Sounds Like Crazy

by Mahaffey, Shana

  While Ruffles’s recordings improved weekly in direct proportion to Betty Jane’s bad behavior, the mounting mistreatment started to fray her edges until the strain became apparent. I probably could have managed better if my pride hadn’t forced me to treat my sessions with Milton as “tune-ups only.” Even though he did help me out with the Emmy awards excuse, the fact that Milton thought I could not make it without him rankled. So I never talked about Betty Jane or any of the Committee members when we met.

  The only bright spot during that time was the absence of Walter, who hadn’t visited since November. Then I found out from Mike that Walter’s spies were talking overtime, and I’d better shape up quickly or things were going to get really rough at the studio. In other words, our current state of affairs, which emulated class IV whitewater rapids, was about to transform to Niagara Falls if I didn’t find a solution in the two months we had before we started recording season three.

  My solution was more work.

  I called Brenda and said, “I need to be so busy I can’t see straight.”

  “Boyfriend troubles?” she asked.

  I wish. “No, just troubles. Oh, and can you book jobs only for my Violet voice?”

  Brenda didn’t ask any additional questions. More work for me meant more money for her. She complied and then some. In a short time, Betty Jane was on top again and life became peaceful once more. So much so that I managed to convince myself the worst had passed.

  We returned to work on The Neighborhood in March, and that meant Ruffles was back in the sound booth with Betty Jane. It took about two weeks before bad took a sharp turn to worse. Starting with me walking into the studio twenty minutes late.

  The crew lounged at the mixing board sipping coffee, and the cast stood behind the glass, headphones around their necks, chatting. I didn’t bother with a good morning or an apology. As I reached for the sound booth doorknob, Walter entered the studio.

  “The Little Waitress arrives,” he said, “without coffee.” I paused, alternating between waiting for the Walt’s World tirade and hoping Mike would intervene on behalf of the production costs and we’d get started. “You’ve heard the news?”

  The banana I had eaten in the car turned to vinegar in my stomach. The Committee sat alert in my head. The crew in the room and the cast on the other side of the glass stood frozen, as if someone had paused time and movement. I searched for the words that would hopefully get me out of this public sharing unscathed, while Walter waited for me to answer. Stumped, I finally shook my head.

  “Still under the influence of your celebrating, I see,” said Walter.

  Celebrating? I shook my head again.

  “For your work this season, you’ve been nominated for a Juried 2 Emmy—OutstandingVoice-over Performance. Based on your current conduct, though, I can’t say that you deserve it.”

  After I’d received my first nomination, I’d discovered that the award for OutstandingVoice-over Performance is juried, meaning each entrant is screened by a panel, as opposed to voted on, and then passed on to a second panel, which must vote unanimously in order for the nominee to win. Also, you are not competing with other nominees for the award. Rather, the second panel could give the award to multiple candidates.

  Inside my head, Betty Jane fluffed her hair and looked around at the Committee members. This would be Emmy number two under her belt.

  “Great,” I whispered.

  “We sent them an edited version of an episode from the second half of the season,”Walter went on.

  I froze.These were the episodes with Harriet as a permanent character.

  “What?” screamed Betty Jane inside my head. “One of her episodes?” She stabbed a pointed red nail in Ruffles’s direction. “Her?” She marched over to Ruffles’s pillow, grabbed her bag of Ruffles, and flung it in the air. Chips rained down in the Committee’s living room. “How could they choose you?”

  Ruffles shrank against the wall. My head leaned over like a flower left too long in a vase.Walter, Mike, and the crew watched me, nonplussed.

  I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry.

  “I will not have it,” she said. Betty Jane savagely kicked Ruffles’s pillow until the fabric broke. Sarge and the Silent One moved to intercept her. Pillow stuffing mixed with the crushed chips on the floor.

  “I will not let you win that award,” said Betty Jane. Sarge reached out to pull her away from Ruffles.

  “Do not touch me,” she snarled. Betty Jane’s and Ruffles’s eyes were locked in visual combat. Without blinking, Betty Jane said, “Boy, clean up this mess.”Then with force, “Now!”

  The Boy pulled out the vacuum.

