I Love My Side of the Story

by Sabrina Lacey

  The way she sounds. The way she looks. The way she feels.

  I am in awe.

  A Sunday Night, Spring

  The amount of dishes it took to cook that salmon and veggies is enough to make me want to kill myself. Me? I like to eat dinner out as often as I can. It doesn’t have to cost big money. It can be take-out Chinese food, whatever. I don’t care. But here we are, again doing the dishes. At least we have a dishwasher. Truth? I hate that, too.

  “Hey…Let’s go out for dinner tomorrow. Thai food, maybe.”

  She walks in, carrying the salt and pepper with our used cloth napkins.

  “It’s too expensive to eat out all the time,” she says, predictably.

  “We don’t have to go somewhere expensive.”

  “Everywhere is expensive in New York. You know that.”

  She’s right. But there is something about doing the dishes that I can’t stand. This and laundry. Man, do I hate doing laundry. What a tedious bunch of bullshit that is. Tedious necessary bullshit.

  Amber looks over my shoulder and says that word, “Honey.” I grit my teeth, and wait. “You’ll scratch the pan using that side of the sponge.” I stop spinning the suds around and look straight ahead, knowing now she’s going to really spell it out for me. Sure enough…“Use the soft side. It’ll take longer, but it saves the pot.”

  It’ll take longer. Great. Exactly what I want to hear. I flip over the sponge and she’s right again. It’s taking longer. Then genius happens. I have an idea that will change my life. As I see her go back out to wipe down the table, I flip the sponge back over. She walks in, sees it and lets out a big sigh. I feign ignorance – mouth open, big eyes, the whole bit.

  “Let me do it,” she says …and takes over.

  Boom.

  Over the course of about a week, I stretch out this new strategy so she doesn’t catch on, bit by bit. I start putting the dishes away all wrong. “Honey, the plates and bowls need to be separated. They can’t go on top of each other like the Leaning Tower Of Pisa. Here. I’ll do it.” Then the silverware. “Josh…these are in the wrong direction.” Then, Boom boom boom boom. “Now you’ve got them in the right direction, but they’re not in the plastic dividers they’re meant for. See how the knives are too long for this space? That’s where the spoons go.” “You’ve put a coffee mug next to a wine glass. It has to go over with the coffee mugs, so we don’t think we ran out of them.” “You left suds on the pot.” “Here. Give me that.”

  Next thing I know, I’ve got a lot more time to rest up and watch the news.

  A Wednesday, End of Spring

  Amber walks into the living room wearing a yellow robe, towel-drying her hair. “How has class been?”

  I look up, surprised. She never asks me about class. “Good. Really good. Thanks.”

  She nods and smiles. “Oh, I’ve been thinking about the theory you have, that everyone’s an animal, and all the different types and so on.”

  I lean back on the couch. “Oh yeah?”

  “But I don’t think you’re a Lion. I think you’re a Horse.”

  I laugh. “Oh you do, huh? I can’t wait to hear this.”

  She releases her wet hair and it falls over her shoulder, the towel hanging from one hand as she holds out the other in a stop-gesture, laughing, “No wait. Hear me out. Horses are strong…”

  “Lions are strong,” I interrupt.

  “Horses are tall, strong and always there for you. That’s like you.”

  I think on it. “Huh. Well, thank you. It’s hard to find fault with that… except, I know I’m a Lion.”

  She holds her tongue, obviously not in agreement, but amused. “Okay.”

  “I am!”

  “You’re a horse, Josh. I’m just saying.”

  I throw up my hands. “I’m a Lion.”

  “You’re a horse.” She walks back to the bathroom.

  I wait a comedic beat, then, “I’m a Lion.”

  I pick up my laptop and open it to find Inside The Actor’s Studio on YouTube. I consider watching Robert De Niro, Sean Penn, or Hugh Jackman, weighing my mood. Watching these guys is like having a one-on-one mentor session. They’re amazing. I click on De Niro and put in my ear-buds to hear what he’s got to say. I look up to see Amber standing in the room and it’s obvious she’s been trying to get my attention. Yanking out the ear-buds I say, “Sorry, what? Were you saying something?”

  “No. Forget it.” I watch her walk out of the room and think, okay, with a shrug. Put my ear-buds back in, but keep the volume quieter, just in case. Pretty soon, I hear her call from the bathroom where she’s getting ready, “Josh?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Oh, you’re listening. So when my mom and dad are here for lunch…if they ask you about work, can you tell them you’re working on a play?”

  I look up from the laptop. “What? Why?”

  She pauses. “Well…they may not understand rehearsals for class. Just say you’re rehearsing for a play. And that it pays.”

  I look at the screen to see De Niro smiling that famous scrunched-up smile that seems to tell me, Women – they’re a mystery. I hit pause, drop my ear-buds on the laptop, and follow her into the bathroom. “Why do I have to say it pays? My imaginary play, I mean.”

  “It’s just they don’t really understand the business and they won’t know why you’re not working…”

  “They meaning your dad,” I interject.

  “And they’ll wonder how you’re going to pay the bills… and you know… they might ask me if I’m paying them.”

