by Claire Adams
“Not even remotely,” I tell him.
“Okay, then why the hell are you lazily sauntering to the suitcase?” he yells. “You’re in a hurry, the love of your life—though you’ve only just realized it—is leaving, and if you don’t find her now, you’re never going to see her again. You’re running. You’re rushing. This isn’t a slow process, you want to get that suitcase on the bed, get the towels in it so you and she can start your happily ever after. Is that so fucking impossible to understand, or are we going to have to do this again in 30 seconds?”
“I’ve got it,” I tell him. “Quickly take the suitcase, put it on the bed, and then grab the towels.”
“Don’t screw me here, Jones. I’ve sent bigger stars than you back to the trailer parks they came from,” he says.
“Well, I think that was a little out of line,” I tell him.
“You’re right,” he says. “I’m sorry.”
“Thank you,” I tell him.
“Now will you shut the fuck up and do the goddamned scene?” he asks.
“Right,” I answer, and get back to my place.
“And, action!” Dutch calls, and I lunge forward, intending for the motion to be the first step on my hurried race to steal the hotel’s towels for some reason, and one foot catches the other foot while the leg is on its way out and I fall flat on my fucking face. “And, cut!”
I’m expecting another diatribe, but Dutch just throws his copy of the script in the air and starts walking away. I will say, though, that it’s pretty extraordinary how both the assistant director and assistant to the director start catching pages before they land.
This is my career ending when I can’t even act out a stupid gag.
Right now, I wish I was in any other profession in the world.
Somewhere in the distance, Dutch yells, “Everybody take 15!”
Fifteen-minute break: that means chain smoking.
When Dutch is in a good mood, he only smokes a couple of cigarettes a day, and when he does, it usually takes him like, eight minutes a cigarette because he’s talking and laughing and all that. When Dutch is in a good mood, all quick breaks are 10 minutes, because that’s how long it takes for him to get where he can smoke, smoke, and get back.
When Dutch is in the mood he’s in right now, though, he manages to cut his time from eight minutes a cigarette down to three. There’s only one way of knowing just how pissed he is, and that’s when he says a number other than eight. Five minutes is slightly bothered, twelve minutes means someone’s about to get fired. Fifteen minutes means someone’s about to be killed and have their body disposed of by the mob connections Dutch has long been rumored to have.
That’s not what’s got me scared, though. I can handle Dutch’s tirades. What I can’t handle is being unable to do my job.
“Hey,” Tammy from wardrobe says, and I look down.
“Shit, did I tear my clothes or something?” I ask.
“No,” she says. “I just finished up and they said they’d let me watch you do your scene as long as I kept quiet and out of the way.”
“Ah,” I answer.
“You seem to be having a bit of a rough time,” she says. “What’s going on?”
“I don’t know,” I tell her. “I think I’m getting the yips.”
“The yips?” she asks.
“Yeah,” I tell her. “It’s when you’re suddenly unable to perform the simplest tasks with something you’ve been doing a long time because you’re all up in your head freaked out about how you’re suddenly unable to perform the simplest tasks with something you’ve been doing a long time.”
“Sounds complicated,” she says.
“It’s really not,” I tell her. “So, what’s up?”
“I just wanted to know if there was anything I could do to help. I don’t know if you have or would even want someone to talk to, but I’d be more than happy to listen if you think it would help,” she says.
“That’s okay,” I tell her. “I appreciate it, but I don’t think that’s going to be necessary. I just need to get my head back in it, and I’m sure everything’s going to be fine.”
“Great,” she says. “Well, if you change your mind, I’ll be around. And hey, good luck with your scene. I hope you nail it.”
“Yeah,” I scoff, “thanks.”
There’s a big part of me that does want to nail the scene because I’m an actor and nailing scenes is, well, it’s kind of what we do. There’s a part of me just as big, though, that’s just stupefied that we’re doing a scene like this at all.
There are old gags and there are old gags, and I fail to see any way in which me stealing hotel towels like every character in every comedy everything that’s ever existed. Back in the dark ages, for the purposes of my point, we’ll say that even court jesters would often talk about how they would slip a tuft of hay when they were traveling from inn to inn. See, that was a better joke than the one in this scene, and it was terrible!
So, here’s where I have to stop and ask myself for the 47th time today whether this kind of movie is really what I want to be doing for the rest of my career.
For the 47th time today, I don’t have an answer, though I will say there are good arguments on both sides.
“All right, Jones, you sack of shit,” Dutch bellows as he approaches the set, “are you going to keep fucking around or can we make a fucking movie here?”
* * *
“So, this is going to be your swan song, huh?” Danna asks, dipping a granola bar into a cup of yogurt. “I can hear the trailers now: Flashing Lights, the final film by notable actor and bumbling idiot Damian Jones.”
“You could be a lot more supportive,” I tell her. “You are my agent, after all. What the hell am I supposed to do? I’m screwing up the stupidest things.”
“It sounds like it,” she snickers.
“You’re not helping,” I tell her. “Any news on stalker lady?”