  “Holly?” said Mike. I shook my head. My hand clutched the doorknob, now slippery with perspiration.

  “Sorry. I’m a bit overwhelmed by the news.” I pulled my sleeve over my hand and opened the door. I set up my script, put on my headphones, and nodded for them to start.

  “I forgot to tell you,” said Mike through the talkback,“we’re going to start with Harriet this morning.”

  I closed my eyes. Betty Jane remained fixed in front of Ruffles’s pillow. “Vacuum up the mess,” said Betty Jane inside my head.

  “We can’t,” whimpered the Boy. “Ruffles has to record and that means I have French.”

  “You,” Betty Jane snarled, and pointed a finger at Sarge, “take the vacuum.” She turned back to the cowering Boy and said, “Anyone worthy of an Emmy award can certainly record over vacuuming and French.” Without taking her eyes off the Boy, she pointed her finger at the vacuum and screamed, “Do it now!”

  Sarge plugged in the vacuum and switched it on right when Mike cued us to begin. I can safely say that the morning recordings were a catastrophe. I stopped counting the number of times I heard,“We can fix it in post; move on,” after the first hour. Finally, Mike called a break. I had fifteen minutes to get this situation under control.

  I checked my watch and inhaled. Even though the temperature hovered just above freezing, I went outside for an emergency cigarette. I had sweated off my three nicotine patches and I needed to calm down.

  I hid behind the studio in the back alley where they probably carried out the bodies of failed voice-over artists, dragged them down to the Hudson River, and tossed them in with the rest of the sinking garbage.The guard assured me nobody ever came out here. He’d better be right, because if I got caught smoking, the old adage “it could be worse” would come true.

  I replayed the day I had let Ruffles audition, over and over again in my head. I knew this obsession fed Betty Jane’s fire, but I couldn’t stop.“Why did I open my mouth?” I asked myself again for the millionth time.

  “Why indeed,” said Betty Jane inside my head.

  She sat on the Committee’s couch, her red lips pursed in a mean line. Her sunflower pin popped against her perfect black suit.We were halfway through the day and I didn’t see one wrinkle. If I was wearing it, the suit would look like an old lady’s face.

  I exhaled and backed away, at the same time trying to avoid the smoky backwash. Inhaling again, I said, “Are we ready then?”

  Inside my head, Ruffles brushed the potato chip salt from her hands. “I’m ready.” She chuckled, and when she did, her eyes looked like little blueberries dotting the flesh of her face. Even though her hair hung limply and her face looked pale, she still had the energy to lob a salvo at Betty Jane. Relief rushed over me. At that moment, I didn’t care about her excess bulk or that she filled my days with crunching. I could always count on Ruffles.

  “Of course she is ready.” Course sounded like cause when Betty Jane said it in her sugary, matter-of-fact way. I relaxed. Maybe the afternoon would go easier. “Unfortunately . . .” Betty Jane paused to inspect her manicure. Or maybe it wouldn’t.

  I waited. Betty Jane smoothed her hair.The malevolent glint in her hazel eyes deepened and her body language belied the sweetness in her voice.

  “Unfortunately,” continued Betty Jane, “we did all
of the Emmy nominee’s lines this morning.Violet has the afternoon.” She was the only one I knew who veiled threats in the same voice she would use to offer you pie.

  I sighed out a cloud of smoke. My shoulders sagged. I felt like a speck of dust on the coffee table of the universe. If the afternoon went like the morning, I’d be back in some diner by the end of the week. “Can you please . . .” My voice trailed off.

  “Can I what?” Betty Jane had a cruel smile just at the edges of her mouth. Her python voice strangled my insides.

  I dropped my intended plea on the ground with my cigarette and stubbed it out with the toe of my shoe. Then I rubbed my fingers with the slices of lemon I had in my purse. This morning when I was packing my bag of water, juice, and apples, and all the things I carried to keep my voice sharp, I had grabbed some lemon slices as an afterthought. It must have been a premonition. I took a swish of water, sprayed perfume into the air, and walked into the sprinkling scent. I’d read somewhere that this was the best way to wear perfume without seeming like you were trying to. I just wanted it to waft over the incriminating smell of Marlboro Reds.

