Sounds Like Crazy (9 page)

“Does anyone do only cartoon work?” asked Betty Jane.

What is she up to?
Ruffles read my thought and shook her head.

“Holly,” said Brenda. Her hands were on the glass again. I would come to recognize this as her pay-attention stance.“No one limits themselves exclusively to animated voice work. This must come as a shock to someone who idolizes Nancy Cartwright.”

“Who?”

“
The Simpsons
?”

My head shook slightly.

“Famous animated show? I understand you promised Walter you’d make sure
The Neighborhood
was more popular.”

My head shook slightly again. “I do not fill my time with TV,” said Betty Jane, brushing invisible lint off my pants.Well, the rest of us did. How could she make a declaration like, “My TV show will be more famous than
The Simpsons
”?

“I thought Mike said ...” muttered Brenda. She inhaled. “At any rate, anyone who dreams of making it big in the field has to do other things. Besides, it’s the other work that’s more plentiful and often more lucrative.”

“What other work?” said Betty Jane.

“Announcing, film dubbing, radio commercials, voice-overs for TV commercials, et cetera. One show, one cannot a living make.”
Okay, Yoda.
Ruffles and I giggled and Brenda yammered on, “... you need to have a cell phone, pager, voice mail—every possible form of communication available—so I can reach you.”

“I don’t want to be that busy,” I said to Ruffles inside my head.

“We can start as soon as you have the work,” said Betty Jane. We let out a collective groan. None of us had expected that we would do more than this one job. Obviously, Betty Jane had other ideas.

Brenda’s face appeared perplexed for a moment. She shook it off and a perfunctory smile crossed her lips. “Let’s not get ahead of ourselves here, Holly. I need to see if you can even do the work, and after that what your range is.”

“Oh, my,” said Betty Jane breathlessly. “Range?”

“For most actors the range is about fifteen voices,” Brenda said with the resignation one feels when they realize the virtual unknown in front of them knows virtually nothing.

“Oh, is that all? I can do four. Only four. But I do them well. That is a promise,” said Betty Jane.

“Okay, then.We’ll talk.” And with that, I was dismissed.

 

Betty Jane ceded control as I shut the door to Brenda’s office and headed down the hall.“How dare you take over like that,” I said.

“You broke the rules,” said Sarge sternly inside my head.

“I am guiding our destiny and you two have the nerve to complain?” said Betty Jane. “Who do you think you are?” She dimissed us with her hand.

“We are going straight to Milton,” I said. Betty Jane answered my threat by disappearing through the Committee’s front door.

“No need,” said Sarge.“The agreement was that I enforce the rules.”

“Well, let me applaud you on a job well-done.” I clapped my hands.

Sarge was unmoved.“Just like in combat, Holly, you discover your enemy’s intentions before acting.”

“Next time,” I said, gesturing dramatically with open palms, “just ask. Any one of us could have told you what Betty Jane’s
intentions were. Even him.” I tapped my head where I thought the Silent One was sitting inside. “Of course, he’d answer by clasping his hands in prayer—”

“Holly, two o’clock. Look sharp!” said Sarge. I stopped short. A bike messenger stood slightly to my right. His startled face told me he’d taken in the whole exchange.Well, one side of it.

“Let me,” said Ruffles. Sarge nodded.
I guess today’s a rules holiday.
I relaxed. She took over. “I’m an actress,” Ruffles said. Then she flirted with the freedom of a fat woman who knows that the object of her attention will never view her as an object of desire.The elevator arrived. Ruffles stepped in.The messenger smiled and waved at her as the elevator door closed.

When we got home, Sarge called a meeting. I lay back on my bed and entered the Committee’s house.

“Sit,” barked Sarge at all of us.We all looked over at Betty Jane stretched out on her bed, nail file in hand. Hers was the only space with enough room to accommodate all five of us.

“I told you, sit!” thundered Sarge. Betty Jane slid over and we all scrambled onto her bed.

“People.We have a mission. Sixty days to complete it. And I am the
only
combat-ready soldier in this unit.” Sarge articulated each word, his voice a gruff tone I’d never heard before.“For the next eight weeks, you shit birds will follow the routine.”

