Claire Voyant

To Jenny and Harry Belinkoff
Your loving hearts live on

To James Owen O'Hagan
Your soulful voice s missed but not forgotten

“W
ILL YOUR GRANDFATHER BE NEEDING ANY SPECIAL ASSISTANCE?”
The gate agent asked as she waited for my boarding pass to print out.

“My grandfather?” I said. Frankly, it was a little late for special assistance, as both of them were dead. I assumed she must be speaking to the person behind me.

“Does he need a wheelchair? Extra time to board?” This time the woman looked right at me, and without glancing at her airline ID, I knew her name wasn't Patience.

Let me guess. She would walk off the job if she had to deal with one more skinny blonde in Prada who couldn't grasp a simple concept.

Normally this sort of profiling offended me. It was bad enough having just been felt up at the security check-in because my underwire bra set off the metal detector and I had to be ruled out as a terrorist threat. But to be typecast as a bimbo by a woman who clearly colored her own hair, that was just wrong. It reminded me of all the times Hollywood producers wrote me off because I was more Darryl Hannah than Julia Roberts, and they had like zero imagination.

“I'm sorry,” I replied. “Are you talking to me?”

“Yes,” she snapped. “That gentleman over there.” She pointed to an elderly man who was dozing in a corner chair. “Aren't you two traveling together?”

“I don't know. Is he rich?”

“Ma'am, I have no idea…. Your seat assignment is next to his. I just assumed…I thought I noticed a resemblance.”

I studied the silver-haired geezer whose pant waist was up to his
pupik
. “Yeah, I can see the confusion,” I laughed. “We're practically twins.”

“Sorry,” she sighed. “It's been crazy today, with the rain and cancellations.”

“Although I'll be honest”—I leaned in—“I did request to sit next to a hot single guy. I guess next time I should be more specific about the age.”

“Believe me, you'll be happy.” She handed me a boarding card. “I almost put you next to that lady with the screaming twins.”

I spotted the young mother whose infants were wailing as if their bottles had been seized by security. So the agent was right. I loved babies, but if I had to listen to those shrill cries all the way from New York to Miami, I just might open the emergency exit door at thirty thousand feet. Better to take my chances with Gramps. Maybe he had a hot single grandson for me.

Unfortunately, I never got to ask. He seemed anxious to chat, but right after takeoff, instead of doing the cordial thing, I napped. Then, when the plane reached a comfortable cruising altitude, I leafed through
People
magazine and became fixated on this picture of Penny Nichol at her fiftieth birthday bash. I was wondering, was it just me, or had the legendary film actress gotten a little porky around the ass, when suddenly the elderly man seated next to me, the stranger mistaken for my grandfather, started waving, and collapsed on my tray table.

Damn! Too late for a do-over. There would be no reversing his heart attack, nor my abject indifference to him. And I felt terrible. For had I known that his last few hours on earth might be spent on American's Flight 1165, I would have been much friendlier. Offered him my bag of pretzels, or any section he wanted of my
New York Times
.

Trouble was, it never dawned on me that this could be his final boarding call. Yes, he looked to be in his mid-eighties. But there
weren't any signs that his health was failing. No note pinned to his checkered blazer that read,
CAUTION: THIS MAN IS A TICKING TIME BOMB
.

My first and only indication of distress was when he gasped, clutched his shirt, and fell on top of my magazine. Shame on me. It was only after I realized that his bifocals had fallen in my coffee and his hand was resting in my crotch that I screamed for help.

Please don't think I'm a snob or insensitive to strangers. I'm always chatting with people with whom my only bond is that we're bracing for a bikini wax or sitting in a casting agent's office, hoping the audition won't be another waste of highlights and lip treatments.

Nor as a rule am I unkind to the elderly. I'm not the one groaning in line at the supermarket when the old ladies fumble for exact change. And never do I honk at senior motorists, even when the old farts need as much time to make a left turn as I need to brush my teeth.

But as I watched the lead flight attendant try to revive the dying man's heart using one of those new portable defibrillators, I asked myself a God-fearing question. How could I, Claire Greene, Very Nice Girl, have completely ignored a member of my species?