  On the way back I stopped the guard, held up my hands, and said, “Can you smell any smoke on me?”

  He leaned in, sniffed, then shook his head. The lemons and perfume had worked.

  I slipped back into the booth before the rest of the cast. Inside my head, Betty Jane stood in front of her music stand, wearing her expensive headset with extra padding so as not to mess up her hair. She had added this particular affectation when Ruffles became part of The Neighborhood cast.This unnecessary grandstanding had annoyed me in the past. Her only audience was the other Committee members, and they certainly didn’t care. At that moment, I was relieved to see her in place. I hoped this meant she was willing to cooperate.

  Things were fine for about five minutes.Then Betty Jane had lines.When she opened my mouth to speak for the first time, she caught the dialogue in her throat.Almost like a muscle spasm.An evil chuckle escaped from my mouth, followed by a perfect delivery. Screwing up the lines was one thing. We all did it from time to time. But it seemed as if I had been doing it all day. The laughing made it appear as if I were playing games.

  I noticed through the glass Walter and Mike arguing with each other. Every few seconds they both looked up at me.Walter’s face turned a darker shade of red with each subsequent giggle. How can Betty Jane be so stupid as to do this on a day that Walter is visiting? I need to stop this.

  Ruffles stood up inside my head and my body swayed. I steadied myself against the wall. “Knock it off,” she said.

  “Fine,” said Betty Jane.And she disappeared. I rushed forward and managed to take over before my body fell to the ground.

  “That’s not in the script, Holly,” said Mike, his voice sharp with frustration, through the talkback.

  Oh, crap. I looked frantically around the sound booth. The other voice actors glanced knowingly at one another while avoiding me altogether. Inside my head, Ruffles looked stricken.

  “Holly?” said Mike through the talkback.

  Crap, crap, crap.

  “Call for Sarge,” said Ruffles. Betty Jane had excused him and the Boy for following her earlier orders.

  “Uh, I need a break,” I said.Without waiting for permission, I grabbed my bag and quickly left the booth, speed-walking toward the exit.

  “Holly, time is money.” Walter tapped his watch with his forefinger. Studio time was a valuable commodity. Sweat formed like little pinpricks on the back of my neck.

  “I need a quick trip to the bathroom.”

  “Make it really quick.”

  When I got to the bathroom, I locked the door behind me.

  “Sarge!” I said in a harsh, hushed voice.

  The front door to the Committee’s house opened into my skull. Sarge held it ajar and the Boy trotted through. His red Converse sneakers were dusty. His face was a blur, as always. Sarge stepped into the living room and closed the door. His baseball glove was still on his hand with the ball clutched in the middle. They both stood ready to respond to whatever I needed.

  “Betty Jane. She’s gone. Please go find her,” I said.

  Sarge motioned to the Boy and then they went out the front door without putting down their gloves. I counted the blue tiles as I paced, hoping this would calm me down. It didn’t. Ruffles sat on her pillows munching chips in time to my pacing.The Silent One knelt in prayer, which never provided any help in a crisis. I thought about putting on another nicotine patch, but I knew that would just make my heart race more. Sarge and the Boy came back through the front door.They were alone.

  “Shit,” I said, exasperated.

  I pulled my cell phone out and called Milton. I knew he wouldn’t answer. What was the use of having a shrink if you always got voice mail during an emergency? But I was desperate and I hoped that the threat of him would bring Betty Jane back.

  I heard a knock on the door.

  “Holly?” It was Rhonda, Mike’s PA. “Are you okay?”

  “I’m fine. Sorry. I’ll just be a minute.” I looked at myself in the mirror. The dark circles under my blue eyes were so pronounced it looked like I was peering out of two fresh shiners. My hair looked like a long brown haystack. Maybe I should put on a little makeup. I never bothered with makeup at work. It was hard enough to get there on time. I picked a cat hair off my black sweater and looked at it. Cat Two, I thought.

  “A makeover would be more appropriate.” Betty Jane sniffed inside my head. She and her vanity, which had more makeup than the cosmetic counter at Barneys, appeared out of nowhere.

  “Thank God!”