Betty Jane gasped.“Do not use that kind of language in front of the Boy.” Ironically, the Boy was the only one unfazed by this Sarge with chest muscles straining against his white T-shirt.

Sarge pointed his finger right at Betty Jane. “If you want to succeed, you will not interrupt me.You will not question me. I am First Shirt here, and my orders will be followed to the letter.” Betty Jane opened her mouth. Sarge waved her off. “To the letter! Do you hear me?”

We all nodded.

“When I ask a question, you answer, ‘HUA.’ Heard, understood, and acknowledged. Do you hear me?”

A feeble, “HUA,” sounded in the room.

“Say it like you mean it,” said Sarge.

“HUA,” we said louder.

“We’ll work on that. Now, SOP will be a weekly plan with nightly sit rep to make sure we are on target. We get up daily at zero-dark-thirty. We will not be late for classes or meetings. We will take public transportation without any backtalk. We will pull together and we will conquer this mountain. Together. I want to see assholes and elbows every day until D-day.”

I got so lost in the lingo, I didn’t hear the rest of the details. Later I listened while the Boy explained to Ruffles that swearing didn’t bother him,
shit birds
were slobs,
first shirt
meant sergeant,
zero-dark-thirty
was really early in the morning, and
assholes and elbows
meant we’d better be working really hard.

We used my World Wildlife Fund calendar to count down to D-day. The panda hanging on the tree watched every night when the Boy crossed off the day gone by with a red pen. After a week, we were running like a well-oiled machine, down to the hospital corners on our beds.

 

The task Sarge couldn’t prepare me for was how to convince Sarah to get me the funds I needed to cover my new line of work. I had enough money to get me halfway through the second week of private training. By the end of the first week, the fantasy of being a voice-over artist was starting to merge with reality. It was too late for her to tell me I couldn’t do this, because I knew I could.

I left Sarah a message asking her to call me at seven o’clock in the evening my time.The phone rang just as I turned the key in the dead bolt.The lock snapped easily and I opened the door.

I pirouetted over Cat One crouching in the bathroom, stepped into the hallway, and reached for the phone. “Hello?”

“Hey, it’s me,” said Sarah.

“Hey, thanks for calling me,” I said.

“Why have you been avoiding me?”

“I lost my job—”

“Oh, Holly—”

“No, it’s actually a good thing. I’m in training now to become a voice-over artist.”

“A what?”

“A voice-over artist.You know. They do voices for cartoons and stuff.” I waited for her to respond. “I started private training a week ago and the part is the lead voice. Well, I don’t have it yet. I have to audition. But I think I can get it.”

“Hang on,” said Sarah. “You’re in private training? To be a cartoon? How?”

“Well, I speak into a microphone, they record it, and drop it over animation.”

“Holly, I know what a voice-over artist does. I asked how you got the job.”

“Well, like I said, I don’t have the job yet. I have to audition for it. But one of my customers put me in touch with a TV producer, and he liked my voice and offered to pay for my training.”

“Your voice? Are you getting paid? I don’t understand.”

“I don’t get paid, so I need financial help until I get this job,” I said.

“Wait a minute. Voice-over work requires several different voices,” said Sarah.

I didn’t respond.

“You heard me, Holly. Several voices.To do this, you have to speak in several voices.You are going to use that Committee”—she spit out the word—“to do this job, aren’t you?”

“Uh ...” I opened my window one inch and then, lying back on the bed, I felt around the night table for my cigarettes. I waited like an indignant child put in the corner for a time-out because he dared to assert himself. I tried to blow the smoke out the small crack in the window. My building was nonsmoking. I swore to the landlord that I didn’t smoke. I said, “I never touch cigarettes. They’re evil, bad.”The few times he dropped by I’d told him I’d had a party the night before and my now former friends smoked in my apartment even though I asked them not to.

“You need to talk to Milton about this. He’ll put a stop to it,” Sarah said.

I got up and paced the cold hardwood floors, waving my cigarette, hoping the smoke would dissipate, or at least fly backward to the bedroom and out the window. Finally I said, “I did. He set up a new contract with Betty Jane.”

