New York Echoes (14 page)

As they sipped their
drinks, mainly white wine or vodka on the rocks, the conversation was mostly
focused on law firm gossip, economic themes, and the state of the market. One
of the senior partners Harry Lillienthal, was the obvious “eminence gris” of
the group. A man in his sixties, he had met Bob on other occasions. He wore a
polka dot bowtie on a striped blue shirt and a dark striped suit with a vest
from which hung a Phi Beta Kappa key. His wife was mousy, mostly silent, and
morose. With a self-important person like Lillienthal for a spouse, Bob could
understand her persona.

The lady partner was
Sharon Folker, carefully groomed in a black dress and a string of clearly
authentic white pearls. Her spouse was a psychiatrist with a disconcerting
nervous blinking twitch, whose lips seemed fixed in a perpetual Cheshire cat
smile as if he could read the assembled guests' thoughts and was amused by
them.

The third partner was
colorless with a pale narrow face. His name was David Arnold and his wife was a
social worker for the City of New York, with tight gray hair and large glasses
that magnified her intense eyes, and the general demeanor of one who, to Bob,
seemed the quintessential stereotype of an outspoken activist, the kind that
had no doubts at all about the righteousness of her cause whatever that may be.

After drinks and hors
d'oeuvres with the initial socialization rituals of the group, they moved on to
the dining room. The table was festive with a large floral centerpiece and the
proper glasses and plates sparkling from the reflection of the crystal
chandelier that hung over the table.

Inevitably, despite
all of Irma's precautions, the talk turned to the present state of world
turmoil. Irma shot a cautionary glance at Bob, to which Bob nodded his
understanding. No politics, no matter what.

“This president is
ruining our country,” Harry said, responding to a remark by the activist spouse
who, as he had predicted in his mind, was fixated on civil rights. “We are
losing our freedoms.”

“They are certainly
whittling down our rights,” the social worker said. “The Patriot Act is a
travesty. This is merely the opening gun of a campaign by these Right Wing
fanatics to make us slaves to their self-righteous notions, most of them
fostered by the evangelicals.”

“No question that our
rights are being eroded,” the lady partner agreed, seconded by the activist who
nodded her approval. “This is the worst administration in memory.”

“He should be
impeached,” the psychiatrist said.

“Of course, the war
will settle his mess,” Lillienthal said. “It was a stupid blunder and has
robbed us of young people and treasure. It will end in disaster.”

“It was a stupid
move,” the activist said, her lips curled in contempt.

“Think of all the
billions we are wasting that could be used to help the our growing underclass,”
the social worker said.

“The uneducated morons
are taking over,” the lady partner said. “And the president is the chief
moron.”

The conversation
proceeded along those lines, with Irma glancing at Bob and trying all sort of
ploys to deflect the conversation to another area. Bob listened as the vitriol
grew more and more intense. The president, Rumsfeld, Rice, everyone connected
to the present administration was subjected to withering criticism, roundly
agreed to by everyone. There was, of course, no dissent, as each person
eloquently articulated the prevailing opinion of the group as if, in their
business and social travels, they had never heard one word of opposition. Bob,
determined to keep his promise to Irma, kept his silence, although he answered
their criticisms in his mind.

Even Irma, being the
good hostess, offered her opinion of the general catastrophe by agreeing with
their views. It struck Bob as somewhat ingenuous since she managed to avoid
expressing such thoughts with such adamant conviction when they were together.
She exchanged glances with Bob, as if to say that she was merely being
diplomatic. It struck him suddenly that she was, indeed, on the same wavelength
of these people, not just sucking up.

Her attitude seemed to
give him permission to finally join the conversation as if she had violated
some unwritten rule. There seemed no point in remaining silent, although he
promised himself to be cautious and circumspect.

“What about
terrorism?” Bob said gently, watching all eyes turn toward him. He caught Irma
shooting a glance at the ceiling. “We haven't been attacked in more than four
years.”

“We've been lucky,”
Harry Lillienthal said.

“Thank the Lord,” the
lady partner said.

“Maybe the threat is
overblown,” the psychiatrist said. “Generating fear is good politics for the
crazies who run our government.”

