by David Boyle
Joseph failed to respond. He stared into space. With her shaking hand, Darlene tapped her chest. “I got fired from the movie. For refusing to do the scene with Cavanaugh.”
“I’m so sorry,” Joseph mumbled halfheartedly, even though he was glad that handsome actor would not be getting his hands on Darlene, a terrible memory that had been eating away at him ever since.
“Not only that,” Darlene said, “but the director is going to make life difficult for me. He told me that walking out on a production is the kiss of death in the movie business. He’s going to spread the word around the studios that I’m an irresponsible actress. He said I’d be damn lucky if some independent wannabe filmmaker would hire me. I’m ruined, Joseph... Ruined!”
Joseph hugged his wife. She put her head on his shoulder and cried hard, tears brought on by the lancing pain of unforeseen change. “It’s okay, Dar, let it out,” he said, “everything will work out. You’ll see.”
As he stroked his wife’s hair, Joseph looked through the window by the kitchen table. The interstices in the blinds gave him an adequate view of the world he was comfortable in. The lights of the city were twinkling, giving a vibrant glow to the night. Hypnotic and calming, the lights helped Joseph relax. He could hear horns honking in the street far below their condo complex, a plane soaring overhead, a door closing in the hall on their floor…and quite possibly, another closing on Darlene’s dreams. And even though she was crying forcefully in his arms, Joseph wore an indignant smile on his face, an expression Darlene could not see…wouldn’t want to see.
Joseph had gone to bed and had been sleeping for over an hour. While drinking a few cups of coffee in the next room, Darlene spent a long time going through a scrapbook of pictures of people she’d met while doing various gigs over the years. The pictures conjured up memories that helped her calm down and think. Going through the book had also given her more clarity about her career—its past, its present, its future—and she had major decisions to make before moving on to the next phase of her life, whatever that might be. The time to reconcile her priorities was upon her; she was struck by an impulse.
She put on her shoes and a parka, then walked to the bedroom door and opened it. Streaks of light from the living room clung to the bedroom walls. Cloaked in shadow, Joseph was still sleeping. Darlene stepped into the room. “Are you awake, Joe? Can you hear me?”
Joseph moaned. Seconds later he started to roll over. A swath of light fell on his squinting eyes. “What’s the matter?” he asked.
“I need to tell you something. And it can’t wait. I have to get this out… now.”
Joseph sat up, putting his back against the headboard. “Okay, then.”
“I’ve been thinking about everything… and I’ve decided to ask for that role back.”
Though he was groggy, Joseph listened to Darlene carefully and then wobbled to his feet. “All right,” he said in a low voice, wiping his eyes and face.
Darlene switched on the bedroom light. She appeared confident, proud, and in control of her emotions, her elocution. “I want to be an actress. I want to follow through on my ambitions. And I want to make something of myself.”
“And you haven’t already?” Joseph asked quizzically while putting on his robe.
“No…not exactly. Not yet.”
Joseph ran his fingers through his hair. “What do you want, then, Dar? Huh?”
Darlene grinned. “Well, I want to be an independent woman.” She took a deep breath, let it out. “You know, I’ve never felt those urges that women are supposed to feel—having kids, being a housewife and all that—but acting is something I’ve always felt drawn to. I want to pursue it, whether I fail or not.”
“I’m all for that, Darlene. But how are you going to fix everything? What’re you going to do?”
“I’m going to beg Evan Hawkins to reconsider me for the part. And if he refuses to rehire me, I’m going to keep trying other avenues.”
Joseph approached Darlene, put his hands on her waist. “Let me talk to him. I can sell him the truth better than you can. I can convince him that you were just trying to appease me and made a rash decision.”
Darlene shook off his idea. “No, Joe, I won’t—”
“Darlene, listen, I’m damn good at persuading big shots to confide in me, so I’m sure your director would be no match. Give me ten minutes with him… and I guarantee he’ll take you back, without resistance. Let me make up for my mistakes. Set this straight.”
“No, Joe. I will do this alone. I’d rather sink or swim on my own terms. I appreciate your trying…but I need to do this.”
Darlene turned and walked toward the front door. Joe shrugged. “Please, Dar, what can I do? What’s it gonna take?”
