Pondering the surfeit of hazards this performance might attract while seated in the Dark Tower and nestled within Undre Arms, Marta conjured an adult roster of preparatory choices. A drop-in acting class for improvisation? Toastmasters? A few hours of introductory pole dancing—ladies, shake away your inhibitions? Marta briefly entertained the ideas. She’d pulled away from that nettlesome hitch—having clearly understood the term performance anxiety—and thought save it for later. She stopped picking at the implications of later.
Setting, an easier challenge, puzzled her even as she enjoyed sorting the pieces. Hotel lounge: likely mistaken there for a working girl and subject to harsh questions from a management type. She’d seen Pretty Woman. Or else viewed as a lonely lady and prey to a self-styled rescuer or, worse, a wolfish ladies’ man. A nightclub: too Looking for Mr. Goodbar? Noisy as well. Where else promised hope? A bookstore or library? Overly familiar, claustrophobic, not conducive to living conversation. Pie and black tea in a café, now that might work. Just right, as with Goldilock’s chosen bowl: Marta could map her limits well enough.
And she’d mulled over attire too. Since being virtually anyone was not impossible, she could also dress according to whim. Then again, no one could tell the difference if she chose ordinary clothes in a foreign place. She’d opted against outlandishness, settling on a new persona-synched blouse as suitable. Outlawed: wig, costume, accent, complicated back-story. Onerously far from a core of truth, such props represented an overreaching acting exercise. Things might go—would go—askance. And she’d be remiss to overlook the puckish need of the cosmos to throw an arbitrary complication into an ostensibly foolproof plan.
And last: the name. “I’m Marta” represented a complete failure of resolve, a shrinking away from the grand gesture. Sadie, she’d decided. Marta was acquainted with no Sadie, but the name had surfaced without effort. Old-fashioned and slightly exotic, but not freighted and antique (Evangeline) or silly (Chenille), Sadie would be both suggestive and inviting, hinting of ambiguous values, diaphanous cloth, and fragrant carnation. Better yet, she’d raise no alarms, no inquiries, and no smirks of incredulity.
Seeking to sabotage a worrywart nature, she’d resisted the urge to chew over hitches and chart probable consequences. Sadie she would be, one day.
For Sadie, Marta later purchased a tiny ampoule of Chanel No. 5. Sadie’s bouquet was “classic, but totally posed for a revival,” a clerk with a face modeled after an Art Deco doll had declared. “Perfect,” Marta said, having given up on sliding “poised” into the conversation.
Ideal in its own way, Boise, home of fervent Broncos fans she’d read, beckoned, a natural locale for Sadie’s inaugural test run.
4.
If the ensuing scene was not anti-climactic, neither could it truly be described as enthralling. Nor exciting; barely a molecule of intrigue existed for savouring. A bubble of relief buoyed Marta: at least the scene had steered clear of humiliation. As for dangerous, that concern melted away as soon as she’d entered the room. There’d been a belly murmur of excitement, at best; cold hands and nervousness—a distant cousin to the hoped-for ecstatic charge—seemed third-rate symptoms, letdowns. Picaresque misadventure, a dramatic unfolding for which she’d intermittently readied herself? Nowhere in the vicinity.
Whereas the pulp novel version of the excursion would result in terror (being hassled, at minimum, by a creep, and downhill from there), a torrid entanglement, intercourse, and morning-after remorse, or else Hollywood epiphanic (being hassled by a creep, experiencing being weak and helpless, taking a karate class, becoming self-reliant and empowered, take back the night, grrl), Boise’s would-be narrative of danger turned out to be humdrum and uneventful, scarcely an episode, at moments on par with sitting in an airport waiting for the arrival of a delayed flight. No lady’s man, no serial killer, no transvestite prostitute—street-wise but tragic—no honour roll student by day, no conversational pyrotechnics or improvised autobiography. An anecdote composed of virtually nothing, she saw.
Avoiding eye contact and collegial waves, Marta had left the conference and strode quickly across campus to the hotel room. After changing clothes and assessing the result—not for the first time—she stood at the forlorn smoker’s refuge adjacent to the lobby and hailed a cab: “Downtown, please.”
