Sounds Like Crazy

by Mahaffey, Shana

  I slowly passed the sitting and standing women.Their furious mutterings sounded like rustling leaves on a late-fall day. “Morning,” I said brightly to the receptionist. She looked away. I glanced back at the whispering women. Suddenly, every one of them found something interesting on the floor or in her lap.

  In the hallway, I ran into Rhonda walking with two women.

  “Have you seen Mike?” I said.

  “He’s in the conference room,” said one of the women.

  Rhonda’s face paled.

  “Thanks,” I said, brushing past them.

  “Holly, I wouldn’t—”

  Too late, I thought, as I turned the knob and opened the door.

  Mike,Walter, one of the suits, and the casting director for The Neighborhood were all seated at one end of the conference table. They didn’t notice me standing in the doorway.

  “Oh, my stars,” said a very Southern voice.

  “Violet is breathier than that,” said Mike.

  What does he mean, Violet is breathier than that? I felt like I’d been rear-ended hard by a car I hadn’t seen coming. Those bastards are auditioning people for my part. My part!

  “Play the recording of Holly for her again,” said Mike.

  I heard Betty Jane’s voice exclaim, “Oh, my stars.”

  “You need to make your voice sound like that,” said Mike. Now I felt as if the car had backed up, then careened forward and flattened me.

  Betty Jane heard Walter’s audition message loud and clear and diverted us from our collision course with the unemployment office of New York State by putting her studio behavior into spontaneous remission. She became the picture of professionalism. Away from the studio, I paid the price by trying to meet Betty Jane’s constant demands. By July I felt close to collapse. Then Walter dropped in to let me know that I would be at this year’s Emmy awards show if they had to wheel me in on a gurney. Betty Jane told me she was going to be there even if she had to break all the rules and invent some new ones to break. I ignored the whole thing, hoping it would somehow resolve itself.

  By the third week in August, Milton had gone on vacation, so I did the only thing I could do. I called Sarah.

  She wasn’t home.

  I sat in bed staring at my phone, willing my sister to call me back. After two hours, the phone finally rang.

  “Holly, is everything okay?” said Sarah. “Your message sounded panicked.”

  “She’s really messing with me. I don’t know from one minute to the next if I can do my job—”

  “Who?” interrupted Sarah.

  “Betty Jane. Ever since they auditioned my replacements, she’s fine at the studio, but every second we’re not taping, she’s constantly running me down or demanding that I get facials, or manicures, or buy a goddamn fur coat, and I believe in animal rights. Nobody can stop her, not Ruffles, not Sarge.” I wiped my running nose with my sleeve.

  “Deep breath,” said Sarah. “What is that therapist of yours doing about this?”

  “Analyst.”

  “Whatever.What is he doing?” Sarah demanded.

  “Betty Jane didn’t show up for the past couple of weeks. She knew Milton was going on his annual vacation to some remote village in the South of France. He just left. He’s not back for four weeks. But there’s not much he could do anyway if she won’t show up,” I said in a defeated tone.

  “How can she just not show?” Sarah sounded angry now. “And how can he take a four-week vacation? Therapists in California only take two weeks. It’s irresponsible. He allows that Committee of yours to run rampant and then he takes off? It’s malpractice.” Sarah was always hard on Milton when I called her in this state.

  Even though Milton had assured me four weeks was normal, I admit that I felt he was the only shrink on the planet who took four weeks off every year. Each August, I’d convey my indignation at being left through variations of bad behavior. Milton had grown inured to the annual acting out before his holiday, so Betty Jane’s recent disappearance didn’t deter him. I don’t think she meant it to, which made me feel caught in the middle once again. And even though I agreed with Sarah, and a part of me wanted her to throw Milton in jail for leaving, I knew I had to shift the conversation from Milton’s ill-timed, lengthy sojourns, because he’d already left for France and she was the only one who could help me.

  “She’ll show up for the Emmy award ceremony,” I said.

  “I thought you didn’t want to go.”

  “I told Walter I would,” I said.

