She'll Take It (3 page)

Read She'll Take It Online

Authors: Mary Carter

BOOK: She'll Take It
9.96Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
Here's the part of the movie we don't get to see: One month later, lying in bed with him I ask him about this moment, the moment we fell in love at first sight. I trace the dimple in his chin, waiting for his rendition of our magical moment. Ray leans his beautiful head back and looks thoughtful. He squints and says, “I thought you were this girl Clara I was supposed to meet for drinks that night.” Regardless, to this day I'd like to thank the
Saint of Neurotic Impulses
that I wrote on the window, and the
Saint of Obscure Skills
that I am, and always have been, an excellent mirror writer. Before I fall asleep, I strike a deal with the
Saint of Kleptomaniacs
. As long as Ray calls tomorrow, I promise not to steal.
Chapter 2
O
kay. I'm going to be honest with you. I was born with sneaky fingers. My mother delivered a healthy, eight pound, twenty-two inch, blue-eyed, wailing thief. At the age of two I stole car keys from the babysitter, at four I lifted three jars of Jif peanut butter and a box of plastic knives from Safety Town, and at six I was regularly pilfering chocolate milk for me and a few choice friends. All through junior high and high school, if anyone wanted anything, I was the girl who could get it.
They came to me for condoms, pregnancy kits, Swiss Army knives, makeup, and the occasional vibrator. I charged a flat twenty dollars an item, and by the time I graduated from high school, I had a little over six thousand dollars in shoe boxes under my bed. In every other aspect, I was a good kid. I did what my parents told me, I was kind to the elderly, I got straight As with the occasional B, and I once spent an entire summer painting birdhouses for the mentally ill. Could I help it that I had an uncanny ability to make objects disappear off the shelves and into my pockets without a trace?
And living here is like an alcoholic living in a bar. New York is full of large, anonymous, evil, money-grubbing department stores. I can't feel too guilty ripping them off knowing that we're being ripped off in return. You can bet they're polluting the environment, gauging prices, following black people around the store, and/or have secret factories in underdeveloped countries where starving, grubby children sew glass eyes on teddy bears they'll never get to play with. Just thinking about it makes me want to run to Bloomingdale's and relieve it of a few tubes of lipstick. But first I'm going to listen to my message. You see, what did I tell you? Today is a new day, and the blessed answering machine is blinking. I pray to the
Saint of Men Who Want to Call But Have Suddenly Had All Their Fingers Chopped Up in a Horrible Blending Accident and Finally Decide to Call With a Pencil in Their Mouth,
please, please, please, let it be Ray.
But it's not. It's a message from Jane Greer, the “placement coordinator” at Fifth Avenue Temps. In a gravelly Brooklyn accent she demands to see me in her office tomorrow morning. Jane is intimidating on a good day, but she's never left me a message like this. I have good reason to be afraid; Jane is famous for having a short fuse and a long range. I'm going to need backup. I venture into the living room where Kim is lounging on the couch with her recently painted toenails propped up on several pillows. “Uh-oh,” she says when I tell her about the message from Jane. While I wait for her to elaborate, I study her little piggies. They're tangerine orange. It would look hideous on me, but she can get away with it. At six foot one, Kim Minx takes up the entire couch.
Her head is propped on the armrest and her long blond hair cascades down the side. She's flipping through the latest edition of
Vogue
. Despite commercials begging me not to, I do hate her because she's beautiful. I also love her because she's my best friend. Kim and I met eight years ago at an open audition for milk, making it a “cattle call” in more ways than one. This was way before the celebrity milk mustache campaign, and they were in search of a beautiful young ingénue to deliver the line, “Mmm, milk. Does the body good.” In typical cattle call fashion, young, eager women were lined up for blocks gripping their headshots and resumes, trying their best to intimidate each other out of the line. They were auditioning the union actors first, so us non-unioners had plenty of time on our hands to do what unemployed actresses did best—feed off each other's insecurities like a production of
A Chorus Line
meets
Lord of the Flies.
