Our Town (14 page)

SIN BOLDLY

D
orothy arrived at the set of
Crack the Whip
having slept only two Scotch hours the night before. This followed a three-day-straight motel stay with amphetamines and two new suitors. She’d had to glug something, when she got home, just to relax a little—crawl out of her head. Scotch—Dewar’s—was all that was left in the wet bar. Try to get some rest. She had a busy day tomorrow. While those few hours were much needed, they weren’t nearly enough. She slept, but it wasn’t restful. She’d passed out. In the morning, she rolled out of bed with one of the men—she brought one home, Lorenzo—and got dressed quickly and so did he. He dropped her off on set—“Thanks, baby. I’ll call ya. Swear.” She’d got a part as a saloon girl in a western
. Tramp # 2
, according to billing. “We meet here before, baby? In this here bar-room?”—her only lines. But she’d flub those. Didn’t care for repetition. Or alliteration. And allegory. Or both. But she walked onto the set with a smile. Her wig hooked into pigtails. Youthfully. Joyfully. Head up high. Still high. Happy just working. A disposition just for work.

Because she was late, small talk was skipped. She was rushed to a tin trailer for makeup and hustled into an avocado-green chair. They dolled her up like porcelain—dark red lips, chocolate-covered cherries—and then she got stood up and spun around and dropped into white leggings and lace and white frilly frillies. They pulled on white gloves,
and a white seashell necklace hung down her neck. She had white talc thrown into her blonde wig and even white nail polish. And then she was ready. She couldn’t quite see straight, but that’s what they said. They pushed her out into the sand and past the high-noon backdrop. And then up the baroque stairs and columns and through the swinging double doors. They propped her up on a white bar stool. They crossed her legs. “Like a lady,” they said. “Yeah, okay,” she answered. “I can do that.” They handed her a Bravo—lettuce cigarettes, remember?

“I’ve got one, baby,” she told the stagehand as she pet his face. She pulled a brushed gold cigarette case from deep within her undergarments and folded it open. She pulled one out—now nine left, having just refilled it—still not yet Virginia Slims, now she was into Viceroys—and leaned into the prop boy for a light.

Barely on the stool, but trying, she attempted to steady herself. “Everyone’s in place, yeah? These fuckin’ extras. Okay, now. Freeze! And . . .” Pause. “Action!”

The cowboy sauntered in—pushing through both sides of the shuttered doors with both hands—and clomped toward the bar maiden. Spurs spinning, sepia serape sheathed. He stepped past her and put up two fingers for a drink—a double—which the barkeep placed before him, and then waited. And then waited. Dorothy just looked up with flutters. Boy, was he cute.

“Cut! What the hell is happening?”

The director walked over.

“What’s going on here?”

“What do you mean?” Dorothy replied.

“That’s your line there. After he orders the drink.”

“Oh, really? That’s where I go?”

He stared past her eyelashes, one inch thick.

“You didn’t get your sides? You didn’t have to audition?”

“No, no. They called me. I can do this shit with my eyes closed,” as her eyes began to close.

“Um, okay. Well do it then,” he walked away with his head shaking. “Let’s try that again, everyone. From the top.”

“That was rude,” Dorothy said to the cowboy. But he just shrugged and then drank back the double shot of flat ginger ale that was made to look like rye.

