It's All In the Playing (22 page)

“Shirley,” he said in that carefully measured way of his, “are you sitting down?”

“Yes,” I said, and sat down immediately.

“Well, I’ve just received a call from John Heard’s manager. He quit the picture and is going back to New York this afternoon.”

I choked back a piece of toast.

“You’re kidding me,” I said.

“No,” said Stan, “I’m not.”

“But why?” I asked. “I talked to Anne Marie yesterday. She said he was doing wonderfully and was real proud of himself.”

“I don’t know,” said Stan.

I looked out across the ocean. There were no dolphins anywhere in sight and I could feel my back pain come again like an unwanted, uninvited visitor.

“Well,” I said finally, “I’m going up to The Ashram to talk to him.”

“He says he doesn’t want you to try to talk him into staying.”

“Oh,” I said. “Okay. I’ll just try to be a friend and help him do the right thing for himself. How’s that?”

“Hopefully that’ll be the right thing by us too,” said Stan with rueful shrewdness.

“What are we going to do, Stan?” I asked. “I mean, we’re supposed to shoot with him in the art gallery on Monday with Anne and me.”

“I know,” said Stan. “I’ve contacted the crew, the assistants, the location manager, everybody. We’ll finish up your scenes with Anne until we can hire another actor. There’s just nobody available at this late date, though. But you say this project is guided, right?”

I gulped. Talk about being responsible for your own reality.

“Yeah,” I said. “It is guided. So what have we got to learn from this?”

“Probably that we’re going to be at least a week behind schedule and several hundred thousand dollars over budget.”

“You’re getting very practical all of a sudden, aren’t you?” I asked.

Stan laughed. “What else would you have me do?” he asked good-naturedly.

I thought a moment.

“Listen, Stan,” I said. “You want to make a bet that he won’t leave today?”

“What would we bet?” he said. “We’ll have nothing left to shoot with.”

“I don’t know. A good dinner or something. I’m going up there now. Goodbye.”

I hung up and hesitated. Should I call John and say I was coming, or not call and take the chance that I would miss him if he took an early plane?

I called. He came right to the phone.

“Hi,” he said. “I’m real sorry, but I can’t do it.”

“Yeah, John,” I said. “But why?”

“Because my life has changed here. So much that I have to go back to New York and get straightened out.”

I didn’t expect that answer.

“So much to get straightened out?” I asked confusedly.

“Yes.”

“But what about this movie you’re in the middle of? I mean, I want you to do the best thing for your life.”

“Please, don’t try to talk me into staying,” he said pleadingly. “It’s because of how you’ve been with me, so loving and understanding and supportive, that I feel I can do what I’m doing.”

I was flabbergasted.

“Oh, John,” I said. “That’s sweet of you.”

“So, thank you,” he said.

I couldn’t believe it, but I said, “No. Thank
you.”

Here was a guy leaving in the middle of shooting my movie and I was thanking him for thanking me for letting him go!

“Hey, John.” I collected myself. “Can I come over and talk to you?”

“Sure,” he said. “My plane’s not till six-thirty. And remember, I’m going to be on it.”

He sounded like a tourist who had a few hours to spare before the next city on the itinerary.

I hung up and shook my head. Was this a dream or what?

I dressed and drove to The Ashram.

No one was there but John. It was a Saturday when the rest of the guests had checked out. He was sitting out on the patio with a glass of orange juice. I walked toward him. He was nervous, as though he expected me to chastise him for what he was doing. I hugged him. He had a way about him that inspired affection. He patted me on the shoulder. I patted him on the shoulder. He asked if I wanted some juice. I said no. I told him he looked great. He said thank you. He sat and looked at me.

“I’ve just spent the happiest week of my life,” he said. “It was hard, but I was happy.”

I carefully calculated how far I should proceed.

“A lot of people,” I began, “don’t come through the Ashram program as well as you have. Congratulations.”

He smiled shyly. “Thanks,” he said.

I decided to begin. “So you don’t want to show your new body on the screen?”

He flashed a frightened glance in my direction.

“I don’t like the mineral bath scene,” he said. “I don’t like the nudity.”

