Around midday, Walter and one of the suits showed up and Mike called a break. Looking for a way to pass the time, I stumbled into a conference room, where two writers were discussing a new story line. I stood by the door listening.
“That character sounds pretty interesting; let me see the sketches,” I said.
They stopped talking and looked over at me with annoyance. I didn’t need Betty Jane when I wanted something. I held out my hand. One stared at me while the other began scribbling furiously on his notepad. No surprise, since he was the one Betty Jane tore apart the most. She ignored his cues, embellished in places he asked her not to, and basically did what she did best: exactly what she wanted. Once, during a reading, after making several cutting remarks about the dialogue, Betty Jane had sweetly said, “Well, what else can I expect from a lowbrow hack of a writer like you?” Since nobody knew about Betty Jane, or any of
the other Committee members, of course they all thought it was me saying these things, even when I said them in her voice. No amount of ingratiating on my part could fix the situation. Halfway through taping the first season, I stopped trying and instead turned my focus to Betty Jane. She agreed to lighten up if I didn’t balk when she did things her way. The result was a Mexican standoff between Betty Jane and the writers, with me caught in the middle.
I signaled impatiently to the writer with my outstretched hand.
“Sure.” He handed me a sheet of paper.“We just have a general outline of what Harriet—that’s her name—looks like.”
I read the character synopsis: family member, overweight, sharp wit, who turns up to collect her inheritance and threatens to expose Violet and undermine the hold she has on her neighbors. Ruffles’s hand froze in her bag of potato chips.
“I want to add her to escalate the comedic tension,” said one of the writers.“As a nonrecurring character in an upcoming episode.”
Looking up, I said, “Do you have any lines?”
He handed me another sheet of paper. “Just a few.”
I scanned the lines.There was definitely an electric dynamic between Harriet and Violet in the bits I read.
“That sounds perfect for me,” Ruffles said inside my head. She was right. This would be just another day for Ruffles and Betty Jane. After last month at Al Basi’s, Betty Jane had rewritten history and decided getting Ruffles to share her burden was her idea, and she had declared that she’d permit her to work. I thought for sure she’d be happy to have Ruffles on
The Neighborhood
. It might even temper the tension between them.
“Do you have any more lines?” I said.
“We don’t really know her yet.”
I did.
Ruffles straightened her shoulders. My head bobbed a bit, a mannerism I saw people around the studio mimicking from time to time, and not in a nice way. The writer made a not-well-concealed tilt to the left. I ignored it, because the only way to show them Harriet was to let Ruffles do it. I closed my eyes and drifted backward so that Ruffles could take over.
She read the first few lines for them, and then paused. They both motioned for me to continue. Ruffles read the remaining lines. Then she introduced the writers to Harriet with a magnificent monologue.When she finished, she immediately surrendered control back to me.
I glanced at the two writers. One said, “That was inspired, Holly. Almost like you were Harriet.” He turned to the other writer. “She does these voices as if they live in her head.”
If they only knew. Nevertheless, it was an undisputed fact that I stayed employed because I did voices in just this way. And even though there was tension between us, the respect was genuine.
When Betty Jane heard Ruffles was doing an episode of
The Neighborhood
, she smiled warmly and said, “Well.” Betty Jane sounded genuinely happy.
I relaxed.We all really were becoming friends.
“I knew that collar would eventually cut off the air to your brain,” said Ruffles.
Betty Jane’s smile dropped. Her eyes became cloudy.
“How dare you,” I whispered. I didn’t know which felt worse—Ruffles commenting on my private thoughts or her trying to sabotage this newfound amity among the three of us.
“You are so blind, Holly.”
“And you are such a bitch,” I said.
Ruffles straightened on her pillow. “I’m just—”
“Leave me alone,” I snapped. I didn’t speak to her for two days.
At the end of the week, I left work looking forward to a quiet evening when Peter called and suggested we meet for dinner. I had not completed my requisite acts of contrition for Peter, so I agreed to meet him. When I got home, I closed my eyes for a catnap. I awoke to Ruffles and Sarge arguing about whether or not to wake me. I checked the clock.