*
  
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Dorothy always counted, which I’m not sure I’ve yet mentioned. It wasn’t entirely conscious—the numbers she got to disappeared almost as quickly as they arrived. It was, instead, a sort of mental bookmaking, where the quality—say, if something was even—meant something to her, in a sort of spiritual, and yet arbitrary, way. This allowed her to escape the thoughts of her day-to-day responsibilities, relying, instead, on the cosmos to decide her fate. A chance to be led allowed her a break from accountability. Like it wasn’t her doing the choosing, and so she had another excuse. Everywhere she went, and everything she did, had a number. The steps she walked up and down. The pages she’d read and memorized. Or didn’t. And didn’t. The candy she ate as a girl—she used to have a sweet tooth. And then she had to go to the dentist. And she didn’t like the dentist. But then she realized the dentist was an easy way to get pain medication. But that didn’t come ’til later. Everything had to be symmetrical. Everything had to be round. Numbers were the only thing she could count on. If she was drinking, anyway. If she was drinking wine, she could have a glass, but that never happened. She could have two, though. She could have three, too, because three is half six, and six is the number of glasses in a bottle. At least that’s what they told her. Depending on the pour. So there must always be six serving-size glasses in a bottle. So that number should be considered natural—a baseline—and so everything should work around that. She could have four, and she did, because four was, at least, even. She couldn’t have five. Never five. She could have a sixth, and that one felt the best, but not in the morning. She was, already, so tired. To some, six was too many. So she’d wait until she was alone. Maybe until she was at a bar. At a bar, there wasn’t somebody looking at you. Judging you. People are more concerned with themselves. And
bartenders want you to drink, even though they had their limits. So she’d reach her limit, then she’d go. She just wanted everyone to be happy. And when she drank—the more she drank—the quieter she became, so nobody wanted to talk to her. But that was okay. She didn’t think she had much to say, anyway.

She could have whiskey, too, but there had to be an underlying symmetry. One whiskey, one wine. One whiskey, two wines, because that’s three, and three is half six. Also one is half two. So that works two ways. Two whiskeys, two wines was okay. Two whiskeys, four wines made a lot of sense, because two is half four, and two plus four is six. Three whiskeys, six wines. Half six equals three. And, sometimes, like when Dylan was elsewhere. When she could be by herself and nobody could judge her. Not even her big dogs and their black, judging eyes, who she crated in the other room when she decided that was necessary. RIP Butchie. When she stared too much and there was no other way. When she didn’t have anything to be but herself. When she didn’t have to be accountable—six whiskeys, six wines. Six whiskeys, six wines was twelve. Six whiskeys, six wines was twelve, and twelve was six times two. And six was the natural number so two times six was twice as perfect. But one more than that would be too much. One more than that might cream her spinach. But, no matter, Dorothy always kept track, even if she had to write on her hand with a Magic Marker. Even if she had to mark it, with a black marker, in stilted Roman numerals, Dorothy had always counted, and she forever would.

Drugs, though, were different. Harder. Drugs were different because there was no way to keep track. Except for pills, or bags, which she did try to keep symmetrical, but in a more generic way. Like speed early, slow down late. Or, more specifically, analgesics with a headache, antipsychotics when she was nervous. Amphetamines when she was too tired. Sedatives when she was awake. But when she was partying, like she did with some of the guys, that’s when it became harder. With cocaine she had a hard time not finishing whatever she had. She liked to see the bag torn open from the corner and licked clean-empty dry. And it wasn’t because she loved it so much. I mean, she liked it for a
while—the night of, anyway. Certainly not the morning after—not the birds—but eventually she wanted to do it all just to get rid of it. Just so she didn’t have it tomorrow. So she didn’t have to do it tomorrow. So she didn’t have the choice. When she had some left over, and she had a martini or two—maybe something more brown, if the guy she liked was manlier—it always came up. In her head it always came up. Because she didn’t want to just go home. And, far more importantly than that, she didn’t want to want to. She just wanted to stay out later. Enjoy herself. Enjoy the night. Like she was supposed to.

Sin boldly, she thought to herself. Sin boldly, but believe more boldly still.

*
  
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Dorothy had recently become attracted to the Off Track Betting location in Ventura. Take the 101. To the 1. Get off at Figueroa. Then park beside the park. She liked it there because she didn’t get recognized. She didn’t get recognized anyway anymore, but here she never would’ve. She liked betting on ponies because she felt she had an honest chance to win. As much as anybody else, anyway. And she liked all the numbers. Again with all the numbers. She took the money she made on various acting opportunities and usually tried to double it. Would drive straight from set. But it was mostly just halved. But she didn’t think she deserved the money she made, anyway. She never gave it her all. In fact, she got in her own way on purpose—“subconsciously”—scared that if she really tried, then failed trying, then that’d feel worse. Like if she didn’t study for a math test and she did poorly, it didn’t mean she was stupid, because she left herself no chance. So she punished herself, but had fun doing so. That way it might not feel so bad.

