She'll Take It (12 page)
Authors: Mary Carter
Chapter 11
A
s soon as I exit the drugstore and arrive safely at the next corner, I pull the navy glasses out of my pocket and notice that the ends are crushed. I blame myself; I'm usually very selective in what I steal. But the pharmacist was rounding the corner just as I reached for the glasses, and I didn't have time to examine them as carefully as I should have. Some thieves will steal things just to turn around and take the object back to the store for the cash. This works especially well if they've purchased one and stolen one. They go back into the store with the receipt from the one they've purchased, say they've changed their minds and walk out with cash. But I wasn't that type of thief. I was never after moneyâI just wanted the object.
s soon as I exit the drugstore and arrive safely at the next corner, I pull the navy glasses out of my pocket and notice that the ends are crushed. I blame myself; I'm usually very selective in what I steal. But the pharmacist was rounding the corner just as I reached for the glasses, and I didn't have time to examine them as carefully as I should have. Some thieves will steal things just to turn around and take the object back to the store for the cash. This works especially well if they've purchased one and stolen one. They go back into the store with the receipt from the one they've purchased, say they've changed their minds and walk out with cash. But I wasn't that type of thief. I was never after moneyâI just wanted the object.
If I had to force myself to analyze it further, that's probably not the truth either. I wanted the thrill of the lift. But it wasn't as thrilling when the darn things were defective. Cheap piece of plastic. No wonder I steal things. These aren't worth more than two bucks let alone $16.99. Melanie, that's not the point.
Take them back,
my little voice says. As if confirming my decision, my satchel full of supplies grows heavier on my shoulders. I might have ended up going back for more than I originally stated. So maybe now it
was
stealing. I didn't exactly ask anyone if I could take three leather binders, (okay four, but one I really was going to use at work), two staplers, twenty sticky pads, twelve rolls of Scotch tape, four glue sticks, nine erasers, and a handful of pens now did I? And if I needed them for work, why was I bringing them home? Because I don't have a desk, that's why. But I should not have taken these glasses. I turn around and march back to the store.
Take them back,
my little voice says. As if confirming my decision, my satchel full of supplies grows heavier on my shoulders. I might have ended up going back for more than I originally stated. So maybe now it
was
stealing. I didn't exactly ask anyone if I could take three leather binders, (okay four, but one I really was going to use at work), two staplers, twenty sticky pads, twelve rolls of Scotch tape, four glue sticks, nine erasers, and a handful of pens now did I? And if I needed them for work, why was I bringing them home? Because I don't have a desk, that's why. But I should not have taken these glasses. I turn around and march back to the store.
The same two women are behind the registers. One is scratching off a lotto ticket, and the other is picking at her purple nails. I stand at the counter and study the packs of gum like they were the LSATs. I can't return the glasses because first of all they're damaged and second of all, despite the defect, I can't bear to part with them. What I plan to do is pay for them like a normal person! Casually, I slip a twenty dollar bill out of my purse, set it on the counter, and sidle away. Outside I feel a new kind of thrill run through me. Not only did I pay for the glassesâbut I overpaid. $16.99 plus taxâwell okay, I didn't overpay by much, but I was definitely going to even out my karma!
“Miss. Miss!” I hear someone yell four blocks later. I just crossed Park and Forty-forth and am headed toward Lexington when she catches up with me. She is a thin middle-age Latino woman who is obviously not used to running. She is gasping for breath and her cheeks are flushed from the exertion. I note the chewed purple nail polish and the Rite Aid pin. “You drop your money,” she says, clutching a sweaty twenty in her brown hands and flashing me her yellow teeth. “I bring. You see?” She holds the twenty out like an hors d'oeuvres tray at a fancy restaurant. When I don't make a move toward it, she grabs my hands and stuffs the twenty in them.
“Are you kidding me?” I say. What is the world coming to if you can't count on basic things like dishonesty in Manhattan? Out of hundreds of thousands of nefarious salesclerks, I had to get the one who would run four blocks to return a dropped Jackson? What kind of rotten luck is that? She pats my hand and then taps my cheek like I'm a naughty puppy. “
Gracias
,” I say, wanting to throw up. Her smile grows until I can see silver flashing from within.
