Dear Dwayne, With Love

by Eliza Gordon

  I’ve managed to make it to the gym every day except today (Tues through Sat). I’m too bloody sore AND I had acting class tonight, after which, I’ll have you know, I did not go drinking with the other miscreants, thank you very much. But I’m doing the program Marco gave me, and I’ve discovered that banana + yogurt + almond milk smoothies keep the toxic farts to a manageable level, so I call that progress.

  Speaking of which, Miraculously Beautiful Marco remains miraculously beautiful, moving about the gym with those perfect knees, training his clients, sharing that smile I’m guessing he paid a lot of money for. I really do owe Janice a beer. Or a protein shake.

  Oh, and Viv wanted to know why I was drinking a smoothie during coffee break instead of my usual Diet Coke. Man, I hope Trevor doesn’t show up at work again and ask Viv about our walking dates we’re totally not having.

  Oh, tangled is my web of lies.

  I should tell Viv. It might give us something to talk about other than the consistency of her vaginal discharge and where she is on her ovulatory cycle. TMI, Viv, TMI. Although we did have an interesting conversation about the elasticity of a vagina. Did you know that the vaginal canal is actually flat? Like, yeah, it stretches—duh—but we don’t walk around with this open tube down there. I told Viv that if we did, women would whistle as they moved. Can you imagine how noisy that would be in a public place with lots of women? All that whistling? Like a vagina chorus.

  I’m trying to figure out what my song would be. “The Imperial March”? Maybe that song you sang from that Disney movie! Oh my god, that would be perfect! Every time I walked by a dude, my vagina would sing, “You’re welcome!”

  I just ruined that song for you, didn’t I? Sorry, Maui.

  Okay, this entry is too long, but I had to catch you up. And now I have.

  Wish me luck. Audition tomorrow morning for some new holistic brand of family shampoo. Or something. Still waiting for that magical tampon gig to come through . . .

  Yours forever,

  Danielle Noodle-Arms Steele

  P.S. GYM UPDATE: I managed to work up to fifteen minutes on the treadmill, and I haven’t barfed again! Well, I almost did once, but it was because I drank a Diet Coke before I went in and that was just me being dumb. I’m doing all the exercises now and I’m learning how to squat AND I learned how to use the bench press, and even if I can only do the weight of the lightest bar in the gym, I STILL DID IT. (Handstand Man even applauded me!)

  But I absolutely dread when my bladder/bowels tell me it’s potty time because no one warned me that sitting down/standing up and basic personal hygiene would be so effing PAINFUL. To remedy this: I taped a photo of you on the bathroom mirror so every time I think I can’t do this anymore, I will see your face staring at me to remind me that we’re gonna hang out in a few months and my muscles won’t be so sore by then.

  Right? RIGHT? It gets better, less painful, doesn’t it?

  Also: Handstand Man is probably a total perv with his large collection of 1970s-era silk shorts, but he brings in a new crop of Dad Jokes pretty much every day and cheers for the gym patrons when he sees one of us doing something hard or new. And here’s the craziest part: After he saw me wearing T-shirts with your face on them (multiple days in a row), he brought me a trading card with YOU on it, when you were with the Miami Hurricanes—he said it’s from the 1994 Bumble Bee Seafoods set that was given away at the stadium after you guys won the national championship. He apologized for it not being in mint condition (he had it in a Ziploc)—it was part of his son’s football and baseball card collection, but his son works in New York City now (something about the stock exchange) and told his dad to donate whatever he left in his old room, so Walter thought I’d appreciate such a collectible. I am so stoked. These are super rare!

  What Gerald Robert Steele would’ve given to see this.

  Gotta go. Epsom salts and a gin & 7 calling my name.

  *SAVE*

  *CLOSE*

  SIXTEEN

  I hear notes from “Defying Gravity,” of the Broadway hit Wicked, before I even have the coffee shop door open. How Thomas the Singing Barista hits those high notes, I’ll never understand—this man truly does sing for his supper. When he’s not slinging iced coffees and flat whites for Portland’s caffeine addicts, he busks at the Saturday Market, which has led to regular gigs at nightclubs and bars all over the city—plus, he’s a blast at karaoke nights. He’s talented enough that he could’ve made a real go of it, as he proves regularly in the Sunday night acting workshop we both attend, but his family needs him: a widowed mother with very traditional views who maybe hasn’t quite accepted that Thomas will marry a He and not a She, a grandfather who will live forever selling his rugs, a sister with a bunch of kids . . .

