Actors Anonymous (5 page)

“Bree thinks you’re a good actor,” she said to me.

“Thanks,” I said.

Silence. She picked up the picture again, and then she put it down.

“She said you are like a young Sean Penn.”

“Wow, I love Sean Penn,” I said.

“Yeah, he’s good.”

“Yeah,” I said.

“
Dead Man Walking,
amazing,” she said without any enthusiasm.

“Amazing.”

She handed the picture back to me.

“Here, I assume you only have one of these,” she said.

“Oh yeah, thanks.” I put the picture in my front shirt pocket.

“You have a great look,” she said.

I smiled at her. She didn’t smile back; she just stared at me for twenty seconds.

“What kind of movies would you like to do?”

“Um, I’d like to do dramas. Like Marlon Brando.”

“Great,” she said. There was silence. Finally, she said, “Well, I’ll need to talk to the rest of the partners if we are going to take you on.”

“Great,” I said.

Then she began to mess with some papers on her desk. I stood up.

One day, soon after the agent meeting, Bree and I rehearsed our red-coat scene before class in the park near our acting school. From where we were sitting on the grass, you could see the top of Universal Studios. We rehearsed a little, and then we talked.

“Is it hard being a famous actor?” I said.

“I’m not really
famous
…” she said, a little embarrassed.

“Well, you’re in really big movies, and I know that people recognize you.”

“That stuff doesn’t matter,” she said and looked toward some trees. Beyond them was the 101 freeway.

“Oh,” I said, and looked at her white cheek. It made me aware of how we have skin over bones and there are different shapes underneath that are arbitrary. There was something under my skin that wanted to come to the surface and grab her.

She looked back at me, and her eyes were large and wet.

“You’re amazing,” I said, hoping that she would get the full meaning. I wasn’t just saying that. I meant a world of things, but I was using simple language.

“
You’re
amazing,” she said. “You could be such a great actor, like Sean Penn.”

“I love Sean Penn,” I said.

“He’s the best,” she said, and I leaned in and kissed her. We were sitting in the grass and kissing, and I felt like I was turning my life into something great. We kissed for five seconds, and I licked her lips a little and they were soft. Then she pulled away and smiled. She looked into my eyes and I looked back.

“Yeah,” she said, like she was answering a question.

After that we went to class. In class we did our scene. When I did the part where I talked about the red coat, I tried to pour all my real feelings for Bree into the speech. As if everything my character was trying to say about the girl he loved through the red coat was what I was trying to say to Bree—as if the scene and the acting were my red coat. I felt like everyone could see how much I loved her, and it felt good.

After the scene, we sat onstage, and Mr. Smithson critiqued us. He said Bree was good in the scene, real.

“But you were forcing it,” he said to me.

“I was?”

“You don’t have to
show
us that you are in love with her, you just need to
feel
it.”

“I
was
feeling it.”

“No, you wanted the whole class to know what a great actor you are, so you hammed it up. That was actually the most in your head I’ve ever seen you.”

I stopped talking and let him go on. It made no sense. I was usually a good judge of my acting, and I had never felt so emotionally engaged with someone before in my life. I looked over at Bree and she gave me a smile, but it seemed a little sad, like she was embarrassed
for me, and I knew something that had been alive in the park had already died.

The next day at 11 in the morning, I called the agent, Sabrina. It had been a week since our meeting. The assistant told me that Sabrina was in a meeting, but she would call me back.

I had the whole day free. I got some movies on VHS from the library around the corner and sat at the apartment and watched. First I watched
Taxi Driver
and then
East of Eden
. I was alone in the apartment because my roommates worked. Peter was a tutor for kids at a private high school and worked until late. He thought he was really smart. And he almost was. He also thought he was really handsome, which he wasn’t. Pete was dumb. He was a trainer at a gym. He used to compete in Mr. Universe contests when he lived in Michigan.

I had Campbell’s soup for lunch with toast and butter and a glass of water. There was still no call from the agent, so in the early evening I walked over to the library again and got
Lust for Life,
a movie about Van Gogh. As I walked back to the apartment, the sun was sinking into the smog. Back in the apartment, the light was a tattered gold-brown. I watched the film about crazy Van Gogh.

