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This is my story, but first I
have to tell you about Jessie.
Jessie and I met at an
audition. My agent had told me they were looking for someone to play
a contemporary high school kid so I dressed the part–torn baggy
jeans, white T-shirt, red flannel shirt tied around my waist.
I’d been waiting for about five
minutes when Jessie walked in and gave her name to the receptionist.
She wore one of those dress-for-success costumes that make women
look like clowns–skirt and jacket of bright primary colors (hers
were red), big buttons down the front, hugely padded shoulders. She
looked at me and then down at herself and laughed and grimaced at
the same time. It was an oddly endearing expression, the gesture of
someone who knows how to poke fun at herself.
"You’re so clever," she said.
She glanced at her outfit again. "I’ve probably blown it
already."
She looked as if she wanted to
talk further, but just then the receptionist called her name. I felt
annoyed–I’d been waiting longer than she had, though I knew that
that had nothing to do with Hollywood’s pecking order. She was
closeted with the casting people for about ten minutes. When she
came out she looked at me, held her palms up and shrugged
elaborately. Her gesture said, clearly as words, I have no idea
whether I made it or not.
I didn’t think about her until
the next cattle call, when I saw her again. She was wearing the same
clothes–I wondered if it was the only decent outfit she owned. I was
reading a magazine, but she sat down next to me anyway.
"Did you get called back for
that high school thing?" she asked.
"No," I said.
"Neither did I. I’m
Jessie."
"I’m Pam."
The receptionist called my name
then. I felt a rush of pleasure at being called first–this woman
wasn’t all that far above me after all. "Listen," she said as I
stood up. "If I get called next, wait for me and we’ll go to lunch.
I don’t know too many people in this town."
"Okay," I said.
She did get called next. I
waited, and when she came out she offered to drive us to a coffee
shop in Westwood.
I had already pegged her as
someone very much like myself, just barely getting by on bit parts
and commercials and waitressing jobs. So I was surprised to see her
walk up to a white BMW and turn off the car alarm. She must have
noticed my expression, because she laughed. "Oh, it’s not mine," she
said. "I rent it for casting calls. You have to play the game, make
them think you’re worth it."
I’d heard this before, of
course. In an image-conscious town like Hollywood every little bit
helps. A fancy car isn’t enough to land you a part, though, and I
wondered if she had any acting ability to back it up.
I got in the car and she drove
us to the restaurant. When we were seated she looked directly at me
and said, "So. Where would I have seen you?"
I told her about my few
commercials and the made-for-cable movie I’d done. "I was Iras in
Antony and Cleopatra at the San Diego Shakespeare festival,"
I said. "I was also the understudy for Rosalind in As You Like
It, but the damned woman refused to get sick."
She seemed a little puzzled at
this. Wondering why I bothered with Shakespeare, maybe. "What about
you?" I asked.
"I had a bit part on a soap,"
she said. "It was a great gig, until they killed my character
off."
"I’m sorry," I said, and she
laughed.
Los Angeles, they say, is where
the best-looking boy and the prettiest girl from every high school
in the country end up. You can’t sneeze in this town without
infecting a former high school beauty queen or football quarterback.
Even so, I thought this woman astonishingly beautiful. She had deep
sea-blue eyes, dark lashes, and a mass of dark hair. More than that,
though, she had some subtle arrangement of bone structure that
compelled you to look at her. She might just make it, I thought, and
felt the envy that had dogged me ever since I had come to town. Next
to her all my faults stood out in sharp relief–I was too short, too
plain, my mouth too thin. I hate myself when I feel this petty, I
struggle against it, but I don’t seem to be able to help
it.
As penance I made an effort to
like her. And really, it wasn’t that difficult. She had probably
been told that she was beautiful since before she could understand
the words, but for some reason she didn’t seem to believe it. She
ridiculed herself, her ambitions, the idea that she could make it in
Hollywood where so many others had failed.
"My parents are sure I’ll come
crawling home within the year," she said. "You wouldn’t believe the
arguments I had before I left. Well, it’s the old story, isn’t
it–young girl from the country goes to Hollywood."
"Where are you
from?"
"A farming town in Wisconsin.
You’ve never heard of it. What about you?"
"Chicago."
"And how did your parents take
it?"
"Actually, they’ve been pretty
supportive," I said. "Especially my father. He did amateur
theatricals in college. He said, ‘I think you’re good enough, but
unfortunately what I think doesn’t count for much. You have my
blessing.’ And then he laughed–he’d never said anything so
old-fashioned in his life."
