Postcards From the Edge (16 page)

Neil ran his hands through his hair. “Well, there’s not necessarily rules so much as guidelines. Comedy guidelines.” He paused for a moment, then came at her from another angle. “You were very good in Public Domain. What did you do there?” he asked patiently.

“I had Magna Valnepov as my acting coach and Benjamin Keller as my director,” she almost shouted. “I didn’t have fun with it. We had a month of rehearsals. We worked very hard. We hardly ever relaxed.”

Suzanne noticed that Neil was watching her steadily now, holding his leather script to his chest like a shield. She realized she was getting pretty defensive. “Look,” she said, “I may not take criticism well, but that doesn’t mean I’m not hearing it. I’ll hear it later. Right now I’m storing it in my delayed response area, because it’s hard for me. I wish I was someone who welcomed criticism and immediately understood its value, but I’m not, and if I look unhappy about this, I am. I’ve had one day of

120

POSTCARDS from the EDGE

work on this thing, and this is my second conversation about what’s missing in my performance.”

Neil shook his head benignly. “We’re talking about two minutes of film. Two minutes of screen time out of ninety”

“Is it correctable?” she asked.

Neil laughed. “Come on,” he said reassuringly. “It’s not as though you farted during all your dialogue and we all sat in rushes and said, ‘What’s that noise all over her lines?’ “

“I’m so relieved,” Suzanne said. “That analogy has bathed me in relief.” She jumped off the prop truck, careful not to spill her soda. “Thanks for the acting tips and pep talk,” she said over her shoulder as she headed back to the set. “I’m feeling much more relaxed now.”

On the ride home, Suzanne asked her driver, Les, if he liked show business.

“Sometimes, sometimes not,” Les said. “It’s a sissy job. Never steady” He shrugged. “Seems all right on the outside, then there’s nothing behind it.”

“Why did you go into it in the first place?”

Les grinned sheepishly. “Wanted to meet Jean Arthur,” he admitted.

“Did you?”

“Sure did,” Les replied proudly. “Drove her for three pictures she did at Columbia. She asked for me special the last time.”

She hadn’t been at her grandparents’ house for ten minutes when the phone rang. “It’s for you, of course,” her grandmother said to her. “George something.”

“George Lazan,” Suzanne whispered, holding her hand over the mouthpiece. “One of my producers.”

“Oh,” said her grandmother, “Miss Snooty Britches.” She went into the kitchen to open a can of something for dinner. “Miss Snooty Britches,” she repeated. “Isn’t she, Howdie?” Suzanne put the receiver to her ear. “Hello,” she said.

CAR R I E F I S HER

“Have I caught you at a bad time?” asked George Lazan. “No, not at all,” she said politely. “How are you?”

“Well, look,” George said. “I saw the rushes and, frankly, you’re holding back. See, I think of this piece as a light, fluffy piece, a kind of What’s Lip, Doc? for cops. So you gotta relax. You gotta just enjoy yourself and trust the process.”

Suzanne watched her grandfather’s incredibly long cigarette ash grow while he stared at the ball game on the living room TV “Well,” she said, “I can’t really promise you I’m going to turn in a Barbra Streisand performance.”

“No, no, no, no,” George said. “You see, I think of Bob Munch as a kind of Ryan O’Neal type. He’s a reactive actor. What we need is for you to be the one who governs the pace of the piece. If you dictate the pace, then Bob will follow you.”

Suzanne sat down and pulled Jigger into her lap, and said nothing.

“So, we need you to establish the pace, and Bob will follow you,” he restated brusquely.

Suzanne stroked Jigger. “I hardly think I’m responsible for the pace of the piece.”

“Well, look,” said George impatiently, “it’s a Happened One Night kind of thing. You know what I mean.” He cleared his throat. “Look, do you think you can do this part?”

Suzanne went cold. Jigger jumped out of her lap. The ash fell off her grandfather’s cigarette. “Yeah,” she said in a small voice. “Why?” This is surreal, she thought. I’m going to be fired from a bad movie for not relaxing.

“I always ask my actors that,” he explained. “Look, just because we imagined Goldie Hawn or a Marilyn Monroe kind of thing in this part … Now we’ve got to deal with what you have to bring to it. We hired you, now we’ve got to go with what you have.”