She’d pre-selected 3Squares, a Zagat-rated café built far from the conference site, calculating that its trendiness would attract a stranger who would nonetheless be a semi-familiar type. Factoring in this and that, Marta accepted early on that the conventional urban verboten zones of literature and film—from the decrepit back alleyway opium den doors Dorian Gray opens to the dive taverns bikers, dealers, and prostitutes frequent in Angel—embodied such foreign values that acclimating to the setting was impossible, never mind excelling in risqué conversations. She’d been moulded by years within an academic environment and did not expect to hold her own in a conversation with a quasi-alien—a sailor, a drug-addled bundle of tics, or a thug who rode a Harley Davidson. Really, what could they talk about?
At the café—disappointingly unpopulated for a Friday evening—Marta had nursed tea and tough-crust apple pie. Interacting with the near-monosyllables of the grandmother-aged server with tired eyes—“What’ll it be?” and “That all?” from behind the diner’s long counter—required no acting. Marta hadn’t the slightest chance to answer “Sadie” to someone’s warm, ordinary probing question. Nor had “Where you from, honey?” wafted her way.
No mishap snagged her, and for that she’d been thankful. But admittedly no extraordinary outcome transpired, either—the itch still nowhere close to scratched. Marta had felt accomplished because she’d been prepared for something and had actually left the conference and shown up—as Sadie—at this location of unknown possibilities. Drink and food only, yes, but she could not deny a readiness for another script. The exact nature—unrevealed and impenetrable—continued to tantalize, even as predictions of public humiliation and bodily harm crowded over the seductive image of this improvised persona.
Next time floated up, as alluring as ectoplasm.
5.
The phone rang. “Marta? Lora here,” the voice said. “You all settled in?”
“Yes, I arrived not long ago at all.”
“Good. Jake and I flew up earlier in the week, corralling crew, putting out fires, blah blah. Business as usual, in other words. I’ve still got a shitload of calls to get through tonight so grab a pen, okay?”
“I’m ready.”
“We’ve set up a satellite—well, more like a broom closet in a trailer—for the production office on set, but the other one, the official HQ, is at a store front we had to rent for the month, right on the main drag. Between the Star-Lite—sorry about that, this backwater isn’t exactly overflowing with four-star accommodations, you know, my place isn’t the goddamned Ritz by a mile—anyway, between your room and the other sites, you’ll have plenty of space to work from.” Lora explained the route and gave Marta the address.
“We’ll give you le grand tour in the morning. You need to be updated on things. And if you’re unclear about anything, we can sort it out then.”
“Terrific.”
“It doesn’t look like there’s going to be much to do in this town except watch fruit ripen, but we’ll be in and out before you know it. See you in the morning!”
“Good night, Lora.”
Stretching out on the bed Marta returned to Angel. Driving could wait until she settled. Jake had mentioned that the script would go through a series of edits before she encountered it again, so re-reading the outmoded version seemed fruitless. Although Marta understood that her role did not pertain to the script per se, she thought mentioning at least a few of the key problems of conception couldn’t hurt. She’d wait until the morning to pore over the latest printout. Grisly scenes before Angel’s bittersweet ending would be good company instead.
IN THE MIDST OF THE INCOMPREHENSIBLE
1.
Rapid-fire knocks interrupted Marta’s fraught minute of indecision.
She’d placed two outfits on the bed and stood back weighing options. Khaki walking shorts and a loose T-shirt would be comfortable, without a doubt. She kept out of the sun religiously and foresaw crew eyes sweeping down to her pallid legs, all the more outstanding and eccentric in this caramel-skinned Holidayland of bikinis, where the fact of a melanoma lesion was transmuted into a quaint myth like a unicorn or leprechaun—Of course I’ve heard of it, but I’ve never seen one in reality. Denim provided cover, true, but stiff twice-laundered fabric? A hothouse. Marta never wore denim, firm in the belief that its currency and approachable casualness did not jive well with a professional demeanor. To her the match looked like a nun in a halter-top: transvestic and unconvincing, a misguided leopard failing at changing its spots. Nevertheless, she bought a discounted pair at Banana Republic along with a gauzy unbleached peasant blouse a week before leaving the city, when in Rome chiming insistently. Even the aged studio guard wore jeans, Marta recalled.
