8/31/2011 The Ask

It’s dark now at the Cat and Fiddle, happy hour is almost over, and I’m back, after recalling my last act with Christine in New York, to giving Wendy my undivided attention.  She’s still wound up about Barbel.  It wasn’t an easy breakup. 

“She got me memberships to the best gym, the best spa, season tickets to ACT, the opera, she’s the most generous person I know.”  Biting the corner of her lip, Wendy shook her head in frustration.  “She’s also the most violent.  Barbel loves to break things, wine glasses, plates, figurines, she’ll swipe entire dinner setups off the table with her arm, or she’ll pick up a porcelain fairy off the mantelpiece and fire it you.  And you better duck, because she’s got a hell of a sidearm!” 

I always wondered why people collected those porcelain miniatures.  What Wendy was saying made sense to me.  If you had a temper and wanted the satisfaction of shattering something to pieces, why not have a collection of delicate objects easily within reach?  Especially if they were smarmy little fantasy creatures whose lightsome presence mocked the serious trials of maintaining a relationship with not only a younger woman, but an actress.

“She didn’t hate theater,” Wendy said, “She just hated me doing theater.  She didn’t believe it when I rehearsed late, she didn’t believe that when I kissed someone on stage it was just acting.”

“I know what you mean,” I said, “I’ve been there.”

“Your wife is the same way?”

“No, no, but Barbel is like this woman I knew in New York.”  Wendy raised her eyebrows and gave me an inquiring look; if I wanted to tell the story I had just replayed on my split-screen, here was my chance.  But the thing about split-screening is that it works best as deep background enhancing the empathy I feel for the person I’m talking with.  I’ve learned that if I persist in projecting what’s on my side of the split-screen during the conversation, I risk being seen as the kind of person who needs to dominate the discourse, like the boring clan I grew up with on my father’s side of the family who wouldn’t let anyone get a word in edgewise.  With a hand gesture, I waved away the opportunity.  “Long story; some other time.”

“So, okay, fine,” Wendy continued, “I’m like a million actresses out there, the odds of me making a living at it—I’m an old cliché trying to be a popular cliché, but I don’t need my lover telling me that.  And I certainly don’t need her coming after me with a butcher knife.”

“You win,” I threw up my hands, “I haven’t been there.”

“She only did it once, the week before we went to Monique’s opening.  I kicked her in the shins and took the knife away from her, but it was a sign that things were escalating.  After she attacked me at the opening I knew I had to leave.”

“And here you are,” I smiled, “in a city that loves actresses.”

She laughed.  A chair scraped against the stone patio; we both looked up.  There was Des about to sit down at our table. 

“Of course we love actresses,” he chimed in as he slid into his chair, “as long as they’re not SAG.”

He was referring to members of the Screen Actors Guild who had to be paid a union wage.  Des was generally against unions of any stripe.  He held a special antipathy towards the Directors Guild.  After Warner Brothers distributed his first feature, he had been forced to join and pay dues he thought were egregious.  Later, the Writers Guild arbitrated in a dispute with four other members who claimed he had taken their names off a script they had written.  The Guild ruled against him and it just added to his bitterness.

“Happy Hour’s about done,” I said to him, “I didn’t think you were going to make it.”

“Had to make sure Rhoda got the scripts out,” he grumbled. 

“Rhoda’s our new intern,” I pointed out to Wendy. 

“Except I’m paying her,” Des complained.  “How many interns have you ever heard of getting paid?”

“In her defense,” I said, “she’s not getting paid that much.”

Ignoring my remark, he stared at Wendy and said, “You want to intern for me?”

“No,” she blurted, “I want you to make my movie.”

Des grinned as he signaled for the waiter.  “I like that; I like someone who gets right to the point.”  He flicked his eyes over to me as he pointed to her.  “She’s going to do well in this town.”

His honeymoon with Rhoda was over.  As his eyes traveled over Wendy, I could tell that Des was open for new proposals.