The truth? I thought no one would ever know. It's not like under-cover flight attendants walk through the aisles with little notepads.
Unfriendly passenger in 8B. No interaction with seatmate, hogged the armrest, ripped several pages out of our magazines….

There's more. I had counted on being able to use my time on board to indulge in self-pity, not humor some old guy who was thrilled to have a captive audience for three hours. First he'd expect me to
kvell
at pictures of his brilliant and beautiful grandchildren, who in all likelihood only called around the annual Festival of Checkbook. Next would come the stories of his remarkable feats in the stock market. Finally, he'd drop the name of the world-renowned surgeon who was honored to perform his triple bypass for free (although if it was actually true that he got a freebie, it might explain why he was lying unconscious in the aisle of a 757).

Anyway, that was my state of mind. So when the man kept smiling
at me, indicating his interest in starting a conversation, I'd said to myself, no thanks. What little solitude I got these days, I wasn't going to waste on some stranger I would never see again.

Funny thing is, I normally love to chitchat on planes. It's fun to network (maybe they'll be related to Spielberg) or to discover a mutual interest (“Oh, I know. Isn't Dr. Drasin's collagen lunch lift the best?”). And if there is no common ground, I'll play this game I made up called “Liar Liar,” where I'll listen to the words, but check out the body language. If the two don't match, if the woman raving about her husband's successful import business is simultaneously twirling her hair and scratching her arm, I know that there is much more going on here than free trade with China.

But on this particular Monday in May, I was feeling tired, angry, bloated, anxious, depressed, unloved, a failure, sad, and did I mention bloated? Naturally the perfect antidote was devouring a bag of overpriced, high-calorie trail mix while flipping through the pages of
People
.

The new issue had darling Prince William on the cover, and I was fascinated to read that the royal grandson intended to find a real job after college, not squander his manhood by turning into another polo-playing, ribbon-cutting, fox-hunting philanderer like dear old dad.

So what if the story was a bloody lie? Focusing on hot Willie's future sure beat dwelling on mine. In no small part because my thirtieth birthday was in exactly six days, and not one lousy aspect of my life had gone according to plan.

My current occupation was out-of-work, straight-to-video actress, on leave from L.A. after years of trying to get noticed, and that was by my agent. My current address was my old bedroom in Plainview, Long Island, home to six CVS pharmacies and the high school football field where I lost my virginity (not exactly one of the “scheduled” homecoming festivities). And my current boyfriend? Definitely the strong, silent type, provided the batteries didn't die.

Not that I hadn't been lucky in love. Only a month before, I had a special sweetie. A sexy, successful movie producer named Aaron Darren (would I lie?), who indulged me with little goodies from
Gucci and Godiva, and who convinced me that our bond was eternal.

Not only had I blabbed to everyone that this was
the
guy, I hinted that he would soon be placing a ring on my finger. Maybe even at a theater near me. Only to leave the gym one morning and get this cryptic message on my cell phone. Something about my agent, Raquel, inviting him to check out a new ashram in Idaho with her. “I luv ya babe,” Aaron said, “but this feels so right.”

“Do you wish to erase this message?” the lady inside my phone asked sweetly. No, I wanted to keep it forever so I could play it anytime I needed to be reminded that love was a beautiful thing. And that any agent who stole my boyfriend was another name for maggot.

Maybe I would have reacted better to the bombing of my love life if my career hadn't been decimated the same week. Only six months earlier, after dozens of false starts, false hopes, and false breasts, my agent left me a voice mail:
I did it! I got you your breakout role
.

Naturally her assumption was that my talent and beauty were inconsequential to the deal, but who was I to argue? After two screen tests and a meeting with the director that, thankfully, did not involve a request for a blow job, I had landed a supporting role opposite Alan Handler. How perfect! A romantic comedy that would showcase my much-lauded comedic timing. “You're fucking Carol Burnett with tits!” Alan had swatted my ass.

