Pushing Upward (19 page)

“Maybe I'm just used to having my own space. Don't misunderstand me; I adore the woman—but I feel trapped at the same time. It's like she knows what I'm thinking, what I'm going through, before I do. It makes me feel claustrophobic. I don't know … she's great in so many ways. I have no business complaining. Maybe I just need a phone in my room. There's only one in the house, and the cord is three feet long.”

“Doesn't she ever go out?”

“Hardly. Today was the first time in months I was alone in the apartment for more than ten minutes. Maybe I need a job. Maybe I need to get laid.” I might have said “laid” too loud. The guys at the next table winked when I looked over, signaling none too subtly they were available if I was interested.

“How is the career going?”

“Worse than my social life,” I whispered.

“Are you sure this is what you want?”

“Well, there's this bartending program I'm really keen on applying for … seriously! Do you think I'd have put an ad in the paper, moved in with Emma, if I
wasn't
serious?”

“Then deal with this. It'll change. Everything changes. Just be patient. Stop and look in the rearview mirror for a second. Remember how frustrated you were? Think about the other prospects you could have ended up with.

“Here, take my number. As of tomorrow, we're staying in Armando's apartment in West Hollywood until I finish school.” Rachel pulled out her neat little notepad and wrote down her phone number. God, she was organized. A notepad!

“I wish I could stay longer,” she said. “But I just registered for a nursing program, and orientation is in a few minutes. The professor will take off an entire grade point if we miss it.” Rachel rolled her eyes.
At least that is familiar.
And then, I watched my friend's fingers move around inside her purse in search of something. It was her lip gloss. Instead of smearing it on with one finger like she used to, she brought out a tortoiseshell case with a tiny brush inside. Peering into the small mirror, she carefully applied the gloss with a brush, dabbed her lips with her napkin, and then took out her keys.

My stomach clenched. I knew we'd never spend time together like we used to. “It's good to see ya, Rache.”

“Have patience, kiddo. Enjoy the moment.”

Rachel paid the cashier, and we walked outside and hugged.

It seemed like the embrace was a good-bye to the friendship we had known. Hopefully, there would be future ones.

Enjoy the moment! Have patience!

I leaned back against the low brick wall of the restaurant and watched my old friend in her new pink suit walk in her pink high heels to a light gray BMW. I watched her get in, turn on the ignition, and bring her sunglasses down from the top of her head to the bridge of her nose. She waved and took off into the smog.

I wandered aimlessly down the street in the direction of where I had parked my own car.

I'm happy her life is full. I'm glad she has everything she ever wanted. I'm joyful that she …

You're such a liar, Sandra Billings. You're so pissed off, you're ready to jump off the top of that insurance building across the street. Why are you so angry? If you wanted that kind of life for yourself, you'd be looking for a husband instead of living with an eighty-year-old woman. You wouldn't be making this sacrifice every day to become an actress. You don't want what she has, and you know it. So, the question is: If you don't want that kind of life, why are you having such a strong reaction?

I started the car. A pulsating migraine came on. My mind was consumed with doubts. My entire life seemed pathetically shallow. I pressed down the accelerator and placed my hands on the wheel. I had no idea where I was going … and yet, I knew
exactly
where I was going.

My car, now on autopilot, drove me down Sunset and into the parking lot of La Fontaine Bakery. Inside, my eyes—with a will of their own—roamed the acres of fresh stuffed croissants. I moved closer, peered through the clear glass case. I
knew
if I had just one or two of those bakery delights, I'd feel a whole lot sweeter about Rachel's new life. And myself.

I stood there frozen.
Do I really want to do this?

What else is going to fill this hole in the pit of my stomach?

I asked the smiling woman behind the counter for a chocolate croissant, an almond croissant, and a cheese croissant. And to please give me the chocolate one right away. She handed me the pastry, rich and glistening on a gleaming piece of waxed paper, and then went to the rear of the store to fetch the other two from trays fresh out of the oven.

I was devouring the chocolate pastry as she handed me a bag with the other two. I handed her the cash. Before I'd reached the door, my hand was inside the bag groping for a second croissant. By the time I'd pulled out the keys and started the ignition, I'd grabbed the third, the one stuffed with cheese, and was scarfing it down as fast as my mouth could chew. By the time I rounded the first corner en route back to the apartment, there was nothing left but a bag of crumbs, some almond slivers, and a few pastry flakes that had scattered onto my pants.

I burst into the apartment and headed straight for the bathroom. Thank God, Emma was asleep in her chair. I turned the bathtub on full blast to drown out the sound, shut my eyes tight, stuck my finger down my throat, and purged. When I opened my eyes, there in the bowl were roasted almond slivers still intact, pieces of chocolate, and crusty flakes floating to the surface. I could taste the eggs from lunch, the shreds and lumps of the bacon and cheese coming up from my throat.

I kept purging. Hoping the anguish of my mind would vanish with the food disappearing in the swirling of the flushing water. But nothing more came out.

I flushed the toilet and turned off the bathwater. I was done, limp. Mascara streamed down my cheeks. I tore off a few squares of toilet paper and wiped it away. I don't know what possessed me, but I knelt down on the shiny tile floor and began to pray, desperate to understand why I continued doing this.

Wrung-out, I staggered upright, rinsed out my mouth, dragged myself into the bedroom, pulled down the shades to dim the ambient light, and collapsed on the floor. Cradling my arms around my knees, I looked up at Josef's painting, the beach scene that always invited me in. I tried to lose myself in it. But all I saw was a chaotic surface of brushstrokes, a mirror of myself. I had to look away. I thought about reaching for the
I Ching,
something that might pacify my mind, help me change the direction of my thoughts. But then I thought,
Why? What's the point?
What good was my desire to reach an understanding, to lead a conscious life, when I couldn't even control my actions? What good was all the reading if it didn't sink into my bones and change me? And even when I read the lines and had a breakthrough, I kept forgetting what I'd read. It didn't last.

