taking up space,” he continued. He held his car keys in his hand, as we stood by the trunk, into which he had just put a bouquet of red roses that the host had given him.

Okay, so my mind started to freak out, as in, what if Ron commits suicide? What if I’m the last person he talks to before he kills himself? Those thoughts are what made me not rush to get into his car. I was trying to not appear drunk, superficial, or uncaring. So there I was, attempting to come up with some ‘preventive’ monologue, when a dark Honda (can’t remember the color) carrying four young guys came our way. I saw them, but I didn’t have time to study them. At a quick glance, they looked like ‘possible’ Hancock Park residents.

They were eighteen or nineteen max. Two got out in front of a house just down from us and the Honda drove off. Suddenly they came toward us, and I knew I had to run. I had no time to yell, I just ran, but one ran faster and tackled me onto the manicured lawn of a Tudor-house and put a gun to my temple. I stared at the grass, not wanting to see his face because I didn’t want to give him a reason to shoot me. What if I recognized him later in a lineup? FYI, I had seen almost all of Dick Wolf’s
Law & Order
episodes and I knew about lineups. He asked me which house we lived in. I wanted to laugh, because I wished I lived in one of the Hancock Park houses—a mini Beverly Hills. I wished I had had that lifestyle, but all I had was my Screen Actors Guild membership card, a rescue dog, and a lease to a studio apartment in Los Feliz, with money enough to coast on.

“We don’t live here, we were at a celebration. We’re not rich,” I said, keeping my eyes focused on the grass. I heard Ron moaning in the background.

Then my heart sank. My Hollywood dreams were about to be blown away; I was going to die as a ‘nobody,’ having gone nowhere. And then I swear I heard the voice. It came into my head—it was God, and he said, “You won’t die, it’s going be all right,” and then it felt like my whole body sank into the grass, into the earth, and I wasn’t scared anymore.

“Come on!!!!” the other young guy shouted. The Honda had come back around and the young guy jumped off me and dashed for it—and drove away. Ron was on the street a few feet from his car. He was sobbing—uncontrollably.

It had been so surreal, so out of a made-for TV movie that I actually looked around for the director, any director, as if expecting him/her to holler “CUT”. I mean, sometimes life is like a movie scene. It is!

Then I shouted to all the neighbors on the block in my loudest New York voice, “Come out and show support, come out and show support,” I said it over and over and over. In all the action films, there is always a crowd scene. And damn it, I wanted mine.

Five minutes later, the LA cops came and they wanted to know why Ron was crying, he hadn’t been shot, and he hadn’t been robbed.

“Good news, I don’t think he’ll kill himself,” I told the seasoned cop after I tried to describe the guys and the car. Then I jumped into a cab that had cruised by and went home alone. I never saw Ron or his friends ever again. All I know is that I spent a few days wanting gifts, presents, bouquets of flowers from all over the world to arrive—I wanted to slip into a gorgeous designer dress, with matching high heels and Harry Winston jewelry (why not!), and attend a black-tie party in my honor. I wanted that!

One of my favorite French films is
The Red Balloon.
Okay, so I saw it as a child and technically it’s a kid’s film. The filmmaker made it with his son as the lead in it. The ending is the best, but I won’t spoil it—maybe that’s why I wanted presents to arrive for me.

“The last and final gesture of the ceremony will be the releasing of a dozen White Doves, followed by a candlelit dance,” Deeda said, snapping me back to the plywood table and Laurel’s future.

“White Doves,” I said, having the sudden urge to suggest geese instead. FYI, Boston has a Canadian Geese population that wanders around. They have the right-of-way when crossing the street and it’s fun to watch the worried, angry drivers sit in their cars, watching the line of geese slowly, very slowly, crossing the street.