"That’s great." She was silent
for a while, no doubt thinking about the differences between us.
"Listen, Pam," she said. "I’m going to an audition next week. It’s
another high school student. Ask your agent about it."
"Sure," I said, surprised. I
would never tell a rival about an audition. Jessie was someone to
keep, a caring, genuine person in a town full of hypocrites.
"Thanks."
"See you there," she
said.
We saw each other a lot after
that. We went to plays and movies and critiqued the performances,
took the white BMW to cattle calls, made cheap dinners for each
other and shopped at outlet clothing stores. We took tap-dancing
lessons together, from a woman who looked about as old as Hollywood
itself. Jessie told me about auditions coming up and I began to tell
her if I’d heard anything, though each time it was an effort for
me.
She got called back to her
soap–they wanted her to do a dream sequence with the man who’d
played her lover. We rehearsed the scene together, with me taking
the lover’s part.
It was the first time I’d seen
her act. She was good, there was no question of that, but there was
something she lacked, that spark that true geniuses have. The
envious part of me rejoiced–this woman, I thought, would not be a
threat. But there was another side of me that regretted she wasn’t
better. I liked Jessie, I wanted to see her succeed. I felt almost
protective toward her, like a mother toward a child. She was so
innocent–I didn’t want her to get hurt.
I was offered several parts at
the Berkeley Shakespeare Festival and began to make arrangements to
go up north. Jessie was pleased for me, but by this time she knew me
well enough to speak her mind. "There aren’t going to be any casting
directors up there, Pam," she said. "Those parts aren’t going to
lead to anything. It’s an honor, I know that, but it might be better
to stay in town, see what you can get here."
"I need to stretch myself, see
what I can do," I said. And when she seemed unconvinced I added,
"It’ll look good on my r\xE9sum\xE9."
We rehearsed together again. I
had gotten the part of Emilia, Iago’s wife, in Othello, and I
had her take the other roles. As we rehearsed I was amazed to
realize that she didn’t have any idea what the play was about, that
she stumbled speaking the old Elizabethan cadences. I had thought,
na\xEFvely I guess, that anyone who wanted to act had had at least some
grounding in the classics.
"So this Iago guy, he wants
Othello to suspect his wife Desdemona," she said. "He’s really evil,
isn’t he? Do that bit again, the one that starts ‘Villainy,
villainy, villainy . . .’ "
I did. "Hey, you’re good," she
said. There was nothing but pure pleasure in her voice. "You’re
really good. I bet you’ll make it. Don’t forget your old
friends."
She had an audition the day I
was to leave, so she rented the BMW and drove me to the airport in
the morning. We hugged at the curb in front of the terminal, careful
not to wish each other good luck, smiling a little at our
superstitions.
I had fun in Berkeley. I liked
some of the cast, disliked others, felt indifferent to the rest, the
way it usually goes. We were busy first with rehearsals and then
with the performances themselves, and I didn’t have time to get
lonely. Every week, though, I’d call Jessie or she’d call me and
we’d exchange news.
Finally we settled into a
routine and I had time to catch my breath. The man playing Iago told
me about an audition in San Francisco, a company that was going to
do Sophocles’ Oedipus. "Almost no money, of course," he said.
"But all the prestige you can eat. It’ll look good on your
r\xE9sum\xE9."
I called, got an appointment
for an audition. Iago loaned me his Berkeley university library
card, and I took the BART train over to campus to study up on my
Sophocles.
All the way there I could hear
Jessie, as clearly as if she were sitting next to me. "Why are you
doing this? What possible good can it do you? This isn’t going to
lead to anything, you know that."
In my mind I told her, firmly,
to shut up.
I was a bit overawed by the
graduate library stacks at Berkeley: I’d never seen anything quite
like them. There’s no space between the bookshelves–they sit on
tracks and have to be cranked apart by hand. It’s the only way they
can keep their huge amount of books in one space.
I found the Oedipus trilogy
fairly easily. While I was in the Greek drama section I decided to
look around, see if there were any books that might help with an
interpretation of the play. I took down a few that looked
interesting, then reached for the crank.
I stopped. There was a book on
the shelf called Fortune and Misfortune, grimy with dust. I
don’t know why it caught my attention–it looked as if no one had
opened it for years, maybe decades. I pulled it down and read at
random.
"And he who reads the following
words will be plagued by ill fortune for all his life," it
said.