Gracias
,” I say, wanting to throw up. Her smile grows until I can see silver flashing from within.
“My good deed for the day, no?” she says beaming.
“
SÃ
,” I say. “Reward?” I hold the twenty back toward her. She throws her head back and laughs. Then she pinches my cheek. Really fucking hard.
SÃ
,” I say. “Reward?” I hold the twenty back toward her. She throws her head back and laughs. Then she pinches my cheek. Really fucking hard.
“Bye-bye,” she says, trotting off happily as I stand miserably clutching the slimy twenty in my guilty hands.
It's Friday night and I'm dying to go to Ray's show. Kim went to see her mother, Maura Minx who lives on the Upper West Side where she spends her weekends scouting out potential husbands. Kim's mother is a knockout, a cookie-cutter version of Kim with just a few more chips. She had Kim when she was only fifteen, and she tries to be more of a friend than a mother. Kim invited me to go along with her but the truth is, one Minx at a time is my limit. But now I'm wondering if I should have taken her up on it. Taking the supplies hasn't made me feel any better and paying for the glasses was a bust. I can't stop thinking about Ray. Did he go out with Trina last night? They probably made love too. Get your mind on other things, Melanie. You can't control Ray's penis. Quick, use self-help jargon to keep self from going insane. Imagine a door in your mind. All you need to do to keep out unwanted thoughts (like Ray eating out Trina right now) is to close the door. It's not working. Tell yourself you are closing the door. Close the door! Bolt the door! Push a huge dresser in front of the bloody door.
The door is not working. Okay don't think about him, think about you. This is New York City, the entertainment capital of the world. I am an intelligent, beautiful, young woman. I don't have to stay in on a Friday night feeling sorry for myself. Manhattan is my playground. I'm going to go out and have an adventure. But first I have to shave my legs.
A half an hour later when I'm rubbing lotion on my shaved and bloody legs, I've changed my mind. I am definitely not going to go to a bar. But a nice round of healthy, anonymous sex might be just what I need right now. Maybe I'm having trouble playing hard to get with Ray because he's the last person I had sex with. Everyone knows you can't get over someone if they're the last person you had sex with. That's what I need. Anonymous last-person sex. I don't want to know anything about him. I don't want to even say hello. I just want to fall into bed in someone else's room with nice underwear (mine) and soft lighting (theirs). I just want to have wordless, nameless, passionate sex. With condoms.
Oh God, I have to go back to condoms. I finally went on the pill for Ray. We went through our sexual histories and grilled each other about recent tests, and we came up clean so we had stopped using condoms. Oh God that sucks. This is totally, totally not fair. I should just have sex with Ray. Ha ha. Could I? I mean I could, physically I could, we could. Would he? Of course he would, wouldn't he? Wouldn't he? Oh my God, I mean it's bad enough he didn't call me for a week and he's possibly sleeping with the Wicked Witch of the West Sideâbut does he not even want to have sex with me? Calm down. He would. He would. You are not going to have sex with Ray. Stop it. I mean it. Really. I am not going to have sex with Ray. I am going to have sex with a condom and a stranger. Okay good. Call Kim, see what she thinks. She's not answering. Now what? I have on really nice underwear and I've shaved but I'm still just sitting here. It's ten o'clock. It's ten-thirty. Maybe Kim will answer now. She doesn't.
Okay so I'll go to a bar. Maybe a nice little Irish pub. I'm not going just to pick up a man, I'm going because it's a Friday night and I don't want to sit here staring at my closet. In fact, it's a social decision. I should bring something to do so I don't look like I'm going there just to get laid. What should I bring? A book? Pathetic. Who brings a book to a bar? Me. Mostly when I'm traveling. Or feigning traveling. I could bring clay and sculpt. Too messy. A camera! I could photograph drunks and prospective bedmates! I can see it now:
“What's your name?”
