Just North of Whoville (2 page)

To be fair, I did work. I was always directing something. I just didn’t get paid.

That’s the funny thing about artists. We love what we do. We’d even do it for free.

Unfortunately, other people know this about us.

No one, but no one, has a friend who will show up everyday for six to eight weeks to help them move for beer and pizza.

But that’s what theatre people do every time we commit to a show.

Sometimes we don’t even get the beer and pizza.

As theatre artists, we often even pay for the van. We buy special moving gloves that we save and put into our “prop” suitcase because we might need them for another move someday. We work on our “lift with your knees, not your back” technique because it’s part of our craft. Why? Because we LOVE moving! Especially if it’s a really challenging move, like say there’s a piano or something. Oh!---We love a challenge!

We’ll even alert all our friends, “Hey! I’m helping this guy move Saturday night! Come out and watch me move some crap around! It’s going to be an AWESOME move and it’s only fifteen dollars to watch! Two-for-ones with my discount code FREE BOXES. Hurry! It’s a small apartment so will be sure to sell out! Hope to see you there!”

Nobody wants to pay to watch you move. Not even your friends.

But we don’t care---we just love doing it. We will move crap up and down the stairs for years without ever seeing a dime. And we do all this heavy lifting because we hope that one day we’ll have the opportunity of trying to squeeze a large, awkwardly shaped sofa into a too-narrow doorway. Every one will say, “You’re crazy! It’s impossible!”

But we’ve had training. And we’ll be able to call upon our knowledge of geometry and leverage and magically squeeze that sofa thru the doorway. A cheer will go up. Hooray!!! And as we’re standing there shaking, sweaty and taking our bow, there will be a guy who’s been watching us do the impossible.

And that guy will come up to us and say, “You’re an amazing mover! I’ve never seen anyone do what you just did. We’re going to be moving stuff out of Buckingham Palace next week. We’ll fly you to London, put you up in the finest hotel and pay you a million dollars.”

And scene.

It’s not about the money. Ask anyone in theatre. We just truly love our jobs. Try convincing a moving company that, “If you really loved your job, you would move my crap for free.”

Good luck with that.

Five months ago, I finally got an industry job. Well, sort of.

I work at a modeling agency. At least that’s what they call it. In truth, it’s more like a modeling school. One of those fly-by-night operations that’s pretty close to being a scam. Hundreds of dollars for pictures, a few hundred more for classes teaching you how to walk, how to wear clothes, how to apply makeup and, our latest addition to the curriculum---“Marketing Your Extremities: What Every Hand and Foot Model Should Know”.

Of course, we can’t get you work. Well, paying work. We have a regular contract with the Hicksville Mall and supply all the models for their Spring and Fall Fashion show. We get paid. The models don’t.

Nevertheless, there’s fierce competition amongst the models for one of these plum spots. Models are not the brightest bulbs on the planet. But they love their job, too. So I get it.

Occasionally we do get a few calls for paying work. Mostly non-profits and local small businesses looking for faces and bodies to appear in their newspaper and late-night cable ads. One of our guys did an ad for Hymie’s Big and Tall Men’s Shop in Brooklyn a few months back. A copy of the ad was boldly displayed on the home page of our website for months. That is, till Gwendolyn Shaughnessy got the ad for Diaper Dud’s. Babies are a special sort of scam. Deb’s in charge of that. She knows just what to say to get the mothers to bite. Actually, not too difficult. Every mother who walks thru that door is convinced that their baby is the most beautiful of them all. To me, they all look pretty much the same.

Not that my opinion matters. I’m just the temp.

Last night was Halloween. A childhood fear of clowns had, over the years, grown to a fear of any masked character. Halloween was difficult. Especially in New York where one wonders if the mask is simply a merry masquerade or a disguise for the security cams.

This year, I stayed home, dressed up the cat in a ballerina costume, and watched an old scary movie from the 50s.

Halloween. Check.

And that’s where my story begins.

The morning after Halloween started off bad. You see, I have a leaky ceiling. So the better part of my morning was spent emptying buckets and bowls and squeezing out wet towels. This had been going on for three weeks. I suppose I should have said something. But with an illegal sublease, I had to watch my step.

Also, I made the mistake the night before of leaving my jacket on the sofa. It was now covered in a coat of cat hair so thick it could decimate a lint roller in ten minutes.

Then there was the message from my Mom that picked up while I was in the shower:

“
Dorrie? It’s just Mom. Hope you had a nice Halloween. Just wanted to know if you were coming home for Christmas? I was telling your father, maybe we haven’t heard from her because she found a boyfriend! Wouldn’t that be nice! Anywho, we were thinking about you all alone in that big city and wanted you to know you can come home anytime you want…”

And then, my old college coffee maker finally broke down. So the morning after Halloween, I went to the corporate coffee shop down the street where, apparently, it was already Christmas.

Holiday mugs. Hot chocolate sets. Snowflake-shaped after-coffee mints. Their suggested stocking stuffers of “homemade” gingerbread cookies and holiday-packaged bags containing their annual signature Christmas Blend. Everything in green and red and silver and gold. There was even a huge-ass tree strung with coffee beans and ornaments shaped like coffee cups. And the worst part of all---Christmas music.

I just wanted a cup of coffee. Not a sleigh ride.