“She’s not the woman that I’m worried about,” Danna says.
“Yeah,” I tell her, “I get it, I’m a big girl. Ha ha.”
“Actually, for once I wasn’t talking about you,” she says, “although I will say that I do love how that’s immediately where your mind goes when I say something about a woman.”
“Who are you talking about then?” I ask.
“Who else is there?” she asks.
“Oh, she’s never done anything to you,” I tell her. “What’s your problem with Emma, anyway?”
“My biggest problem with her right now,” Danna says, “is that she’s a scandal magnet, and with you tripping over your panties on the set, you really don’t need anything else to complicate your employment right now.”
“They’re not going to fire me,” I tell her.
“It wouldn’t be the first time a leading man got hired onto a set, couldn’t get his shit together, and got his ass kicked right back off of it again,” Danna says.
“Still,” I tell her, “so helpful.”
“I’m just trying to make this real for you, because you apparently don’t seem to think it’s that big a deal,” she says.
“This is my career,” I tell her. “This is something I’ve put so much of my life into. It’s my identity. I am an actor. I don’t want to have to change that to ‘I was an actor.’”
“Then pull your head from between your thighs, Clarabelle, and start listening to me,” Danna says.
“Clarabelle?” I ask.
“Yeah,” she says, “I heard the name on a show earlier and thought I’d go for it.”
“So you’re saying that I should dump Emma?” I ask. “You think I should just break it off, huh?”
“Yeah,” Danna answers. “I know that’s not what you’re hoping to hear, little bro, but that’s really your only good option here. The difference between you and her is that you’re going through a slump. You can pull out of what you’re going through, but she can’t keep drama off her ass for five seconds, and people like that only make
things worse. It’s like a superpower: the incredible ability to attract negative shit.”
“It’s not her fault,” I tell Danna. “You don’t know all the shit she’s been through.”
“I’m sure she’s been through a lot, seeing those pictures,” Danna says, “but the fact remains that you’re not able to do your fucking job because you’ve got your head stuck between the legs of some actress.”
The doorbell rings and I go to answer it, not bothering to respond to Danna’s bullshit.
I open the door to find Emma standing there.
“Hey,” I say.
“Hey,” she says. “I should have called, but I wanted to see you.”
“Come on in,” I tell her.
She comes in, and Danna comes out of the kitchen to see who’s here, slowing to a stop when she sees that it’s Emma.
“Hey, Danna,” Emma says. “How’s your night going?”
Danna doesn’t say anything; she just crosses her arms and glares at Emma.
Emma shrugs it off and looks back at me. “I was thinking of taking you to dinner,” she says, and looks over to Danna, who’s still giving her the crooked eye, “both of you. I thought it might be nice to get out and just kind of take our minds off of everything.”
“Sounds good to me,” I answer.
Danna doesn’t say anything.
“Do you want to go to dinner with us, Danna?” I ask.
She doesn’t answer me.
“It’s fine,” Emma says. “Start thinking about where you’d like to eat. I’m so hungry, I could eat anything.”
“I don’t know,” I answer, looking at my sister. “What do you think, Danna? What are you in the mood for?”
Danna doesn’t answer, and I’m fucking sick of it.
“What the fuck is your problem?” I ask her. “You can’t answer when someone’s fucking talking to you?”
Danna just gives me a closed-mouth smile and walks out of the room.
“I am so sorry about that,” I tell Emma.
“Really,” Emma says, her confidence clearly shaken, “it’s okay.”
Danna comes back into the room a minute later, pulling a wheeled suitcase.
“Where are you going?” I ask.
“I’m getting out of here,” she says. “You don’t want to listen to me and you apparently have no desire to save your career, so I think we’re pretty much done.”
“You’re leaving?” I ask.
“Yep,” she says. “I’ll have someone come by and pick up the rest of my stuff. If you need to get ahold of me, I’ll be staying at the Steam Hills Motel.”
“Why does that sound familiar?” I ask.
“Because it’s where my dad’s staying,” Emma says.
“Ta-ta,” Danna says, and walks out the front door.
I could catch up to her at the curb if I really wanted to, but I don’t.
Something strange happens to me as Danna walks out the door, and I just kind of slump down onto the back of my couch.
“Are you all right?” Danna asks.
I nod and then I shrug. I really don’t know.
They say that twins have a strange connection with one another, but while Danna and I have always been close, we’ve never been the twins who wear matching outfits that you see going everywhere in public together.
We’ve lived apart for most of our adult lives, but still, seeing her just walk out like that as if it wasn’t even a big thing. I don’t know, it’s just kind of hitting me in a way that I didn’t expect.
“What’s wrong?” Emma asks.
I don’t know what to tell her. On the one hand, I’m pissed at Danna for the way she’s acting, but on the other hand, that’s my twin sister, and she’s out there waiting for a cab to take her away from me.
“Oh,” Emma scoffs, “so now you’re not going to talk to me, either?”
I understand her frustration, but I simply have nothing to offer her right now.