“Melanie Zeitgar”
“What do you do?”
“I'm a freelance photographer.” Smile! Snap! Hmm, orâ
“What's your name?”
“What's in a name?” Too cheesy. “Call me Mel.”
“What do you do, Mel?”
“I sculpt.” Get closer to the truth. “I read. I cry. I call my ex and hang up when I hear his voice. I steal. I call again. I rip the phone out of the wall and march outside in my flannel dog pajamas and throw the phone in the dumpster. I sit on the curb near the dumpster and cry some more. My ass gets wet because some idiot threw his beer on the curb and I'm the lucky spider who sat down beside her. I imagine a large vacuum sucking all of the cellulite out of my thighs. What do you do?”
On second thought, I think I'll just stay home and watch the tellie. What's on?
Sex and the City
. Perfect. I'll just watch thinner, richer, cuter, more fashionable New York women having sex and in an alternate Manhattan universe. Some days that's as good as it gets.
Sex and the City
. Perfect. I'll just watch thinner, richer, cuter, more fashionable New York women having sex and in an alternate Manhattan universe. Some days that's as good as it gets.
Chapter 12
S
aturday mornings are for sleeping in. Everyone knows this. Even if you didn't get laid the night before, Saturdays are a marvelous thing. I usually sleep until nine, pull on whatever jeans and T-shirt are lying on my floor, and go in search of a latte and a newspaper. Maybe I'll have breakfast at Moon Glow Diner where you can gaze at an aquarium full of neon fish and eat French toast for $2.99. Or I can grab a latte and egg sandwich at the corner diner. Your options are endless on a New York Saturday morning.
aturday mornings are for sleeping in. Everyone knows this. Even if you didn't get laid the night before, Saturdays are a marvelous thing. I usually sleep until nine, pull on whatever jeans and T-shirt are lying on my floor, and go in search of a latte and a newspaper. Maybe I'll have breakfast at Moon Glow Diner where you can gaze at an aquarium full of neon fish and eat French toast for $2.99. Or I can grab a latte and egg sandwich at the corner diner. Your options are endless on a New York Saturday morning.
Today I am going to get the headshots out of my closet and I'm going to pick up the
Backstage
newspaper. I'm a little bit behind since it's already Saturday and the edition came out last Wednesday, but at least it's a start. I'll see if there are any auditions on Monday and I'll force myself to go. It's occurred to me that if I want to be a working actress, I need to network. I need to surround myself with talented, working actors. And here is where I want to scream at the
Saint of Stubbing Your Toe on the Door When Opportunity Knocks
, because I was once only inches away from two very famous actors, and instead of finding a way to use their connections and fame to boost my own stalled career like any idiot would have done, I choked.
Backstage
newspaper. I'm a little bit behind since it's already Saturday and the edition came out last Wednesday, but at least it's a start. I'll see if there are any auditions on Monday and I'll force myself to go. It's occurred to me that if I want to be a working actress, I need to network. I need to surround myself with talented, working actors. And here is where I want to scream at the
Saint of Stubbing Your Toe on the Door When Opportunity Knocks
, because I was once only inches away from two very famous actors, and instead of finding a way to use their connections and fame to boost my own stalled career like any idiot would have done, I choked.
I was standing on a sidewalk next to a private supper club at nine o'clock at night wearing spiked high heels and a full-body sandwich board that read:
ASK ME WHAT VENUS DID TO MARS
. I had answered an ad in the
Backstage
calling for an actress to do promotions for an upcoming film. It paid $75 for three hours' worth of work and guaranteed you exposure to actors, directors, and agents. They had left out the bit about wearing a humiliating, heavy sandwich board in front of the rich and famous, but I was getting paid, and so far I didn't have a clue who any of these people were anyway.
ASK ME WHAT VENUS DID TO MARS
. I had answered an ad in the
Backstage
calling for an actress to do promotions for an upcoming film. It paid $75 for three hours' worth of work and guaranteed you exposure to actors, directors, and agents. They had left out the bit about wearing a humiliating, heavy sandwich board in front of the rich and famous, but I was getting paid, and so far I didn't have a clue who any of these people were anyway.