“It got the
son-of-a-bitch elected,” the activist said.

“Surely something the
administration is doing is protecting us,” Bob said without sarcasm.

“They'd like us to
believe that,” the social worker said. “Gives them a good excuse to bring us
closer to dictatorship.”

“Isn't that a bit
harsh?” Bob said.

“The handwriting is on
the wall,” the activist said. “It's all a ploy.”

“The president has
brought us to a potential disaster. We are paying the piper for his stupidity,”
Lillienthal said, his cheeks coloring. “The man is a disaster, an ignorant
fool.”

“A graduate of Yale
and Harvard,” Bob said, unable to contain himself, breaking his promise,
although he delivered the comment as a kind of joke.

“He wouldn't be the
first fool to have graduated from those schools,” Lillienthal said, going along
with the joke.

“He should never have
gone into Iraq,” the psychiatrist said, his eyes blinking uncontrollably. “That
was not where the terrorists came from.”

“They were all
involved,” Bob said. “All the Arabs.”

“Are you saying there
are no good Arabs?” the social worker asked. “Isn't that a rather intolerant
assessment?”

“Not all Arabs are
terrorists,” Bob said, “but all terrorists are Arabs.”

“Timothy McVeigh was
not an Arab,” the activist shot back.

“Point well taken,”
Bob said, retreating. “We have our own homegrown fascists. I can't deny that.”

“Yes we do,” the
activist said. “Right Wing fanatics.”

Bob was silent for a
long moment as each of the guests in turn expressed themselves with what he
termed in his mind, the usual clichés of their political persuasion. A quick
glance at Irma told him what was going through her mind. He knew he was totally
isolated, probably dismissed, irrelevant and powerless, a mere underwear
salesman.

“Don't any of you
remember what happened on September 11?”

“Of course they
remember,” Irma said, her voice on the edge of panic.

“An awful experience,”
Harry Lillienthal said. “Who can forget?”

“We were attacked by
people that want to kill us,” Bob said. “They still want to kill us. The threat
has grown, not abated. I'm surprised none of you realize that.”

“We do realize it,”
the activist said. “We are not stupid. It's just the way this president is
going about meeting the threat is counterproductive.”

“The president is
using fear tactics to limit our civil rights, make us subservient to his will,”
the social worker said.

“Aren't we getting too
political?” Irma intervened in obvious desperation.

“I think you all
forgot what happened,” Bob said.

“That's ridiculous,”
the activist said. “How can anyone forget?”

“I beg to differ,” Bob
said, trying to retain an air of politeness. After all, he was the host.

“You mean you agree
with that man,” Harry Lillienthal said, a clearly lawyerly challenge.

“Are you saying that
you don't believe we are fighting a war for survival, fighting a foe that has
no respect for life? Who wants us in the West to buy into his corrupted view,
his Islamic fascist fantasy? He wants to kill us if we don't conform. He has no
mercy, no human compassion.”

“I guess we have a
different view of things,” the psychiatrist said.

“I feel sorry for
you,” the activist said. “You just don't see the conspiracy they are hatching.”

“And you are all
suffering from memory lapse.”

There it was, he knew.
He had crossed the line. It was too late now.

“I'd like to show you
something,” Bob said.

“No that, Bob.
Please,” Irma begged.

“What do you want us
to see?” the lady partner asked.

“I wouldn't, Bob.”

“But I would,” Bob
said. He got up, went into his bedroom, got the tape from a bottom drawer, and
brought it out. He could tell that they had been talking about him.

“I wish you wouldn't,”
Irma said, her voice cracking. “Not that horrid thing.”

“What is it you want
to show us?” the psychiatrist asked.

“It isn't necessary,
Bob,” Irma pleaded.

“Yes it is. Come on.
This is important.”

They followed him into
the den.

“What is it we'll be
watching?” Harry Lillienthal asked.

“You'll see.”

“I wish you wouldn't,
Bob,” Irma begged.

“These people need a
refresher course,” Bob said. “They are looking through the wrong end of the
telescope.”

“He just won't give it
up,” Irma cried in frustration.

“Maybe we should
listen to her,” the psychiatrist said.

