Everything Happened to Susan (9 page)

At a particular period of despair and professional insecurity Susan had decided to apply for an investigator’s job in the Department of Welfare but she had not been able to actually go through it. In the first place she had had to take a long test about her attitudes with strange multiple choice answers in which the right answer was obviously always the sympathetic one (YOU ARE IN A CLIENT’S APARTMENT DISCUSSING HIS PAST MAINTENANCE AND RESOURCES WHEN WITH NO WARNING HE SUDDENLY PULLS OUT A WEAPON AND THREATENS TO MAIM YOU IF YOU DO NOT DROP THIS LINE OF QUESTIONING. YOUR BEST COURSE IS TO: (A) IMMEDIATELY TERMINATE THE INTERVIEW AND CALL THE POLICE, (B) TELL HIM IF HE CONTINUES IN HIS PRESENT ATTITUDE HE WILL BE PERMANENTLY INELIGIBLE FOR PUBLIC ASSISTANCE, (C) IMMEDIATELY ATTEMPT TO LEAVE THE PREMISES, (D) SOOTHE THE CLIENT AND ADVISE HIM THAT YOU ARE ONLY THERE TO HELP HIM TO THE BEST OF YOUR ABILITY). In the second place, on the completion of this test, she had been taken into a room with a hundred other female applicants and been confronted by a shrewish attendant who said that any one of them with a background of venereal infection should advise them now as there would be a rather demanding physical. Susan had gotten up and left, not without some snickers from the room, because she had decided that no department which was supposed to have an attitude of compassion and respect for people could do any good if it treated prospective employees that way. When she had met Timothy, some months later, she had told him exactly what she had gone through and asked him how he could possibly work for such a department.

“Oh that’s nothing,” Timothy said matter of factly. “When I applied, I was loaded into a room with twenty other men and we were told to drop our pants so that the doctor could go down the line one by one and check us for hernias. Everybody pretended that he wasn’t there at all, just stared out the window or hummed to himself. It’s a hell of a thing to go into a room with twenty strangers and start seeing their pricks. Imagine what would happen if you did this kind of thing on the subway?”

“That’s terrible.”

“One guy started giggling and couldn’t stop so the doctor ordered him out of the room, probably nailing him for a fag.”

“So you went through with it.”

“Of course I went through with it. I needed the job; everyone who shows up at the Department of Welfare, at either end, needs it; he’s got no alternative. Of course that was in the good days before the job freeze. Now it takes you about a year to get started working there.”

“I think that’s terrible,” Susan said, “that they would do this to people before they gave them a job; how can they put people through that and expect them to have dignity at all?” Timothy mumbled something about the department, in its wisdom, protecting and conserving itself because the interview and application process pretty well guaranteed that they’d have somebody broken in spirit by the time he got into the job. He, Timothy, had fortunately reconstituted himself through the departmental experience and was sure that he would be out soon, along with almost everybody else who sooner or later went on to good positions or graduate school or the Benton & Bowles advertising agency. Susan had thought less of Timothy ever since then, but, since she had never had a high opinion of him anyway (it was just inertia that got her into the situation) and since there were so many other things to hold against him later, she could hardly blame a hernia examination for the tragic lacks in his character. Right after the welfare interview, a switchboard job had opened. It was not much but they didn’t examine her for venereal disease either, so she decided that in the long run she had ended up about even.

