Let's Stay Together (5 page)

6

B
efore Patrick lumbered home after another long day’s work, he stopped by St. Agnes on Sackett Street to light a candle and say a prayer for Lauren.

“God, keep Lauren safe in Your hands,” he prayed. “And if it’s not too much trouble, let us . . . I don’t know . . . help us get to know each other better. Amen.”

After lighting another candle for his mother, Patrick went home to shower off the day.

He had spent the morning and most of the afternoon snaking the main sewer drain in the basement on Baltic until it cleared, because the Ouderkerks in 1A and the Schoon-makers in 2B, descendants of Dutch families who had lived in Brooklyn since 1675, had called him within seconds of each other, each complaining that their toilets were nearly overflowing. By the time he had arrived, he had received calls from the Vanderbeeks in 2A and the Gildersleeves in 1B, more Dutch families who did not appreciate pungent brown ponds in their toilets. Instead of checking out the four toilets, Patrick had gone straight to the basement and had found it already thick with backed-up sewage. He had deployed the snake he had left there for just such an emergency and had sat on an overturned plastic bucket for an hour as the snake chewed its way to the main line and the lake of goo sucked itself slowly back down the drain. While he had waited, he had heard from the other four tenants on Baltic, each loud and nagging.

“This happens every November. You know that?” Mr. Hyer in 3B had said. “Are you stupid? You must learn to do preventive maintenance in October!”

You could cut back on the fiber, too,
Patrick had thought. “I will do that, Mr. Hyer.”

“What do you expect me to do?” Mrs. Albertson in 3A had asked. “I have to
go,
Mr. Esposito. Where can I
go?
”

There’s a McDonald’s on Atlantic two blocks away,
Patrick had thought
.
“It won’t be long, Mrs. Albertson,” Patrick had said. “I’ll have everything fixed in a few minutes. It should be running smoothly any moment now.”

“
I
will be running in a few
seconds!
” Mrs. Albertson had shouted.

When Patrick had mentioned the McDonald’s, Mrs. Albertson had hung up.

After his shower and in clothing that did not smell like Dutch American poop, he settled under his covers and read Lauren’s e-mail.

I’m not an entrepreneur, a writer, anything,
he thought.
I have value, at least to people who expect their toilets to empty every time, but I’m nothing special. I’m just a guy from Brooklyn.

Though he knew other people stretched the truth and even lied online, Patrick decided to give Lauren nothing but the truth.

7

S
o he’s a Brooklyn man,
Lauren thought while munching on some microwave popcorn.
And a handyman, a workingman, a friendly, funny, “normal” man. I don’t know many of those. Come to think of it, I don’t know
any
of those. And despite what I’ve told him, he wants to see more of me.
She checked the clock on her computer screen.
It’s eight o’clock here, so it’s eleven there. He writes to me at the end of a long day of dealing with human sewage. He ends his day with me. That’s kind of . . . nice.

8

I
got a wink,
Patrick thought.
A smiley
and
a wink. And she’s awake out in LA right now, waiting for my next e-mail.

Patrick’s hands perspired freely.

He clicked the REPLY button.

Patrick waited an hour for Lauren’s reply.

It didn’t come.

He shook his head as he turned out the light and dropped his head onto his pillow.

9

L
auren waved at only two photographers the following morning, and they took only one picture each and quickly left in separate cars.

I must be too happy again today,
she thought.
This is such a strange town.

She arrived late to the studio and was immediately rushed to wardrobe.

“What’s going on?” she asked.

“We’re filming promos today,” a clipboard-carrying woman said.

“We haven’t even read through all the scenes yet,” Lauren said. “We haven’t even had a full dress rehearsal.”

“Don’t worry about it,” the woman said. “You’re a pro.”

Lauren had major difficulty getting into the size 7 jeans her character was supposed to wear.
If I had a shoehorn and some butter, this would be so much easier to do.
In addition to stiletto heels and a loud red top with a plunging neckline, she wore more bling than a rapper.

