With Randy Gold, a bitter loser, she expected some sort of vile counterpunch. The rat disgusted her, but she could get over that. Now she waited for the second shoe to fall. A day later, Brian De Genera called her to announce, “Your rat-man, Mr. Gold, has withdrawn his monetary backing. Well, good riddance. We don’t need a sicko hanging around our theater.”
Harry called her a few days after her Randy event, with the exciting information: “I got it! They want me to play Pippin in a revival on Broadway! My voice lessons in high school paid off. They don’t need a great singer, only someone to put the songs across. Oh, Katy, now both of us are flying high!”
“I’m sitting here grinning—no, I’m trembling with delight. What a lovely happening!”
“They don’t go into production for a couple of months. I’ll leave for New York in June. We’ll open the middle of September.”
“I’ll buy you dinner, or at least a drink. What say we meet at the Farmers’ Market, nice ambience, indoor or out, our choice, and we can toast our progress in this eerie business.”
“You got it. It is eerie all right. Unpredictable. Sometimes frustrating. Damned seductive. What feels good to me is the recognition of hard work. You and I have worked hard. It’s being rewarded.”
“The reward is in the activity, not the adulation, though that can be heady and even misleading. I’m no longer attracted to the whimsy of audiences or reviewers. I do relish the satisfied feeling of a solid performance.”
“We agree. As usual, Katy, we agree. Though I think you’re farther along than I. Not sure I know what I relish. Not sure my whole life is in focus.”
A stony silence settled in, each pondering his and her last sentence, and finally Harry said, “Well, I’ll meet you at Farmer’s Market. And, by the way, this new role has a song in it that sums up my situation. Maybe that’s why I’m so excited. Maybe this role will clear up what I’m doing in this bizarre business called life.
“Remember, Pippin sings, ‘…Rivers belong where they can ramble, eagles belong where they can fly; I got to be where my spirit can run free: got to find my corner of the sky.’”
He sang the lyrics, and Katy smiled. “Good voice,” she said.
“Better message,” he replied.
“So, you don’t think you know what your life is all about,” Katy said.
They sat outside, since the weather was mild and the air fresh.
The Farmer’s Market was totally re-designed from the earlier years when it was a series of fast food places and souvenir cubicles, DuPars a favorite coffee shop, and with an expansive produce area, colorful fresh vegetables and fruits brought in daily. Now, the upbeat and grand weight of prosperity had brought in expensive galleries, gift stalls, and coteries of affluence that changed the allure and, consequently, the make-up of the patrons. Seattle’s Best Coffee, a triplet to Starbucks, and Coffee Bean and Tea Leaf, served up its brew to discerning palates. Right next door, a café, Mirabelle’s, had patio seating, small, round tables with black wire mesh chairs under yellow umbrellas.
“I don’t. Never have. Always programmed by dear old Mater and Pater. But I’m beginning to make a move, you know, step up to the plate and swing for myself.”
“What does that involve?”
“Guts. No, really. I have to rev up the courage to face off some things. I think I’m about ready to do it.”
“Think?”
“I know I am. Have to, before I leave for New York.”
“Why do you have to?”
“Because, I don’t want to be taking on the biggest challenge in my life still feeling like a little boy.”
“Come on now, Harry, you’re not a little boy. Haven’t been for some time. What you’re facing is a…an existential crisis.”
“What do you mean by that?”
“I mean meaning. You’re trying to find meaning in your existence. Some folks find it in work, some in community service, others in love and relationships, and some in all of the above.”
Harry was pensive. Damn, this woman, this long-time friend, this Katy-gal, with her sweet and direct way, her loquacious African grey parrot, her sensitive talent, her odd boyfriend with the piles of dough, had a way of uncovering his hidden fears, pinpointing his personal ordeals.
“Yes,” he said, as if she had summed up his entire discontent, “that catches it. Meaning. What’s it all about, Alfie?”
She laughed at his allusion to the old movie, and answered, “I think it takes a little plumbing. You know, internal scrutiny. You have to inspect the pipes for leaks and the tummy-parts for indigestion. There are remedies out there for those ailments.”