At the time I was enrolled in serious acting classes and considered myself better than the phony, tap dancing divas that surrounded me. I was a method actor, studying at the Village School of Acting, where I was immersed in the practice of Sense Memory. The concept was to bring your real-life experiences to bear in the roles you were playing instead of “pretending” to be someone else. No matter what role you were playing, you simply had to scour your memory for an experience in your past that matched the one your character was immersed in.
For example, if you were playing someone in a fearful situation, you needed to dredge up a fearful memory and simply insert that memory into your scene. More than once I've longed to be the victim of an armed robbery or a carjacking just to ingrain myself with a shot of pure terror. It's brilliant because everything in life becomes fodder for your work as an actress. Aunt Betty died? Use it! Use dead Aunt Betty the next time you need to cry in a scene. Unless you hated Aunt Betty, in which case you could dredge up her hateful memory to make you shake with rage or vibrate with disgust. Did your favorite childhood cat get run over by a truck? Yes it's very sad, it's tragic—but it's golden material! Everybody in my class dredged up these painful, wonderful memories, and we used it to make ourselves laugh, cry, or spew rage all over each other. Acting is the art of the damned, and I was its humble servant.
So while the other actresses were chatting and strutting and bragging, I was scouring my inner soul for my relationship to milk. I knew if I could dredge up a really powerful, painful memory of milk, I would get the part. Problem was, I was lactose intolerant.
Okay, I'm not
exactly
lactose intolerant, I just can't stand the stuff. On the other hand, I had really nice breasts, and I was hoping that would balance out the whole hating milk thing. Unfortunately, as I looked around the sea of cleavage surrounding me, it became apparent that everyone else was banking on their beautiful breasts, and in a fit of inspiration I knew I had until my turn in line to become one with milk.
Mmm, milk. Mmmmmm. Miiillk.
Should I be sexy or coy? Or both. Maybe I could do it with a Russian accent. I was really good at accents.
Da. Milk.
Maybe I should think about milkshakes! I do like a thick, frothy milkshake.
MMM Da Milkshake.
Drop the stupid Russian thing
. Mmmm, milkshakes! Does the body good.
Except they make you fat. Strike that! Don't even think fat or you'll project an aura of fat. Shit, why did I do that? Think skinny, Melanie!
Mmm, skim milk. Does the body good!
This isn't working. The great acting teacher Uta Hagen would tell me to use the technique of substitution. I don't have to like milk! I just have to substitute something I like and
imagine
it's milk. No—not something I like. Something I love. Something I've
gotta have
for milk. Go deep, Melanie. Yes, that's exactly what I have to do. What shall I use for my substitution?
Chocolate? Sex? Fame? Wait a minute—what if I substitute this very audition for milk? I want to get this part more than I want anything else in the world—so this part will become milk. Yes! I want this part with my very soul, and therefore I want milk with my very soul. God I'm brilliant.
Mmm. Milk. Does the body gooooooood.
Yes, I've got it.
And three hours later I get to say it. “Don't be sexy” the woman coming out of the windowless room whispers to me as I'm about to go in. “They're sick of sexy.”
“What?” But she's gone. And she's totally thrown me. I want this job with a passion—I would die without it (and therefore without milk) and how in the world can I be passionate and not sexy? It's just not possible. I am exuding sex right now—I am bathing—make that drowning in sexual milk.
But there's no time to assimilate a nonsexual connection to milk. I was ushered into the room in front of two stern-looking people, a man and a woman bearing clipboards and number two pencils like warriors wielding their swords and shields.
“Say your name for the camera,” the man said.
“Melanie Zeitgar.”
“Okay—you didn't let me finish.” He threw a look to the woman who rolled her eyes and shook her head. I suddenly hated milk again and I started to sweat. “When the little red light goes on you will say your name for the camera, wait two beats and then deliver the line. Okay?”
“Sure.” Two beats. Okay that's like counting to two, right? But is it one, two or one Mississippi, two Mississippi? Shit. I wondered if I should ask? Would asking make me appear confident or terrified?
“Miss?”
“MMM DA MILK!” I shouted before I could stop myself.
“Your name is first and then the line—after the little red light,” he said impatiently.
“Calm down a little” the woman added. “Take a deep breath.”
I smiled and breathed deeply to show how capable I was of following directions.