And they were just as happy to ignore me. In fact, they were more than ignoring me, they were walking around me and looking at me sideways the way you would a drunken lunatic with a jar of change. Blocks earlier, as I waddled my way toward the supper club (I didn't want to waste my $75 on a taxi so I had walked forty blocks instead), I noticed a guy standing underneath a storefront smoking a cigarette. I knew him from somewhere. I stopped and stared at him, trying to place him. He puffed on his cigarette, tilted his head at me, and smiled.
“Village School of Acting,” I said to him.
“What?”
“I know you from somewhere. Did you go to the Village School of Acting?”
He smiled politely and shook his head. I shrugged (not easy to do when you're wearing a sandwich board) and asked if he ever did any temping.
“No, not really.”
“I swear I know you from somewhere,” I said, shaking my finger at him.
He looked me up and down and said, “What did Venus do to Mars?”
“I don't have a fucking clue,” I answered honestly. He laughed, and for a moment I laughed along with him. He had a nice face, but I was suddenly afraid that I knew him from my stint at the psyche ward and I wanted to get out of there before he recognized me. I mean, maybe he thought I was wearing this sandwich board because I was still a nutter.
Before running away, I offered him a promotional flyer, which he turned down, and asked him if I could bum a cigarette. I was in my smoking phase then, and I figured if you're going to be a sandwich board, you might as well be a smoking one. But then the guy had the nerve to say that he would give me a cigarette only if I could tell him what Venus did to Mars.
“I'm an actress,” I huffed. “If you wanted to know so bad you'd take one of my fliers and go see the goddamn movie.” I'm not usually such a bitch, but walking forty blocks in stilettos and fifty pounds of plywood had a way of putting a girl in a foul humor. I threw my head back and stalked off as gracefully as I could under the circumstances.
Just ahead, I saw the entrance to the supper club where a line of beautifully dressed, famous, happy people were waiting to get in. I positioned myself near the end of line, wearing my sandwich board, holding my fliers. I had yet to see anyone famous, but any one of them could be a writer, a director, or an agent! I smiled. I wished this bloody sandwich board showed more of my body. Nobody wanted a flyer. I was still stewing about the jerk in the alley, who, I guess if I was honest, hadn't really done anything wrong. He had a nice smile too. But he could have taken a flierâand for all I know he was an ex-nutter himself. But I was starting to wonder if maybe I
should
know what Venus did to Mars. Why didn't I think to ask? I guess I could make something up, but what if these people went to the film based on my review and it was about something totally different. Oh. My. God. What if it's a porno flick?
should
know what Venus did to Mars. Why didn't I think to ask? I guess I could make something up, but what if these people went to the film based on my review and it was about something totally different. Oh. My. God. What if it's a porno flick?
My mind was launched into a sudden, pornographic panic, when suddenly, there he wasâKiefer Sutherland, in the flesh, whisking past me, making his way to the front of the line. And although this was the big break I had been waiting for, I suddenly wanted to die. Please don't see me, please don't see me, please don't see me. And since he was already at the front of the line, I believed the Saints were going to spare me. And then it happened.
In slow motion he turned around, leaned past the people in line behind him, commanding all of their attention, and looked me directly in the eye with a big grin. “What
did
Venus do to Mars?” he asked as if he knew it was a porno flick. I opened my mouth and squeaked. And then the mysterious redhead from blocks earlier, or Eric Stoltz, as I had now realized him to be, brushed past me and joined Kiefer at the front of the line, but not before tossing me a cigarette and winking. To this day I regret that I didn't get them to autograph my sandwich board and I didn't keep the cigarette Eric threw to me. If I had, I could have at least sold it on eBay.
did
Venus do to Mars?” he asked as if he knew it was a porno flick. I opened my mouth and squeaked. And then the mysterious redhead from blocks earlier, or Eric Stoltz, as I had now realized him to be, brushed past me and joined Kiefer at the front of the line, but not before tossing me a cigarette and winking. To this day I regret that I didn't get them to autograph my sandwich board and I didn't keep the cigarette Eric threw to me. If I had, I could have at least sold it on eBay.