As Darlene opened the door, she pivoted in Joe’s direction and said, “Be patient. Give me some space.” Then she left and closed the door behind her.
“When haven’t I?” Joseph mumbled.
When Darlene arrived at the set, she found Hawkins reviewing the shot-list for the next day. He was sitting at a long table, a cigar in his mouth, a pen tucked behind his ear. Before Darlene got close to him (she was only ten feet from the table), he picked up his head. “Welcome back, Ms. Berrywood. Are you ready to shoot the next sequence? We’ll begin shortly, once I get everything sorted out.”
Darlene stood frozen. Her jaw slackened. She had been expecting a more scathing response. She fumbled her words. “I…I came to…to apologize for my behavior, sir. That won’t—”
“I know it won’t happen again,” he said. “You’re forgiven. You’re standing here before me. You’re not some flimflam. I saw that in you from the very beginning. You’re serious about your craft, not like those floozies who can’t deal with an erratic director.” He looked down at his papers. “One who’s man enough to admit that he said some harsh things and feels bad about it.”
Darlene opened her mouth to speak. The director held up his hand. “Say no more. Save that spunk for your performance.”
Darlene nodded a few times quickly. The director pointed across the lot. “Go to wardrobe. Make haste.”
She went inside the trailer. Racks of clothes, more beautiful than she’d ever seen in her life, surrounded her.
Other actors were getting fitted for their scenes, too, and she smiled warmly at them. This was everything she ever wanted. She felt triumphant; the moment couldn’t have been more perfect. She got fitted for the forthcoming scene and made her way outside. At the bottom of the stairs, dressed in a Grinding Gears shirt, Joseph stood waiting for her. He had a smile on his face and a piece of paper and a pen in his hand. “Isn’t this the perfect ending to a story? Our story?”
Darlene became emotional. She descended the stairs, her heart twitching. Joseph handed her the pen and paper. He silently admired her beautiful costume, her redolence, her poise. “Can I have your autograph, Ms. Berrywood? You’re my favorite actress.”
As she signed the paper, tears streamed down Darlene’s cheeks, tears of genuine mirth.
The director had come out of his trailer and noticed Darlene and Joseph kissing, and he laughed through his nose. “Hey,” he shouted, “I didn’t say ‘Roll Camera’ yet.”
Darlene and Joseph broke their embrace and looked at Hawkins, who pulled the cigar out of his mouth and blew out a smoke ring. “I never said ‘Cut’ either.”
“I’d like to stay and watch if that’s all right with you, Darlene,” Joseph said.
“I wouldn’t have it any other way,” she said. “This is what’s real to me.”
Hawkins’s booming voice soared across the lot. “Berrywood, get to make-up, pronto. You’re on in fifteen.”
Darlene grabbed Joseph’s hand and held it in front of her. “I knew you’d come. So I got you this.” She placed a laminated badge in his palm, a special pass. In bold red letters it read Meltdown. “It’s for later,” she said. “I’ll be your escort.”
Joseph beamed. “I wouldn’t have it any other way either.”
S
ELLOUT
Seated on the bed with her wet hair swaddled in a towel, Ilene Foster reviewed the day’s notes. She massaged her overburdened feet, trying to assuage the chronic ache that pulsed inside them; the discomfort had spread up her calves to her knees. Having to strut around all day in high heels had always been painful and tiresome. The merciless stress of high-pressure sales only added more strain to her livelihood. Hotel rooms, room service, extensive travel, long hours, and sleepless nights were among the many permanent adversities of being a salesperson. Some would surmise, without having witnessed firsthand the day-to-day realities of her industry, that to some extent she had the life of a celebrity. Yet she lacked the legions of fans, the ritzy parties, assistants catering to her every whim. Still, though, as one of the best in her field, Ilene was admired for her prowess, her fervent sales pitches, her seemingly heartfelt smile that always disarmed her clientele and her colleagues alike; nobody could resist her charms or her meticulously honed sale strategies. Her renowned declaration always sealed the deal: “I put all my clients on a pedestal.” Though she herself had almost grown tired of uttering such a trite phrase, the words themselves had long ago become an essential part of her repertoire, never failing to cast their potent spell when called upon, like a magician’s wand seducing a roomful of awe-struck observers. Those eight prosaic words got contracts signed and made owners rich, solidifying her image as the ultimate huckster.