Then Joanie, the makeup artist, painted her face in broad strokes.

She’s trying to turn me into a white woman.
“Stop,” Lauren said.

“Almost done,” Joanie said.

“I draw the line at three coats,” Lauren said.

“Huh?” Joanie said.

Lauren left her chair and approached the mirror. “I’ll do it. You’re trying to turn me into a white prostitute.”

“You’ve never done any HD work before, have you?” Joanie asked. “We’ll be filming in HD, Miss Short. You don’t want any of your pores to show.”

“I want my skin to be able to
breathe,
Joanie, okay?” Lauren said. “You’ve added three inches to my face.”
And hidden all my beautiful brown skin.
“Were you going to do my hands, too?”

Joanie nodded. “And your neck.”

That isn’t happening.
“I prefer my own color, thank you.”

“But they’ll be lining up shots while you rehearse,” Joanie said. “Today is promo day. They get on me if I don’t do my job.”

“They told you to whiten me up,” Lauren said.

Joanie nodded.

Such foolishness.
Lauren wiped off all the makeup before applying some eyeliner. “If they fuss at you, I’ll take the blame, okay?” She squinted in the mirror.
Stupid crow’s-feet. I wish you crows would stop landing on me and doing the Macarena in work boots.
“I’m ready.”

“But, Miss Short,” Joanie said. “They’re expecting you to be . . .”

Lauren stared at Joanie. “Whiter?”

“Well, not so dark,” Joanie said. “It’s not my idea. I think you have a beautiful skin tone.”

“Thank you,” Lauren said. “I’ll take the rap for this.” Lauren picked some lint from her top and squared her shoulders.
This delicious piece of dark meat is ready to turn this turkey into a Thanksgiving meal.

“That’s all you’re going to do?” Joanie asked. “Just some eyeliner?”

“That’s all I need,” Lauren said. “This face still has some mileage left in it.”

Lauren walked onto the set, and it wasn’t much of one.
We’re filming an outdoor café scene indoors. Great. The budget for this show just shrank to half of what it should be to do this scene right. We should be outdoors! It’s a beautiful day. The natural light out there would make me look even younger.

“Lauren,” Randy said, eyeing her closely, “you didn’t get to makeup.”

“I did, Randy,” Lauren said, joining Barbie at a wrought-iron white table flanked by two white iron chairs. “But I didn’t appreciate the paint job. I had to take most of the paint off before it dried.”

“But why?” Randy asked.

“I looked ridiculous,” Lauren said. “I didn’t look a bit like myself.” She nodded at Barbie. “She’s not wearing much makeup.”

“She isn’t the star,” Randy said.

“Star or not, you will
not
make me look like a white woman,” Lauren said. “And, anyway, this is only rehearsal and something about promos, right?”

Randy sighed. “The execs want to see a full scene or two today, so we have to be sharp.”

“What is the rush?” Lauren asked.

“Things move faster these days,” Randy said.

“I haven’t been gone from this business that long, Randy,” Lauren said.

“Actually,” Barbie said, “you have.”

Lauren gawked at Barbie’s cleavage, most of which spilled out of her electric blue blouse.
Those things will steal any scene I’m in. They look overinflated.
She turned back to Randy. “What happened to rehearsing a scene until it’s perfect? We haven’t even blocked these scenes, Randy.”

“There really isn’t much movement in the first scene,” Randy said. “You’re sitting and talking. What’s to block?”

Lauren sighed. “There’s plenty to block. Hand movements, gestures, what camera to look at, getting dap—all these need to be blocked. We don’t even know how long we’re supposed to laugh or how long I’m supposed to stare at the white boy’s butt.”

“Use your best judgment,” Randy said. “Go with the flow.”

This is so unprofessional,
Lauren thought.
No wonder some TV shows these days aren’t much better than a high school play.
“All right. I’m feeling sharp. Are you feeling sharp, Barbie?”