  When he finishes the chorus and slides an Americano across the marble counter, splashing nary a drop over the white porcelain cup’s side, the patrons gift him with applause. “Thomas the Singing Barista, everyone,” his coworker announces. “Tip jar is to the left!”

  “My beautiful Danielle—no fishnets today?”

  “A shampoo commercial. I’m supposed to look like a ‘fresh, happy housewife.’”

  “That would explain the chinos.”

  “I’m wearing black lace undergarments to quell my urge to buy a minivan.”

  Thomas grabs a paper cup and starts writing the little codes that list the ingredients for my caffeine hit.

  “Wait—I need to change my order.”

  He stops and looks up at me. “I have some very nice dark chocolate syrup that just came in, if you’re looking to shake things up. Eighty percent cocoa so it’s better for your heart. Wink wink.”

  “Um . . .” I lean in. I cannot believe I am going to be one of those people who orders a skinny. With no whip and sugar-free syrup. And nothing from the treat case today.

  But I do.

  And Thomas gasps mightily.

  When the drink is done, he whispers to a coworker that he’s taking his fifteen and slides out from behind the bar. He gets to do that because he’s the boss.

  “Follow.” He leads me to a vacant table in the corner. “Sit.”

  I do.

  “Spill. Did you and Frisbee Golf break up? Is Jerky Jackie being mean to you again? Oh god, are you turning into your mother? All organic and sourced from other worlds?”

  I should tell him. I need to tell someone.

  As I’ve only got a few minutes before the audition and then I have to race to work, I give him the long and short of it.

  When I’m done, Thomas sits back against his wooden chair, arms over his chest. And launches into “I Will Survive.”

  “Gloria Gaynor’s heart would skip a beat if she heard you sing,” I say, above the applause I add to everyone else’s.

  “A boy can dream,” he says. “Girl, this is gonna be good for you. You need this. You love The Rock. And he’s gonna love you right back.”

  “I’m totally freaked out. And so sore I can hardly breathe. You’re the only person I’ve told . . . and you should see all the crazy things I have to do to win.”

  “One crazy thing at a time. You got crazy in your blood, Dani. This won’t be any big thing.” He reaches into his apron and pulls out free-drink coupons. “And for the next little while, we’re gonna keep you fueled with large skinny vanilla lattes made with almond or soy milk. And the egg white and goat cheese quiches. Good protein, low fat. Your trainer will approve.”

  “I think you would approve of my trainer,” I say.

  “Do tell.” He smooths his eyebrows theatrically.

  Instead of trying to do justice to Miraculously Beautiful Marco, I pull out my phone and show Thomas a photo I sort of sneaked in the other day when Marco was talking to the Limping Lady.

  “I think I just decided to join your gym,” Thomas says, licking his lips.

  “He’s a bit mean, though, always talking about one more set and one more mile, so gird thy loins.”

  “I’d gird anything he a
sked me to.”

  My phone alarm chimes. I have to go. Thomas scoots out from the tiny table and wraps me in a hug. He smells like cinnamon rolls and expensive hair product. “Whatever I can do, Dani, you let me know. And when you’re rich and famous and hanging out with The Rock, hire me to be your manservant and I will sing-and-sling for you every single day.” He smooches my cheek.

  “I’m off to sell shampoo. Do I look like a happy housewife?”

  “You look like the dirty housewife who whips her man into submission while wearing her PTA president T-shirt. Rooowwwwwrrrr.”

  Parking in this city can be a total pain in the ass—just as I’m making my third attempt at squeezing in between a Subaru and delivery truck on a side street (my parallel parking continues to be an issue), my phone jingles with a message.

  I jack the rear end of Flex Kavana up onto the curb, but whatever. Cars are waiting to pass, and their horns tell me they’ve lost patience with my ineptitude.