Shit. It’s already eight. I’m supposed to be there now.
I grabbed my bag and called Peter from the cab.
I saw Peter waiting outside as we turned the corner.As I paid the driver, I heard Ruffles say, “He’s annoyed.”
I sighed. This relapse would probably require another act of penance.
“Sorry.” I went to kiss him and he gave me his cheek.
“You never used to be late,” he said.
“I never used to be a lot of things. Shall we go in?”
We were looking over the menu when Peter said,“Hey, Pam asked if you could speak to her evening theater group about voice-over work.”
I put down my menu and glared at the back of Peter’s. Pam, one of those Hallmark Card happy people, was one of his childhood friends. She was the kind of person I wished I could be, and because of this, I hated her. When Pam laughed off my consistently uncivilized reaction to her, I hated her more. She told me once that she and Peter were a package deal.After that I focused all my efforts on avoiding the delivery of the Pam package. Besides, if she really knew me, all that unconditional crap would go out the window. At least, that was the excuse with which I comforted myself.
Peter continued to hide behind his menu. Finally I said, “You’ve got to be kidding.”
“Nope,” said Peter. “So will you do it?”
“My schedule.” I paused. “How could you even ask?”
“It’s one evening out of your life. Can’t you for once be nice to her?” said Peter.
“It’s not her. It’s her and a group of kids,” I said. “Kids freak me out.And Pam.” I paused.“I’d need a lobotomy to get through it. I mean—”
“Jesus,” said Peter,“forget it.” He closed his menu with a snap. The sound made my shoulders tense. I wanted to say I’d do it, but I couldn’t.
“I’m sorry. I know she’s your ‘sister.’” Pam liked to talk in quotes, so I smiled and winked my index fingers when I said
sister
. “But I can’t.”
Peter shook his head in disgust and I tried to push my guilt to the side as I studied the menu.
Ten minutes later the waitress appeared. Peter still hadn’t said a word to me, and my guilt had festered and expanded.
“Are you ready to order?” asked the waitress.
“I’d like a bottle of cabernet please. Whatever is good,” I said.
“You’re drinking?” said Peter. He knew alcohol was forbidden in my contract. It, like cigarettes, ruined the voice. He never complained about the cigarettes, though.
“A bottle of wine, please,” I said to the waitress. Peter shook his head and I felt worse.
When the waitress arrived with the wine, I said, “Just pour.
“Bottoms up,” I said to Peter, and I downed half the glass.
“Cheers,” he replied.
Peter launched into a monologue about his dissertation on Nietzsche and nihilism. This discussion topic always ignited a
lively debate between us, because Peter agreed with Nietzsche’s view that God is dead, while I subscribed to the Kierkegaardian view that God exists even though I’d turned my back on the Father, the Son, and that stupid ghost years ago. But I didn’t know if this was a diversion to settle tension, or Peter was needling me into a philosophical argument so he could try to crush me as punishment for refusing to help Pam. To be safe, I sipped my wine, listened, and picked at my dinner.When Peter took the last bite of his meal, he said, “So, next week I thought it would be great to stay in L.A. for a couple of days, either before or after the Emmy awards show.”
“Yeah, fine,” I said.We’d just avoided one skirmish; why invite another? Besides, it was easier to say this than reveal to him that I hadn’t decided whether I was going to the awards show. Especially when the truth was that I had decided not to go, only I hadn’t told myself that truth yet.
“Do you want to order dessert?”Ah, distraction. Peter looked at me. I smiled at the waitress. It was a grin of gratitude that Peter could easily mistake as dessert delight.
“I need to go to the bathroom,” I said. “Bring us the menu.”
Sitting on the toilet, I reached for my bag. No bag.
Shit
.
I never forget the Charmin.
I never forget.
I sighed and looked over at the perfectly acceptable toilet paper roll on the wall. Maybe she wouldn’t notice.
“Do not even think about it,” Betty Jane warned inside my head.
“I am almost dry anyway,” I replied.
“That is disgusting.”
