Riches & Rags: Things are seldom as they seem.

by Camille Nagasaki

  They’re engaged!

  “Lane, may I have a word in private?” Louisa asks. She’s now seated on the sofa adjacent to me, as though invited. I shake my head in disgust, and with an unsteady breath, rise and pluck Rory out of her arms.

  “Lane, you can’t just leave without supper,” Dad says, wringing the tea towel in his hands.

  “I’m not hungry.”

  “I am!” Margo blurts and then claps her hand over her mouth.

  “Fine, go ahead. All of you. I’ll just sit here.” I sink back down, too overwhelmed to argue.

  “Good idea, toots,” Riley says, as Dad scoops him up and seats him at the dinner table.

  “May I go too?” Margo whispers. I nod, miserable. Dad and Louisa busy themselves setting the table, plating lasagna, tossing the salad, and filling drinking glasses.

  “So when’s the big day?” I interject. They both stop their busyness and exchange shocked glances. The prickly silence hangs.

  Louisa is the first to speak. “Um…”

  I roll my eyes and turn my attention to Rory. Why can’t they just be straight?

  “We wanted to tell you, Lane—” Dad takes a step forward, but I raise my hand, halting him in his tracks.

  “That’s not what I asked. I said, when is the big day?”

  “February twentieth.”

  “Uh-huh. And does Billy know?” If he knows, I swear to God I’ll throttle him.

  “Not…yet,” Louisa says. “We wanted to…tell you both together.”

  “Oh, how sweet,” I cry. “Like one big happy family. Well, we’re dysfunctional all right, so why not cozy up together too.” I throw myself back with a wounded sigh. What a family we would make: a recovering mental-case, his dead wife’s twin, a son in search of his other family in Haiti, a newly abandoned, jobless (but never hopeless) me, a fucking puppet for a brother, and a partridge in a pear tree.

  “Isn’t anyone going to bother feeding Rory?” I ask with a pout, gently poking her little belly. She smiles and grabs for my hair. Ouch!

  “Why don’t you both join us, especially considering today is Margo’s birthday celebration?” Aunt Louisa asks.

  I glance at Margo, who is eyeing me with hopeful eyes, so I carry Rory to the table and pull up a chair. “So, Dad, I need you to babysit the girls on Saturday. I have an all-day workshop,” I say, remembering the email from John about the acting class.

  “Oh, what kind of workshop?” Louisa asks, probably relieved to have a change of subject.

  I don’t feel like discussing this with her, so I shrug and mumble, “Forget about it.” So I’m being immature. Shoot me!

  “Santa’s workshop!” Riley shrieks. Dad and Louisa laugh as though it’s the funniest thing they’ve heard in years.

  “Really, Mommy? Santa’s?” Margo asks.

  “Except, you ain’t no elf,” Riley continues, jabbing an accusatory plastic finger in my direction. “You’re the Grinch, himself.”

  If he wasn’t my dad’s beloved “son,” I’d break his finger off.

  “It’s an acting workshop, okay? Listen, Dad, if you’re not available I can ask Juliet—”

  “No, no,” Dad says, as he takes a bite of salad, “I’m free.” There are globs of white dressing on both corners of his mouth, which shouldn’t irritate me, but it does.

  “Honey,” Louisa offers, motioning at the corners of her lips, “wipe your mouth.”

  So now she calls him honey. Would this have slipped out if I didn’t know about them, or is she just letting her guard down now that it’s out in the open? Next thing I know they’ll be tongue kissing in front of me…No! I toss my napkin on the table. I’ve had enough. When we leave I don’t bother thanking Louisa for dinner, but I do thank Dad for watching the kids.

  Outside, the air is brisk and it’s already dark. I can’t help yawning with fatigue. What a day!

  “So, Margo, how was your birthday?” I ask as we cross the road to the bus stop.

  Margo grins up at me. “It was great,” she says, and I smile back, relieved. As Margo hoists herself onto the metal bench, I roll Rory’s stroller back and forth, hoping the motion will lull her to sleep. “But…”

  Uh-oh.

  “Why didn’t Daddy call?”