In the afternoon, Susan plays a scene with the short actor Murray as Millard Fillmore. Millard Fillmore is one of the more obscure presidents of the United States, of course, and the director has taken the trouble to advise them that this is one of his favorite scenes in the script inasmuch as it reinterprets an almost completely forgotten historical figure in terms of modern psychological insights. To the best of her knowledge, Susan has never had any impression of Millard Fillmore. She did not even know that he had a wife but the director seems excited by the possibilities of this character; he says that, although they may not realize this, it is, in many ways, the key scene of the film because it will attempt to make the forgotten fresh and relevant. There is even a little wardrobe. Murray wears a hideous gray powdered wig and a pair of suspenders over his otherwise naked frame; Susan holds a bouquet of artificial flowers and wears glasses. The director seems nervous; he sets the scene several times before he is satisfied and finally flings the props with a crash off the set, telling them that they will have to play this on a bare stage and make the best of it. “I might as well confess,” he says, before he withdraws, “your Millard Fillmore is one of my favorite Americans, one of those historical figures of your country most crucial to me. In his stupidity he embodies that which I find the purest and most hopeful about the United States; in his obscurity he sets a standard which all of your leaders should follow. If only all of your presidents, if your recent presidents, were as obscure as this one!” Murray and Susan look at one another in confusion and the director, mumbling something about the hopelessness of educating actors, leaves the set.

Apparently in this scene of renunciation, Susan tells Murray that she is leaving him. “After Zachary Taylor died and you became president,” she says, “I had some real hopes for you; at last you’d be able to put your crazy ideas into practice and give me some peace, but you’ve been worse than ever. You haven’t done a thing, Millard! Besides, there are people in Kansas who need me very much.”

“That’s ridiculous,” Murray says, tugging at his wig. “I’ve never heard of anything so preposterous. I am the president of the United States. You cannot defy me and you cannot leave me facing an election year. Come now Henriette, please leave me alone. There are a number of things on my mind; a new coalition which call themselves the Know-Nothings have asked me to lend my authority and prestige to them in return for their support and I am seriously considering this inasmuch as I do not like foreigners any more than they do. And there’s this damnable slave issue, this Dred Scott case. Something must be done about that; there’s going to be civil war in this country unless those goddamned darkies and their sympathizers show a little common sense. If they don’t, strong action may have to be taken; as little as I like it, I may have to put the troops into Kansas to make a show of force. And furthermore,” Murray says, removing his wig, “furthermore, I know perfectly well that you’ve let sentiments toward slaves escape in the press. You are undermining me and being a grave source of embarrassment.”

“Don’t you care that the country is going to go up in flames, Millard? Don’t you see the injustice of the slave situation? You have to take real, concrete action!”

“Well that may well be,” Murray says, “but on the other hand, I believe in circumspection — in taking the long view. Impatience will get you nowhere, Henriette. Poor old Zachary believed in precipitate action, and you see where that got him. Ashes. It was all vanity. The judicious man survives and my obligation is to the country as a whole, taking the long view. This slave situation will pass. Mark my words. If the darkies become too troublesome, they will simply be stopped from reproducing themselves and our peace will remain. It is only a hard core of dissidents, I believe, that are causing the difficulties here.”

“You’re foolish and deluded, Millard,” Susan says, and then, as described in the script, she closes the distance between them, putting her arms around Murray, and shoves her thighs against his rear. “You don’t even think of me any more.”

“Certainly I do. I have the country on my mind, however, and until that time — ”

According to the script, Murray is to show no sexual response to her but, unhappily, he does. Susan can see the outlines of an erection and feels Murray’s skin becoming damp; she moves away in slight confusion. The lights go out, convulsively, and the director appears quickly on the set. “You idiot!” he says to Murray, “are you an actor or a rabbit? Where is your sensibility? Are you insatiable; haven’t you had enough sex already?”

“I’m sorry,” Murray says, covering himself, backing away from the director, finding a wall and putting his buttocks against it while he holds his genitals. “It’s not my fault, I mean I can’t control — ”

“What do you mean, you can’t control? The reason you are here has wholly to do with control. Oh God,” the director says, “I can’t stand it. And you, you bitch,” he says to Susan. “You are not free from this disaster by any means. You deliberately attempted to stimulate him. I saw that. I saw your gestures. There is no hiding from me. What you do is very much in public.”

“You have no right to talk to me that way,” Susan says. “I don’t care who you are. And I didn’t do a thing to stimulate him.”