  “Oh.” I say and turn away. I stop. Turn back. “But you don’t pay all the bills.”

  Through a forced smile, she nods. “I know. It’s just, you know how my parents are, Josh.”

  “Oh,” I say and turn away again. “Uh-Huh.”

  I go back to the computer. But I don’t hit play. I know how her parents are…but that’s a cover. Those aren’t questions she thinks they’ll ask. She’s asking them…to herself. She thinks I can’t provide for her. There hasn’t been one month where she’s needed to cover me, so what the hell is she worried about? Talking about money makes me uncomfortable. I set the computer on the couch beside me and close it, go to the window and see the little redheaded teenager looking at me from the building across the way. He shuts the curtains quickly. Little spy. A text alert beeps.

  David: Let’s grab a beer.

  Me: Done.

  “Amber! I’m goin’ out.”

  As I walk into the hallway, she pops out of the bathroom, surprised. “What?”

  “I’m going to meet David for a beer.”

  “When did this happen?”

  “When did what happen?”

  “You and David going out for a beer?” she asks, irritated.

  “Just now. He texted me. See?” I pull it out and show her. “Is there a problem with me going out? You go out with your girlfriends all the time, without me.” I inform her, grabbing a jacket.

  “You don’t need a jacket. It’s summer,” she says, as if I don’t know this.

  Truth is, I forgot. The weather’s finally gotten better. Grabbing the jacket was from habit. But I’m not telling her that. “I have my keys in the jacket,” I lie.

  “Oh,” she says, looking to the bowl where I always leave my keys. There they are, betraying me. This girl is too smart for her own good.

  I snatch them up. “I thought I did.” I still have my jacket in my hands because I’m a grown man and can bring my jacket if I want to.

  She looks at it, then at me, then bites her lip. She reminds me of Reese Witherspoon sometimes – the character she played in Election. She’s a little go-getter and often pretends she’s stronger than she is, but I see her as she really is: imperfect and trying her best. It doesn’t help that she was raised in a home that didn’t support her, not with her dad’s attitude problem and her mother’s co-dependence. It’s no wonder she tries to control her environment so much. I just don’t like to be on the r
eceiving end. And ‘don’t like’ is putting it mildly.

  She can’t help herself, and it’s almost cute to see her struggle. Almost. “You should leave that here.”

  I open the door and mutter, “I’ll be back soon.”

  “When?”

  “Soon! Oh… and I can’t make it to lunch. Because I’m not lying to your parents.” She opens her mouth; no words come out.

  I leave.

  Twelve Minutes Later

  David chose an Irish pub, knowing my propensity for Jameson and Guinness, probably. I’m grateful, because the memorabilia on the walls, the aged dartboard; its surface more holes than target, and the dusty smell of the place gives it a nice casual and comfortable feel. I even like the cracking sound of a cue ball on the pool table breaking through the room. It’s a slow night, only about twenty people in the place, and I spot David sitting at the bar with a beer. He likes lagers, which I don’t get. Also makes it more strange that he wanted to come here. This is more my scene than his.

  “Hey.” I sit down on the old stool next to his. “Guinness.” The fifties-looking bartender with authentic Irish features and pallor, nods and goes to pour it.

  “Hey,” David says.

  “Perfect timing, man.”

  He shoots me a glance. “Yeah? Why?”

  “Amber’s parents are coming to town and she wants me to tell them I’m working on a play. That pays.”

  “And you’re not?” he asks.

  “Nah,” then, “Thanks,” I say for the beer that landed in front of me.

  “She wants it to look like you’re more successful than you are, or something?” David asks.

  I muffle my defensiveness, and tell him as casually as I can, “I am successful. My commercial is paying my bills. Plus I booked another one.”

  “Yeah? That’s cool, Josh. Congratulations.” David says, impressed.

  “It is. It’s very cool… thanks.”

  “What’d Amber say to that?”

  “I haven’t told her.” I’m looking at my beer, because it doesn’t have an expression.

  David pauses, shifts on his seat. “Uh… It’s gotta be hard dating a girl with a higher ranking than you have, in your same field.”

  “You’re in the corporate world, you don’t get it, so let me paint the picture. Casting directors are at the bottom of the power pole in the industry, in terms of the people who make a project happen. They bring in actors, yeah – but they don’t have final say, and once the audition starts, they have almost none. It always goes down to what the producers and director wants. And the studio. Sometimes even the writer is above her. Did you know that casting directors are the only ones who don’t get an award – no Oscar for CDs. It sucks. And yet, she works so hard – wants to be involved in making films happen that matter to her. And her fears of making her own business stronger, getting herself at her young age to where she wants to be… it’s tough. And yeah – I feel the strain because actors are even lower than Casting, until we make it big. And I know part of her pressure on me has to do with impressing her damn father – who’s a real piece of work.”

  “Yeah?”

  “You don’t even know the half of it. He makes her jump through hoops, and it’s never enough.”

  “My dad’s like that.” He shakes his head and takes a drink.

  “They come from a different generation… They don’t know how to talk to us,” I say, and take a swig, too.

  “Yours too, then?”