Bob popped the tape
into the machine and the images appeared on the big screen.

“I took these myself,”
Bob said. “You probably have never seen this.”

“I can't watch it. Not
again.” Irma sighed.

The tape unreeled in
all its portrayed horror. The guests were glued to the images, watching people
jumping out of windows, shoes flying. They were mesmerized.

“You shot this
yourself?” the activist asked.

“Pure coincidence,”
Bob said, not explaining the circumstances.

From the corner of his
eye, he saw Irma start to leave the room.

“How absolutely
awful,” the lady partner said. “Why did they have to jump?”

It seemed too
self-evident to deserve an answer.

Suddenly a sharp crack
in the screen distorted the images, which continued to run. Irma had thrown a
piece of sculpture at the television, producing a lightning like fissure.

“I can't stand it
anymore,” she cried, rushing out of the room.

“I see what she
means,” Lillienthal said. “This is horrendous.”

“I never saw this,”
the social worker said. “It's beyond belief.”

The images continued
to move on the cracked screen.

“Good God,” the
activist said. “Desperation makes people act without logic.”

“What would you have
done?” Bob asked.

The group continued to
watch, unable to tear their eyes away from the screen, despite the crack on the
screen.

“I guess you've played
this many times before,” the social worker said. “It is hard to watch.”

“Yes it is,” the wife
of Lillienthal agreed, breaking her silence. She turned her eyes away.

“I can see why Irma is
so stressed,” the psychiatrist said. “You should have spared her.”

“I had to remind you,
didn't I?”

“Do you think we
needed a reminder?” the activist asked.

“Desperately so,” Bob
said. “You people are a menace. You are looking through the wrong end of the
telescope. I think . . .”

“I think we had better
leave,” Harry Lillienthal interrupted as he looked at Bob.

“You just don't get
it,” Bob sighed. “Your minds are closed.”

“I feel sorry for
you,” the activist said.

“Don't you believe the
evidence of your eyes?” Bob asked.

“I think you better go
and comfort your wife,” the psychiatrist said. “We had better go now.”

They started to file
out of the apartment, awkward and embarrassed. The plates with the main dish
had been taken away and replaced with dessert plates. Bob could tell that even
the catering people were embarrassed.

“It's OK,” he said
when the guests were gone. “Just clean up and I'll write you a check.” He
shrugged. “Shit happens.”

In the bedroom, Irma
lay supine on the bed, head down. She had been sobbing, but when he came into
the room, she lifted her head.

“You've ruined
everything,” she said hoarsely.

“They needed to be
reminded,” he said. He felt no remorse.

“You've ruined
everything,” she repeated.

She was right, of
course.

He knew then that it
was over between them. Another score for the terrorists, he thought. They were
winning.

“My name is Bruce and
I'm your server,” Bruce said, yet again. He prided himself on memorizing the
specials. He was, after all, an actor and he had been a server for nearly two
decades now, working in upscale restaurants in Manhattan and Los Angeles while
pursuing what he considered his true vocation, acting.

He lived with Marilyn,
his girlfriend of three years. She too considered herself an actress, having
done a number of commercials and small parts in off- and off-off-Broadway
shows. When she wasn't working at her craft, which was most of the time, she
also waited tables in various restaurants in their neighborhood in the East Village.

They shared the rent
in a tiny one-bedroom apartment and earned enough to live on the fringes of a
gentrified New York lifestyle, largely because they were able to defy the
Internal Revenue Service by not declaring all of their tips. They attended
acting classes, usually in the early morning hours or between the lunch and
dinner hours and could afford workouts at a sports club a few blocks from their
apartment. Above all, actors had to keep in shape and, of course, continue to
hone their acting skills, a lifetime career requirement.

Bruce was always on the lookout for
someone in the business who could make hiring decisions. He was not bashful
about supplying someone with a picture and resume; a long shot, he knew, but
cheerfully offered. One never knew when lightning would strike. It had once
when he got to play the part of the gravedigger in
Hamlet
at the Dorothy
Chandler Pavilion in LA by playing pickup basketball in the schoolyard of Beverly Hills High School.