“How’d you get so smart? Yeah, remedies. Well, nothing will change if I don’t make it. It takes action. I’m sick of being stuck. Feels shitty. I want to fly, want to find my meaning. Want to find my corner of the sky.”
This time Katy laughed. She had no idea what form his resolve would take, but she saw something different, a new light. This pal, this sometimes enigma, this object of her own frustrations, seemed, at last, to be turning a corner.
“Go for it, my friend, go for it,” was all she could say.
Before he was to leave for the east coast, Harry resolved to confront the issues that plagued him, kept him from feeling whole, specifically the two grating situations that burdened his heart like dead, lead weights. It was time for action.
When he announced to his parents that Broadway had tapped him, his mother’s instant response had been, “Don’t let it go to your head. Getting there is not the achievement, sterling work is. If you wish to meet your goal of becoming a theatre icon, you have to perform.”
His father had said, “I think that is grand. Why a musical, though, I don’t know. You’re not really a singer. I’m sure it will test your mettle. I could see you doing a Miller play or maybe a Tennessee Williams, but Pippin? Ah well, son, you’ll make the best of it. I hope it doesn’t sidetrack you from your goal of dramatic recognition.”
Juliet, when she learned of him landing the part of Pippin, said, “Okay, Harry! You’re going to knock ‘em dead. Maybe I’ll be in New York during your run and can catch a performance. Got to go. Ashton has set up a picture shoot for me. I have to admit I’m nervous. Involves promotion, and that means nudity. Ah well, part of the game.”
His action phase involved taking on both his parents and his lover, taking them on and, once and for all, settling the knotty concerns that kept him raw and unfulfilled. It would not be simple. It would require an intensity of purpose and a firm resolve. His last try with Juliet was squashed, partly by his own lack of resoluteness. This time he would tackle the parental thing first.
On a Sunday morning he drove to their home for a self-invited brunch, which he described to them on the phone as a meeting to discuss something important.
As he knew to expect, the long, rectangular table was set with their good silver, white linen tablecloth, ice bucket with champagne, juices, the aroma of freshly brewed, vanilla-flavored coffee, and, whether they anticipated some kind of acrid confrontation or not, a neighboring couple had been invited to join them—that way, any contentious encounter with their son would likely be muted or abandoned.
It annoyed Harry, but did not deter him. All right, if they wanted the soiled laundry stuff to be aired with neighbors present, they’d get it, it didn’t matter to him.
After the bulk of the meal had been consumed, the small talk mostly about gardening, suspicious characters observed cruising the neighborhood, the newest American Idol TV episodes, and NASA’s Martian robot’s latest escapades, Miriam invited the party to repair to the patio for coffee and pastries.
Late spring dahlias, a spread of yellow roses, long lines of red bottlebrush, and a wide circle of African daisies surrounded the slate patio, furnished with two large tables and a half dozen matching, padded chairs. A white sun bathed the yard. Piercing blue skies, void of any clouds, hung over them like a sapphire parachute.
The mood was light an
d airy, and Harry knew his agenda would bring it crashing down—but it had to be done.
“Look, parents,” he said forcefully, his voice hushing the idle chatter, “I have an issue that has been grating at me for some time. I don’t know, Mr. and Mrs. Augustine, if you care to listen in, but it is not likely to be a spring bouquet. I mean I have some serious stuff to deal with.”
There was an awkward silence, the neighbors looking back and forth at Louis and Miriam, the husband saying, at last, “Oh, well, we understand. Perhaps we ought to…”
“Now, Harry, what you have to tell us can’t be so horrific that our dear friends would be offended,” Louis said.
“I don’t think they will be offended, but you might. See, I want you to know a few things, both positive and negative. I absolutely appreciate your ongoing financial generosity with me; couldn’t have gone to college without it. What I have problems with are your persistent criticism—nothing I do is quite good enough—and your unrelenting prescriptions for my life.”