The real Van Gogh used to walk a whole day just to see the girl he loved step out of a church. I had almost watched the whole movie when the phone rang. I pressed pause and Van Gogh was stuck at the asylum missing half his ear.

It was Sabrina.

“Hi, Jerry. I talked to the partners, and we think that you need a little more experience, okay?” she said.

“Okay,” I said. “But how do I get experience?”

“Well, you need to work more.”

“Okay.”

“You understand?” she said.

“But how do I get work if I don’t have an agent?”

Pause.

“Yeah, well, we just all thought that you need a little more experience.”

“Uh, right. That doesn’t really make sense, but okay.”

“Okay, thank you. Talk to you later.”

She was waiting on the line. I heard paper.

“Good-bye,” I said, and she hung up.

I paged Bree, and then I turned the movie back on. Van Gogh fussed about, and then he went to the field where the black crows were and shot himself. I put in
A Place in the Sun,
which I owned, and then Bree called.

“Are you mad at me?” I said.

“What? What do you mean?” She sounded good, almost as sweet as usual. Her voice transmitted something solid, light blue and reassuring.

“I don’t know,” I said. “I didn’t do well in the scene in class, and I thought maybe you didn’t like me anymore.”

“Jerry, that is ridiculous. I don’t care about a stupid scene in class.”

“I know, but I really thought I was good. I mean I really believed what I was saying, and I can’t believe he told me I was faking it.”

“What do you mean? Believed what?”

“Just about my feelings. Nothing, never mind.”

“Jerry…” she said, and then nothing.

“Do you like me?” I said.

“Of course I like you, don’t be silly.”

“Okay, sorry.” I almost felt good, but I knew something was gone between us.

“Don’t be sorry,” she said. “You’re great, you’re such a cool guy and such a good actor.”

“And so you’re not disappointed that your agent didn’t want me?”

She answered really quickly.

“Oh no, she liked you. She just thinks you need more experience.”

“Right.”

Then there was silence. The soft blue thing was there, hanging in the black space between us, but it was just out of reach, and I was suffocating. In the real world, the sun had long ago dropped behind the palm trees and apartment buildings, and the living room was black except for Monty Clift on the TV looking sensitive. He had Elizabeth Taylor in his arms and was telling her something very important, but the sound was down and I couldn’t hear him.

“Well, do you think I could see you again?” I said.

“Of course,” she said. “I’m working on a new movie, but we’ll get coffee or something soon, okay?”

And that was it. I turned the sound back on, but I didn’t watch. I just lay on the couch, which was actually my bed, and stared at the ceiling as the movie played. The light flickered in black and white on the ceiling and walls. I was in my own movie with light all around. There was a vague storyline running in my head, something dramatic. The most obvious part of the daydream/movie was that I was the star. I was an antihero lying on the couch thinking of stardom and wanting to be something so cool and sensitive that a whole generation would want to know me, and
be
me, and let me lead them. After a while of thinking like that, Shelley Winters started whining in the background. I looked up and they were in the boat. And then Monty killed her.

Bree didn’t come to class for a while because she was working on her new movie. Class wasn’t as exciting without her there. I would do my
scenes and work really hard, but there wasn’t the same kind of satisfaction, because she wasn’t watching. I wanted that light-blue feeling. And I also felt shitty because of the agent. I knew that I could do well in class, but it wouldn’t matter to the agent. I needed professional experience. My life was in a vacuum.

Finally Bree and I planned to have coffee. I was very excited because I hadn’t seen her in three weeks. Not since the day we had kissed in the park. I hoped she hadn’t forgotten the kiss and that she still liked me. We planned to meet at Buzz Coffee on Santa Monica Boulevard, which was near her apartment. She was still working on the movie, so we planned to meet at 10 p.m.

I waited at Buzz. The night was hot. The café was full of gay men in T-shirts and tank tops. While I waited, I read
A Streetcar Named Desire
. I almost read the whole thing, and then at 11:30, I got a page. I went outside to the payphone. I checked my messages. One was from my scene partner, Ben, who wanted to rehearse; he had a David Mamet scene he wanted to do. He worked in a bar and got off at 2 a.m., and wanted to rehearse at 2:30. The second message was from Bree. It was her voice, but I hardly felt any of the light-blue stuff. It was there but hidden deep below her words. She said that she had an early call the next day and couldn’t make it to Buzz and that she was sorry.