“Oh,” I said, sensing that we might be getting to practicalities. “Well, Standards and Practices dictates that we keep our clothes on in water scenes like that anyway.”

He looked at me suspiciously. “Then that makes me a fraud.”

This was not going to be easy.

“I quit the basketball team in high school, you know,” he said.

“You did?” I asked, interested in where this was going to lead.

“Yeah. Actually the coach read me out for flirting with a girl, so I quit. My father tried to make me go back and apologize, but I wouldn’t. I just wouldn’t.”

I sat there mesmerized by what he might or might not be leading up to. I could see the gymnasium with
John in blue satin shorts dribbling the ball for some blue-eyed cheerleader like I used to be.

“I got right up to the coach to do it so I’d get back on the team, but because my old man told me to do it—I didn’t.”

Hmmmm, I thought. Okay, I understand that.

“I’m no movie actor,” he said. “I don’t want to be recognized.”

I wasn’t certain whether he was serious or just testing me until I saw what happened next.

“I remember,” he said. “The morning I woke up and saw my name in the paper like I was famous or something, I hated it. I still do.”

With that, John broke down and cried. He was genuinely in pain at the thought of being famous. Yet he was an actor. As I quickly computed what was going on, I concluded that he imagined he didn’t want to do this show because it would be seen by millions of people and he would very likely be a household name for a week or two, which would shatter his sense of anonymity. I held him and let him cry. He was a man who put you in touch with every simple maternal instinct known to womankind. Finally he straightened up in his chair. He drank some juice.

“You know,” he continued, “my dentist is one of my friends. He fixed my tooth and wanted the thousand dollars right away. What kind of a friend is that?”

I took a sip of his juice.

“I guess he’s a very businesslike friend,” I said.

“Yeah,” said John sarcastically. “Some friend.”

“Yeah, I guess so,” I said. “But he does make his money being a dentist, doesn’t he? You know, like we make our living at acting.”

I wondered if it was possible to keep the subject on track somehow.

“I wouldn’t quit this project if it wasn’t for you, you know,” he said reassuringly.

“Why?” I asked.

“Because you are so supportive and understanding. You’re not mad at me. There’s no revenge or rancor in you. Why don’t you run for President?”

I could feel my eyes roll.

“Well,” I said, “mostly because I have this movie to make.”

“New York reinforces negativity and fear,” he said logically. “I have to stop doing what others want me to do. Like, I know my manager and girlfriend are back there now
discussing
my behavior. I need to blow away old habits like them. Otherwise I have to sit around listening to them not understand why I quit.”

“Uh huh,” I said, wondering how personal I should get.

“See,” he said defiantly. “Nobody will listen to me.”

I had a metaphysical flash of humor suddenly.

“I guess your name isn’t John H-E-A-R-D for nothing, is it?” I asked him.

He looked at me as though he had been shot with a tack.

Just then Anne Marie came out to the patio.

“Well, John,” she said cheerily, “how are you feeling now?”

He looked up at her. “I’ve definitely made the right decision.”

“Yes,” said Anne Marie, “you sound very clear about it.”

I shot her a look. Whose side was she on anyway?

“Life is an adventure,” she said. “We have this huge sandbox to play in. Some of us play one way. Some another.”

Anne Marie put her arms around John and ran her hands through his hair.

“You feel good about what you’re doing?” she asked. “I mean, are you prepared for the ABC people to sue you for the money you’ll cost them?”

John’s face hardened.

“Let them hang me,” he said. “Let them take everything I’ve got. I’ll go out and sell hot dogs on the street corner. Fine.” Then he said the key line.

“I reserve the right to be a failure.”

Okay, I thought. I’m in a little over my head.

Anne Marie reared back and laughed.

“Yes, you certainly do,” she assured him.

“We all play our roles to the hilt. You’re no different. From your innermost being, do you want to be a failure?”

John cocked his head. “From my innermost being?” he asked.

“Yes,” said Anne Marie, undaunted. “Are you sure your choice is what you earnestly desire?”

John saw that he could avoid his innermost being by saying “Yes!” resoundingly.