The paper she was reading, marked with notes about the new line of floor lamps she had to push, became tedious and exhausting to memorize. And now she had the urge to close her eyes and get some much-needed rest; but she knew she would have to get a firm grasp of her sales plan before tomorrow morning’s first meeting—a sizable deal awaited her special touch, her mastery. The majority of her clients were female: wealthy wives or corporate climbers overly enthusiastic about decorating homes or offices, or wherever they could place high-end merchandise. This made it easier for her to sell pricey decorative lamps and lampshades, custom-made stands and light fixtures, multi-year maintenance contracts and extensive warranties.
She put her notepad on the night stand and wiped her bloodshot eyes. The bold numbers on the clock had just flipped to 11:03 p.m. I can’t believe I forgot to call Jack, she thought. Her husband typically went to bed early and woke by 4:30. Calling him now would disturb him but she wanted to check-in on her family (they had a twelve-year-old daughter, Carolyn). She picked up the phone and began turning the dial slowly, hesitantly, as if it were some fragile, priceless piece of china. Alongside the phone, a half-eaten T-bone steak and a glass with an ounce of wine left in it. She regarded her open suitcase on the baggage rack: clothes overflowing it, some clean, some in need of laundering. Beside the suitcase, a large spiral notebook filled with pictures of lamps, shades, stands, and other related items. Next to the phone, a sign: Welcome to the Stratford Hotel! Oklahoma’s Finest Lodging. For a moment she pondered putting the phone down and focusing her attention on something else—anything else. Her mind had suddenly become congested by conflicting thoughts she’d been trying to compartmentalize for some time now. But she finished dialing.
She listened to the phone ring. Jack answered on the fourth ring, his voice gravelly. “…elo?”
Ilene swallowed, scratched the bridge of her nose. “Jack…Jack it’s me…” She fingered the hotel’s notepad on the night stand. “Sorry to wake you.”
Jack didn’t answer. He moaned, whether from fatigue or anger Ilene could not tell.
Jack’s unresponsiveness irked her. She looked up at the ceiling, where dim lamp light brought out the prickly surface of the stucco finish and threw a shadow on the now unlit fixture at the center. Glancing down, Ilene glimpsed her bright red toenails. “Jack…I just wanted to say hi.”
“Well?” Jack mumbled. “Hi then.”
Ilene tightened her grip around the handset. Her feet fidgeted with her slippers—a present Jack had sent to her office last month; something to wear during her lunch breaks or on afternoon walks. He never knew if she liked them or not because she never said anything about them. She’d said hardly anything at all lately, unless it was work-related. Even months ago when he had come home early from work to speak with her about an urgent matter, she was unreceptive. Ilene had begun changing a long time ago, but she was too driven these days to notice. “Don’t start with me, Jack, okay? Not now.”
Jack cleared his throat but said nothing. With her free hand Ilene rubbed her temple. “How’s Carolyn?”
Jack hung up on her.
Her eyes wide, Ilene put the handset back on the cradle. She curled up on the bed and cried, a deep, glottal cry, until she fell asleep.
Ilene could hear noises outside her first-floor room: the intermittent shuffling of feet, the coarse murmur of voices, the jingle of coins dropping into a nearby vending machine, a trunk being slammed shut. As she sat up in bed she took note of the time, 6:13 a.m., much earlier than she wanted to wake up. She’d not gotten a fitful night’s sleep. She had too much on her mind, too many aches and pains, too much disorder to sort through at such an unpropitious time. The sunlight was creeping through the side-folds of her closed curtains, spreading across the floor in pencil-thin strands. Ilene got out of bed and stood in front of the mirror next to the big-screen TV. She had difficulty seeing her reflection so she flipped on the nearby light; the weak bulb gave off just enough light for her to notice all her imperfections: her tired eyes, her drawn face, her unstylish hair, freckles beginning to stain her once youthful complexion. She remembered a time when none of those flaws was present, when her body had scarcely any inadequacy, when her female friends envied her natural looks, her simple life. That was when she was working days at the luncheonette, managing a reasonable schedule, earning a livable wage. That was a long time ago indeed, before she changed her career on the recommendation of a frequent customer, an eminent businessman, and turned her back against everything that she’d hoped her life would be—simple, normal, undemanding. Now… she was just a woman like any other, a woman devoid of vigorous spirit but somehow attempting, however misguidedly, to recapture it by taking the most problematic road imaginable. Worst of all, now she couldn’t remember much of that joyful time in her life when every day was abuzz with the forces of promise and possibility, when the reality of aging seemed a distant worry. Despite her recent success, she felt the weight of defeat in her heart. Her eyes glazed over with tears. But she had to hold them in and find her balance, become exactly what others expected of her. Another long day of work was upon her. She went to the bathroom and took a shower.