  I shrug; look at the TV above us. “He’s alright. Nothing like Amber’s. He was better when I was a kid. He sure doesn’t get me going into acting, that’s for sure. But he’s doing his best to be supportive, so I’m lucky.”

  David looks at me. “You’ve got a lot of insight into people.”

  “I study them for character work.” We sit in silence for a minute, watch the soccer game. Finally I speak up. “It’s been weighing me down, that I haven’t told her I booked another one. I just don’t want to tell her.” I shake my head, run a hand through my hair. “I don’t know. I want her to give me some credit. I’m working my ass off. I was hitting this wall recently in class and then BAM! I went through it and I’m flying now. I’m on the way, you know? I don’t know. Maybe I’m still pissed at her.”

  “Why?”

  I look down at the beer again. “Holding a grudge?”

  “For that Jake Lombardi thing?” he asks.

  My eyes dart to him in surprise. He raises his eyebrows. No words needed. He looks at his phone for the time. Probably uncomfortable with the heart-to-heart. We guys aren’t good at these, and I can’t seem to shut up. “Sorry, man. Just had to get it off my chest.”

  He says, “Nah. Don’t worry about it. Well, it’s great you got another commercial. That’s pretty impressive.”

  “Thanks. I appreciate that. I’m more stoked about the classwork, though. Now it’s only a matter of time.”

  “To being famous?” David asks.

  I push away the idea with my hand. “Nah. I don’t want to be famous.”

  He looks at his phone again. “No? I would! Why not?”

  I take a sip; think on it, licking the thick liquid off my top lip. “You know what I want? I want it to be where the industry knows who I am and will hire me for cool parts, based on that knowledge. But walking down the street and having people stop me for autographs? Or write-ups in magazines about my personal business? No fucking way. Not for me.”

  “It’s a fine line.” David says.

  “One I won’t mind walking.” We clink glasses and drink.

  David says, out of the blue, “Do you think we’re meant to be monogamous?”

  I frown. “I didn’t see that question coming.”

  “Yeah. Do you?” he asks.

  I hold his eyes for a second and see real seriousness there. Huh. I turn away and think on it. Take another drink. Lick my lips again. “I don’t at all, and I do, completely.”

  “What the hell does that mean?” David asks, with a mock-laugh.

  “My body says one thing and my mind, another?” I look up at the screen in time to see my commercial airing on it. “Hey look!”

  David looks and we watch it, muted, me smiling with my fake wife and kids on a road trip. “Wow. That’s weird seeing you on there, and you here, at the same time.” After it’s over, he admits, “You look good with a family.”

  “Yeah?” I laugh. “I want one.”

  “Not me.” He smiles and slaps me on the shoulder. “I think my body and mind think as one. I don’t see monogamy as a viable long-term strategy for happy living.”

  My smile fades as I watch him look back to the TV and take a sip. His phone rings and he answers it cheerily. “Hey baby…sounds good. I’ve got maybe an hour.” He laughs. “I can make it happen in less. Okay. I’ll see you in a few minutes.” I put my drink down; watch him slide the phone back into his pocket.

  I grin at him, “Jess calling you home for a quickie?”

  His eyes flicker, and he grins back. “Yeah. Sorry, man. I’ll check ya later. You hang here though. Take some time to yourself. Sounds like you need a break.”

  We fist-bump and he leaves. I look to the bartender, who’s leaning against the backbar counter, looking at me. He says through thick accent, “I’m an actor. Couldn’t help overhear what you said.”

  “Yeah? How’s it going?” I ask.

  He shrugs, defeated. “Well, I’m still working here. So, not as good as it’s goin’ for you.”

  “Give it time,” I say, awkwardly. “Can you do an American accent?”

  In perfect Standard American, he says, “Your girl should be kissing your feet.”

  “Don’t tell her that,” I laugh. “Nicely done. Sounds perfect.” He smiles his thanks and goes to get another round for the guy who was playing pool. I look over to see he’s on a date – maybe a first date, or a second, not sure – and they look new and hopeful. When the guy catches my eye, I turn away and look to the front door where David
just left. What he confessed, isn’t sitting well with me.

  I pull out my phone and call Amber. She answers, yelling over loud music and people. “Hi honey!” She’s pissed. And she went out. Great.

  “You at a bar?” I ask, covering my free ear so I can hear, better.

  “What?” she yells.

  Irritated, I say louder, “Are you at a bar?”

  “Yeah. Jess wanted to get girl-time, so David said cool. Nico and I met her for some dancing. Having such a good time!” Her overly sweet tone makes it sour.

  “Jess is with you?” I ask, surprised.

  “Yeah. Say hi, Jess!”

  “Hi Jess!” Jessica calls through the phone. Old joke, but she’s funny when she says it, anyway. Only… I know something she doesn’t – so nothing is funny right now. “Right. Okay,” I say, realizing David called me out as an alibi. I have no idea who he’s with, but it ain’t his girlfriend. Now meeting me at an Irish pub makes sense. Get me happy and dumb. Mother fucker.

  Amber asks, “You going to be late? I needed some girl time, so I’m going to stay out with them.” I can hear in her voice that she’s not having fun, either. It’s an act. But if she wants to play, let’s play.