Tightly fastening the robe, she crossed to the door and released the chain. A harsh white field of sunlit gravel reminded her to buy sunglasses, the only pair she owned stuck at home in a drawer; sepia lenses would return the glaring, faintly hostile landscape to the palatable bucolic hue of postcards.
“Hi, I’m Chaz,” the stranger said. “Lora’s assistant. We didn’t shake hands back in the city, but I noticed when you came to the studio. It was cute, you looked pretty bowled over.” Swarthy with freckles the man presented a solid figure, a few Big Macs short of husky. The abundant thicket of black curly hair was damp and pasted to his temples. An oblong face, not recently shaved, glistened, the profuse sweat like a film of petroleum jelly; a razor gash still healed at the point on a bull neck where the beard petered out.
Marta imagined he’d be huffing and spent halfway up a short flight of stairs. At this rate, he’s going to be on diabetes medication well before forty, she thought. The man’s shirt and trousers—yards of black denim—would be no help.
“Hi, it’s a pleasure to meet you. I’m Marta.” She held out her hand. “I gather you’re here to deliver a message?” Holding the door ajar, the heat rushed in. Marta shielded her eyes, thinking of dust bowl migrations and frenzied locusts in ominous cloud formation. The man’s hand felt warm and moist but not unpleasant.
“Well, no. My car died, or something. I’m not very mechanical. Anyway, I’m wondering if you could give me a ride to the production office. I called Lora already and she told me you’re due there at nine bells.” Chaz mopped his forehead with a handkerchief.
“Oh, I see.” Marta evaluated the uncreased span between Chaz’s brow and hair line as a shade disproportionate.
“If it’s a hassle, I can hitch. I don’t think this town has taxis. I dunno. The heat’s kind of much already, though. I can already feel the sweat streaming into my butt crack. I’ll probably get a rash.” He checked the time. “Sorry, that’s probably more information than you’d want from a stranger at the door at 8:35 in the morning. At least I’m not holding Watchtower magazines and warning you about next month’s apocalypse. Beware sinner,” he waved with mock-prophet enthusiasm, “preparest thy soul.”
The burly man’s performer reservoir took Marta aback. Chaz seemed to be a natural, though lampshade-comic rather than Hamlet-soliloquy. When she summoned the actor’s mask in a classroom, she knew the cost of the short-term loan.
Chaz shifted his weight from one foot to the next. “Man oh man, I can feel the ground through my flip flops. It’s like Mauna Loa. And I thought my room was hot.”
Animated and chatty—a huge percolating dose of caffeine—Chaz disconcerted Marta. Marta viewed morning as solitary and low-key. Were she to meditate, the inspiring stillness following sunrise would be optimal. Her school year routine included a brisk walk around the neighbourhood, followed by yogurt-topped oatmeal. She reserved weekend mornings for a newspaper and a few magazines. During the workweek she prepared a pot of Earl Grey and hastily read a chapter from a canonical writer, a self-imposed assignment. Smitten years ago with the idea of cultural literacy, she’d compiled a lengthy list of key texts with which she managed—some consciously, others not—to have no lasting contact. Aristotle through Zola, the thousands of pages would take years to complete. On occasion a bright student made reference to specific lines of Paradise Lost or “The Miller’s Tale,” and Marta regretted relying on the therapist’s classic turnaround—“What do you think?”—and the extended bluff: “Would you say there’s sufficient evidence from the text to support that interpretation?” That strategy never failed. The alphabetical list served to remedy that professional eyesore as well.
Marta waited silently until the man stopped performing. “It’s not a problem, the ride I mean,” she said.
“That’s great, sergeant.” Chaz smiled and saluted. “Hey, do you have A/C? In there, I mean?”
“Just a fan. When I arrived in the early evening the drapes were closed, so it wasn’t too bad. Perhaps units around back are equipped with it.”