  My heart sinks and I’m quiet for a few seconds, grasping for what to say. Daddy’s confused? Daddy’s depressed? Daddy’s shameful and ran away? What do I say? A loud truck rumbles by, buying me time.

  “Oh, thanks for reminding me!” I smile a little too enthusiastically. “Daddy did call earlier—when you were at Pops’. He said to make sure to tell you happy, happy birthday and he wishes you a great day.” There! Margo is quiet, but I can tell she’s pleased.

  And now I feel a new resolve to track Micky down. So he’s not answering his phone or email? Time to step it up and start digging. He’s out there somewhere, and I want him back.

  15

  “Thank you all for gracing me with your presence,” John announces in a powerful voice, as he makes his grand entrance into the small theater room, his blonde locks flowing and black coat billowing behind him like a sorcerer’s cape.

  “I am John Childs. Actor. Visionary. Mentor.”

  I swallow the urge to laugh, wondering how Billy can put up with this melodrama on a day-to-day basis.

  “TRUE ACTING”—John lifts a closed fist high into the air and shakes it, his face upturned—“is allowing ourselves to be vulnerable. It is about stripping away the layers.”

  He whips his coat off and flings it onto a nearby metal chair. To my delight, the chair topples over sideways from the blow and crashes onto the cement floor, the echo reverberating into the theater depths. All twelve students, including me, roar with laughter. If I had known acting class was so much fun I would have won an Oscar by now. I take a sip of my delicious latte, eager for him to go on.

  John continues, as if oblivious to the commotion. “How can we, as actors, physically strip away the airs, the façade, and the barriers? To unburden ourselves from these defenses—these walls we build around us—is to be liberated, to be pure and innocent like children.”

  John’s voice has risen considerably. He is so incredibly, well, dramatic. I would say his acting coach persona—this alter ego of his—is at the least quite manic. Incredible!

  I fiddle with my phone and begin an audio recording so Billy can hear too. I can see us sipping wine by the fire as we take turns re-enacting John’s fist-shaking, coat-throwing escapades. I can’t wait!

  “Only then,” he bellows, “can we tap into our true emotional selves to create and connect with the character we will wholeheartedly embrace and portray? Who is ready to act?”

  I shoot my arm into the air, much to even my surprise, and quickly retract. But it’s too late. John is grinning, a wild gleam in his eye.

  “Come, young actress. You have much to learn.”

  Okay, here goes. I rise from my chair, careful to place my phone where the recorder can still pick up clean audio. I join John on the riser as he surveys the students with a critical eye.

  “I need one more person. YOU!” John chooses an Asian guy from the group, who looks rather shell-shocked and apprehensive. “What is your name?”

  “It’s Mark,” the guy answers tentatively, and comes to stand next to me.

  “I need some chairs.” John claps his hands together, as three students rise in tandem. The students carry the chairs on stage and I take a seat, curiosity mounting. I wonder if we’re going to study scripts and re-enact them.

  “Lane,” John says, turning to me with an intensity only he could attain, “how can we physically strip away these self-inflicted barriers to achieve the vulnerability that is essential for every great acting performance?”

  I begin to shrug, then rack my brain for more. With John’s passion, the least I can do is make an effort. Plus, I’m taking the class for free.

  “Um, I guess you could try new things. Be more vulnerable to new experiences.” I finish, impressed
with myself for using his key word.

  But John is shaking his head in dismay. “No, no. That won’t do. You have to reach deeper. Mark?” I whip my head to the right to see Mark, wide eyed and tense.

  “Uh…practice?”

  Even I did better than that. I frown at him with pity and turn away. The students in the audience are following John’s lecture with a laser-like concentration.

  Supposedly—says Billy—John has quite the reputation as an acting coach guru, not just in Vancouver but even in LA and New York. Hey! Even Riley’s probably heard of him…I did not just think that, did I?

  “Earth to Lane?!” John hollers at me, waving his arms around. I raise my eyebrow, waiting. “Lane, to strip away the layers we create, the fake personas we now embody, we must become vulnerable.”

  Yeah, you’re repeating yourself there, John. I feel the itch—the boredom itch—and consider calling it a day. Maybe I’ll go home for a nap.