This is my story, as I said,
but now I’m going to talk about you. Are you comfortable? Probably
you are, sitting and reading in your living room, leaning back in
your recliner, a pleasant record in the CD player, iced tea or
coffee or beer or wine beside you. Or maybe you’re sitting in your
family van, waiting to pick up your child from school or ballet
practice or the orthodontist. The sun is shining, birds are
singing.
One of the books I picked up in
the library was Aristotle’s Poetics. Aristotle says that when
we watch a tragedy we feel pity and terror as the protagonist falls,
and that when the play is over we feel cleansed, pure, a
catharsis.
But what about the guy on
stage? What about Oedipus, standing there with the gore running down
his cheeks after he’s plunged Jocasta’s brooches into his eyes?
Aristotle goes home, whistling, feeling better, feeling glad the
tragedy happened to some other poor schmuck, but how does Oedipus
feel?
What if the shepherd bringing
the final message hadn’t said, Oedipus, the reason all the crops are
failing and everything is going to shit is because you killed your
father and married your mother, you poor fool? What if instead he
had looked out into the audience, pointed to, say, Aristotle, and
said, "You–you’re the reason we’re in such a mess. You don’t know
it, but you’ve killed your father and married your mother, and now
we’re all doomed." Would Aristotle have gone home whistling
then?
I don’t think so. We feel
better when we watch someone else suffer. But Oedipus, if there
really was an Oedipus, and I think there must have been, he doesn’t
feel better at all.
The first thing that happened
was that I didn’t get the part of the Messenger in Oedipus.
Well, I thought, I don’t get most of the roles I audition for–you
could hardly call this ill fortune.
The second thing was far worse.
My mother called the hotel I was staying at and told me that my
father had been diagnosed with pancreatic cancer. He’d had stomach
aches and nausea for months, but by the time he’d finally gone to
the doctor it was too late. They gave him a day or two at the most.
I took the next flight out.
He died before I could reach
him–I never even got the chance to say goodbye. My father, my funny,
caring, supportive father, the man who gave me his blessing when I
said I wanted to be an actress. I called the company in Berkeley,
told them I was staying for the funeral.
My mother wanted a closed
casket. Because of this, and because I’d never seen him ill, I
couldn’t really bring myself to believe he was dead. I had dreams
where I’d talk to him, laugh at one of his silly jokes, and then
suddenly realize that he wasn’t supposed to be there. "But you’re
dead," I’d say, horrified. Sometimes he’d disappear at that moment,
sometimes he’d put his finger to his lips, as if to tell me that
these were things that shouldn’t be spoken of. Once he told me that
he wasn’t really dead, he’d just been away on a secret mission
somewhere. And every time when I’d wake up my cheeks would be wet
with tears. I hadn’t known you could cry in your sleep.
The third thing that
happened–well, it wasn’t as bad, I guess. Certainly no one died, I
didn’t lose anyone I loved. I got back to Los Angeles to find out
that Jessie had auditioned for a part in a major motion picture, and
that the director wanted to see her again.
We rehearsed together. I took
the part of the boyfriend, which Jessie told me would be played by
Harrison Ford. I barely remember what the movie was about, to tell
you the truth. I was numb with grief, still coming to terms with all
the holes in my life left by my father’s death. And I was depressed
over my career, the way it seemed that everyone was getting ahead
but me.
Jessie tried to be supportive,
but she was too excited about the direction her own career had
taken. I couldn’t blame her, really. The morning of her audition she
rented the white BMW and left for the studio. I didn’t hear from her
until she called at five o’clock that evening.
"I got the part!" she said, a
little breathless. "They all loved me, said I was perfect. I did
those scenes we practiced with Harrison–what a sweetie he
is!"
"That’s nice," I said. "Listen,
I’ve got to go–I’ve got some reading to do."
"Sure," she said. She sounded a
little puzzled. Did she really not understand my jealousy? Was she
really that na\xEFve?
So I got to watch as Jessie
became the next hot actress–this year’s blonde, she joked, brushing
back her masses of dark hair. Her conversation became thick with the
names of famous actors, directors, producers. She rented a condo in
Malibu. I thought for sure she would buy that damned BMW she was so
proud of but she went one better and showed up at my apartment
complex in a silver Jaguar.
"I couldn’t resist," she said.
"Do you like it? You know how the British pronounce Jaguar? They say
Jay-gu-ar," and she told me which famous British actor had taught
her that.
"It is not enough to succeed,"
someone in Hollywood had once said, I think Gore Vidal. "Others must
fail." I tried to feel happy over Jessie’s success, I really did,
but I was sunk so deep in misery I couldn’t do it.