Suzanne sighed. This is a lot, she thought. This is as hard as I was hit for taking drugs. “I appreciate your comments, Mr. Lazan,” she said finally. “I’ll certainly give relaxing my best

122

POSTCARDS from the EDGE

shot. If I’m not enjoying myself, though, it’s not because I’m deliberately trying to sabotage your film.”

George cleared his throat again. “I realize that,” he said. “Just do the best you can.”

“I’ll try,” she replied, in her most relaxed voice. “Well,” he said, “nice to … I’ll see you on the set.”

“You sure will,” Suzanne offered, and hung up. “You sure will,” she repeated to the air in front of her.

“And the farmer hauled another load away!” sang her grandfather. Suzanne looked at him and saw that he was smiling. “Yap, yap, yap, yap, yap, yap,” he said. She walked to his chair, sat on the arm, and kissed his head.

“Soup’s on,” her grandmother called from the kitchen.

Her grandfather shook his head and said, “Don’t that beat all?”

After dinner, Suzanne decided to go to sleep early and put this day behind her. She took off her makeup, brushed her teeth, and put on her nightgown. Before going to bed, though, she decided to call her therapist.

Before she lifted the receiver to dial Norma, the phone rang. “Suzanne?” a man’s voice said. “It’s me, Rob.” Her agent. “What’s happening?” she said.

“Well, George Lazan called me today and he’s very upset. He says you’re not enjoying your work.” Suzanne felt what she had been holding together all day quickly begin to come apart.

“If George Lazan is upset about that, he should see a shrink,” Suzanne said tightly. “If he’s upset about me not enjoying my work, he should fucking go into therapy.”

“Well,” said Rob, “but, I mean, what are you doing?” He sounded concerned. “What are you doing?”

“I’m on Quaaludes,” shouted Suzanne childishly. “I’m on lodes and base and smack.”

“There’s no need to shout,” he said.

“Rob, it’s me, Suzanne,” she said. “I’ve been working one day.”

123

“Two days,” he corrected her.

“Well, I usually don’t go into my deep REM relaxation until about my fourth or fifth day on the set.”

“But George Lazan told me you seemed to be holding something back.”

“Don’t do this to me,” said Suzanne ominously. “Do not do this to me! I don’t want to be in this business anymore anyway” She started to cry “I will not be treated like I’m deliberately withholding something. I went into this on Monday, and it’s Tuesday, and I’m doing the best I can. I got the job Friday night. It’s Tuesday!” She sniffled loudly, and felt silly.

“Well,” said Rob, sounding worried, “there’s no need to get so upset. I simply wanted to pass on what Lazan said to me-” “Are they going to fire me?” Suzanne demanded.

“No, of course not,” he assured her.

“What is this, then? This is not going to achieve what they want. This is going to make me defensive. If they want me to relax and enjoy myself, this is not the way to get me to do it. I’ve been in this business twelve years, and they’re treating me like I just got out of drama school.”

“Suzanne, take it easy,” Rob said. “George Lazan is on your side. He wants you to be as good as you can be in this part. So calm down and just go in there tomorrow and be great.”

Suzanne sighed. “All right,” she said finally. “All right. But I don’t want any more of these conversations. If they call after tomorrow and don’t like it, I want you to fucking get me out of it, and … I’m sorry. I’m tired. I got four hours’ sleep and I worked all day, and I got a lot of acting lectures, and now …” She trailed off dramatically. “Let me talk to you tomorrow. I’ll be more philosophical by then.”

“All right, sweetheart. Take it easy.” “Thanks,” Suzanne said, and hung up.

“Honey, you shouldn’t get so worked up,” her grandmother said from the doorway.

“They’re treating me like I’m a jerk,” Suzanne said.

124

POSTCARDS from the EDGE

“Just ‘cause they treat you like a jerk doesn’t mean you have to act like one. How they treat you is not necessarily who you are. My mother always told me that. She’d say, ‘Honey, just ‘cause they treat you like shit, you could still act like pie.’ “

“This was a big recurring theme with Great-grandma Pearl,” said Suzanne. “I remember her saying that a fly is as likely to land on shit as on pie. So she thought everything could be divided into two categories. Either shit or pie.”

“Well, yeah, but she was a smart woman. Very smart woman. But I guess we were never rich enough to have your problems. Not so much time to get ourselves so worked up. Your grandpa worked on the railroad.” She paused for a moment and sat down next to Suzanne on the bed. “You know what you should do? You should do something with your writing, with those poems you used to write. Some of your poems are better than anything I’ve ever read in those cards over at the Palm Desert Mall. Why don’t you find out how you get into that?”