Despite my maxed-out credit cards and a pile of nasty late notices (why do bills travel at twice the speed of checks?), I did a victory lap on Rodeo Drive, splurging on a new treatment to boost up my cheekbones, and a pair of Manolo Blahniks that cost more than my first semester at Indiana.

Sadly, my big debut was a wrap before principal shooting began, thanks to the studio's supposed script differences with the box-office bad boy. Except that I'd been around long enough to know the truth. The writers had so botched the latest draft, Alan didn't give a rat's ass if he was getting fifteen percent of the gross and all the Absolut he and his entourage could barf before dawn. His movie days would be numbered if he was the main engine of yet another infantile train wreck. Good-bye Alan.

In spite of studio assurances that a new star would be cast, a week later I read in
Variety
that the project was dead. My final dirty martini. I was broke and alone, and couldn't decide which was worse. Not having a boyfriend with a great car who always got an “A” table at Mr. Chows, or not having a way to support the high-maintenance rituals considered bare necessities for a Hollywood “B” list actress like myself.

I chose “B.” If I couldn't afford basic upkeep to stave off all those nubile twenty-year-olds landing at LAX every day, the only parts, or guys, or parts of guys I would be able to score were the old, agentless actors with bad breath who did summer stock in the Berkshires.

What's the use?
I e-mailed my father.
The last film I starred in was an X-ray. I'm thinking of moving home for a while
.

To my relief, my parents were fine with the decision, but only because they would rather talk to me than each other. You'd think that after more than three decades of marriage, they'd have run out of things to fight about. But it had been thirty-one long seasons of
The Lenny and Roberta Show,
and still no sign of reruns. He wanted to travel. She'd rather have a new kitchen. He hated her cooking. She hated his mother.

“Don't you ever get sick of listening to them?” I asked my brother, Adam, one night.

“Are you kidding?” He shrugged. “Last year they went for counseling and had to be nice to each other. It was the worst two weeks of my life. It was honey this, and sweetheart that. I wanted to gag.”

And typical of my younger sister, Lindsey, who had always been a few sandwiches short of a picnic, she was clueless that anything was wrong outside her own universe. She was too busy carrying on that now that I was home, she had to vacate my closet and find another place to put the computer. “And I would appreciate it if you didn't hog the bathroom like you used to.” She informed me on my first night back. “Some of us have to get to work in the morning.”

Work, my ass,
I thought.
You answer the phone at Daddy's office, and spend the rest of the day shopping online
.

“No way did I ever think Adam, Lindsey, and I would still be living
at home in our twenties,” I bitched to my childhood friend, Elyce Fogel at our old hangout, the Plainview Diner. “We're like the plates and silverware here. Relics from the eighties, but nowhere else to go.”

“Could be worse.” Elyce patted my hand. “At least none of you moved back, divorced with two kids, like at everyone else's house.”

“No, I can't believe my parents aren't the ones who are divorced. All they do is fight.”

“Oh, please. They've been like that since I met you. They're crazy about each other.”

“You got the crazy part right…. I don't know. Maybe I should have toughed it out in L.A.”

“Maybe you just need time to adjust. And look at the bright side. Now you can be in my bridal party.”

“Oh, no, no, no. I mean, I'm honored, of course. I just wouldn't feel right taking someone else's place who, you know, is closer to you now.”

“Are you kidding, Claire? Ask Ira. I was so excited to hear you were home. You're my oldest and dearest childhood friend.”

“But I've never even met Ira….”

“You're going to love him. He's so funny, and he's an accountant like your dad. Oh, and you should see his absolutely adorable cousin who is going to be our best man…. Could be a match made in heaven. You never know, right?”

Oh, I know, all right
. “See, it's just that—”

“Look, if you're afraid this is going to turn into one of those huge, crazy affairs, I promise you, the Bergs are very classy. We've all agreed on small and tasteful.”

“Terrific.” I sipped my coffee. “How many on the guest list?”

“Three-twenty-five. Three-fifty tops.”

“People?” I gulped.

“Yes, people!” Elyce laughed. “You are still such a rip.”