Authors: Kevin Jack McEnroe
“What’s up, my man?” Dylan said with his hand out.
An Asian—or half-Asian—stood before Dylan with a list. He wore tortoiseshell Wayfarer eyeglasses. He held the list with both hands and didn’t let go. So Dylan pulled his hand back.
“Who you here to see?” the half-Asian asked, eyes scanning Dylan from above. Dylan was little. He never quite grew.
“What do you mean?”
“We do private parties,” he said, his round eyes now down at his clipboard. But not for long. He never quite looked at it. Just stared down blank. It was probably empty. He probably just held it so he didn’t have to touch people. Maybe he didn’t like germs. People are disgusting. Dylan got that.
“No. I mean, I know Ron. Is he here?”
“No, he’s not here. He doesn’t come ’til later.”
“No, no, I mean I really know him. He used to go out with my mom.”
“Yeah, okay, kid,” he chuckled. “I’m sure. I think it might be time for you to move to the side.” And a large black man opened the rope to the
right of him and pointed toward the sidewalk with his hand out flat. He ushered them away. But Dylan wasn’t ready to give up yet.
“No, I mean. I know Ron. The owner. He used to go out with my fucking mom, okay?”
“What does that have to do with me?”
“He told me to tell you that. He told me to come and tell you that.”
“Well, he didn’t tell me anything. I don’t know you. That’s all that matters. I’ve never seen you. So move.”
“Let’s go, fellas.” And the large black man pulled on Dylan’s shirt. “No, no, get your goddamn hands off me. I know Ron. He told me to tell you that. So you’re supposed to let me fucking in.” Dylan shook himself. “What’s your name?”
A beat, then, “William.” Sniff.
“I’m gonna tell Ron about this, you fucking loser. You fucking joke. I’m gonna tell Ron and get you fired. See if you remember me then. See if you know me then. You tell me then if it was fucking worth it!”
And then the black bouncer grabbed Dylan by his shoulders and tossed him toward the street. Like a garbage man would toss garbage onto a garbage truck. Dylan crumpled heavily to the ground. As he tried to right himself, Dylan tripped over a few black trash bags that were waiting for the next morning’s removal.
“You fucking loser,” Dylan said as he stood up. And as he wiped his face he noticed his nose was bleeding. “Good job. You’re doing real well for yourself.” The half-Asian smiled. “Real fuckin’ well. You should really be proud of all this,” he said, and he wiped his nose with his shirtsleeve. “I’m sure your mother’s somewhere smiling.”
And Dylan wiped his face with a napkin he found on the street and then pushed it up his nostril to tamp it. He lit a cigarette as he walked away but then turned back and watched the fucking half-Asian loser let in the cute couple that had been standing behind him in line before.
SO HE’D FINISH
his drugs elsewhere. His friend was embarrassed so he didn’t come with. Dylan would find a dive. Somewhere without a door guy. Somewhere definitely without a door guy. The next morning
he felt bad—felt awful—about what he’d done, and where his life was. How this stacked up against his prior rock bottoms. His hatred for himself was relentless. “Oh, Dylan,” said Dylan. He’d hit a low. But that was just a chemical imbalance. Cocaine hangovers aren’t any fun, you know. Or maybe you don’t know. I guess that’s possible. So I guess then trust me. You’re just gonna have to trust me.
A
fter what she considered a long and full repose, Dorothy decided it was time to go back to work. She didn’t have much left after all the divorces and the moving and the surgeries. The booze, the pills, and the needles. And the everything else. The nameless everything else. The always and forever everything else. And so, on Wednesday, July 12, 1989, the fifty-year-old left her house and walked four blocks east to Flageolet, the local performance theater. Sponsored in part by the YWCA and run six days a week by a Frenchman and his ageless child—a sexually ambiguous, overlarge woman who dressed like a man—they were holding open auditions for a production of
Our Town
, which, as a film, was once Dorothy’s favorite. She had a crush on William Holden. That dark skin and dark hair. The continental part. And those dimples. Stop. So she decided she’d do a play. She’d act, again. And this time might turn out different.