“I don’t know if I want to,” Suzanne said dubiously.

“Well, then, why don’t you find a nice guy and marry him and settle down?”

“It’s the ‘nice’ part I have trouble with,” she said. “Don’t you think that if it was going to happen, it would have happened already?”

“No,” said her grandmother. “You’re a good age for it. Find a nice guy to take care of you.”

“Yeah, but Gran, I’m a lot to take care of.”

“Oh, you talk big,” her grandmother said. “You talk big and you think fancy, but you’re just like other people. You act all rough and tough, but you’re a pushover. You just think too much and you talk too loud.”

“Don’t you think my life is weird, Gran?”

“Weird, weird, you call everything weird. It’s not so weird. But you’ve got to do something sooner or later to get your life together, girl. You don’t take those drugs anymore, and I’m real

125

proud of you for that, but now that you can see it clearly, you’ve got to figure out what you want to do with it all.”

“What was that thing you always used to say? ‘It ain’t what you eat that makes you fat, it’s what you get’?” Suzanne asked.

„

Yup. 11

“What does that mean? I always thought it was specifically designed to confuse people out of their panic.”

“No,” said her grandmother, “it’s like ‘Your eyes are bigger than your stomach.’ It ain’t what you eat that makes you fat, it’s what you get. It’s like what you eat is what you get-even if it’s a plate of cold beans.”

“I see.”

“What’s happening?” said Suzanne’s grandfather, who was standing in the doorway. “Look what the cat drug in.”

“Hi, Granpaw.”

“Hi, honey,” said her grandmother. “What are you doing up?„

“Well, I heard everybody yap, yap, yappin’ in here and I thought I’d come in,” he said.

“You want some more beef jerky, Granpaw?” Suzanne asked. “Did I have some already?”

“He doesn’t remember,” her grandmother whispered.

“Oh, I sure do,” he said. “I remember. I heard that. Don’t talk behind my back. You women, I tell you…”

“Honey, don’t get all worked up now,” said Suzanne’s grandmother. “Do you want some-“

“I just want some coffee and one of my doughnuts,” he said. “I just heard you so loud in here. I’m all right.” He wandered back to his room.

“He gets worse every day,” her grandmother said. “It reminds me of you, when you used to get all bleary from those painkillers.”

Suzanne sighed. “All I want is to feel like I’ve got a regular life. Do you think I could make it if I moved here and wrote the insides of cards, and-“

126

POSTCARDS from the EDGE

“I don’t think you could do it, quite frankly,” said her grandmother. “But I think it’s your way of having a nice dream. Most people dream big, you dream small. It’s just whatever you haven’t got is what you want. It isn’t the life, it’s what you do with it. So, do something regular with your irregular life, rather than trying to get a regular one, ‘cause you’d just do something irregular with that.”

“But do you think I could hold down a job? A regular job?” “I’m one of those people who believe you can do whatever you set your mind to,” her grandmother said. “But, that being said, I think some people have an easier time setting their minds down than others do, and your mind seems to hover. Your brother seems to have his head out of the clouds, but yours is right up there in them. You always read too much, always had your nose in a book. A bookworm. You just don’t seem to have a level look on things, and I don’t know if you can get that or not. Maybe you could just live with it. I don’t think it’s such a bad thing. Certainly there’s worse.”

“Was Mommy like this?”

“You’re a little like your mother. She never was booky like you, but she had that big kind of personality. When you were a little girl you were very quiet. Your mother was more of a tomboy, but you … One time when we were driving somewhere I had you in the car seat, and we were taking these bumps really hard, and you took this big bump-you were less than two years old, way less-and you looked over at me and you said, ‘Damn it!’ And I don’t know where you got that word.”

Suzanne smiled. “What else do you remember?”

“You were very serious,” her grandmother continued. “You had these big brown eyes and you were always going, ‘What’s that? What’s that?’ You wondered what everything was. You would frown and point a lot, like a conductor looking for your orchestra. You always seemed very busy, like you were between appointments all the time, but you were just a little child.”

“You know what I remember, Gran? I don’t know where I was, but I was little enough to be under doorknobs, and I wanted to say a word so bad, and the word was ‘interesting.’ And I tried to say it, but it always came out ‘insterting.’ And that was my first big, big frustration.”