8:00 a.m. Ilene was prepared to meet her new client. Their meeting, scheduled for 8:30 a.m., would take place in one of the hotel’s private conference rooms. These particular clients were a heavyweight score for her boss. Should she secure such a gainful account, her employer’s business would increase considerably. The top salesperson in her firm, Ilene had been assigned to acquiring this prospect, leaving no room for error. If she was going to achieve the pinnacle of her career, she would have to push herself harder than ever before, demand more from herself.
Despite the sadness she had felt earlier this morning about her personal appearance, Ilene, dressed in a skirt, blouse, and pumps, walked proudly down the long path en route to the lobby. It was time to switch off one part of her personality and unleash her unfailing effervescence, the same way she had gotten by for the last five years in a most unpredictable, competitive field, without a single misstep. Even though she was about to go into the meeting encumbered by her own shortcomings, some part of her, a part she often tried to downplay, hungered for the chance to shine, to make her presence known when she entered the room, to demonstrate that women can be just as shrewd and quick on their feet as the most adept men.
Busy and quite boisterous, the lobby was crammed with tourists and business-class people. The main desk had a long line of customers in the midst of checking-in and out, firing question after question at the personnel behind the co
unter, giving the clerks nary a second to regroup. A family sat on a bench in the corner, their young child rolling around on the floor, obnoxiously chewing gum and wiping his dirty, gooey fingers on the carpet. Ilene smiled at the child. Hanging breathtakingly from the ceiling, a chandelier caught her attention. Her company sold those too; the crystals and the designer bulbs alone cost a small fortune; imports from France, she mentally noted. She could tell that the hotel’s decorator had also put a lot of effort into selecting the perfect paintings to display. These specific details were easy for the trained eye to pick out. As usual, Ilene had noticed them within seconds.
She looked around the room for her client. She had a knack for spotting a prospective client in any crowd. She was up to the challenge of seeking him out. As she scanned the room she quickly eyed the men around her, narrowing down her search. According to her boss, Willy was likely about forty-years-old and one of many highly esteemed corporate leaders. Their meeting had been arranged only days ago via a brief phone call between her boss and the client’s secretary.
Across the room, seated on one of the benches, a clean-shaven, middle-aged man was reading a newspaper. He had salt-and-pepper hair, a pressed suit, a shiny silver watch, and immaculately polished shoes. Ilene immediately dismissed him as her new client. Although he fit her image of the typical businessman, his body language didn’t conform to that image: he seemed nervous, restless. Anybody in a position of power, especially one as well respected as most of her clients, wouldn’t be so tense before a first meeting, under any circumstances. Ilene averted her gaze.
She scouted the room methodically, like an assassin stalking her hit. Then, in the hallway which led to vending machines, bathrooms and payphones, Ilene saw her man. He was undoubtedly a match. She glanced at her watch: fifteen minutes before showtime. His punctuality made an immediate impression on her. Also, he was neatly but not overly dressed. She couldn’t see any flashy jewelry on him—no rings, bracelets, or gaudy cuff links. He wore only a modestly priced wristwatch, an indication, in her eyes, of a secure executive, a professional at ease. Leaning against the wall, he exuded, not cockiness, but a person who would shine as needed, a man who had been in the thick of many corporate battles and always survived stronger and more prepared for the next powwow. This man embodied Ilene’s ideal, a man who would get right down to business and sign off on a check without a moment’s hesitation.