  From Trevor. And he’s sent a photo: U said I should get a peticure. LOOK WHAT I DID.

  I look closely at the photo, biting my lip over his spelling mistake. Are those his feet?

  Me: Your toenails are *orange*?

  Trevor: Go Beavers! I love beaver. LOL.

  Me [ignoring his innuendo]: That’s some school spirit if I ever saw it. Well done.

  Trevor: Was actually nice. They soaked my feet & used lotion. Super-hot TBH.

  Me: I hope you tipped well.

  Trevor: Shit. Was I supposed to tip?

  Me: GTG. Audition. See you later.

  Trevor: It’s Monday . . . can’t wait 4 2night 2 show U nothin but my curling toes.

  Me: I’ll text you.

  Ugh. No. We just had Sex Night. Orange toenails or not, he’s gonna have to make alternate arrangements. I have a hot date with a treadmill and some kettlebells.

  Inside the casting office, I sign in—different casting assistant I’ve never seen before, so I hand over my headshot and résumé and take a seat, relieved when I look around and see actual women and not scantily clad teenagers.

  A woman across the way—a beautiful blond, thin, with a jawbone and slim nose that could’ve been hand-sculpted—is talking on her phone.

  I steal another glance. I think I’ve seen her before—either at other auditions or maybe on TV. Or did we do an acting class together? I’d probably remember a face and body that intimidating. In fact, if we workshopped together, I’d probably pick her to focus all my years of insecurity on as I emoted through a heartrending scene of loss and betrayal. (Because my favorite scenes are about loss and betrayal.)

  I don’t want to eavesdrop on her conversation—I should be going over these sides one last time so I don’t screw up the few lines I have to read on camera—but it’s sort of impossible because she’s talking loudly enough that everyone in the room is involuntarily privy to her grand revelations. Something about taking time off from work to train like she did for the last triathlon. She’s wearing a skirt that is above knee length, and man, her legs—yeah, those could definitely pull off a triathlon.

  “Oh, this event won’t be a problem. I still have my amateur status. My trainer and agent and I think it’ll be a great way to get noticed, to get some screen time. If nothing else, it’s for a good cause. You know the twins spent some time there in the NICU—so the fund-raising is important to me.”

  Wait. Her trainer? Her agent? And what will be a great way to get noticed?

  Twins? NICU? NICUs are in children’s hospitals.

  A chill washes over me. Shit. She’s an athlete; she’s talking about fund-raising for a children’s hospital; she does triathlons.

  She’s talking about Rock the Tots.

  When she giggles about meeting Dwayne Johnson in person, I’m a puddle on the floor. I mean, just look at her. I could work out for ten straight years and never look that amazing.

  “Dani Steele?” The casting assistant stands in the doorframe with my headshot in her hand. Why am I up already? These other actresses have been here longer . . . And I wanna hear more of the triathlete’s conversation.

  The assistant looks harried, pulling her messy Little Mermaid–red ponytail over her shoulder and pushing black cat-eye glasses up her nose. I gotta move.

  “Hi, I’m Natasha,” she says, not offering a hand to shake as we hustle down the narrow hallway. “Your agent sent you the sides?” I nod yes. “Great. Okay, so what we’re doing today—it’s a line of organic family hygiene products manufactured here in Oregon. This will be a regional campaign, and what we need from you today is pleasant, fresh-faced wife and mother. We are pairing you up by skin and hair color—”

  “Oh, I have a scene partner?”

  Before she can answer, we turn the corner into the room, and she walks over to a woman holding a baby. Natasha scoops up the baby and starts back to me.

  “Dani, this little cherub is Hazel. She’s seven months old. She’s a little cranky because it’s naptime, but I just need you to balance Hazel on your hip, deliver your lines, and give her a loving look once or twice. Like a mom would, okay?”

  Like a mom would?

  “Sure! I have a niece and nephews,” I say, pasting on my fakest smile. I leave off the part about how Georgie doesn’t ask me to babysit said niece and nephews very often because last time Dante chewed all the gum in my purse and then smooshed it into Mary May’s baby-fine hair while I was trying to figure out how the hell to operate William Morris’s fancy organic cloth diaper and wrap.

