“So … anything else, Franny?”
“Yeah, no, thanks. That’s it. Just, uh, checking in.”
“Okay, thanks Franny, I’ll let Joe know you called … to check in.”
It was worse when I heard Richard say it back.
I thought my life was going to radically change when I got an agent, but it’s exactly the same except that I’m spending more money.
I finally got the check from Kevin and Kathy, but I was shocked to see over half of it gone to taxes and commission to the agency.
“That’s it?” I said to Dan as he looked the check over carefully. I hoped he’d find some error, or maybe realize I’d filled out the tax form incorrectly. But he handed it back and shook his head.
“They’re taxing you like you make that kind of money every week,” he explained.
“But I don’t,” I said helplessly, and he shook his head in sympathy.
On top of that, I’m still recovering from the various shifts that Herb docked me for shooting Kevin and Kathy that Friday night, plus the cost of the new photos. I had to start picking up some shifts at Best Intentions, the catering place where I briefly worked when I first moved here. At first, watching weddings from the back of the grand ballroom was inspiring. I’d tear up during the toasts, even while clearing glasses. But after a while, the demanding brides wore me out, the grand ballroom felt impersonal and overused, and I became as jaded as the waiters I swore I’d never become, who start eyeing their watches exactly at eleven P.M. and prying half-full glasses out of the drunk attendees’ hands.
I find myself wondering whether things would be different if I’d signed with Barney Sparks. I imagine calling him up to “check in,” and I don’t think I would have felt so awkward. Plus, he has no assistant, so he actually would have had to take my call. But I can’t allow myself to picture that—I signed a yearlong contract with Absolute.
Getting an agent was undeniable progress, an actual box I could check and an accomplishment I could point to. But if you have an agent who never calls you for anything, I’m not sure it’s any better than not having an agent. In fact, I think it’s worse. Before, I wasn’t being rejected so much as I was going unnoticed. Now I have someone who noticed me at first, but now seems to have found me lacking.
I called my dad after the sixth week of not receiving any calls from Absolute.
“I think my agent forgot about me.”
“I think my daughter forgot about me.”
“Dad.”
“Who is this?”
“Har-har. It’s your daughter, the unemployed actress.”
“She lives!”
“I think I need a manager.”
“Why do you need a manager? I thought you just got an agent.”
“I did, but they aren’t getting me any auditions.”
“If you have no auditions, what’s there to manage?”
“A manager would help me get auditions.”
“How could a manager do that when the agents can’t?”
“Well, managers have fewer people, so they can focus just on you.”
“Then why do you have an agent at all? Why not just have a manager?”
“You have to have an agent. They’re the only ones allowed to negotiate contracts. Agents are franchised. Managers aren’t.”
“So, anyone can say they’re a manager?”
“Well, sort of, yes.”
“Why don’t I say I’m your manager and go tell your agent he’s doing a crappy job for my favorite client?”
“Thanks, Dad.”
A few days later, Jane and I are in the living room sitting cross-legged on either end of the couch and flipping through channels when Still Nursing comes on. Dan is working at the dining room table, but he always says he isn’t bothered by us sitting and talking in there while he’s writing due to his uncanny ability to completely tune us out, and in fact our chatter is so incessant, we’re like human white noise. It’s a handy thing to have in a roommate.
“I think I don’t look right,” I say, mesmerized by the actress on the screen.
“Right for what?”
“You know, in general. For show business. I think that’s why I’m not getting any calls from the agency.”
“What do you think is the right way to look?”
“You know, more like these girls on Still Nursing.” I gesture toward the television, where a buxom blonde in a short skirt and open doctor’s coat is struggling to reattach the I.V. of an elderly male patient by straddling his hospital bed, “accidentally” smothering him with her cleavage. The studio audience screams with laughter.
“Uchh. Gross.” Jane waves a hand dismissively. “This show. It’s the absolute end of civilization. One male nurse in a pediatric ward with all female doctors! What a premise! Look at them—none of them are believable as doctors. Half of them got new boobs between seasons one and two. I saw you last season, ladies—am I to believe you suddenly grew those mammaries over the summer? Please. They’re too skinny, anyway.”
The blond doctor on the television drops her clipboard on the floor and as she leans over to pick it up, the heart monitor of the patient starts beeping rapidly. More laughter.
“Yeah, but maybe that’s what people should be saying about me. Like when The Enquirer does those covers where they call someone SCARY SKINNY! People don’t look at it because they think the people on the cover look bad. They look at the magazine because they wish it was them. They want to be scary skinny, too. I’d be proud if people said, ‘She’s too skinny.’ ‘Have you seen that actress, Franny Banks? I’m worried about her. Someone should give her a candy bar, she looks like she might faint.’ That’s what the people want. That’s what makes people look up to you.”
“I’m going to order you some of those ‘Stop the Insanity’ tapes.”
“Casey told me about this special pot they have in L.A. that doesn’t give you the munchies. That’s apparently how those Still Nursing girls got so skinny.”
Jane shakes her head and speaks to me gently, like you might to a toddler who is sleepwalking. “Casey? Casey, the model who cries in every scene, told you that?”