It all started with that damn
book, I thought. It’s all because I took that book down and opened
it. "And he who reads the following words will be plagued by ill
fortune for all his life," it had said. "Trogro. Trogrogrether. Ord,
mord, drord. Coho, trogrogrether."
You look up a moment. The birds
have stopped singing, a cloud has moved in front of the sun. You
thought you were reading a story about someone struggling with
death, with bad luck, with her own inner demons–Hamlet’s outrageous
fortune. You certainly had no idea you would become involved this
way. It’s too late, though–you’ve read the words, just as I
have.
No, you think. She’s imagined
the whole thing. Sure, a lot of bad things have happened to her, but
it’s probably all just coincidence. A bunch of words in an old
book–how could that possibly affect me?
It can, though, take my word
for it. It happened to me. I know my life went downhill just as soon
as I read those words.
You thought you were reading
about someone going through a hard time. One of two things would
happen–either things would get better for her, or they wouldn’t. You
were prepared to follow the story from the beginning through the
middle to the end, and then you were going to put it down and get on
with your life. You were prepared to feel better after it was all
over–if it ended happily you’d feel good, of course, but if it
didn’t you’d still experience the catharsis Aristotle talked about.
You were going to feel good watching me suffer.
And now you’re the one who’s
going to suffer. What do you think of that?
I stopped going out. I skipped
auditions. I sat on my floor and stared at my carpet, which was a
truly hideous shade of brown. I spent a lot of time wondering why
anyone would make a carpet that color. And when I wasn’t worrying
about my carpet I thought about Jessie.
I couldn’t turn on the
television without seeing her. There were ads for her movie, there
was Jessie herself being featured on some entertainment show or
talking to Jay Leno about what a sweetie Harrison was. And when her
movie came out it got worse. I didn’t go see it, of course–there was
my carpet to think of–but just about all the critics liked it. The
skinny guy on that Sunday evening movie review program practically
fell in love with her, though the fat guy didn’t go that far. No one
noticed that she wasn’t a very good actress, that she was missing
something. I wondered if, in addition to all my other problems, I
was going crazy.
Whenever I went to the
supermarket, there was her picture waiting for me, on the cover of
People or some tabloid. One month she was even featured in a
house and garden magazine, with pictures of the interior of her
Malibu condo. I couldn’t help myself–I paged through the article
while standing in the check-out line. She’d told the reporter that
she wanted to create a space filled with light. I doubted it–she had
terrible taste, could barely even dress herself. Probably that was
something her interior decorator had said.
I’d been invited to that condo,
not once but dozens of times. She urged me to come along with her to
parties, told me about the directors and producers who would be
there. She offered to take me to dinner. I made excuses, stopped
returning her calls. All I needed, I thought, was to owe Jessie my
career. No, I’ll be honest here–I just didn’t want to see
her.
I thought a lot about envy. In
college I had been in a production of Marlowe’s Dr. Faustus,
in the scene with the seven deadly sins. I’d played Envy: "I am
Envy, begotten of a chimney-sweeper and an oyster-wife . . . I am
lean with seeing others eat. Oh, that there would come a famine over
all the world, that all might die, and I live alone, then thou
should’st see how fat I’d be!"
If I tried I could remember the
six other sins–pride, anger, gluttony, sloth, lechery, and greed.
Envy was definitely my sin, though. I thought I would have taken
almost any of the others: pride, lechery, even gluttony. Sloth would
be good. Here I was, I thought bitterly, envying other people their
sins.
The phone rang. I worried that
it was Jessie, full of more cheerful good news, but for some reason
I answered it. It turned out to be Ellen, a friend of mine from
college, and I relaxed.
"Hey, isn’t that woman in the
movie Jessie What’s-her-name?" Ellen asked after we’d caught up on
news. "I met her once at your house, didn’t I?"
"Yeah," I said.
"Well, give her my
congratulations. It must be exciting for her."
"Yeah," I said again. There was
silence–a puzzled silence, I thought–at the other end of the line.
"I guess this proves beyond a doubt that Hollywood values looks over
talent," I said finally.
Ellen laughed. "I thought she
was a friend of yours," she said. "I guess not."
"I guess not," I
said.
I felt briefly better, and then
a whole lot worse. What was I saying? Jessie was a friend, wasn’t
she? Didn’t she deserve better from me? What was wrong with
me?
Envy. Envy was wrong with me. I
realized when I hung up that I couldn’t get rid of it, that it was
part of me, the way the other sins were part of other people. That’s
why people in the Middle Ages had named them, why the terms had
stayed around for so long. No one was perfect. I would have to come
to terms with my sin, domesticate it. I would have to make it
mine.