  “I need you to strip.” He finishes.

  Wait. Huh?

  “Sorry?” I ask in confusion.

  “You need to strip. Clothes off. Right now.”

  He’s got to be kidding, right? But John’s face is deadpan, and so are the faces of the audience. “W…what?” I demand, louder.

  “Lane, you may not have known, prior to this class, but the rest of the students knew. My classes are famous for this. It’s not about sexuality. This has nothing to do with sex, people!” John shoots a stern look at the rest of the students, and they all nod together, resembling Bobbleheads. “This is about reverting back to the way we entered this world. Vulnerable. Clothes off!”

  Again I shoot a look to the audience, and they watch, wide eyed and rigid. “What about him?” I ask, pointing my thumb at ol’ Marko.

  “Him too!” John booms.

  And with that, we gaze at each other, shrug, and begin stripping away the layers, literally.

  I am completely naked. In public. And sitting on this bare metal chair which, ew, come to think of it, other naked actors might have sat on too. I shift with discomfort at the thought, but return my focus to the fact that I AM NAKED. IN PUBLIC.

  Well, at least that creeper from the casino isn’t breathing down my neck. At least this is civilized and for the purpose of art.

  “Let’s begin,” John announces, clapping his hands.

  Um? I thought we did begin.

  “Lane, turn your chair to face Mark’s. And Mark, do the same.”

  I grip the bottom of my chair and, in a swift move, I shimmy to the right. I just hope I don’t have to stand up and walk around naked, damn!

  “Lane, I want you to stare deeply into Mark’s eyes. Nothing more. This is not a staring contest, by the way. You want to blink? Go ahead. But keep the eye contact, and whatever you do, do not look away.”

  I smirk at the ridiculousness of this exercise, but raise my eyes as I’m told, to meet Mark’s.

  After a nanosecond, I have the urge to look away, but we keep staring at each other. This is so silly. And I’m NAKED, I almost forgot. Mark’s brown eyes, dum da dum. This is so awkward. I want nothing more than to look away and, in discomfort, I start grinning like an idiot.

  “Lane, why are you smiling?” John’s at my side. I forgot about him too.

  “Uh, this is awkward.” I keep grinning until my face hurts. I pull my eyes away for a split-second reprieve and finally, unable to bear it any longer, I break out in hysterical laughter.

  My laughing is desperate, like someone being tickled mercilessly and struggling for air. I can’t stop this madness for the life of me. Even I don’t know what’s so funny.

  And I have to keep up the eye contact.

  And I’m NAKED.

  Oh my God.

  Tears roll down my cheeks as I continue like a hyena, uninhibited and wild.

  “How do you feel, Lane?” John asks, his voice somber.

  “Like. A. Train. Wreck.” I manage, through roars and hiccups.

  “Do you feel vulnerable, Lane?”

  “Y…Yes! I do—” An agonizing moan fills my ears, like that of a wild animal, and to my horror, I realize it’s coming from me.

  My tears are no longer from laughing but from heart-wrenching sobs that have broken free from their barren home. This is worse than anything—worse than being naked in public, worse than the discomfort of looking into a stranger’s soul so intimately, worse than a crazy adult laughing fit. I am a slobbering, blubbering mess of tears and snot in front of a group of total strangers. I feel like I’ve been ripped open for the entire world to see.

  “Why are you crying, Lane?” John asks, his voice heavy with pain, mirroring my own.

  Damn actors. I shake my head, and my shoulders shudder with the violent force of sobs.

  “Lane, why are you crying?”

  I grasp for a large gulp of air and let out a horrible moan. “My Mom,” I wail.

  I can see John through my tears, nodding, his face compassionate with understanding. “Why are you crying for your Mom?”

  “She…d-diiiied.”

  “And you’ve built up quite the impressive defenses to protect those feelings, have you not?”

  I nod violently, exhaling a shaky breath and stealing a look at the audience of actors. All of them are gazing at me with apparent genuine concern. John hands me a tissue box, which I accept, then blow my nose with a loud honk. What? After this, nothing can embarrass me.