“Yeah. The pot is really expensive, though, and you have to know somebody who knows somebody in order to get it. Somebody she went to high school with got her some. She could probably get me some, too. Maybe I should start smoking the skinny pot.”
Jane clicks the remote and Still Nursing fades to black. She turns to face me. “Frances. Truly. This kind of reasoning results in being found dead at three A.M. in a bathtub at the Chelsea Hotel. You’re an actor. You used to just worry about being an actor. And anyway, the last time we tried to smoke pot, you fell asleep by eight thirty.”
I slump back against the couch with a sigh. “But there has to be some trick. All those people can’t just be walking around starving and happening to look great all the time. They must know something that the rest of us don’t. Or worse—maybe there isn’t a trick. Maybe they are walking around hungry all the time. Maybe that’s the difference between being successful or unsuccessful. Maybe I’m too weak. I’m too concerned with feeling good to be willing to feel as bad as I should to be successful.”
“Why would feeling good be bad? People spend their lives trying to feel good. You’re not supposed to walk around miserable all the time. You have to eat to stay alive. These are truths you used to know. Who says there’s some agreed-upon ideal, anyway? The girls on Still Nursing aren’t appealing to everyone—just to the dumb people who watch that one show. One dumb show isn’t for everybody. Why can’t you just be yourself and find the people who like that?”
“I know. You’re right. Hey, maybe I should get my hair cut in The Rachel.”
“Franny. My ex-stepmother, who moved to the suburbs of Long Island, has The Rachel, as do all of her friends. It’s trickled out to the masses already. You missed the Rachel hairdo boat.”
“See? That’s what I’m talking about. I have follower hair. Successful act
resses have forward-thinking, trendsetting, exciting hair that women in the suburbs want to emulate. I should be thinking less about my work and more about my hair.”
“Can’t you go back to the time when you thought you would magically get an agent if you memorized a Shakespeare sonnet every day? That made about as much sense as this, but at least it was more productive. What about doing important work, like you always said? What about the theater and truth and connecting with humanity, or whatever you used to talk about?”
“I have an agent now. I’m trying to work in the professional world. There seem to be rules. I do still care about humanity and, you know, that other stuff. I’m just trying to be a—a professional. In a professional-looking package.”
“I guess. I don’t know. I just can’t picture Diane Keaton or Meryl Streep obsessing over The Rachel or the dingbats on Still Nursing. Isn’t it more important that you’re a talented actor?”
“I don’t know. That’s what I’m not sure about, I guess. I used to think that. But now I think I should be talented and have better hair. I’m confused. I think it’s all important. Maybe I should be a vegan.”
“Frances. Seriously. Get a grip. You’re not going to ever look like those dumb girls. But if you want to, I don’t know, be some sort of superhuman, don’t just smoke and throw away the inside of your muffins. Go get a book about nutrition or something.”
“I know about nutrition already,” I say, waving her away.
Jane looks doubtful. “Is that so? Name three food groups.”
“Easy,” I say, folding my arms. “Chinese, Mexican, tuna on a bagel.” She shakes her head, and I smile at her sweetly. “You know, Jane, I did buy actual vegetables, just last week.”
“Yes, I noticed that. This may come as a shock to you, but many studies have shown there’s at least a slight nutritional difference between spinach that’s rotting in the crisper drawer and spinach that’s ingested into the body.”
“Details,” I scoff.
“I give up,” she says, heading for the kitchen. “More coffee?”
I stare down at my bagel, which seems to eye me warily back. Maybe Jane’s right. Maybe I need more education. I wonder what Penelope Schlotzky eats on Sunday. Probably not bagels. Maybe bagels are my problem. Although, one bagel doesn’t seem like a lot of food. I decide I will finish the bagel but not eat anything the rest of the day. Except maybe a salad for dinner.
Or soup.
No. Soup has hidden stuff in it. Yes, I’m fairly certain, soup is another food that seems innocent but is actually fattening.
Chicken broth. That only has like seven calories. Can I get chicken broth at the deli? Where can I get chicken broth …
“You don’t need to change anything, Franny. I think you look good.”
I swear it takes me a second before I realize it’s Dan who is speaking. I had totally forgotten he was in the room. He has never before acknowledged anything we say while he’s working. We know for sure he tunes us out completely. We’ve tested it. Usually it takes three or more tries of us practically yelling at him to get his attention before he’ll even look up, blinking like we’ve startled him out of a dream.
The first thing I wonder is whether Dan has been secretly listening to our living room conversations all along, but Dan is a pretty honest guy and not devious like that. If he were ever distracted, he would have joined in the conversation or kicked us out while he was working.
It’s weird, but I’m pretty sure he hasn’t been listening all these months, that he hasn’t ever heard us before. I’m pretty sure I broke through to him just this once.
“Thanks, Dan,” is all I can think of to say.
14
“What is that?” Jane says, looking alarmed.
I’ve slumped farther into the abyss. I’m not making enough money. I’m down to one shift at the club, due to Herb’s bizarre system, which now includes rewarding the servers who have the most shifts with even more shifts, so those of us who’ve been penalized for any reason are having a tough time finding our way back in. At least I still have the Friday shift, whose take can almost, but not quite, cover my rent. Even catering has been slow lately.