“It's all about contacts and
connections,” he lectured to his various girlfriends or anyone who would
listen. It was, of course, the prevailing opinion in the business. “It has
nothing to do with talent. We know we have talent, but in our business, you need
a platform to truly display it.”

The gravedigger part lasted
approximately six weeks and so far it had been the highlight of his so-called
career. He was not loath to mention it repeatedly to the various agents with
whom he was briefly attached and with whom he periodically parted company when
they didn't or couldn't deliver. After ten years in Los Angeles, he went back
to New York, where he concluded people were more genuine. Besides, as he told
himself, he preferred live stage to film. Not that he was averse to taking film
roles or commercials if offered, and he did have some film walk-ons or
one-liners through the years, but his real love, as he trumpeted often, was
live theater.        

Although he was generally considered
reasonably handsome with a rugged, sculpted face, a cleft chin, and good,
well-whitened teeth and a full head of hair now graying at the edges, he saw
himself now as a character actor and, as he aged, felt that his casting
opportunities might increase as others dropped out of the business. One of his
girlfriends told him that his main attraction was that he was handsome, with a
body still defined by musculature, and above all not gay.

His father had been an insurance
salesman in Portland, Maine. He was in a nursing home now on the public dole
and could not recognize his only son. He had not encouraged his son's setting
off on an acting career.

“The world belongs to the salesman,” his
father had preached.

“Yeah, like Willy Loman,” Bruce had
countered.

“Who?”

His mother, who had grown up in a tiny
town in western Maine, hadn't a clue of her son's passion and died still
befuddled.

Some of Bruce's breakups, especially
with women not in the business, seemed to have the same root cause, his
commitment to his career, more so than settling down and pursuing family life.
He framed his excuse in economic terms, pointing out that until he made it, he
wouldn't be able to support all the obligations of marriage and the possibility
of children. As for the women he lived with who were in the business, it was a
given that they were as obsessed as he was in making it in their chosen
profession.

One of them had been cast as a regular
in a sitcom lasting two seasons, a career spike that was always a prime breakup
reason for couples in the business. She now worked as a receptionist in a
dental office in the Valley. Considering all the angst, competitiveness, and
rejection in the business, he considered waiting on tables as a reasonable
enabler, until his acting ship came in. He had steeled himself against the
possibility it wouldn't, learning long ago that any negativity and its
implications would be counterproductive to his aspirations.

Besides, he had reached an age where
other career possibilities had narrowed and he knew in his gut that he would
never surrender his dream, no matter what. Marilyn had told him during the
first week of their affair that what she admired most about him was his
optimism and hopefulness about his career.

“It will happen,” he assured her. “You
can't get wet unless you're out in the rain.”

“That's really inspiring, Bruce,” she
told him.

Lately though, Marilyn was beginning to
sing another tune. She was thirty-six and considered by people of the business
as hard to cast, no longer an ingénue and not old enough for real character
parts. She continued her acting and voice lessons and had once been an
understudy in a long-forgotten off-Broadway musical. A Midwestern girl, she had
been helped along early on by her family, her cheerleaders ever since she got
the lead parts in her high school plays. They felt certain, along with her
neighbors, cousins, and classmates that she was headed to stardom.

By the time she met Bruce, her parents
had died, still convinced that she was a star or, at the very least, headed for
stardom. She rarely went back to her hometown, fearful of facing those who were
once convinced that she would end up on the silver screen or as the toast of
Broadway. She had been married for two years to an aspiring artist she met
while waiting tables in the meatpacking district in Manhattan. Frustration and
lack of traction as an artist in New York had driven him off to the west
somewhere, and she was still searching for him in an effort to finalize a
divorce.

With Bruce's never-say-die attitude and
optimism, she felt comforted and continued the pursuit of acting jobs. When she
was younger, she had studied dance and voice and had been to numerous
unsuccessful auditions for the big musicals that left her depressed and
disgusted with the process. Once, she had taken a course in how to audition,
but it didn't help.

Somehow she soldiered
on, bouncing around with various boyfriends until she moved in with Bruce, who
seemed the perfect antidote for her galloping sense of failure. Lately, his
cheerleading was having less and less effect.