“It’d probably cost extra, and there’s no way the production’s gonna swing for that. For me, anyway. For you, maybe.” Marta wondered if he wanted an invitation inside.
They paused. Birds chirped and tourist vehicles, weighted down and sluggish, passed by on the 97. In the lot a tumbleweed—skeletal, improbable—bounced by; Marta tracked the soundless ball’s wind-borne ramble.
Chaz clapped twice. “Okay, anyway, I’ve got to change my footwear. Lora will kill me if she sees me in these—‘Safety first,’ that’s her motto. I’ll let you get ready and be back in five. Um, there’s a coffee maker in my room. Can I get you a cup?”
Marta had already brewed tea. “Sure, that would be grand. I’ll be ready when you return.”
She opted against shorts, but folded them inside the tote.
2.
Car doors locked and safety belts secured, Marta switched off the murmuring radio announcer. Though she’d referred to the map several times, she placed it in the bag atop shorts, the script, and a copy of Imperial(ist) Empress. While the route from the Star-Lite ran directly, summer raised the possibility of road work and a detour. Marta studied the morning’s vista before signaling left. The highway was a corridor, a narrow band between dense, sprinkler-soaked orchards. On elevated plateaus in the valley: lush vineyards unfurling like bolts of luxurious dense cloth. Still higher, indigenousness—lifeless Martian rock, scrubby sage, meagre grass patches, indistinct growths of bush, long stretches of inhospitableness, an unmerciful landscape that could make anyone fall on their knees in gratitude for petroleum products, air conditioning, and shopping mall food courts.
Chaz turned on the radio and stabbed the scan button for stations.
Marta had read facts and figures about road etiquette and expected to drive without the distractions of noise. Without looking at Chaz, she reached for the dial and rotated the volume dial slowly until the speakers fell silent.
“It’s just as well. That station is such complete bullshit. ‘The greatest hits of all time.’ Yeah, right, I happen to know that ‘Silver Threads Among the Gold’ was huge in the 1870s, and they’ve never played it, not once. And what about ‘Greensleeves’? That was a monster hit, it rocked out for decades in the 1600s.”
Marta smiled, amused even though she believed he’d practiced those lines before.
“Ten and two position on the wheel, eh? You’re really intent,” Chaz said. He’d adjusted the seat and sprawled. “Not a speed demon, I see.”
“I rarely drive.” Marta had deduced that the passenger would be a fidget by the time he’d opened the glove compartment.
“We’re actually going slightly below the limit.”
“Oh, really?” Marta said, thinking, Typical, probably expects me to o
ffer him the wheel. “Actually”—two heartbeats—“it is significantly faster than walking. Isn’t it?”
“Okay, gotcha. No one appreciates a back seat driver. I’ll shut up.”
Marta guaged the growing volume of traffic ahead.
“This car is pretty new, eh? Mine’s a heap.”
“It’s a rental. I think agencies always have recent models.” Marta could not bear to talk about cars. It was a dead-end topic—filler for family visits, elevator rides—and as inane as Christmas plans or the weather. “Have you been working in the film industry for long?”
“Nope. I’m an office PA.”
Marta frowned at the inadequacy of the answer.
“Oh, it’s just that . . .” Chaz stopped. “Well, just between you and me, if you meet someone on set and he’s been a PA for longer than a year, it means he hasn’t been working full-time or else he’s a completely incompetent tool. Pardon my French. I’m competent.”
“And therefore you’re new. I understand now.” Vested road crews and heavily loaded vacationing families reduced traffic velocity.
“Want this now?” Chaz held up a stainless steel coffee mug.
Marta shook her head and focused on the vehicle flow.
“Okay. Well, being a PA is a probationary period, a rite of passage,” he said. “After the time’s up, you expect, and you’re expected, to rise in the ranks. Picking up cigarette butts and guarding parking lots and equipment is shit-work, anybody can see that, especially during the six or so months when the clouds are pissing and you’re stuck outside. Or in my case: going on coffee runs for the muckety-mucks and getting chewed out when the soy latte doesn’t have three shots or whatever.”
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