  “The good Lord had nothing to do with it.” Betty Jane casually applied red lipstick. “But I have told you a thousand times a hairbrush and makeup are essential accoutrements for a lady.”

  “More like a million.We need to go back,” I snapped, trying to head off the makeup monologue.

  “Only if you put on some lipstick,” said Betty Jane inside my head.

  “I’m not—”

  She arched her eyebrow.“I tell you truly that that is the reason why you and your Northern sisters do not have husbands. We Southern women—”

  “Yes.” I cut her off. I knew Walter would make me feel that I had cost him personally at least a hundred dollars a minute in production time. We had to get back fast. I dug my hand in my bag and pulled out what felt like lipstick and quickly dragged it across my lips.

  “All right?”

  “Hairbrush.” Betty Jane smiled and patted her sunflower pin. I fished in my bag again, located the brush, and raked it across my hair, pulling out more than I smoothed down. “Very nice,” she said, satisfied.

  I walked through the studio door with a straight back, trying to project confidence.

  “Now that Holly has her lipstick on.” Walter ushered me in and then stood over me, glowering. I felt like a flea in front of a burning redwood tree.

  “Head up,” hissed Betty Jane inside my head. I ignored her and let my head droop lower.

  “Sorry,” I said, taking my place in front of my music stand and putting on my headset. “Female problems.” This was not exactly a lie.

  Even though Betty Jane nailed her lines, she gave a few well-timed glances that unnerved some of the more junior performers and caused them to flub their turns. She emitted a couple of impossible-to-hold-back sneezes; and, for her final act, she claimed light-headedness right before swooning in the sound booth, causing three music stands to topple to the ground.

  Nobody said a word to me a few hours later when Mike called it a day. I scanned the booth for any exit other than the only one, as if a wish could make trapdoor magically open under me. Neither Mike nor Walter had moved from the other side of the glass. No surprise that Betty Jane ceded control and left me to face the music.

  As I walked out of the booth, the sound engineer said, “We got through the recording, but there’s a lot of cleanup work to do. We might want to retake the whole day.” His
words bit me like fangs. I continued forward, my finish line the door out of the studio.

  “Holly!” I stopped so fast my body jerked forward. Inside my head, Sarge stood up. The Boy crawled under the couch. Walter towered over me like the Empire State Building. The tip of his nose flashed a red warning. “What the hell is wrong with you?” he said. Flecks of his angry spit landed on my cheek. I focused on his clenched teeth.

  Sarge held his arms out straight so that his body made a T. Everyone except Betty Jane cowered behind him. “Disgusting,” she said, wiping her face with a tissue.

  Stepping back, I said,“I’m just . . .” I could feel myself floating backward as I willed Sarge to take over. I knew he wouldn’t. He never broke a rule.

  “You’re just . . .” Walter said, moving his head back and forth like a metronome. “In Walt’s World everyone listens. Are you listening to me now?”

  I squeezed my toes. “Now I’m listening. I’m sorry. I was just surprised that my work as Harriet got nominated so fast. It kind of left me off balance today.”

  “Who said the award is for Harriet?” snapped Walter.

  “Oh,” I said, “I thought since you said—”

  “I didn’t say anything,” said Walter, “and in Walt’s World, nobody should assume.”

  “Sorry.”

  “You just don’t know what you just don’t know, Holly.”

  “So it could be—”

  “But in Walt’s World, this diva shit doesn’t fly.”

  “Diva shit!” exclaimed Betty Jane inside my head.

  “He is talking about you, of course,” snapped Ruffles.

  “You’re not that hard to replace,” Walter said, already walking away.

  { 9 }

  By late May, the second televised season of The Neighborhood ended and I couldn’t tell who was the most popular character on the show—Betty Jane’s Violet or Ruffles’s Harriet. And that was the problem. The only solution I had remaining up my sleeve was to start arriving to work early. My show of punctuality seemed to alleviate some of the acrimony between me and the crew, and even though internal stress was at an all-time high, we had what I considered to be an almost peaceful week. The next Monday I arrived at eight forty-five feeling confident. I opened the front door to the studio and found a standing-room-only waiting area. When I entered, all talking abruptly ceased. I looked down to make sure I’d remembered my pants. I had.