  “Lane, it seems you have a lot of emotion bottled up. But you, my friend, have just released it! Hark! Of all the emotion exercises over the years, this is by far the truest display of vulnerability. Bravo!”

  The audience erupts in applause, and I turn to them in disbelief. I tear another Kleenex from the box, not sure what to think.

  “Anything else bothering you?”

  I shake my head no. Enough of this madness. What do I say?—my husband lost our money and ran away in shame, I’m practically broke and have not one but two dependents, my dad is marrying my Mom’s identical twin, and I have a new puppet brother?

  Nobody would believe me anyway.

  “Well, thank you, Lane, for your wonderful portrayal of how to smash those barriers we create, to achieve the necessary vulnerability. Now you’re ready to be an actress.”

  I give a small nod and all at once feel incredibly drained. Not like tired from a sleepless night, mind you, but more like how it must feel after running a marathon.

  I do feel lighter too, freer. John hands me my clothes, and I pull them back on, thankful to once again have some form of cover but knowing in my heart of hearts I can never go back to being so emotionally closed off. The floodgates have opened. Let it rain.

  Riding the bus home, I stare outside at the drizzle sliding down my window. Oh, what a day. I suppose I would feel liberated had this incredibly thick blanket of fatigue not come about. But anyway, no time to rest; I need a plan. I slide my phone out of my bag and dial Juliet, half wishing Billy wasn’t on another continent at the moment.

  “Hi, Lane!” Juliet’s voice is high pitched and breathless as usual; she’s always bouncing around with energy and passion.

  “Hey, J. You free to come over?”

  “Uh, sure! What’s up?”

  “It’s a long story. I even have an audio recording for your entertainment.”

  “Sounds thrilling! I’m on my way.”

  I toss the phone back into my bag, hoping George doesn’t cramp our style. Come to think of it, I need to speak with him!

  “George!” I holler when I arrive home. I’m standing in the foyer waiting for the piece of crisp to appear. “Where are you old man?” I utter under my breath as I poke my head into his ancient living room.

  “What’s all the fuss?” I hear his crotchety old voice calling out from the direction of his kitchen, and a minute later he emerges, holding that miserable cat.

  “George, we’ve got to talk,” I say, meeting his steady gaze.

  He shakes his head, pulling his brown cardigan a
round his cat like a blanket. “I haven’t got time right now,” he says, squinting at me through tired-looking eyes.

  “Of course you do. All you have is time. I mean, what were you possibly doing that’s so important?”

  “Oh, you’re an impossible woman. Sit down!” he growls, dropping his cat into a tattered armchair and disappearing back to the kitchen. I plunk myself down on the green sofa, wishing I hadn’t when the springs jab into my flesh.

  George returns with two filmy glasses of water.

  “How hospitable,” I mumble, as I take the glass and examine the layer of film coating it. I set it down on the coffee table without taking a sip, ready to get down to business.

  “A coaster! Don’t you bloody know to use a coaster? Were you raised by gypsies?”

  “Seriously? A coaster? Look around, George. Look at this living room. Look at this table!” I motion to the coffee table that looks like total crap.

  “Oh, would you quit disturbing my peace and go back upstairs. Or better yet, just go back to West Van!”

  “Actually, that’s why I’m here.”

  George’s sour face registers surprise, and I wait patiently as he pulls himself forward to hear me better. “You’re moving back?” he asks, his voice rising with apparent wonder.

  “No. But we need to talk about the rent.”

  “The rent? What about it?”

  “We need to renegotiate,” I say, trying to sound confident. George’s hairy brows furrow and he sinks back into his chaise, observing me through narrowed eyes. Shit.

  “George. I can see that you need some caring for,” I say on a whim. Yes, caring for, that’s what he needs.

  “I do?” he asks, raising his eyebrows and looking surprised.

  “Of course. Look at you. I know you eat those Mr. Noodles every night. And SPAM! I mean, how could you? What you need are home-cooked meals. I’d like to cater your dinners in exchange for a reasonable reduction in rent to account for my time and the high cost of groceries.” I frantically chew the inside of my mouth as I await his reaction.

  George seems to consider this briefly, then his eyes narrow and he blurts, “You can’t cook!”