Instead I burned the sandwich board in an alley while smoking and fuming that I didn't have a quick monologue about Venus and Mars at the ready. I could have stunned the crowd with my stunning acting abilities, and Kiefer and Eric would have whisked me inside making me the newest member of the Brat Pack. But no, instead of jumping on my fifteen minutes of fame and reciting a brilliant, eloquent, dramatic rendition of
WHAT VENUS DID TO MARS
, I squeaked. It sent me on a twenty-one-day nonstop stealing binge, and to this day I can't even think of our solar system without lamenting the unfairness of it all.
WHAT VENUS DID TO MARS
, I squeaked. It sent me on a twenty-one-day nonstop stealing binge, and to this day I can't even think of our solar system without lamenting the unfairness of it all.
The trip down memory lane has deflated me and I need a pick-me-up. Maybe I'll take a trip to Strand Bookstore and wander around the East Village. But first I need a latte. There's no sense in ruining a beautiful Saturday with ghosts of acting jobs past. I'm going to tackle the day with a sense of freedom and optimism!
I'm kneeling in a confessional. My beautiful Saturday plans didn't work out so well. I got the latte all right and then went to the Strand, but I ended up stuffing
Your Karma, Your Self
down my pants. Then I set the alarm offâwhich was quite a shock considering I didn't even realize they had an alarm. Luckily, there were three of us going out at the same time and I'm the only one who stuck around when the employee stomped out to see what was going on. I held my arms up and opened my purse, and when the search didn't reveal anything I pointed down the other street toward the other two. “You'll have to run after them if you're going to catch them,” I told him. I was sorely disappointed when he didn't.
Your Karma, Your Self
down my pants. Then I set the alarm offâwhich was quite a shock considering I didn't even realize they had an alarm. Luckily, there were three of us going out at the same time and I'm the only one who stuck around when the employee stomped out to see what was going on. I held my arms up and opened my purse, and when the search didn't reveal anything I pointed down the other street toward the other two. “You'll have to run after them if you're going to catch them,” I told him. I was sorely disappointed when he didn't.
“I'm not a religious freak,” I say.
“I see,” Father Lorry replies.
“If I had to categorize myself, I'd say I was a vicarious Catholic.”
There is silence.
“What is a vicarious Catholic?” he says at last.
I sit back and try to relax. “Well,” I explain, “I don't go to church and I don't believe in hellâexcept here on earthâbut I really like the Saints.” There is no immediate reply, so I wait.
Is he judging me? They aren't supposed to do that, are they? Then again, they aren't supposed to touch altar boys either, and we all know how that one is going. “I've never done this before, Father. Should I call you Father?” I squeak. Through the wire mesh window I can see his black robe and his head of salt and pepper hair trimmed at the edges. He is bent toward me, listening.
“Call me Father Lorry,” he says at last.
“I really like the Saints,” I say again, relieved he's still talking to me. “I pray to them all the time.” This seems to peak his interest.
“Which ones do you like?” he asks.
“Well,” I say, stalling for time, “there's Saint Anthony. I pray to him whenever I lose anything. Like keys or phone numbers. Oh, and one time he helped me find my purseâthat was a really good save because I had just cashed a check and was loaded.” Just as I think he's warming up to me, silence descends once again. “That's all I can come up with right now,” I say defensively.
“I see,” he says again.
I start to feel like this isn't going well. Does he think I'm greedy?
“I don't just pray for things or money, I pray for people too. Like once Ray couldn't find his guitar pick right before a show and I prayed for him.” There, that should show him that I think of others too.
“I see,” he says.
Does he know he's said this like twelve times already? Is this a real priest or have I reached a recording?