I couldn't sit there in this absolute emptiness. I had to do something, no matter how pointless. I reached into the bookcase and fumbled around, desperate for a distraction. I picked up a small Buddhist pamphlet and opened it to a random page. I didn't know if the book was Emma's, Josef's, or mine. It didn't matter. The Chapter I opened was titled: “Sense Pleasures.” Gee! What a coincidence.

Craving after sense pleasures is primarily due to insecurity and not recognizing craving in ourselves.

We don't know what we are lacking, so we look outside ourselves. We try to fill our emotional vacuum with all kinds of diversions. But invariably we find that there is no end to indulgence and pleasure-seeking. There is no lasting and absolute satisfaction from these sense pleasures because we are not free in the moment.

There is only one way to deal with insecurity.

It is to arrive at the understanding that security cannot be found anywhere or in anything. The most critical thing is to realize our own freedom in the moment.

Freedom in the moment? I'm never in the moment. I don't know what that's like. I don't even know what that
means
.

If you start to want this and that, thinking about the past or thinking about the future, you are not free. Your present moment is preoccupied with the wanting, and as a result your natural freedom in the moment is lost.

Got it.

We are naturally free. We make ourselves “un-free.” It is as though you were being tied up with an invisible rope, by no one but yourself.

Oh, great.

Chapter 18

This shows the situation of someone too weak to take
measures against decay that has its roots in the past….
It is allowed to run its course.

It wasn't like Rachel had said “I never want to see you again,” although she might as well have. It wasn't like I'd never work in another ensemble like LaPapa again, although I hoped the next director would have a little more sanity. These and a few hundred thoughts raced through my mind as Emma and I drove through the palatial streets of Beverly Hills to Bert's Halloween party. Cars were backed up for half a mile. Only the reflection from floodlights in the sky revealed that we were close. And not until we started creeping up toward the house did we have a full view of the circus of people in costumes.

“Bert never
could
have a small celebration,” Emma said, shaking her head.

Gazing out the window, I had never seen so much wealth gathered in one place. Jaguars, BMWs, Mercedes-Benzes, Maseratis, limousines—all positioned in a regimental line, chrome dazzling under the floodlights, purring at idle along Bert's immense circular driveway. It was hard to believe people made enough money to buy these cars when it took me two months of obsessive budgeting to afford windshield wipers.

Emma and I sat in the Fiat as we waited for the cars to edge forward in line. Listening to drunken laughter, we viewed the colorful show from our windows: the house all aglow with orange and black lights, guests dressed in expensive ornate costumes, parking attendants in outlandish masks. Two attendants opened our doors and escorted us out. One of them drove away with my car, no doubt to some faraway alleyway to hide the old clunker from the opulent scene.

We strolled like movie stars up the red carpet neatly rolled out down the grand staircase. The closer Emma and I approached the massive double doors, the louder the music screamed through the windows, the more pulsating orange and black lights shouted for attention. A tall man wearing a turquoise velvet suit and a black satin top hat opened the formidable doors as we stepped into the foyer. Between spiderwebs and skeletons rode witches on broomsticks; frightful papier-mâché faces leered, swinging from long wooden poles. Audiotapes of canned torture blared through the thick clouds of smoke permeating the marble entryway, ushering us into Bert's mansion.

The living room was packed with guests: Zorro and Mozart, Charlie Chaplin, cowboys and Indians, goblins and go-go dancers, and … yes, that
was
Greta Garbo dancing seductively, snuggling close to Abe Lincoln, out on the parquet dance floor. Charming men wearing black tuxedos carried trays of champagne and hors d'oeuvres. Through an onslaught of tobacco funk, you could barely make out the food set on tables draped with cobwebs of glitter and spun silk. H
APPY
B
IRTHDAY
, B
ERT
! was spelled out in neon lights that stretched from one end of the living room to the other.

Emma must have experienced Bert's lavish parties in the past; she'd spent longer than usual preparing, adorning her face with powder, rouge, lipstick, and eye shadow. Wearing her blue chiffon party dress, she looked like Glinda, the Good Witch of the North.

I, on the other hand, wore a simple pale-rose ankle-length skirt with brown boots and a sweater to match. I wasn't interested in dressing up. I wanted to feel safe in my own clothes. My own clothes allowed me to feel the subtle vibrations in the room more precisely, feel the fake quality in the air, and safeguard myself from the phony smiles. This was not a party where close friends gathered to share the joy of a newborn child. This was a room filled with hungry vultures hovering over their prey, where not even expensive costumes could disguise the fabrication.

“Do you see the birthday boy?” I asked Emma.

“Only smoke and the tops of people's headdresses,” she replied, looking around.

I looked around, too, trying to see if I could guess which costumed figure might be Bert. Suddenly, Clark Gable startled us with an enthusiastic “Emma! You look fabulous. I'm so glad to see you.”

“Jack, dear. It's good to see you. How have you been?”

“Exceedingly jubilant! How are you doing?”

Jack was fortyish and jumpy in his double-breasted suit, wing-tip shoes, and toupee. His speech was staccato, and his body trembled, as if he'd survived a recent earthquake with a few persistent tremors. His impersonation of Clark Gable was pretty impressive, but he'd spent way too much time roasting his body with aluminum foil on a poolside deck.