“
Good morning! Would you like to try our signature Christmas Blend?”

“
It’s too early,” I mumbled.

“
Well…I guess nine o’clock is early for some people…”

“
No,” I said, barely able to speak. “Christmas. It’s too early.”

“
It’s the day after Halloween. That’s when the Christmas magic begins!”

“
But yesterday the special was Pumpkin Spice and today it’s…” I looked around at the posters. “Peppermint swirl?”

“
Well, it’s only six weeks till Christmas,” Little Miss Morning Sunshine dared to explain. “And we’ve got all this stuff to…”

“
Seven.”

“
What?”

“
It’s seven weeks. I know. It’s seven weeks.”

“
Um…” she seemed confused. “Did you WANT the Pumpkin Spice? Because I might have some syrup….”

“
No. Just coffee.”

“
The Christmas Blend?”

“
No Christmas. Just coffee.”

“
Okay,” she smiled and turned around to pour my coffee, seemingly oblivious to the fact that she was about to be tortured for the next seven weeks by cheery Christmas tunes.

“
Do you like this? This music?” I asked as she handed me the paper cup.

Without batting an eye, she suddenly chirped up even more than I thought possible. “It just puts me in the mood! Merry Christmas!”

“
Yesterday you wished me Happy Halloween.”
“Okay,” she seemed confused. “Well…have a great day!”

Sometimes, I think things would have been different if I’d gotten that horse.

2

When I tell people I work at a modeling agency, they look at me kinda funny. And I’m starting to resent that. Because you don’t need to look like Heidi Klum to answer the phone.

My gay friends had a field day when I got the job. No item of my clothing went without comment.

“
You’re wearing rain boots to work? And that dress? Oh my god. You look like the Morton Salt Girl.”

But it was raining. And goulashes are appropriate rain gear.

Furthermore----this is not The Movies. Like those films set in the modeling world where a staff member opens a closet and racks of designer clothes that magically fit the heroine instantly appear….

At our low-budget “agency”, there was nothing but an unlit coat closet with the faint smell of pee. Inside you will find a cigarette-stained red sateen jacket and a moldy pair of old sneakers---all of unknown origin.

A few weeks ago, there was also a smelly towel. No one admitted to any knowledge of the smelly towel. But the closet was right next to my reception desk. So I took care of it myself. If anyone comes in looking for their smelly towel---you just send them to me. I have a few questions.

In short, I wouldn’t even hang my coat in there.

I’m a clean person. I bathe daily. Sure there’s some cat hair now and then. But I wear discreet make-up and do my best with my hair. Though on a humid day, I’ve been known to resort to a scrunchie.

But I’m a temp. I think that relaxes the dress code just a bit.

I’m also a diligent, conscientious worker. I don’t think I need to look like a supermodel to do the filing----or simply to exist, for that matter.

Nor would I want to. I think I have character. I think I look okay. And if I’ve only had two semi-relationships in the past four years…

Well, that just shows that I have standards.

I’m not a saint. I’m not perfect. I admit I once made-out with a rock star. Okay, he was just in a Beatles cover band. But at least he was “John”. And I hadn’t had dinner so gave me some of his pizza. I thought that showed sincerity. Okay---yes, I’d had a few beers. But we also had a long discussion about the works of Charles Bukowski. And yes, I know I should have walked away when we were discussing Bukowski’s novels and he didn’t know what the word “misogynist” meant.

But had a fake-British accent and a mop-top. And we only made out. That’s all.

Because I have standards.

Okay, I had too much beer and realized I’d better go home before I threw-up. But it was college. I think that relaxes the moral code just a bit.

I’m aware this doesn’t paint me in the brightest light.

But I’m a nice person. I know that. It’s what separates me from…

Well, from most of New York City.

Maybe it’s because I’m from the Midwest. I don’t know. But people are mean here. It’s cut throat.

They don’t care about you. They’re just trying to make a buck. And they lie. They lie! I can’t believe how much they lie.

There’s a homeless guy I see on the train. An old man with no shoes. He walks up and down the aisles in his bare feet begging for change. You see this, and your heart breaks for this old man with no shoes.

A few months ago, I started thinking about this man. This poor old man with no shoes. It’s hard not to think about him because I see him quite a bit. And he never has any shoes.

Then I started noticing all the money people were giving him to buy a pair of shoes.

And yet---he never has any shoes.

I started wondering. Hmm, I thought to myself.

So I kept my keen eye on this man.

I calculated that he made at least two dollars in my car alone. Two dollars for every stop. Two minutes per stop. It took me four stops to get to work. And cost me two dollars just to get on the train. So while I was just sitting there riding the train to work---he made eight dollars. Eight dollars in eight minutes. I made eight dollars an hour. And I had shoes. Why didn’t he have shoes?

In Milwaukee, if you don’t have a pair of shoes, you can just walk into any church (even if you are not of the faith) and they will give you a pair of shoes.

And there are lots of churches in New York. I’ve seen them. I can’t say I go into them, but I’ve seen them. I’m sure they practice Christian values in so much that they would give you a pair of shoes.

Or even if you’re like me and don’t frequent churches----The Salvation Army people are very nice. I bought my sofa there. I’m certain that if you walked in without a pair of shoes----they would shod you.

That’s what they do.