After yet another unsuccessful audition,
unable to face the rest of the day, she called in sick for her table-waiting
job, went back to the apartment she shared with Bruce, and contemplated her
future. It was time, she thought. Time to let go. Although she had come to that
point before, Bruce had put her back on track and gave her the push to keep
going. Until that moment.

He found her curled up in a fetal
position on their battered couch. She had finished a half bottle of wine, which
had given her, instead of a high, a massive low.

“Not even a callback,” she said. Such
tiny bursts of hope were fast disappearing.

“Tomorrow is another day,” Bruce said.
“Put your head down and move forward.”

“Isn't it time you desisted from that
bullshit, Bruce?”

“Now, now. You're letting negativity
take over. Didn't we agree? No more negativity. We stay in pursuit, always in
pursuit.”

“Get real, Bruce,” she muttered.

“I am real. Stay the course. We're the
lucky ones. We know what we want and are willing to follow our dream wherever
it takes us.”

“Over the bridge that goes nowhere,” she
sighed, uncurling from her fetal position and pouring herself another glass of
wine. She took a deep sip and looked at him with glazed eyes. “Look at me,
Bruce. My looks are in decline. I'm thirty-six years old and I haven't had an
acting job or anything close to it in three years.”

“Negativity, negativity. Don't you
realize how debilitating it is to think like that? That kind of attitude is
counterproductive. You've got to look in the mirror and say: I can do it. I can
do it. Do you really think that by giving up your dream you'll be better off?”

“Maybe,” she shrugged. “There are other
things in life.”

“Not for people like us, Marilyn. We
need the dream. It makes us run. In the end, we'll prevail. You'll see.”

“Computers,” she said suddenly. “That
seems to be the thing. Computers. Or maybe even becoming a personal trainer.
What's wrong with switching careers? You've got to be flexible.”

“You're an actor, Marilyn, a performer.
That's what you are. One day . . .”

She stood up, paced the floor over the
threadbare Oriental rug that they bought at a sale a couple of years ago. Then
she looked around at the mismatched furniture, mostly castoffs that they
purchased at the Salvation Army store.

“This place sucks,” she said. “A dump.”
She sighed. “The American dream.”

“Marilyn, cut it out, you're filling the
place with bad Karma.”

“And you're filling the place with
bullshit.”

Bruce laughed or wanted it to be seen as
a laugh. He could see it coming. He had seen it all before. Why are these
breakups such clichés, he wondered? He would have said so but he had no desire
to hurt her.

“Maybe in the morning,” he muttered,
singing a few bars of the
Annie
song. “The sun will come up tomorrow . .
.”

For a long time, she continued to pace.
He watched her as she moved with ever-increasing speed up and back, moving her
lips as if she were talking to herself. Finally she turned.

“Do you really believe you're an actor,
Bruce?”

Here it comes, he thought.

“In my gut, Marilyn. In my gut.”

She paced again, shook her head and
turned to face him.

“You're not an actor, Bruce. You're just
lying to yourself. You're a goddamned waiter, that's what you are, a fucking
waiter. And I'm a waitress. That is what defines us. That is our occupation. We
are not in show business. We are in the food industry, hustling tips to get by,
barely.” She grew silent for a moment, paced, then began again. “Look at this
dump. Where are we going, Bruce? Yeah we're actors, but in the play in our
head, a fucking fantasy. Look down the road, Bruce. Where are we going? I'll
tell you where. From table to table, telling people about the specials.
Something something on a bed of something something.”

Suddenly she screamed, then collapsed on
the couch.

“Enough is enough,” she muttered.

Bruce had listened with patient resolve.
He had heard it all before. She was jumping ship. It was useless to convince
her otherwise. Sometimes he had seen it happen by degrees. Sometimes, as with Marilyn,
it would happen suddenly, like an epiphany. Out of her own frustration, she had
lashed out at him.

“Nobody, but nobody,” he told her
gently, “will ever take away my dream. Not ever. If you were a real actor, a
committed actor, you would understand. I am an actor. I will always be an actor
until the day I die.”

That said, he went
into the bedroom, brushed his teeth, rubbed on night cream, put on his pajamas,
and got into bed. He had to get up early. He had an acting class in the
morning.