“I’m ready,” Barbie said.

Lauren shrugged. “Let’s do this.” She looked up and saw several microphones. “How sensitive are those mikes?”

“They say they can pick up your stomach grumbling, girl,” Barbie said. “And try not to fart.”

Randy pointed at a girl holding cue cards. “We’ll do a quick run-through with the cards.”

“I don’t need them,” Lauren said. “Barbie?”

“I’m good,” Barbie said.

“Okay,” Randy said. “Let’s . . . do this.” He looked behind him. “Are we ready?”

An army of sound technicians and camera operators nodded.

“You’re on,” Randy said, and he moved behind the largest camera. “And . . . action!”

Lauren looked to her right as Mike, the heterosexual white man, walked by. She dipped her head slightly to look at his butt. As soon as he was safely out of range, she said, “Not bad. Not bad at all.”

Barbie looked lost. “Um, lookin’ at a cracker don’t cost nothin’, Lauren.”

“Cut!” Randy yelled. He stepped forward. “The line reads—”

“I
know
what the line reads, Randy,” Lauren interrupted. “I
can
read. I don’t like the line, okay? My character doesn’t like the line. Your viewers won’t like the line. White people won’t like the line. Republicans won’t like the line.”

Randy shook his head. “But, Lauren—”

“Look,” Lauren interrupted. “He’s a man. He’s nice looking. A
real
woman wouldn’t say, ‘He’s nice looking . . . for a
white
man.’ She might not even say anything at all. She might only make a sound, like ‘mmm-mm.’ ”

“Mmm-mm,” Barbie said. “He was hot.” She waved at Mike, who was putting on a pair of headphones. “You’re hot.”

“Thanks,” Mike said.

He works here?
“Is Mike a sound tech?” Lauren asked.

“He only has one part,” Randy said.

How low budget is this show?
Lauren thought.
They have sound techs doing walkovers.
“Ever?” Lauren asked.

“I’m sure we’ll bring him back occasionally for crowd scenes,” Randy said, “but you’re missing the point. Mike
is
white, and he
is
handsome for a white man, right?”

“He’s handsome no matter what his color is,” Lauren said.

“Mmm-mm,” Barbie said.

Randy sighed. “But the point of the show—”

“Let it go, Randy,” Lauren interrupted. “I lowered myself to stare at his butt, but that’s as low as I’m willing to go today, okay? Why don’t you simply let the viewer
see
that he’s white? Why
tell
the viewer what the viewer can obviously see? ABC didn’t go out of its way to say that Olivia on
Scandal
was black, did they? They didn’t overplay the fact that she was black and the president was white, did they?”

“Okay, we’ll . . .” Randy sighed. “We’ll go on. Pick up from where you left off.” He stepped back. “And . . . action!”

I will not say, “He ain’t got no booty.”
Lauren smiled at Barbie. “He had a nice ass, didn’t he?”

“Cut!” Randy moved to the table, resting his palms on the back of Barbie’s chair. “Lauren, it’s a booty, not an ass.”

“I use the word
ass,
” Lauren said. “Women have booties.
Men
have asses.”

Barbie nodded. “She’s right, you know. And I should know. I have booty for days. What Mike has—
that
is an ass.” She waved at Mike again.

Mike smiled.

Randy nodded. “Okay, okay. It’s an ass, not a booty.” He waved his hands in the air to the camera crew behind him. “Don’t, um, don’t do anything until I tell you to. We’ll run the entire scene first.” He turned to Lauren. “Go ahead.”

Lauren repeated her line. “He had a nice ass, didn’t he?”

“Nope,” Barbie said. “Looks like a straight shovel back there. He probably has divots in his hairy cheeks.”

“What’s wrong with that?” Lauren said. “As long as he knows how to work his shovel, it doesn’t matter what it looks like.”

Barbie blinked.