I heard the bathroom door open. I leaned over and saw a pair of heels on the other side of the door.
“Hey,” I said to the wearer of the heels, “can I ask you a big favor?”
“Sure,” came the reply.
“Could I possibly ask you to go out to the table where the really cute guy with dark blond hair that looks like it needs to be cut is sitting and ask him for my bag? He’s wearing a gray sweater.”
I heard some rustling and then a tampon came under the door like a peace emissary. “Don’t worry. I always carry extras.”
“Oh.Thanks.Actually, though, I really need my bag.” I passed the tampon back under the door. It made a quick retreat followed by footsteps and a closing door. I waited. My rear was starting to ache. I looked down at my knees and counted the nicks from shaving.Then I looked over my thighs. I needed a wax. I sighed.
“This is ridiculous!” I said, reaching for the dangling squares of paper.
“No!”
screamed Betty Jane inside my head.
The bathroom door opened again. I spied a pair of sensible shoes, the type worn by a server, under the door.
“Miss?” asked the anonymous shoes.
“Yes?”
“Your boyfriend said you need this?” My bag slid across the tiles and under the door. I tried to put out of my mind the article I’d read about the bacteria on bathroom floors.
I retrieved the Charmin and wiped even though it was now unnecessary. “Satisfied?”
“Yes.” Betty Jane sniffed.
When I walked back into the dining room, I saw our table was empty.
“Smoking,” said Ruffles matter-of-factly.
I looked out the window in time to see Peter handing a cigarette to a tall, underdressed blonde. She leaned in and put her hand over his. I watched.That was how it was between us the first time
we shared a cigarette. Every second her hand lingered my stomach plunged another floor, increasing my sense of deprivation.
“Smokin’!” said Sarge inside my head. His comment brought me back. I rolled my eyes. Just like Peter, Sarge had a thing for long blondes. I’d always wondered what Peter saw in me; I was the antithesis of his type.
“You’re a pig just like him,” snapped Betty Jane at Sarge.
Peter turned and saw me standing there. He smiled. I smiled back, even though I felt like picking up a plate from the nearest table and throwing it through the window. He turned and said something to the woman. She opened her dainty jeweled purse, pulled out a card, and handed it to him. I looked down at my bag. It was so large, the blonde would probably fit in it. At least she’d get sick from the bathroom bacteria.
“He doesn’t even try to hide it anymore,” said Betty Jane inside my head, “and that is your fault.”
“They’re just having a cigarette,” I snapped. A few heads turned.
I sat down and studied the dessert menu while I waited for Peter to come back in. Chocolate Composition. It sounded heavenly.
“Hey,” said Peter.
“Hey, yourself,” I replied.
“Are we getting dessert?” he asked, taking a sip of wine.
“Only if we’re inviting your friend,” I said, trying to be playful.
“Don’t even start. She came over asking for your bag. What was with that, anyway?” he demanded.
“So you took her out for a smoke to thank her for asking you for my bag?”
“She seemed pissed. I wanted to make it up to her. Did they bring the menu?”
“Here,” I said, handing it to him.
The waitress appeared and said, “Have you decided?”
“That chocolate thing looks right up your alley,” said Peter.
“We’re not having dessert.” I handed her my credit card.
The next morning, I ran down the stairs. The studio car waited in front of my building. I motioned to the driver to roll down the window.
“I’m going to run across the street and grab a paper.” I pointed to the Korean market on the corner.
“I’ll meet you in front,” he said.
I grabbed the
New York Post
off the stand and got in the car. Okay, I live in New York, and the
New York Times
is the paper of record, but who has time to read all that? Besides, I loved the
Post
. It contained all the news I needed to get me through the day, and I could read it cover to cover in the short ride to the studio.
“Shit!” I exclaimed. “They must have gotten my name from my credit card.”The driver looked in the rearview mirror.
“Oh, nothing,” I said. “Sorry.”
He went back to driving, and I muttered
shit
over and over under my breath as I read the celebrity gossip on Page Six. Under “Sightings” it said:
Holly Miller, minor voice talent—