My parents left, Danna left…give it a few more minutes of me and the inadvertent silent treatment, and I bet I can get Emma to leave, too.
“Fine,” she says. “Whenever you’ve figured out how to fucking talk to me, give me a call. Until then, I don’t even want to see you.”
She walks out of the house.
Yep, I’ve still got it.
There’s nothing left for me to do but just sit here and reflect over how wonderfully tragic our charmed lives really are.
The phone rings and at least I’m with it enough to answer, only it’s the last person in the world I want to talk to.
Rita, if that’s really her name, is breathing heavily on the other end of the phone, and I’m tempted to hang up for a moment, but decide in all of my fool’s glory that I might just be able to make a difference in one area of my life today.
“Why are you doing this?” I ask. “I’m sure this isn’t something that you’ve just always done. Something happened, right?” I ask. “Something happened that took away your sense of control over your life and now you feel like the only way you can feel safe, the only way you can feel secure, is if you take control over someone else’s life, well I have to tell you, that doesn’t work.”
She’s breathing heavy and I just keep talking.
“I’m sure that on some level you know what’s really going on here,” I tell the woman who may or may not be masturbating on the other end of the phone. “Part of you, I think, is reaching out, but you’re doing it in a way you have to know is only going to lead to a harder rejection. So, why do you do this? Am I the first person you’ve done it to or have there been a lot of us? What’s your endgame here if I don’t decide that the person who’s been disrupting every part of my life more than any other is my one true love? What happens then? Do you really think this is the way to get to me?” I ask. “This is how you’re going to get me to hate you,” I tell her. “I’m not sure that I don’t already.”
Something changes in the way that she’s breathing, but she doesn’t say anything.
“Maybe it’s not your fault, I don’t know. Maybe you’re like the rest of us and just have more in your past than you’d like to talk about with people,” I tell her. “Not to get too personal here, because frankly, you scare the bejesus out of me, but I think I can understand what you’re doing on some level. I don’t see the point in it myself, but really, what you’re doing is that you’re lashing out. Something’s happened in your life that’s made you feel like this is the only way you can get a sense of control. Maybe it’s simpler than that. Maybe you’re just so afraid of actually making a positive connection with someone that you feel the need to torture someone you admire and say that it’s because of love.”
Her breath is uneven now, but she keeps her silence.
“What is your fault,” I tell her, “is what you do with those feelings that you have. You can choose to inflict them upon someone else, trying to push back against whatever it was that made you go off your rocker, but is that really going to make you happy? Maybe you don’t see what you’re doing as wrong. Maybe you really do think that this is the way to express your love or whatever it is that you’re calling it—I can tell you right now that it has nothing to do with love.”
I don’t know why I’m still talking, but it’s all my body knows how to do right now.
“When you take something away from someone else, you are exerting power,” I tell her. “The ability to take something away from someone places you above that person. That person immediately becomes your inferior, because you were able to take from them. I get the temptation. To be able to take away someone’s peace of mind, now, that’s got to be even more tempting for you. Even better, why not make it someone in the public eye? Why not make it someone that everyone knows? That way, you can have power over all of them!” I shout. “Is that it?”
She’s still breathing loudly into the phone, but every now and then, little torn pieces of voice come through.
“Problem is, every single one of them is going
to see themselves so superior to you when they find out what you’ve done,” I tell her. “Every single one of them is going to think that you’re just the leftover of someone else’s nothing. If it’s attention you want, though, you’re going to get plenty of that.”
Rita’s now openly sobbing on the other end of the line, and part of me actually wants to feel sorry for her.
“I know that you’re pissed off and you think that if you can just get control over one thing, your life is going to fall back into place and everything’s going to work out better for you, but you’re just fooling yourself,” I tell her, though I’m talking just as much to myself. “People get whatever they get. You can fight it, but you’re going to go crazy trying, as I think we can both agree is pretty evidently the case here. Whatever happened to you happened to you and there’s nothing you can do to change it. Making other people miserable isn’t going to fix anything, you’re just being that prime mover for someone else’s misery, so really, you’re no better than the situation that put you here. It doesn’t have to be like that, though,” I tell her. “You can decide to grow up and start responding to life rather than running away from it. When bad things happen, and they will, you can decide to deal with it. Or, you can keep making my life and the lives of others a total hell so you can see the story on TV. I don’t know who you are, so it’s not like I can really stop you at the moment.”
I’m hoping for some sort of real change, some sort of response. I’m hoping to hear her say that she’s sorry or to say anything, but she doesn’t.
The only time I hear her voice is when it’s coming through in sobs.
“The thing you want more than all else is the thing you will tirelessly work to prevent yourself from getting,” I say. “It’s the very fact of wanting it so much that does it. Wanting something like that is an addiction. The only thing that you ever really feed is that want. It’s all you know how to do. I should know,” I tell her, “I’m the same way. It comes out a lot differently with me than it does, obviously, with you, but it’s that same kind of want. I’ve had that want for well over a decade now,” I tell her, “but would you like to know what I’ve found in all that time?”