  Natasha nods at the gaffer tape X on the floor that tells me where to stand. I curl the printed sides and shove the pages into my bag, kicking it out of the camera’s frame. Stand tall, shoulders back, flip hair.

  Baby deposited in arms.

  “Okay, whenever you’re ready, Dani,” Natasha says. “Go ahead and slate.”

  “Hello, my name is Danielle Steele with an e. I’m with Janice Sterling and Associates.” Smile confidently, just as Hazel grabs a wad of my hair and shoves it into her mouth.

  I gently unwind the hair from her chubby little fingers, which are, not surprisingly, covered in some sort of baby-biscuity-slobbery concoction that she lovingly shares with me. Natasha nods for me to begin.

  “Pacific Heart shampoo gives my hair that lustrous, just-washed feel, even when I don’t have time to wash it every day.” Smile sweetly at baby, then back at camera. “Made with organic, humanely sourced products”—Hazel yanks again—“I trust the entire Pacific Heart product line”—yank-yank-squeal—“for the needs of my whole—”

  Baby Hazel screams, and an explosion rattles my right arm, followed by a strange warming sensation against my arm, on my left hand resting on her lower back, and across the front of my blouse.

  “I’ll stop you there for a sec, Dani.”

  Of course, Natasha says this because little Hazel has just shat herself, and the tsunami of pea-colored poop has burst the borders of her diaper and her cute white onesie and is gooping across my front and both appendages.

  Which, of course, is marvelous.

  Ask me again why I have yet to breed.

  “Oh, now that’s a nice smile, Hazel-bear! Is that why you were so grumpy?” Hazel’s mom coos as she extracts her shit-covered spawn from my arms.

  One of Natasha’s young minions offers me some water bottle–dampened paper towels. We do what we can to clean off the poop, with the added help of baby wipes mined from the depths of Hazel’s enormous diaper bag, and then Natasha asks me to run through the lines Hazel-free.

  Super fun to do when I smell like a public toilet, but this is Hollywood, baby.

  When I’m done, Natasha apologizes and offers me a free bottle of Pacific Heart shampoo. “Sorry about your shirt, Dani. It should wash out. Just soak it in cold when you get home.”

  [Director yells, “Cut!”]

  SEVENTEEN

  I cannot go to work like this. Obviously.

  My apartment is too far in the other direction—I’m going to be later t
han I told the Crone I’d be, and she’s already on my case about going over my banked vacation hours.

  I have gym gear in the trunk, but that’s not work appropriate.

  What’s between here and the office . . . ?

  Target! I can stop at Target and buy something to throw on to get me through the day so I don’t give the Crone any more reasons to stab pins into my voodoo doll.

  Traffic is light because all the other responsible worker bees are already at their respective hives, so I make good time getting to Target even though it’s raining again and I have to drive with all the windows down because I smell, well, like something shit on me.

  I run into the store, not bothering to cover the shirt because at this point, the rain might wash away some of the stink. Straight to the women’s department I go, looking for a shirt, a blouse, anything that will match these awful mom chinos.

  I finally find a suitable shirt, explain to the fitting-room clerk what has happened, and she helps by cutting the tags off if I “promise to go straight to the checkout.” I do, mostly because I’m just so grateful to not smell like a ruptured diaper. The shirt Hazel defiled? Goes into the garbage. I know—I’m wasteful—but I have at least six hours of work to get through, and this will just sit in my humid car and fester.

  Feeling remarkably cleaner, I head toward the front of the store to pay. An employee is walking toward me, pulling a tall cart full of merchandise—huge guy, like muscles thrusting out of his tight short-sleeve T-shirt under his red Target vest, glasses, close-cropped hair, smiling and nodding at customers as he moves down the wide aisle. We make eye contact and he stops.

  “I know you.”

  “I know you too,” I say.

  “You’re from the gym. Working with my man Marco?”

  “Oh yeah—right!” I look at his name tag. “Minotaur? Is that your real name?”

  “Nope, but if I told you my real name, I’d have to kill you.” He laughs. I think he’s kidding about the murder part.