Someday, Someday, Maybe (19 page)

I slump back against the couch with a sigh. “But there has to be some trick. All those people can’t just be walking around starving and happening to look great all the time. They must know something that the rest of us don’t. Or worse—maybe there
isn’t
a trick. Maybe they
are
walking around hungry all the time. Maybe that’s the difference between being successful or unsuccessful. Maybe I’m too weak. I’m too concerned with feeling good to be willing to feel as bad as I should to be successful.”

“Why would feeling good be bad? People spend their lives trying to feel good. You’re not supposed to walk around miserable all the time. You have to eat to stay alive. These are truths you used to know. Who says there’s some agreed-upon ideal, anyway? The girls on
Still Nursing
aren’t appealing to everyone—just to the dumb people who watch that one show. One dumb show isn’t for everybody. Why can’t you just be yourself and find the people who like that?”

“I know. You’re right. Hey, maybe I should get my hair cut in The Rachel.”

“Franny. My ex-stepmother, who moved to the suburbs of Long Island, has The Rachel, as do all of her friends. It’s trickled out to the masses already. You missed the Rachel hairdo boat.”

“See? That’s what I’m talking about. I have follower hair. Successful actresses have forward-thinking, trendsetting, exciting hair that women in the suburbs want to emulate. I should be thinking less about my work and more about my hair.”

“Can’t you go back to the time when you thought you would magically get an agent if you memorized a Shakespeare sonnet every day? That made about as much sense as this, but at least it was more productive. What about doing important work, like you always said? What about the theater and truth and connecting with humanity, or whatever you used to talk about?”

“I have an agent now. I’m trying to work in the professional world. There seem to be rules. I do still care about humanity and, you know, that other stuff. I’m just trying to be a—a professional. In a professional-looking package.”

“I guess. I don’t know. I just can’t picture Diane Keaton or Meryl Streep obsessing over The Rachel or the dingbats on
Still Nursing
. Isn’t it more important that you’re a talented actor?”

“I don’t know. That’s what I’m not sure about, I guess. I used to think that. But now I think I should be talented
and
have better hair. I’m confused. I think it’s all important. Maybe I should be a vegan.”

“Frances. Seriously. Get a grip. You’re not going to ever look like those dumb girls. But if you want to, I don’t know, be some sort of superhuman, don’t just smoke and throw away the inside of your muffins. Go get a book about nutrition or something.”

“I know about nutrition already,” I say, waving her away.

Jane looks doubtful. “Is that so? Name three food groups.”

“Easy,” I say, folding my arms. “Chinese, Mexican, tuna on a bagel.” She shakes her head, and I smile at her sweetly. “You know, Jane, I did buy actual vegetables, just last week.”

“Yes, I noticed that. This may come as a shock to you, but many studies have shown there’s at least a slight nutritional difference between spinach that’s rotting in the crisper drawer and spinach that’s ingested into the body.”

“Details,” I scoff.

“I give up,” she says, heading for the kitchen. “More coffee?”

I stare down at my bagel, which seems to eye me warily back. Maybe Jane’s right. Maybe I need more education. I wonder what Penelope Schlotzky eats on Sunday. Probably not bagels. Maybe bagels are my problem. Although, one bagel doesn’t seem like a lot of food. I decide I will finish the bagel but not eat anything the rest of the day. Except maybe a salad for dinner.

Or soup.

No. Soup has hidden stuff in it. Yes, I’m fairly certain, soup is another food that seems innocent but is actually fattening.

Chicken broth. That only has like seven calories. Can I get chicken broth at the deli? Where can I get chicken broth …

“You don’t need to change anything, Franny. I think you look good.”

I swear it takes me a second before I realize it’s Dan who is speaking. I had totally forgotten he was in the room. He has never before acknowledged anything we say while he’s working. We know for sure he tunes us out completely. We’ve tested it. Usually it takes three or more tries of us practically yelling at him to get his attention before he’ll even look up, blinking like we’ve startled him out of a dream.

The first thing I wonder is whether Dan has been secretly listening to our living room conversations all along, but Dan is a pretty honest guy and not devious like that. If he were ever distracted, he would have joined in the conversation or kicked us out while he was working.

It’s weird, but I’m pretty sure he hasn’t been listening all these months, that he hasn’t ever heard us before. I’m pretty sure I broke through to him just this once.

“Thanks, Dan,” is all I can think of to say.

14
 

“
What
is
that
?” Jane says, looking alarmed.

I’ve slumped farther into the abyss. I’m not making enough money. I’m down to one shift at the club, due to Herb’s bizarre system, which now includes rewarding the servers who have the most shifts with even more shifts, so those of us who’ve been penalized for any reason are having a tough time finding our way back in. At least I still have the Friday shift, whose take can almost, but not quite, cover my rent. Even catering has been slow lately.

Russell Blakely’s movie is wrapping in a few weeks, and Jane is finally not working nights anymore. She comes down the circular staircase wearing vintage ’60s go-go boots, which have different colors of patent leather sewn together in a kind of patchwork pattern, a short blue suede skirt, and a red bomber jacket with a faux fur collar she found at Bolton’s on Eighth Street. Bolton’s is supposed to be this great discount store, and Jane always finds something there, while I usually just end up with another pair of discounted black tights. Jane already has her signature sunglasses on, which means she’s serious about leaving. Nothing would normally slow her exit. That’s how I know, for sure, the stuff in the bowl I am holding must look as bad as I thought.

“Wow, look at you! Where’d you get the boots?” Maybe I can distract her by talking about fashion.

“Don’t try to distract me by talking about fashion. Seriously, what is that?”

“It’s, uh, food?”

“For an astronaut?”