“It may not sound like much to you Father, but it was his lucky pick. Ray can't play without his lucky pick. So I prayed to Saint Anthony and lo and behold I found the pick inâ” I stop, suddenly remembering where I found the pick. It wasn't lost at all. I had stolen it and put it in my underwear because I was trying to talk to Ray and he wouldn't stop strumming. Ray hated to play without his pick, so it was an effective maneuver. Not as effective as I would like, since I wanted him to remove it with his tongue.
Now why didn't he take me up on that? Because he was focused on his music, that's why. I mean that's the only reason. What other reason could there be? Obviously he was tempted to remove it with his tongue, wasn't he? And he did eventually retrieve the pick, and okay he used his hand instead and even though it wasn't my first choice it did the trick, didn't it? In fact it really, really did the trick, and the memory is making me squirm. Oh my God, I'm not supposed to get sexually excited in the middle of confession am I? Or am I? Am I supposed to confess that I'm getting turned on? No way. I'm not confessing that. Besides it's not confession getting me all worked up, it's thinking about Ray's hand going after the damn pick. Father Lorry doesn't want all the gory details, does he?
Or does he? Is this how they get their kicks? I should change the subject. Think about something else. Think about anything else. Pray to the
Saint of Disgusting Thoughts
to distract you. Think about getting the flu. War. Overflowing outhouses. Severed limbs. Okay, okay it's working. I'm not at all turned on now. “I even prayed to him when I lost my virginity,” I hear myself say. Oh. My. God. Did I just say that to a priest? MelanieâI remind myselfâthat's strictly a bar joke. I hear a shuffling noise and wonder if he's trying to move even farther away from me. “And uhâSaint uhâMichael. Isn't there a Saint Michael?” I squeak. I'm drowning here Father, throw me a bone!
Saint of Disgusting Thoughts
to distract you. Think about getting the flu. War. Overflowing outhouses. Severed limbs. Okay, okay it's working. I'm not at all turned on now. “I even prayed to him when I lost my virginity,” I hear myself say. Oh. My. God. Did I just say that to a priest? MelanieâI remind myselfâthat's strictly a bar joke. I hear a shuffling noise and wonder if he's trying to move even farther away from me. “And uhâSaint uhâMichael. Isn't there a Saint Michael?” I squeak. I'm drowning here Father, throw me a bone!
Do you mean Saint Michael the Archangel?” Father Lorry asks.
“Of course,” I say as if I had heard of him.
“The Saint of Thieves,” Father Lorry says.
“I see.” I start to cough. “May I have some water please?” Why did he mention thieves? Is it possible God knows everything I've done and is taunting me through Father Lorry? Maybe this is where I die, choking on my own saliva, before I can absolve my sins. What happens then? Does it count that I was about to confess?
“Of course my dear. Wait here,” Father Lorry says. He opens the door to the confessional, and I listen to his shoes clomp down the hall. My first instinct is to run, to get out of this hot box, but I'm frozen to my spot.
I wonder how many Hail Marys he would dole out if I told him everything. I wonder if he's ever coming back. Maybe he thinks I'm insane. Has he listened to so many confessions he can peg the crazy ones in a matter of seconds? Just as I've convinced myself that he's calling the police or scrounging about for a straight jacket, I hear the familiar clomp coming toward me and a few seconds later he opens the window and hands me a glass of water. “Thank you, Father,” I say.
For a moment I wonder what it would be like if he were my dad and I was his daughter stopping by on the way to school. Would I have to confess all my deeds, every day? Jesus, that would be draining. Then I remember priests can't marry. Maybe it's for the best. I wanted to ask him if he thought the whole celibacy thing had perverted his sexual drive, but we were there to talk about me, not him. The water tasted stale. “Is this holy or regular?” I ask.
Again, I'm greeted by a thick, dark silence, and just as I'm about to write Father Lorry off as a dud, he laughs. He has a deep, comforting laugh, and it relaxes me. “To tell you the truth, Father, I don't really know the names of all the Saints. I kind of make them up as I go along and then pray to them. Is that okay?”
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