“He
what
?” said Sarah. “How is this facilitating integration?” I’d always let Sarah and Milton believe I was on board with the whole idea of integration. But I still hadn’t decided what I wanted. I only knew that the thought of life without the Committee made my world go dark. “Well, I don’t care what Milton says; I forbid this, Holly, I forbid it.”

“In fact, I think it’s time you moved home, Holly.”

“Why? Because I want to do something with my life?”

“I want you to do something with your life too, Holly, but be realistic. Doing the job you are proposing is impossible as far as I am concerned.”

“Well, then you’ll be happy to know that I am doing it, Sarah. I am doing it.” Sarah remained silent. “And, besides, Milton said this is the only way to integrate the Committee.” Sarge did tell me to treat this like a covert op and use any means necessary to secure the funds.

“How?” she snapped. “I can’t believe I’m paying for this.”

“The Father.You said the Father pays.”

“Well, if you want to do this, then you call him and ask for the money. I won’t do it.”

“Give me his number then.” I prayed she was bluffing. She’d told me they were in regular contact since she got married. Sarah had believed his paltry, overcome-with-grief, felt-trapped, want-to-make-up-everything, please-forgive-me excuse. I believed leopards never changed their spots. I didn’t want to risk seeing those spots for this opportunity.

The door buzzer sounded. I stood up, reached around the doorjamb, and found the intercom. “Babe, it’s me.” It was Peter. Perfect timing.

“Sarah, Peter’s here.” I pushed down on the buttons until the door buzzer sounded.

“I heard,” she said.“We’re not through with this conversation. I want you to explain to me how you are going to do this.” That explanation would definitely take longer than the three flights of stairs the banned boyfriend was now climbing.

“Are you going to make me call the Father?” I held my breath.

“Call me tomorrow and we’ll see. I can’t believe Milton is going along with this,” said Sarah.Then I heard a dial tone.

If Sarah was going to abandon my fate to my father because I’d made a decision she didn’t like, she would have said good-bye.

I heard a knock. I stepped into the bathroom, kicked the gravel from the cat box under the claw-foot tub, stepped out of the bathroom, and opened the door. Peter tilted his head to the left and smiled at me.

You might wonder how a woman with five voices in her head can manage a relationship. I found out several years ago in therapy, when I started using my boyfriends as fodder for discussion as well
as diversion from the things I wanted to avoid, like the Committee and whatever they kept hidden in the corner closet: the closet I didn’t go into ever, under any circumstances. Everyone should know their relationship patterns. Mine was an uncanny ability to attract men who wanted a relationship based on projection instead of intimacy. Then I sabotaged the relationship when the blinders came off. Operation Destroy My Relationship had been well under way before my thirtieth birthday. Now the voice-over training was giving me and Peter a last-minute stay of execution.

Turned out training to be one of Walter Torrent’s voice-over artists included a number of social engagements. Peter had immediately volunteered to escort me to the first one. It was no surprise that he did a great job.When Peter and I first met, he was at the peak of his transformation from an ascetic lifestyle and two years in seminary to his own version of nihilism, which included beautiful clothes, beautiful girls, and many late nights in clubs. Even though his studies forced him to limit the partying, he hadn’t lost his touch. With Peter as my date, I was able to hang back, mute, while he charmed everyone at the event, and then deftly got us out when he noticed my fake, flat smile in response to being called “our Little Waitress” one too many times. Given that I couldn’t rely on any Committee members to help me through the social engagements, I didn’t question Peter’s motivation, or mine.

“Holly?” he asked. I gazed deeply into his eyes, hoping to find a glimpse of that rush I used to feel at the sight of him. All I noticed was the different blues of his irises.“Holly?” My thoughts receded as I smiled at Peter. He put his hands on my cheeks and straightened my head. Then he kissed me on the nose and said, “You ready?”

I still felt nothing. “Yeah,” I said, stepping onto the landing and pulling the front door toward me.

“Do you need a jacket? Your keys?”

“Oh, right.” I stepped backward and glanced furtively around.