Lauren smiled. “And I don’t mind a hairy man at all. I wouldn’t mind if we built up a little static cling. Wouldn’t it be wonderful to have a man shock you every time he touched you?”

“He, um, he had blue eyes, though,” Barbie said. “Gotta like them.” She shot a glance at Randy, widening her eyes.

“Blue eyes are overrated,” Lauren said. “I’ll take any man who only has eyes for me.”

“Cut!” Randy yelled.

That was actually pretty good!
Lauren thought.
I
could
write this show.

Randy’s face began to sweat. “Lauren, please, I’m begging you—”

“But we’re not even
filming,
Randy,” Lauren interrupted.
Randy’s so young for a director, and that tan looks sprayed on. Where do they get these guys? The Film School for the Overly Sensitive, Close-Minded, and Tan?

“I know we’re not filming, Lauren,” Randy said. “Why can’t you just say the line?”

“I’m getting into character,” Lauren said. “My character wants to say better lines. I’m even beginning to like my character
because
I’m changing the lines to something better. Don’t you want me to feel comfortable in my role?”

“Of course, but . . .” Randy knelt beside Lauren. “You’re changing the entire vibe of the scene.”

“Right,” Lauren said. “I’m making the entire vibe of the scene realistic and interesting.”

“It’s a comedy,” Randy said. “It doesn’t have to be realistic or interesting.”

What a ridiculous thing to say!
“It
should
be,” Lauren said. “And it
has
to be if I am to remain on this show. I will not play a caricature, and neither should Barbie. I have never played a stereotypical black woman, and I never will.” She turned to Barbie. “Why don’t you say something like, ‘Would you look at that?’ instead of calling him a cracker?”

“I can do that,” Barbie said.

“No, you
can’t,
” Randy said, standing and shaking his head. “If you both go off script at the same time—”

“We’ll have a watchable show,” Lauren interrupted. “You know, we might even have a good show. Isn’t that what everybody wants? Don’t
you
want to direct a show that may actually last longer than a pilot? Let’s keep going. Say your next line, Barbie.”

Barbie read through the line on the cue card, closed her eyes, and puffed out her cheeks. “You ain’t . . . I mean,
are you
thinking about getting a little cream in your coffee, Lauren? No. That’s nasty. How about this? Are you thinking of hooking up with a guy like him? What would Marcus think?”

“Much better,” Lauren said. She touched Barbie’s hand. “Relax. This isn’t rocket science. You are not a hoochie.”

Barbie smiled. “Thank you.”

Randy cleared his throat.

“Oh, right, my line,” Lauren said. “Marcus and I are through.”

“
Finally,
” Randy said. “You stayed on script.”

“Because it’s a line that doesn’t demean black women or stereotype white men,” Lauren said. “A lot of people say that.”
I said it just last week in between the curses and the glass breaking and while two other men were putting their pants on backward. Now
that
was a dramatic scene.
“Let’s keep going, Barbie, and maybe Randy will catch on. Marcus and I are through.”

“Since when?” Barbie asked.

“Since I caught him doing two men on my couch,” Lauren said.

“You did?” Barbie asked. “Oh, Lauren, that’s terrible! That’s . . . that’s nasty! Who were they?”

“No, no, no!” Randy yelled. “Where did the two dudes come from?”

“You wouldn’t believe me if I told you, Randy,” Lauren said. “Known people. Men with wives and kids. Big names with beach houses and spotless reputations. Hallmark Hall of Fame people. I’ll bet they were even closet Republicans.”

“Really?” Barbie said. “That is so
sick!
What is up with men these days?”

“They say that
we
don’t know what we want,” Lauren said. “
They
don’t know what they want, either.”

“So you were Chazz’s beard all these years?” Barbie asked.

What a nasty way to put it, but it’s true. I was Chazz’s cover.
“I guess I was. He only needed me around so he could appear heterosexual.”

“I always wondered why his eyebrows were so much nicer than yours,” Barbie said. “Now I know. Did he use bronzer, too?”