It felt like hard-won wisdom. I
would call Jessie, I thought, meet her somewhere for lunch. I’d even
congratulate her–congratulations were long overdue. I reached toward
the phone I had just hung up.
I stopped. This wasn’t taming
my envy. This was covering it up, sweeping it under the rug,
pretending it didn’t exist. I knew what I had to do. I opened my
phone book and looked up Jessie’s new number.
I got her secretary. I should
have expected that. The secretary had me wait while she looked
through a list of approved callers. I was on the list, she told me,
in a voice that suggested I’d just won a car. I felt absurdly
grateful.
She put me on hold and then
Jessie came on. "Hi, how are you doing?" she said. "It’s been far
too long." She sounded cheerful, happy to hear from me.
"Not too good," I said. I told
her the whole story, the book in the library, the calamities that
had happened soon after, the terrible envy I had felt over her
success. I very nearly recited the words from the book to her, but
something stopped me. That wouldn’t be coming to terms with
envy–that would be giving it free rein.
"You ninny," she said when I
finished.
My heart sank. She hadn’t
understood. She had never been bothered by envy–she couldn’t know
how devastating it could be. Any minute now she would say, "Why on
earth should you envy me?" or something equally inane.
Instead she said, "What about
the book?"
"What?" I said stupidly. I
couldn’t imagine what she might be talking about.
"The book in the library. You
said it was called Fortune and Misfortune. If it has a phrase
that brings bad luck, it probably has one for good luck as
well."
I stood still for long seconds,
dumbfounded. "Oh my God," I said finally. "Listen, I’ve got to
go."
"Tell me what happens," she
said. "And good luck!"
I called a cab to take me to
the Los Angeles airport. I got a stand-by flight to Oakland, and
took BART from Oakland to the Berkeley campus. I didn’t have time to
call Iago, the guy with the library card, so I bought my
own.
I cranked apart the shelves in
the Greek drama section. The book wasn’t there. It had probably been
misfiled, I thought. It certainly wasn’t about Greek drama. I ran
out of the stacks and waited to use a computer terminal.
Nothing with that title was
listed in either GLADIS or MELVYL, the two university catalogues. I
went back to the stacks, looked on the shelf above and the one
below. Nothing.
I’m going to stay here until I
find it, I thought. I turned the crank to get to the next shelf,
then the one after that. Fortune and Misfortune, I thought. A
black book, covered with dust.
I looked at books until my eyes
blurred, turned the crank until my muscles ached. I waited
impatiently while someone perused a shelf I had already looked at,
eager and anxious to turn the crank and move on. I was still
carrying my overnight bag, hastily packed with a change of clothes,
and I set it down to concentrate on my task. A black book, covered
with dust.
After a few hours the lights,
already dim, darkened further like the signal to return to a play
after intermission. The library was closing. I left the stacks,
asked one of the librarians if he could recommend a cheap place to
stay.
I returned the next day,
without the overnight bag. And the day after that, and the one after
that. I had packed only one change of clothes, and I needed a
laundromat very badly. But I couldn’t take the time.
Finally, on the fifth day, I
found it. I couldn’t believe it at first–I had to read the title at
least three or four times to make sure. But this was definitely the
book. The dust was spotted with fingerprints, my own and those of
whoever had misshelved it.
My hands were trembling. I
opened the book and read the headings at the top of the pages.
Phrases for health, love, money, beauty, knowledge. All these things
would have interested me once but I rifled past them, looking for
the section I wanted, hoping it would be there.
It was. "And the following
words will bring good fortune forever, and are proof against all
words of ill fortune," I read. "Tay, tay, tray. Tiralanta, tiralall.
All, call, lall. Tiralanta, tiralall."
So. Those are the words–the bad
luck you had begun to fear will not strike, and maybe even something
truly wonderful is about to happen to you. Maybe the phone is
ringing right now, maybe it’s good news. I won’t tell you what
happened to me after I read these words–it’s outside the scope of
this story, and anyway I think I’ve already done enough for you. I
will say that I was sick and bitter for a long time but that now I’m
better, though I’ll never be entirely free of these awful feelings.
And that the change in my fortune did not start when I read the book
the second time, but when Jessie reached out her hand to me and
started to pull me toward health. It’s because of her friendship,
and my father’s love, that I can pass along these words to you. It’s
still difficult for me, but I give you–I give you all–my blessing.
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