*
*
*
It was summer in Palm Springs—wind turbines, golf carts, visors, and pink flamingoes—and Do had just received a phone call from a man with a lady-voice who told her that she’d earned the role of the
Stage Manager. The Stage Manager? Fancy that. Given that the rest of the cast were locals, she’d gotten the part on résumé and reputation alone. They’d never had a real actress—former or not—so she’d earned the lead. The role she’d always wanted. She sat on her couch and watched TV, but that was making her dizzy. She wore Gary’s tortoiseshell reading glasses, the only thing of his she’d kept. They bore Gary’s strong prescription—8 by 7.5—but she didn’t mind. They made the news anchors look fuzzy, but they really framed her face.
THE NEXT DAY
, Dorothy arrived at the theater in overalls and freshly capped teeth. Rehearsal wasn’t ’til three, so she had booked her dentist for the morning. The teeth were big and bright and whole. Big, juicy smile. She was her, again. She was happy. The rest of the cast stood fidgety outside the theater. The man playing George Gibbs dyed his hair too dark to look natural and had a lazy eye, but that was okay. At least he had hair. He turned, and they made eye contact, and then he walked toward her. She sat back and waited in reproach.
“I understand you’re taking over the role of Stage Manager,” he said as he arrived. “Brenda’s done it for years, but between you and me that act’s been getting pretty tired. I’ve never seen you around before. I mean, most of us are pretty regular. All of us, I guess. But, by the look of you, it seems that they’ve made an interesting choice.”
Dorothy was five foot six inches. But five nine, wig included. He was an inch taller than she. Wrinkles crawled out from his eyes. Dorothy knew hard living—she, too, knew how hard it was—and he, too, was weathered—leathered—like a sea captain. His skin salt-crusted from years of sun and waves.
“Yeah. Yeah, I guess they did,” she responded. Hopeful but unsure.
“Oh, I meant that as entirely complimentary. I did. I just meant that, with this one, they made a choice, for a change. They always just take whoever first auditions. But now this one might not be the same old story. This one might be different. And that’s a good thing. I’m just happy there’s new blood around here. I’m excited. I swear.”
Dorothy was bashful, momentarily, but then fell back into being her.
“There’s always a new girl,” Dorothy winked. “Haven’t you ever been to the movies?”
But then, suddenly, she was aware of her charm, and thus nervous to expose it. She looked down. She couldn’t find her compact in her purse; she felt for her cigarettes. But they weren’t there either. What the hell?
“I’m just happy they’re making a change. I didn’t know they made ’em like you anymore,” he said and he put his thin hand out. His knuckles sprouted salt-and-pepper hairs. The drapes didn’t seem to match the curtains. “I’m Marcus, by the way.”
With this gesture she considered walking away—her instincts becoming more acute—but she liked his chin and his jawline and she was trying to be different, so she went against her gut. He was old-strong. Man-strong. Like her daddy was. Charlton Heston. She stared at his hand until she put hers out sideways, parallel to the sky. Dorothy found him endearing. She didn’t care how hard he tried. Since she’d moved to Palm Springs she’d mostly stayed in. She got used to TV, and white wine, and filling her ashtray shaped like a ten-gallon hat. And Tinkerbell. She loved little Tinkerbell. Between her and Marcus, with whom she held hands, walked Bernard—the director, the Frenchman, and so they unclasped. People gathered around the three, but Bernard simply didn’t want, yet, any extracurricular relationships to form—taskmaster that he was—and so he broke them up and walked toward the theater’s entrance and waited for others to follow suit.
“Should we head in?” Dorothy asked
“Sure. Yeah, don’t ya think?”
“Do you want to know my name?”
“Yes. Yes, definitely.” He looked up from his feet. He wanted to stay in good standing with the director, but then suddenly didn’t care. “I think I’d like that.”
“It’s Joanna-Rae.”
She’d use Joanna here. Her birth name. She’d use Joanna-Rae here. She’d try something different. Here things would be different.
“Joanna-Rae. Well, that’s wonderful. I’m Marcus. Marcus Scythe. It’s very nice to meet you.”
“I already knew that.”
“Already knew what?”
“Your name. Your name, remember? You already told me.”
“Oh, I actually think you’re right. I apologize.”
“But not your last name. You never told me that.”
“That’s true. It’s Scythe.”
“Scythe, huh? Like a knife?”