  “Why, if you don’t want to?” said Sarah.

  Taking the phone with me, I walked from the kitchen into my bedroom. Even though my living room was large and comfortably furnished, with a nice view of the Manhattan rooftops, I missed the smallness of my old studio. I sat on my bed, pulled the strap of my bag over my head, and felt around in it with my left hand, searching for my pack of cigarettes.While removing one, I leaned over and opened the window, then clicked the lighter and inhaled. “I need to keep my job, Sarah. I’m still living paycheck-to-paycheck, and my credit cards are not showing zero balance. Betty Jane and Milton are expensive.”

  “I don’t understand this, Holly,” said Sarah. “Explain to me why Betty Jane and Milton are expensive,” said Sarah.

  “In answer to part of your question,” I said,“Betty Jane holds me hostage. If I don’t give in to her demands, she doesn’t work. If she doesn’t work, I don’t get paid. Her demands are cheaper than no paycheck, so I give in.”

  “I’m not even going to mention integration and the fact that Betty Jane should have no control—”

  Before she could go from not mentioning to a tirade, I cut Sarah off with a, “Thank you.”

  Sarah sighed. “Tell me why therapy is so expensive.You have health insurance.”

  “I don’t claim it on my insurance.The studio would find out. They’d know.”

  “Holly, I’ve told you a thousand times, they expect you to be in therapy. All TV and movie actors are.” Sarah said this with complete assurance. “Do you really care if they know you have a therapist?” said Sarah. “Especially if you can get reimbursed for it?”

  “With Walter’s spies it could go like this: Holly is in therapy. Why is Holly in therapy? Holly’s a fraud. She doesn’t do voices. She has voices in her head that do them for her.”

  “Don’t get mad. I’m just trying to help.”

  “We are talking about how to save my job, not putting me on the fast track to unemployment.”

  “Hey, before I forget, we watched your show the other night. What a great episode. I love Harriet.”

  “Oh agony!” screamed Betty Jane inside my head. Then she stormed out of the room. Where’d she come from?

  “Yeah, well, that is the problem.”

  “That I love her voice?” Sarah sounded confused. “Her humor reminds me of the sense of humor you had as a child. Remember that essay you wrote?”

  “No, I don’t remember any essay. No essay. I don’t remember any essay.”

  “Okay,” said Sarah. Neither of us spoke for a moment.“Anyway,” she finally said, “I like the voice.”

  “Yeah, well, the more everyone loves it, the more out of control Betty Jane becomes. If I don’t do something, I could lose my job.”

  “From the start, Holly, I said this was dangerous. That whole Committee, as you call them, has always had way too much power over your life. And this job has given them more.” I could hear the frustration in her voice. “I don’t know what that therapist—”

  “Analyst—”

  “Oh, all right, analyst,” snapped Sarah, “was thinking. Maybe you should consider just letting it all go.”

  I lit a cigarette and inhaled. “This from the person who just said she loved the new voice I am doing.”

  “Right, the Ruffles eater or whatever—”

  “Yes, Harriet is Ruffles, the Ruffles eater.”

  “My point is,” she continued, “my point is that I have told you for years
to get rid of that freaking Committee. The last thing you need is to get more lost.” She was working herself up now.“I don’t know what else to say. I’m at my limit here.”

  “Listen, will you go with me to the Emmy awards on Sunday?”

  “I thought Peter was going with you.”

  “Sarah, the way Betty Jane is acting, I need you there, not him.”

  “Holly—”

  “Sarah, don’t—”

  “Peter uses you for parties, Holly. He walks on you with cleats and you let him.You shouldn’t have to work that hard for any man.”

  “How would you know? You’ve never had to work hard for anything, Sarah.” It was a nasty comment and we both knew it. But, no matter what I did, no matter what I said, Sarah stuck by me, and that gave me a freedom I didn’t have with anyone else. It hadn’t always been that way, but we didn’t talk about the time in our lives when things were different.“Peter does love me, Sarah,” I said defensively.