“Okay red light. When it comes on, speak.”
I had the sudden urge to bark like a dog, and the thought made me giggle. And then I tried to stop giggling and it made me giggle all the more. And then the little red light went on and even though I was laughing so hard I was barking like a seal, I said my name and I delivered the line. And because of my inappropriate laughter, the word
milk
came out more like
mulk
. Mmm, MULK. Does the body gud. Incidentally, had I been drinking milk at the time, it would have been coming out of my nose.
“Can I do that again?” I started to say, but like a roller-coaster you've waited in line for (all freaking day in the scorching sun), the audition had lasted a few rattling moments, plunged downhill at the speed of light, and jerked to an abrupt end. A skinny assistant dressed in black appeared out of nowhere and yanked me out by the elbow. “Next!” the man with the clipboard bellowed as if a straight jacket awaited me in the hall. And as I was being escorted out, I could hear the woman say, “Is it just me or did she sound Russian?”
I immediately hauled my humiliated self to the ladies' room.
Don't worry
, my little voice said,
you can use this humiliation another time.
Do you see how sick we actors are? The thought actually cheered me up a little. And there was Kim Minx at the bathroom sink, crying her eyes out.
At first I thought she was just thinking about a dead childhood pet, but my trained eye quickly realized this was more than a sense memory practice. “Are you okay?” I asked softly. Her watery eyes met mine in the mirror. “Those bastards!” she screamed. “Those fucking milk bastards.” She hung her head and really sobbed. Her long blond hair was dangling in the sink. I was about to pat her on the back when she suddenly whirled around and stuck her chest out so that I ended up patting her left breast instead. I quickly took my hand away.
“They think they're not even!” she cried, sticking her chest out even farther. “Are they? Are they even?”
I glanced at her breasts and hesitated. The truth was, the left one did look a little bit bigger than the right. But she was so devastated and distraught that I didn't want to hurt her feelings.
“They said that?” I asked horrified.
“Not exactly,” she admitted. “But I know he was thinking it. He turned his head sideways. Sideways. Like this.” Kim suddenly dropped her head to the side as if she were a marionette and her neck string had been suddenly severed. I found myself dropping my head sideways in imitation.
“But they're perfect,” I said, hoping she wouldn't think I was a lesbian. “I'm sure my boyfriend would love them,” I added, just in case my preferences were in question. “How dare he. How dare he turn his head sideways. You're beautiful ! You're perfect. I just look at you and I think ‘Mmm milk.'” Oh God, now I think I've gone too far. I was just trying to be nice, maybe even make a female friend (actresses are notorious for hating each other and hanging out with their male counterparts instead), and now I definitely sound like I'm coming on to her. But she isn't glaring at me or backing away like I'm a freak; she's smiling.
“Really? You're not just saying that?” she says.
I guess she likes freaks so I continued to lay it on thick. “I'm telling you you're so perfect you make me sick!” I yelled. “You fucking make me sick!”
Her face lit up like a neon sign, and she immediately wiped the tears from her eyes. She flipped her long blond hair back and held out a soft, perfectly manicured hand for me to shake. “Kim Minx.”
“Melanie Zeitgar.”
“Do you like Mexican food, Melanie Zeitgar?” she asked.
“Love it,” I lied.
And so that afternoon Kim and I went out for the first of many margaritas together. Mmm, margaritas. Does the body good. We became fast friends, shopping partners (Kim shopped, I praised and sometimes returned to the stores to steal little tidbits I noticed on my reconnaissance missions), and confidantes. She knows everything about me—except for the bit about stealing, of course. We lost touch for a while when I started classes at NYU, but we've been able to pick up the thread. She was the first person I called when my life exploded on me three years ago, and I was the fourth person she called when she found this great rent-controlled apartment last year. Okay, so the friendship isn't exactly even, but I don't care. She's the only one who couldn't care less about all my little neuroses. But sometimes she can be extremely annoying.
“Uh-oh? What?” I whine.

Other books

Pandora Gets Greedy by Carolyn Hennesy
Bears Repeating by Flora Dare
Memories of my Melancholy Whores by Gabriel Garcia Marquez
City of Fate by Nicola Pierce
The Highlander's Bargain by Barbara Longley
Bet On Love by Witek, Barbara