“Scythe like a knife. You got it. Spelled that way, too.”
“Okay. I think I can remember that. I’m Joanna-Rae Cook. My name’s Joanna-Rae Cook.”
“Joanna-Rae Cook. You got it. I can remember that. That’s pretty.”
“You wanna go in?” she asked as she looked around and noticed others filing in. “I’m done jackpotting.”
“Let’s.”
They walked and queued up behind at the door. She thought Dorothy was prettier than Joanna, in general, but Dorothy needed a rest. Dorothy was burnt out. The last time she was Joanna-Rae she was having sleepovers and drinking Nehis with her Coney Islands. She was learning geography in grade school with the rest of her class. She was wearing velvet and eating licorice and rice pudding and talking about boys. She was going to pre-proms and proms and post-proms. Back then it was all so easy.
THE DIRECTOR’S NAME
was Bernard Boudreau. He had a round head and wore glasses. His beret covered one of his eyes. A red face from over-shaving. His shirt was green and his tie was beige and polka-dotted. His double-breasted, linen summer suit was beige, his fashion, clearly, an extension of his art. The cast was inside, sitting in the audience. Bernard was onstage. He took off his jacket and hung it on the back of his folding chair.
Very
dramatically. Really stretched it out. Real thespian stuff. Actors, you know? Enough already. He sat down and put his elbows on his knees. He rested his forehead in his palms. His tie hung between his quadriceps.
“It’s good to have everyone here, today. It’s good to see everybody.” He pulled his beret down closer to his nose at a diagonal so one eye was entirely covered and his hat’s bottom tip was close to his chin. Two-faced. “Where to begin, where to begin. Dorothy, you’re new. Why don’t you start? Let’s start with your opening monologue?”
French Canadian accent. Again, high drama. The thespian way.
Dorothy immediately didn’t like taking her orders from this director. It seems she had a problem with authority.
“Joanna-Rae.”
“Hmm?”
“It’s Joanna-Rae.”
“It is? Well, it says right here that we have a Dorothy playing the role of Stage Manager. Is that not you? If they screwed up this damned call sheet again I—”
“No. No, it’s Dorothy but it’s also Joanna. Joanna is me, too. I just want you to call me Joanna, if that’s okay. I’m trying something.”
“Okay, Dorothy. Okay. Well, can we begin then? And can someone please fix this damn sheet then? I don’t have a pen.”
She walked up the aisle and onto the two steps to the stage. She walked to the middle of the floorboards and looked out onto the audience. She stood there, about to begin her monologue, but instead looked up at the set lights that hung down above her. They were opera lights, pleasantly blinding. Dorothy was spotlit like she hadn’t been in years. And that light reminded her of a time she guest-starred for a three-episode arc on
M*A*S*H
. The lights on that set were different—more archaic, like her—but they were the same sort of blinding. They provided the same sort of attention. They allowed the same sort of attention. The same sort of an inability to see. It was that lack of vision that allowed her to stop thinking. Stop thinking, and worrying, about what she was supposed to do. It was that lack of vision that allowed her what she remembered as perhaps the best performance of her career. As good as she could do. As good as she could possibly do. Without her eyes, and thus her memory, she could just react to those around
her. And then, suddenly, she was just herself. She wouldn’t pretend anymore. She trusted her instincts, truly, for the first time in remembered history, and then those that acted with her followed suit. And she listened, instead of waiting for her turn to speak. Maybe if she’d trusted people, from the beginning, then she wouldn’t have turned out this way. But she’d been fucked too much to think that anyone was really—really, actually—good. Deep-down good. She thought back on her time with Alan Alda. She was so pretty then. And then she thought of herself, now—diasporated, an upside-down version of what she used to be. Since she’d stopped working, for reasons that the tabloids were unable to ascertain, she’d been empty. Especially since they took her littles away. That cored her. But today, as she stood under floodlights that made her vision blurry and her body sweat—she didn’t sweat anymore from pharmaceuticals—she felt full again. Tired maybe—a little hung over—but certainly not empty. Not alone. And she’d pull, from deep within herself, a real voice. She’d be herself. Born in Georgia. Miss Americus. A model and an actress. A wife and a mama. A woman. A woman, for the first time on her own.