“Your mind and hands work in only one direction. This is your natural demeanor — ”

“Goddamn you,” Susan says. “Goddamn you.” She wants to say more but she finds her mind blocked. “You bastard,” she says and suddenly realizes that she is standing naked in front of five actors, the technicians, and a director, trying to make a point that is essentially impossible. “I wanted to do this; you know how I wanted to do it, but I can’t go on this way. I can’t stand being talked to like that and I don’t even understand the script. How are we supposed to speak this dialogue? I don’t know too much about screenplays — I’m not a writer or anything like that — but I know different kinds of dialogue and I know what a play is supposed to be and this is impossible. It doesn’t even
flow,
” she cries and walks quickly to the side, finds her clothes, and begins to dress. She has the idea, somehow, that if she can only get dressed and leave quickly it will all turn out somehow. The film will work, the script will work, her life will reassemble itself, and, most importantly, the director will stop shouting at her.

Susan is pursued by the director, by Murray, by various actors and by Phil himself. Phil once again at a critical moment seems to have emerged from a crevice of the loft. They talk to her carefully in low tones, saying things that Susan does not quite understand but at last Phil gets through to her. He puts his arm around her, gently helps her dress and then leads her away from the set. Susan wants to leave, but one persistent thought reaches her consciousness. She realizes that she is now getting an unusual amount of attention for the first time and wonders how the rest of the cast will react to her being in such a privileged position. She hopes that they will feel that she is somehow a more sensitive and talented person than the rest of them. Frank makes a gesture toward them as she and Phil pass. She ducks it. It is the gesture of a blind man, the fingers rigid and uncomprehending, the palm hard and clumsy. She passes him as if in a dream and permits Phil to lead her to his very private office at the rear of the loft. She should have known that. Where did she expect to go?

“It’s a very common problem,” Phil says, leaning back, lighting a cigar, looking almost patriarchal. “You’d be surprised how many people go through it. You’re no exception; you’re only the first we’ve had in this production. It happens all the time; don’t worry about it.”

“I don’t want to do it any more,” Susan says. “I thought that this was an opportunity, but it isn’t. I just want to leave.”

“We can’t have that,” Phil says gently. “We got you into the film now; we got a whole lot of material on you. If you leave, we got to take too much out to cover for you. We’d have to start all over again. It would cause us a lot of problems, sweetheart. We can’t have any problems, not on an operation like this.”

“I can’t stand it any more. I can’t stand being abused.”

“That’s the way he works. He hasn’t got any background in the business; he comes out of art films and this is the way that they treat their actors over in that part of the business. He doesn’t have much sympathy. Actually, and this is in confidence, they’re not too satisfied with him upstairs either. They’re not crazy about the kind of work he’s doing. Probably this will be his first and last film for them.”

“I don’t want to go back there,” Susan says. She is not sure that this is precisely the case, but she has noticed that this line of attack has gotten her more attention as well as sympathy from Phil than she has ever received from him before; for that reason alone it seems worth pursuing. “Not if he’s going to carry on that way.”

“I’ll talk to him.”

“Who wrote the script? I never had to act stuff like that. It’s really impossible.”

“Well that’s something else,” Phil says, his arms behind his head, small patches of dampness being exposed under his arms. “The thing with the script is something else again. It’s kind of a joint effort. I had a lot to do with it. I wrote some of it.”

“Oh. I didn’t mean — ”

“No, that’s all right, you don’t have to apologize. What we’re getting at here is a pretty serious point and I’m not too worried whether the actors dig it or not. I got some experience scriptwriting; this isn’t my first.”

“I didn’t mean to insult you.”

“You can’t possibly insult me,” Phil says. “No one can insult me. I’ve been in this business too long. What we’re trying to do is to throw in the heavy historic angle. The message is very important, not only to get it into major production outlets, but because it’s time that these bums learned something. We got them in the palm of our hand out there, at least we can teach them a couple of things. You think that’s pretty funny, a man like me being serious.”

“No,” Susan says, “that’s all right. Maybe I’m missing something in the script. I haven’t had a chance to really work with it, to give interpretations. Everything has been rushed right through.”