Russell Blakely’s movie is wrapping in a few weeks, and Jane is finally not working nights anymore. She comes down the circular staircase wearing vintage ’60s go-go boots, which have different colors of patent leather sewn together in a kind of patchwork pattern, a short blue suede skirt, and a red bomber jacket with a faux fur collar she found at Bolton’s on Eighth Street. Bolton’s is supposed to be this great discount store, and Jane always finds something there, while I usually just end up with another pair of discounted black tights. Jane already has her signature sunglasses on, which means she’s serious about leaving. Nothing would normally slow her exit. That’s how I know, for sure, the stuff in the bowl I am holding must look as bad as I thought.
“Wow, look at you! Where’d you get the boots?” Maybe I can distract her by talking about fashion.
“Don’t try to distract me by talking about fashion. Seriously, what is that?”
“It’s, uh, food?”
“For an astronaut?”
“No, it’s this wonderful new diet food? I bought it off the television.” I’ve been trying to keep my spirits up by experimenting with different diets. So far, none of them have worked. But this time is different.
“You paid money for that?”
“Oh yes, Jane, and it’s so worth it. It’s called TastiLife, and it’s not just a quick-fix diet, it’s a fabulously tasty new way of life!”
“Okaay,” Jane says gingerly.
Why does she look so suspicious? I must make her understand. “Jane. I know it looks weird, but James Franklin was saying in class the other day that everyone on his set did it. In Hollywood.”
“Really? Hollywood?” Jane squeals in false delight.
“Jane, seriously. Have you seen those commercials? ‘Eleven million losers and counting’?”
“Yes, I’ve seen the people in the commercials who hold their old, giant fat pants away from their tiny new selves. So … that guy James told you to do this?”
“Yes, but not—he wasn’t telling me I needed it or anything. We were just talking after class—and anyway, I brought it up. I was just making conversation, asking him about his movie, and he was just being helpful by telling me what some of the pros do.”
“Mmm-hmm,” Jane says doubtfully. “But when did you start doing this? I didn’t see any of it in the fridge.”
“Yeah, no, that’s the best part—you don’t have to refrigerate it. It comes in a box. It’s freeze-dried in a package and you just take it out and soak it!”
“You soak it?”
“It sounds weird, I know, but it’s actually very convenient because you can take it anywhere, you know, on the go?”
“Why can’t you just eat actual healthy food, the kind that doesn’t require soaking?”
“Well, obviously, because I can’t be trusted to control myself. This teaches you portion control. Everything you need is in each packet, so it takes the guesswork out of dieting.”
“You sound like you’ve joined a cult. What happens when you have to go back to the real world, the world where you have to think for yourself?”
“Hopefully I’ll be so weak and frail that food will have lost its appeal entirely.”
“Great plan. And who’s on Leeza today?”
“I’m pretty sure today’s show is ‘Women Who Wish Their Best Friends Would Stop Judging Them.’ ”
“Har-har. I’m going to work now. Do you want me to take the TV cord with me?”
“Jane. Goodbye.”
After she leaves, I hover in the living room, eyeing the television warily. I know Jane’s just teasing—it’s not as though I have a real problem with Leeza, though I do happen to know that today’s episode is called “Amazing Animals,” and it’s supposed to include a dog who can actually tie people’s shoes. And Jane is sort of right, I guess, that
I’ve fallen into a pattern of watching more television during the day. It started when the residual checks for my Niagara commercial began to slow down, and I wanted to make sure they weren’t making a mistake—secretly running the commercial a dozen times a day and just forgetting to pay me or something—so I started scouring the daytime channels to see if I could count how many times it was playing and compare that to what my checks said.
Leeza was on, and she was talking about inspiring yourself, and I felt like I was really bettering myself by listening to her advice. A lot of the shows have weight-loss advice, which is where I got the great cabbage soup diet, which would have worked, I’m sure, if only I didn’t hate cabbage. She has celebrities on, too, and people who’ve overcome daunting odds of various kinds, and I never know when I’ll have to play a character who isn’t close to me but might remind me of someone I saw on Leeza. So really, you could call the time I spend with Leeza almost educational.
But the thing is, Pinetree Lodge, the soap opera, is on right after that. When I first started watching, it was just for a few minutes right after Leeza and before the first commercial break. I was more fascinated than interested. I would use the show as a kind of acting exercise, challenging myself with the hokey dialogue, saying the lines out loud to myself, just to see if I could make the scenes feel more real than the actors on the show did. I wondered if it was the actors’ fault that the whole thing seemed so ridiculous, or if there is truly nothing you can do to make it less phony, given how phony it looks.
But now I’ve fallen into the habit of watching both shows every day without fail, and sometimes I even leave the TV on longer and watch Studs and Love Connection, two shows I can’t possibly justify as being enriching in any measurable way. I blame Dan partially, who has barely been around. I don’t know where he’s been doing his writing lately, but it isn’t our living room, and if only he were here more I’d probably be too embarrassed to lie on the couch all afternoon.
Someday, Someday, Maybe: A Novel Page 13