  “I have no doubt that he loves something, Holly.”

  “Will you go with me?”

  “Of course I will.”

  { 10 }

  It was a hot August afternoon. Sarah, the Committee, and I rode in the limousine. As the limo rolled along, I left yet another mollifying message for Peter. He hadn’t spoken to me since I’d told him Sarah was going to be my plus-one instead of him.

  “Why do we have to arrive so early?” Betty Jane sniffed inside my head.

  “I thought you weren’t talking to me,” I said. Betty Jane had threatened not to speak to me the rest of the night if I called Peter one more time. It was the only reason I’d dialed the phone.

  “I said I might not speak to you.”

  “Whatever,” I said. “I told you I want to get through the red carpet gauntlet unnoticed and as quickly as possible.”

  “I know, Holly,” said Sarah. “We will. Just relax.”

  “And if I don’t want to go unnoticed?” said Betty Jane in a shrill voice.

  “You have no choice,” said Ruffles inside my head. When Ruffles spoke, I felt that mixture of compassion and shame that one feels for a loved one who has chosen the most awful outfit but you don’t want to say. Especially if that loved one weighs more than three hundred pounds. It’s hard to make that much bulk look nice. Unless it’s a ship. Ruffles had tried, though, and the resulting outfit was a shiny purple thing with sequins. It looked more like a circus tent decorated to resemble a starry sky.

  I fished in my bag for a cigarette. I clenched it between my teeth and pressed the button on my lighter. Everyone including Sarah screamed at once, “Holly!”

  “Come on,” I pleaded.

  Sarah snatched the lit cigarette from my lips and tossed it out the open window. “We agreed that you’d use a patch,” she said.

  “I’m wearing three already.”

  “Children are not appropriate at an event like this.” Inside my head, Betty Jane pointed one of her bloodred nails at the Boy. Sarge insisted he be allowed to attend. I suspected that Betty Jane capitulated because she was determined to be at the awards show this year.The Boy pressed up against Sarge, who looked uncomfortable in his new Armani suit. “Especially in those shoes,” she said disdainfully. Even though he’d dressed in a little boy’s tuxedo, the Boy refused to remove his red Converse sneakers. At least they were clean.

  The limo stopped. I heard the driver disembark.“We’re here,” I said, smoothing the skirt of my dress.

  I planned to run for cover the minute I exited the car. If Sarah couldn’t keep up, she’d have to meet me there. “The drink tent, Sarah,” I whispered as I half skipped, half ran toward the white canvas structure about a hundred feet ahead. When we walked in, I pointed to a table in the corner and said, “Over there.”

  I had gulped down my first glass of wine when I saw Walter come through the entrance with what appeared to be a nineteen-year-old female on his arm.

  “Holly!”Walter spotted us.

  “Here he comes,” I said to Sarah. She sat calmly, not the least in awe of him.

  Walter appeared before our table sans teenager, looking dapper in his expensive tuxedo.The first time I saw Walter, I thought he was a handsome man.Then I met him.

  “Walter.” I stood up. “This is my—”

  “What kind of fucking entrance was that?” he snapped. “In Walt’s World, actors have class. Do you think that was a classy entrance?” I’d worked for him long enough to know that was not a question. Then he looked me up and down without any pretense. “What the hell are you wearing? That getup makes you look fat. And boots? This is Los Angeles, not a rodeo.”

  I wore a flowing, violet (sans sequins), three-quarter-length dress with matching cowgirl-style designer boots. I thought I’d made a good outfit choice. Apparently not.

  I flashed a warm smile at him. I had the family teeth—horsey and big. But, as my mother always said, big teeth made the best smiles. And I did have one that could light up a room. I watched Walter disappear into the crowd and then I remembered that he was the one person impervious to my smile. I sat down in a slump.

  “How rude!” said Sarah. She was nice enough not to mention that she’d suggested I rethink the boots. But I didn’t wear sandals—anytime, under any circumstances.