“Well, then,” said Anne Marie. “Then you are coming from a very pure place. Your actions flow from your thought. Your thought flows from God. Our bodies are nothing but coagulated thought anyway, so if you pick up your body and take its coagulated thought away from here, then you are acting from your God-self according to your own personal integrity.”

John was speechless.

“And,” she continued, “if you feel you should rearrange your life and this week has been the catalyst for doing it, so be it.”

“Yes,” said John. “I have to fire people.”

“Okay,” she said. “Fire people. I just hope you have enough ammunition left when the big lawyers train their fire on you.”

John looked at me. “She’s not talking lawsuits or anything. Are you?”

“Me?” I said. “What would I know about that? That’s not up to me. I just want you to play the part. I
need
you to play the part and I’m real sorry that
you don’t love yourself enough to follow through and do it.”

I was surprised to feel tears spring to my eyes. John saw it immediately. I made a conscious decision not to hold them back.

I got up. “I love you,” I said. “And love is what you need in your life. You are a brilliant actor. But you have to do what you have to do. I can tell you one thing, though. The third act hasn’t been played out yet. Of that I’m sure and only you know what it is.”

John stood up and I hugged him.

“Thank you,” he said shyly.

“You really are going back on that plane?” I asked. “You really are
not
going to show up for shooting on Monday?”

He looked at me as though he was experimenting with steadfastness.

“That’s right,” he said.

I turned around and walked away. I was glad I hadn’t bet Stan anything substantial. I stopped by John’s suitcase at the door.

I took a note paper from my purse and wrote:
Don’t forget the basketball. Don’t drop it now.
I put the note on his suitcase and walked out.

   Colin’s perspective on John’s leaving was that it was a flight from responsibility. John’s was that he was acting responsible to himself for the first time in his life. And mine was “He’ll be back.” Anne Marie, who had been with him for the entire week, said he was “coming from a very clear place, seemed to know his mind, and from his point of view was doing the right thing.” Stan was on the phone to every agent in town looking for a replacement.

I called Kevin Ryerson and Jach Pursel asking each of them to consult with their entities for advice. The word came back from both that there was a good possibility that John would return in forty-eight hours.

Anne Marie called and said she felt the same thing.

“Do you want him, though?” she asked. “Will the same thing happen in Peru?”

Yes, I wanted him. I felt he was supposed to play the part—not only for the film, but for himself. I wasn’t real sure what I meant by that, but I knew it would happen.

Spiritual entities seemed to be as good as anyone else when it came to professional advice in the face of crisis.

Two days later we had still not “heard” from John. The forty-eight hours were nearly up. The press had been calling. Stan fielded the questions with finesse without saying we had been advised by spiritual entities that John would be back.

On the third day I called John’s manager, Bill. He said he had only found John that afternoon because John had been lifting weights in a gym ever since he got back to New York. He said John was considering marrying Melissa because he thought we had already hired another actor. He said John was sorry he had thrown off our schedule and that people were suffering, but he was just a “nothing thin actor from New York who could be replaced in a day.” He said John had not liked his first day’s work and didn’t think he was capable of playing David.

I listened to Bill without saying much. Then he told me ABC had threatened to sue John for all he was worth if he didn’t return. I could see why the entities were right.

“Is there a chance you’d take John back?” asked Bill.

I knew John would return within the forty-eight-hour period.

After a sleepless night of phone calls back and forth between John, me, Melissa, and Stan, John allowed that “I’m not running for the People’s Party or anything, but
I don’t like to see people being hurt, so you’re killing me with kindness and ABC is killing me with lawsuits, so if you want me to, I’ll come back.”

“I want you to,” I said at 6:00 in the morning, knowing I had to be on the set in an hour. “Bring Melissa with you. We’ll have a straitjacket made for both of you.”

John laughed, seemingly delighted that I now knew what I and everyone else were getting into.

What intrigued me the most was that John Heard had the guts to do what the rest of us only fantasized about—he was truly outrageous and never gave it a second thought. He was playing a part in his life, which if portrayed on the screen would have gotten all the laughs, all the sympathy,
and
probably would be the one the audience rooted for.