I went back into Buzz and read
Streetcar
. I was feeling very alone and was on the last page when a guy sat next to me. He was tall with wiry arms and hair all over them and his hairline was receding but combed to the side in a sleek way. His presence was like a gazelle’s.

He was pretending not to look at me, but when he saw that I was looking at him, he turned to me and said, “I love that play.”

“Yeah,” I said.

“Tennessee,” he said, shaking his head like there was something
he just couldn’t get over about Tennessee Williams. “He was a tortured soul.”

“Yeah,” I said, and tried to read the last page, but the guy started talking again. His voice was high and had a slight whiney upswing at the end of his sentences.

“I heard that Tennessee was Blanche in that,” he said. “That he was refined and sensitive like her, but that he also was attracted to the brute side of things, and that is why he wrote Stanley—because all his boyfriends were brutes like Stanley.”

“That’s interesting,” I said.

“I’m John,” he said, and put his hand very close to me.

I shook it and said, “Pete,” thinking of my roommate.

“What a funny name, Pete. Ha, how did you get
that
name,
Pete
?”

“I don’t know. It’s just a name. Normal.” I knew that this hairy guy wasn’t going to let me finish the last page, so I got up. “Nice to meet you, John. Sorry I have to go; it’s past my bedtime.”

But the guy followed me outside.

“It’s so hot out,” he said, but I didn’t say anything. I just kept walking. I walked to the parking lot behind the café. The guy was pretty nice, so I wasn’t scared, but he wasn’t going away. When I was almost to my car, I turned to him and said, “Can I help you with something?”

“Oh,” he said. “I’m just an artist, and I thought maybe I could paint you some time.”

“Paint me? Like naked?”

“Oh, well, I was just thinking about your face, but sure we could do that too.”

“No,” I said.

“Oh, well, are you an actor?”

“Yes,” I said.

“Yeah, I can tell. Oh, man, you are so hot, you are going to go so far,” he said, standing close to me, making his breath heavy. “Brad Pitt has nothing on you, baby,” he whispered. “You are going to be a motherfucking star.” And then he leaned in and kissed me on the lips, and for a second I let him. His stubble pulled me out of it. I put my hand on his chest and pushed him away. His gazelle body was full of energy, but I got away from him and to my car.

He was still by me.

“Fuck
off,
” I said over my shoulder. I got in my car and slammed the door, but he was standing right there at the window. He stood still as marble as I pulled away.

There was a 7-Eleven close by. I went in and got a rose with plastic around the stem. The gay kiss made me excited, like life was happening. I drove over to Bree’s feeling romantic and wild.

It was an old art deco place, all white. I parked the car across the street and walked up. There were sculpted bushes all around and a black-and-white check pattern on the ground in front of the main door. Her unit was five stories up. The lights were off up there, so I climbed the fire escape ladder onto the roof. It was about midnight.

At the top, I leaned over the side and saw her window. I knew which one it was from when we had rehearsed there. I tried to hit it, but the angle was bad. I missed a bunch of times, and the coins fell onto a dumpster in the parking lot below. I tried all my coins, quarters too, but she didn’t wake up. I sat on the roof, holding the rose, looking at the sky. The moon was bright, and I could see the dark part, not reflecting anything back.

I sat for twenty minutes feeling something like sadness and also feeling very romantic, like a poet. I was getting cold; I only had a T-shirt on. I got up and walked around on the roof quietly. It was steeply pitched, and I could have fallen off. There were apartment
buildings across the street, and if someone looked they could see me being a prowler. I scooted on my butt to the edge of the roof on the side of her apartment opposite her bedroom.

I gripped the rain drain on the side of the roof and went for it—I swung through the void onto her balcony. Once I landed, I felt like I had accomplished something. My blood circulated fast; everything else was quiet. I wraith-floated across the balcony to the door, and, like a wish granted, it was unlocked.