“Well you don’t worry about that,” Phil says soothingly. “You don’t worry about that at all, that’s a technical problem. You just go out there and do your job and everything will look fine after the editing. This is a business of editing anyway. Everything will come out perfect and you’ll look wonderful.”

“All right,” Susan says. She feels better since she has sat in Phil’s office. Heavy objects wink at her from the desk and the walls; the drawn curtains and vague smell of smoke give an air of consequence and finality to the setting. Even a kind of dignity. “All right, I’ll try to finish it. But can I get the rest of the day off, at least?”

“No, that’s impossible. We’re on a very tight schedule and the work is moving right along. I think that we can finish this whole thing up tomorrow — we’re that far ahead, and that would be good, wouldn’t it? You’ll only have to come in one more day. Besides, we have a date tonight.”

“What?”

“Well,” Phil says, with a faint smile, “we’ve gotten into a kind of schedule, as far as I can see. I look forward to our dates in the evening. I hope that you aren’t going to stop now; there’s only a little time left before the picture is all over.”

“I can’t,” Susan says. “I mean, I’ll go back and try to finish it somehow, but I just can’t see you tonight. You’ve got to let me have that.”

“Why? You don’t like me?”

“You don’t understand. I’m tired. This is doing things to me. I just can’t — ”

“Well,” Phil says. “That’s very disappointing. I had really begun to look forward to our little get-togethers. They really mean something to me, even though we haven’t known each other very long. It hurts me to feel that you don’t have the same emotions.” He takes out a nail file and begins to work on his fingers impassively. Susan looks at him intently, tries to stare through him; it is a glint of humor that she thinks she is seeking, some indication in Phil’s eyes or face that he is not serious about any of this, that all along their relationship has not only been subterranean but complex. She feels that they have been parodying other relationships that they might have had. Now Phil can, with a wink, put all of this into its proper context and assure her that from the first he was merely collaborating, never demanding, that they were, after all, pursuing the same ends. His face, however, remains stolid and his eyelids, closing slowly, seem to shut him off further. He looks petulant, even accusing. “I can’t,” Susan says. “I mean, I’d really like to but it’s impossible. You’ve got to show some understanding.”

“It works two ways, you know,” Phil says. “Understanding has to come from both sides. If it hadn’t been for me, you wouldn’t have even been in this film. Or you would have been dropped today. I’ve kept you going on it.”

“You’re not even
interested
in me,” Susan says. “I have a feeling of just being used.”

“Now,” Phil says gently, “now sweetheart, you just leave the feelings to me. You let me decide how I feel about you and what I want and what I mean and you just do your job which is acting. I wouldn’t try to spend too much time figuring out what anything means; you can only get into trouble that way. That’s the trouble with you children these days; you try to understand everything and then problems develop. You just stay with me; I know what’s best. I’ll meet you right here after work.”

“There’s got to be an end to this,” Susan says. “To this
routine —
”

“The shooting could be finished tomorrow,” Phil says. “It won’t go beyond Friday. So you see, everything works out.” He stands quietly, more relaxed, more dominant and puts a tentative but firm hand on her elbow, leading her out the door. “You just go back and finish the day. You really should be quite pleased at your progress. I looked at you last night in the rushes and you’re showing up very nicely; you’ve come a long way. This is an opportunity, a career opportunity,” he points the way out and expels her through the door cleanly and quickly, closing it behind her. Susan is left in a small, damp hallway through which she meditatively moves. It is not a very long walk but she feels herself passing through literal levels of insight and experience so profound as she makes her way back to the loft that she truly believes she is a different Susan who comes back on the set. The actors are in the middle of a take. The director looks at her carefully, a forefinger raised, as if he were about to say something. The technicians chatter. Susan walks back to the small space along the wall which has become hers, removes her clothing deftly and perches on her thighs, reading the script, waiting for the call to her next scene. She has decided upon a mode of action.