“What are you talking about?” Louis asked brusquely.
“Goals. I’m talking about goals. Your goals, not mine.”
Mr. Augustine stood and said, “We’ll be going. Come, Penny.” His wife looked dolefully at Miriam, took her husband’s hand, and the two stepped off the patio, crossed the grassy expanse, undid the latch on the green, wooden gate, and disappeared into their own yard.
“What goals have not been yours?” Miriam asked, her eyes narrow, lips thin as a string.
“All of them. From the time I was little, I was assailed by constant references to my famous lawyer father, and my elegant doctor mother. Success was your raison d’etre, and you insisted on making it mine.”
“You’re complaining because we wanted you to be successful?”
“I’m complaining because it was never my choice.”
“What is bad about success? Everyone wants success.”
“Everyone wants happiness. Sometimes success can get you there, sometimes not. For me, now that I’m grown up, satisfaction in what I do is far more important than the trappings of success.”
“You’re talking crazy,” Louis said. “I don’t know one person who wouldn’t want to be recognized as successful. Success gives rewards. Success can lead to fame.”
“That’s it! Your values, not mine. Because the two of you achieved some semblance of public recognition, you made it your business to steer me toward that goal. It was never my choice. I had no idea why I was becoming an actor, why I had to be perfect for you. Nobody is perfect. I could never live up to your expectations.”
“Look where you are,” his mother said. “Doesn’t it feel good to be going to New York, to be brushing up against the icons in your field? What could be negative about that?”
“What feels good is that I am satisfied with my skills, that I am pretty good at what I do. You’re always talking about icons. I don’t pay attention to those icons, don’t know most of their names, wouldn’t recognize them if I met them. I’m not an idolater, and my own purpose has never been to be adored. It feels good, yes, to be appreciated for work well done. I look forward to applause. When it’s over, I forget about it. It is not my reason for acting.”
“So, what did we do that was so wrong?” his father asked.
Harry strode around the circular patio, one hand massaging the other, his mind racing with a reckless awareness that he was onto something momentous, all sense of time seeming to dissolve, the present moment all there was. He felt free, suddenly and gloriously, of the burdens of the past, unconcerned about consequences, a calmness settling over him, almost dizzying in its raw pleasure.
He turned, vaguely remembering that he had heard Sidney Poitier say something similar to his father in Guess Who’s Coming To Dinner, and blurted out, “You’ve got to get off my back! Do you understand me? I’m not clay to be molded into your statuette. I am my own person.” He paused, and to himself said, “I like that, yes, I am my own person.” Then to his parents he almost shouted, “Do you get it? I’m an equal partner, not a subordinate in this bizarre game of life. You’ve got to get off my back!”
His parents stared at each other. Louis opened his hands as if to say, “What is he talking about?” Miriam, always the shrewder of the two, the consummate schemer, said to her husband, “Someone has gotten to him, influenced him. He’s having a breakdown.”
“No, Mother, I’m not having a breakdown. I’m having a wake up. It’s taken me some time. When I got to college and saw how other young people handled their parental oppression, I began a long, slow process of struggling to get out from under. You aren’t mean people, you are simply unaware of your styles: authoritarian, or at least authoritative, controlling, unresponsive to your only child’s desperation to understand where his life was heading. Don’t you get it? My life is separate from yours. I don’t want the same things as you.”
“Fame is not a nasty word, Harry,” his father said. “You may be critical of us for pushing you, but, with children, that’s what it takes, a little shove here and there, to get you pointed in the right direction.”
“Right for whom? Listen! Hear yourselves! Look at me! I want my freedom now!” He stared with fury at both parents and said, as if it were a mantra, slowly and forcefully, “Let-me-go!”
“Go,” his mother said. “Who’s holding you?”
Louis took his wife’s arm and said, “Now, now, Miriam, you and I need to talk.” He turned to Harry, “All this is taking us by surprise. You need to give us some time to digest it.”