  “I told you that outfit was atrocious,” said Betty Jane. She wore a very expensive Chanel dress. Off the rack, as she had reminded me multiple times this week. Since her budget was the same as mine, it was all she could afford. The strappy sandals on her well-manicured feet were from a previous outfit.Worn once, but worn nevertheless. I noticed that she’d somehow upgraded her trademark sunflower pin to a jeweled version.The tiny glass stones caught the lights and sparkled, making the flower petals look like they were covered with raindrops. For once it looked lovely.

  “Is this dress really ugly?” I said to Sarah.

  “Well . . .” She paused, no doubt awash in the same conflict I’d been in earlier. “It makes your eyes green.” I had eyes that alternated between blue and green depending on who I was. Maybe that was a sign that the award was for my work as Violet.

  I sighed and gulped down my second glass of wine. I caught Walter watching me from across the room. He made a cutting sign across his throat. Godzilla had now crushed my outfit, my teeth, and my wine intake, making it a humiliation trifecta found only in Walt’s World.

  “Should you be drinking like that, Holly?” Sarah covered my hand with hers. I knew she wasn’t chastising me, but her question still made me mad.

  “Let’s go into the auditorium,” I said.

  The Emmy awards ceremony was held at the over-six-decades-old Shrine Auditorium.According to Ruffles, the Shrine comprised the single largest theater in North America, with some six thousand, three hundred seats and a huge adjoining Expo Hall.

  When we walked in, I wondered what they did at the Shrine to accommodate the obese. Not that I expected to see any of those in attendance.They’d probably get a last-minute liposuction or something.

  A handful of people were already seated. We made our way to the orchestra section and found our seats about halfway to the stage. Admittedly, hiding in the balcony appealed to me far more than sitting front and center. Good luck getting Walter to agree to move anywhere out of the spotlight, though.

  “Did you know that the Shrine’s design is an engineering marvel?” I said.

  “The cantilevered balcony is built without pillars. It seats more patrons than the floor,” said Ruffles inside my head.“And if you look up, you’ll see that no seat in the house has an obstructed view.” No point in wishing we were seated in the balcony if it didn’t come with anonymity.

  “Did you know that chandelier up there is crystal? Weighs four tons and has over five hundred lightbulbs that use forty-eight thousand watts of power,” I said.

  “Good thing we’re not sitting under it. What if it fell?” said Ruffles.

  “Now, that would hurt,” I said.

  “Would you both stop your incessant b
lathering,” snapped Betty Jane inside my head. Ruffles hissed at her. They’d already had a big fight back at the hotel room. Ruffles hadn’t seen why she should change her outfit for the occasion. But I confess that I secretly appreciated Betty Jane’s insistence that we all dress up, because elegant attire portrayed an image of élan and sophistication, which was what I wanted for the awards ceremony.

  “Take a deep breath, Holly. You’re being careless,” said Sarah.

  “It’s nerves. Nerves and no cigarettes.” I pressed my forefinger, middle finger, and ring finger on the three patches that were stuck to my rib cage. “I wish it would start.”

  “Just a little while longer. People are already coming in. Let’s be quiet for a bit,” said Sarah.

  “How rude!” exclaimed Betty Jane.

  “Always have to have the last word,” said Ruffles.

  Betty Jane pursed her lips so they looked like she had just eaten a lemon, and then dramatically covered them with her forefinger to indicate silence. Sarge unbuttoned his jacket. Even though he didn’t put up a fuss, it was the first time I’d seen Sarge out of his regular blue jeans and white T-shirt. The familiar scar that always looked like it was diving off his ear down the neck band of his T-shirt glowed an eerie white against the red of his neck. He’d complained earlier that the shirt collar was too tight.

  After a while, the lights dimmed and the announcer came onstage. As the awards were presented, I did my best to ignore the sensation that I needed to go to the bathroom. The bathrooms at the Shrine were not exempt from Betty Jane’s toilet paper rule, and my dollar-sized purse could fit only a few squares of Charmin.

  “Now the juried awards,” said the Emmy announcer.