At the OTB nobody judged Dorothy. Or maybe she just didn’t feel it because of the Vicodin she’d been prescribed. Her coming root canal got pushed to next week, and when she called and booked the appointment they asked her to describe her pain on a scale from one to
ten—one like a pinch, ten like you’re dreaming. Ten like delirium. Ten like buried alive. Maybe nine, nine and a half, Dorothy replied. She’d done this before. She’d learned how to get pain drugs. Just describe her pain in its totality, not just what’s in your teeth.
How much pain are you in, Dorothy. You know what, Doc? I’m really, really hurting.
Really, she hardly even felt it anymore. She just knew when it hurt she had to call the dentist.

At the OTB people drank beer, even though it was Wednesday morning. Dorothy usually went Wednesdays. But she didn’t drink Wednesdays, but that was because of the empty calories. But being high Wednesdays was fine. Fat-free. In fact, it seemed to be encouraged. She appreciated that no one lied to her at the OTB. There were three tellers Wednesdays. Alan Boston wore a Carhartt jean jacket, Rich Marinara slouched and had earrings—silver hoops—and Teddy Covers had white hair that he slicked back and curled up behind his ears behind his sideburns.

It was hot at the OTB—the building’s manager controlled the furnace, and he lived in Poughkeepsie—so everyone was sweating. A couple in the corner shared a veal Parmesan from a take-out tray. Today, Dorothy would watch harness racing. Because nobody else did and she could be by herself. Not even sharps know how to handicap harness racing. Only one of the thirty-seven televisions secured to the wall played harness racing. Today’s race was at Hanover. Dorothy sat in a corner. She got her betting ticket stamped. She’d conferred with Teddy Covers. She’d bet on Mourning Marvin.

Mourning Marvin had a good record. Two hundred seventeen top-three finishes to one hundred eighty-nine bottom-three legs. His jockey looked good, too. Big ears, small head. Big hands, small body. The jockey threw his paws on the reins. He planked his feet. He looked like a winner. He brushed his hair out of his eyes. Dorothy liked harness racing. When Dorothy felt lonely, she sometimes gravitated toward the addicts and the gamblers. The riffraff. The mole people. The poor—the poorer—because they made her feel better about herself. They made her feel like she wasn’t so bad off. Like rubbernecking a car
accident. Like stopping your car and watching too long. Dorothy liked harness racing. She may’ve been the only one.

And we’re off.

The jockey gripped his two-wheeled cart—his sulky, that’s what it’s called—tighter. And Dorothy grabbed her stool’s seat tighter than that. Her skin was red and splotchy, warm from the heat and the meds. She was thirsty, but she didn’t mind. The horse’s carriage strayed back and forth. And Dorothy rocked back and forth on her stepstool.

A betting magazine fell off Dorothy’s lap as she shook.
Western Horseman
, September 1973. Mourning Marvin was in third. Dorothy tapped her toes. She moved her hands from her lap to the peg legs of her stool. She put her hands under her ass and pulled on her seat. Her ass was sweating. She was excited. And, again, the painkillers. The side effects of the painkillers. Sweating and dry mouth. Mourning Marvin was catching up. And Dorothy rocked her chair. Dorothy’d exacta’d her bet. Her horse’s odds were six to one. She rocked her chair more. And she sweat through her shirt. It was hot and she was high. But who cares? Don’t judge her. Nobody there bothered to notice. Why should you?

She smiled and she rocked—big teeth, fangs clack-clacking—even as the porcelain ground beneath her began to crack. The rank smell of Newports and breadcrumbs and sauce didn’t bother her anymore. In fact it was comforting. The door to the bathroom was always open. There was only a men’s bathroom. People held themselves and wrinkled their eyebrows while they looked up at the one black-and-white TV propped insecurely above the six urinals. The cover article of today’s
Horseman
read:

The founding sire of today’s Standardbred horse was Messenger, a gray Thoroughbred brought to America in 1788 and purchased by Henry Astor, brother of John Jacob Astor. From Messenger came a great-grandson, Hambletonian 10 (1849–1876), who gained a wide following for his racing prowess. However, it is his breed line for which he is most remembered. The lineage of virtually all American
Standardbred racehorses can be traced from Hambletonian’s sons. Lineage, and bloodline, is everything in horseracing. And Hambletonian’s bloodline simply can’t be beat.