“Take all the time you want. I’m heading for New York in a week or so. Keep in mind that my goal—hear me now, my goal—is to ply my craft well. The fame part, well, it will take care of itself. You, the two of you, if you get off on it, can bask in whatever glory my good work brings.”
He wheeled around and headed for the house. As he passed through the kitchen door, he turned, aware of a feeling of deep pleasure, and said, “Funny, but all of a sudden I like you better.”
He drove to Juliet’s new townhome without advance warning, purpose clear, energy high. The encounter with his parents had produced an unfamiliar euphoria, the interior of his auto the beneficiary of intermittent explosions of joy and triumph. “Yes!” “All right!” “Damn, I feel good!” His thoughts raced with both admonition and exhilaration: “How could it have taken me so long to face them off? Why in hell did I let myself hang in there for so long, suffer their condemnation, abide their manipulation? What an amazing high, to lay it all out. What release to feel unfettered at last!”
The glaring sunlight now seemed like a balm, life suddenly unrestrained, and the mystery of how his mood could change so dramatically, an imponderable, to be accepted and not challenged.
As he parked at Juliet’s, he saw a Lexus SUV drive away, recognized the driver as Ashton Carlisle, took in a huge gulp of air, and nodded silently: he might have expected that man to be there on a Sunday morning—and conclusively, just that revelation served up the coup de grace. He felt, all at once, a feverish urge to get in there and do the second half of the work that was needed.
Surprised to see him as she opened the door, Juliet said, “Harry, I didn’t know you were coming over. I have an appointment at my studio in an hour.”
“Won’t take long, Juliet. I need to discard something.”
“Discard?”
“Get rid of.”
His intent was so focused that he didn’t bother to take in his surroundings, Juliet’s elegant condo, altered, refurbished each time he would visit, now replete with posters on the living room wall of the movies she had already been in, a giant bowl with artificial yellow flowers adorning the coffee table, a red and gold overstuffed couch that appeared to belong in a Marie Antoinette film—these some of the visual stimuli—and for the olfactory, a pervasive perfume fragrance that would have sickened him had he cared—and for the auditory, the repetitive screech of a bird, not a parrot as at Katy’s, but a more exotic creature, a tou
can, perhaps.
“Why so mysterious, Harry? What are you getting rid of?”
“See, I have devoted many years to a fragile hope, the hope that you would see me the way I saw you, lovingly, generously, with more between us than a periodic orgasm.”
“Oh, that again.”
“No, that still. It never goes away. It has always afflicted me, like stubborn bacteria that wouldn’t let go. It’s no secret, I wanted more from you and never got it.”
“What you got was pretty good. Didn’t we have some rocking times!”
“Sure, but I could have paid for rocking times. What I wanted from you was not so complicated: affection periodically displayed, love professed and shown, a sense of loyalty and commitment to something that sex ought to involve. Casual sex, which is what we had for all these years, is a physical high but an emotional catastrophe. What always amazed me was that you never realized that. I’m excited that, at last, I fully realize it.”
“So it’s me you’re getting rid of.”
“Sorry to be so crude about it. How else can I word it? On the talk shows they call it ‘dumped.’ In any case, I can’t go on—won’t go on—anymore, the way it has been.”
“Your loss. I’d be willing to. You do the sex thing good. I see no need to get rid of that.”
“I know, Juliet, but I do. You are an amazing modern starlet. The world is your oyster. You fit the mold perfectly. Plenty of acting talent, a beautiful countenance, a body that hordes of men out there already are lusting for, and a new man you can do the sex thing with, Mr. SUV himself.”
“Ah, that’s what this is all about. Ashton is competition. You’re jealous.”
“Well, the sex part was certainly incredible, and you have to know I will miss that. But the come-down every time, the lack of any follow-through, the pain I absorbed for days after I visited your bed—those things I won’t miss. Let your agent pal experience that for a while, because, you know, Juliet, I don’t think you have it in you to love.”
When he finished that last sentence, he was stung with remorse. To push someone away was one thing, but to trash her as a loving person was harsh, beneath him. Her response, however, dispelled his regret.
Famous Page 18