“No, it’s this wonderful new diet food? I bought it off the television.” I’ve been trying to keep my spirits up by experimenting with different diets. So far, none of them have worked. But this time is different.

“You paid money for that?”

“Oh yes, Jane, and it’s so worth it. It’s called TastiLife, and it’s not just a quick-fix diet, it’s a fabulously tasty new way of life!”

“Okaay,” Jane says gingerly.

Why does she look so suspicious? I must make her understand. “Jane. I know it looks weird, but James Franklin was saying in class the other day that everyone on his set did it. In
Hollywood
.”

“Really? Hollywood?” Jane squeals in false delight.

“Jane, seriously. Have you seen those commercials? ‘Eleven million losers and counting’?”

“Yes, I’ve seen the people in the commercials who hold their old, giant fat pants away from their tiny new selves. So … that guy James told you to do this?”

“Yes, but not—he wasn’t telling me I needed it or anything. We were just talking after class—and anyway, I brought it up. I was just making conversation, asking him about his movie, and he was just being helpful by telling me what some of the pros do.”

“Mmm-hmm,” Jane says doubtfully. “But when did you start doing this? I didn’t see any of it in the fridge.”

“Yeah, no, that’s the best part—you don’t have to refrigerate it. It comes in a box. It’s freeze-dried in a package and you just take it out and soak it!”

“You
soak it
?”

“It sounds weird, I know, but it’s actually very convenient because you can take it anywhere, you know, on the go?”

“Why can’t you just eat actual healthy food, the kind that doesn’t require soaking?”

“Well, obviously, because I can’t be trusted to control myself. This teaches you portion control. Everything you need is in each packet, so it takes the guesswork out of dieting.”

“You sound like you’ve joined a cult. What happens when you have to go back to the real world, the world where you have to think for yourself?”

“Hopefully I’ll be so weak and frail that food will have lost its appeal entirely.”

“Great plan. And who’s on
Leeza
today?”

“I’m pretty sure today’s show is ‘Women Who Wish Their Best Friends Would Stop Judging Them.’ ”

“Har-har. I’m going to work now. Do you want me to take the TV cord with me?”

“Jane. Goodbye.”

After she leaves, I hover in the living room, eyeing the television warily. I know Jane’s just teasing—it’s not as though I have a real problem with
Leeza
, though I do happen to know that today’s episode is called “Amazing Animals,” and it’s supposed to include a dog who can actually tie people’s shoes. And Jane is sort of right, I guess, that I’ve fallen into a pattern of watching more television during the day. It started when the residual checks for my Niagara commercial began to slow down, and I wanted to make sure they weren’t making a mistake—secretly running the commercial a dozen times a day and just forgetting to pay me or something—so I started scouring the daytime channels to see if I could count how many times it was playing and compare that to what my checks said.

Leeza was on, and she was talking about inspiring yourself, and I felt like I was really bettering myself by listening to her advice. A lot of the shows have weight-loss advice, which is where I got the great cabbage soup diet, which would have worked, I’m sure, if only I didn’t hate cabbage. She has celebrities on, too, and people who’ve overcome daunting odds of various kinds, and I never know when I’ll have to play a character who isn’t close to me but might remind me of someone I saw on
Leeza
. So really, you could call the time I spend with Leeza almost educational.

But the thing is,
Pinetree Lodge
, the soap opera, is on right after that. When I first started watching, it was just for a few minutes right after
Leeza
and before the first commercial break. I was more fascinated than interested. I would use the show as a kind of acting exercise, challenging myself with the hokey dialogue, saying the lines out loud to myself, just to see if I could make the scenes feel more real than the actors on the show did. I wondered if it was the actors’ fault that the whole thing seemed so ridiculous, or if there is truly nothing you can do to make it less phony, given how phony it looks.

But now I’ve fallen into the habit of watching both shows every day without fail, and sometimes I even leave the TV on longer and watch
Studs
and
Love Connection
, two shows I can’t possibly justify as being enriching in any measurable way. I blame Dan partially, who has barely been around. I don’t know where he’s been doing his writing lately, but it isn’t our living room, and if only he were here more I’d probably be too embarrassed to lie on the couch all afternoon.

Because if I’m being really honest with myself, I’m legitimately hooked on
Pinetree Lodge
now, in that I think about the characters during the day as though they’re real people and I worry about them over the weekend. “How
will
CoCo Breckenridge hide the facts of her murderous twin’s disappearance?” I find myself wondering. Every Friday I resolve to stop watching, but once Monday comes I can’t resist seeing how the cliffhanger was resolved.

Sometimes, when I get really frustrated, I fantasize about firing Joe Melville, but I wouldn’t want to hurt his feelings, and it seems a little redundant to tell someone to stop calling you who already never calls. Presumably, he’s embarrassed to have made a mistake, and perhaps hopes that if he ignores me long enough we can pretend our meeting never happened and can both be saved the shame of confronting our failures. Which puts me back in the place where I’m feeling bad for Joe Melville. I’ll admit, it’s sort of a sick relationship to have with someone who is hardly in your life.

Leeza
doesn’t come on until noon, and I’m regularly sleeping until then now, because there’s no reason to get up any earlier. Jane is treating it as a big deal, as if there’s something really wrong with me. She calls me from work every day just to make sure I get up.

“I’m worried about you. You’re depressed.”

“I’m fine.”

“My roommate, Frances Farmer,” Jane says, melodramatically.

“I’m a sensitive, creative type. I’m going through something.”

“If I come home to you eating a pint of Häagen-Dazs and watching
When Harry Met Sally
, I’m calling the police.”

“What are they going to do, arrest me for being a cliché?”