Psychic Junkie (3 page)

Gina laughed, as I figured she would. “You’re pathetic. It’s a good thing I love you.” She downed the rest of her wine. “All right, fine. Here I go.” She closed her eyes and was silent for a while. Then, all of a sudden, she was glaring at me.

“What? What? What do you see?”

She shook her head.

“Tell me!”

She sighed. “He’s an actor.”

I recoiled. “What? Why would I do that again?”

“I don’t know, Sarah, why
did
you do it again? It’s not like Tom was your first.”

“Tell me what you see exactly. What does he look like?”

She closed her eyes again. “Dark hair, dark eyes. Not too tall—I mean, he’s an actor.”

Right there she’d described half the men in Los Angeles.

“Maybe you work with him?” she said, rubbing her temples. “It’s horrible. You both look happy. Really happy. He’s doing the whole gaze-into-your-

eyes bit and holding your hand.” Then she shrugged. “That’s it. That’s all I get.”

It was enough. Just that sliver, that snapshot, gave me hope. That night I thought of my future dark-eyed man. I played with scenes, fiddled with settings. We were on a bench in a park, surrounded by majestic oaks, the moon slinking through branches as he leaned in close. No, we were on the beach at night, inky water slipping around our bare feet, an open bottle of wine awaiting us at our blanket. I stopped. I didn’t need that. I didn’t need any of that. What I really wanted, what I really craved in that way that actually hurt, could take place right here in my boring little studio apartment. Just him opening the door for me, then walking inside the cramped room with no couch and no coffee table and my fat furry mass of a cat hissing from the bed—just him smiling, smiling because it’s my life he’s seeing, my world he’s a part of, me that he has.

God I
am
pathetic.

A couple months later and Tom was nothing more than a sex fiend drug-addicted dot in my rearview mirror. I’d moved on, partially healed by my acting career, which suddenly seemed on the rise. A movie I’d done was finally released, and my tormented performance (my character committed suicide) garnered an attention I’d only dreamt of. Strangely enough, that role was just the first of many suicides for me. Though my parents have always found it slightly horrifying, casting directors, producers, and directors alike all tended to see me as a natural when it came to committing suicide, being raped, or being murdered. Eventually I did break free from my snare of victim roles, though I was then hurled in the extreme opposite direction, going from playing innocents to being cast as whores—and not just your simple garden-variety whore, but a whole range of whores, my favorite being a ghostly whore from 1900. Evidently, anything that was whorish just screamed “Sarah!” And though I’m always thankful to be working, I’m still not quite sure how I feel about that.

The success truly hit home when I discovered myself in
Vogue
. Not featured, of course, but there I was, in the fashion section, right next to Madonna. Apparently our shared love for leopard-print handbags had catapulted me into the same league as the Material Girl—if only in terms of handbags, and I had to resist the urge to buy hundreds of copies of
Vogue
and mail them off to anyone who’d ever doubted me. “Just thought you might want to check out the latest in leopard-print handbags…. Oh, and yeah, that is me next to Madonna. Talk to you soon!” The only thing that stopped me was that
TALKING FASHION
was inconsiderately splashed across my face, though I believe the
G
brushed into my idol’s picture as well—yet one more thing we had in common.

When another magazine decided to do a spread called “Twelve Actors to Watch,” and they selected me—one of only six women—I could barely contain my glee. A bit nervous, I showed up on time for the photo shoot, dreaming of looking glamorous, until the coordinator stared at me—eyes wide and skittering from my face to the door—in a way that made me realize there’d been a huge mistake. They didn’t want me. Somewhere out there was a different Sarah Lassez, and obviously
she
was the one to watch. Her career was on the rise while I was anchored to the earth.

Finally the woman spoke. “You…you’re here alone?”

I couldn’t believe it. I’d been there for approximately sixty seconds and already she was pointing out how alone I was. “Yes. Why?”

She started laughing. “Oh, how cute!” And then she disappeared to select my outfit.

How odd,
I thought. Sadly, it later made sense. As I eventually learned, the actresses before me had arrived with entourages, groups of people there for support and flattery…and, it turned out, protection. While everyone else got to look beautiful and glamorous, I was for some reason featured as a dour musician in electric blue hot pants, morosely meandering across a park with a guitar case. I don’t even play the guitar.

Still, life was going well. I was receiving praise, my manager was still taking my calls, and I actually got a birthday present from my agent. I believe the present was an unscented candle, which may not be much, but my agency was so big and powerful that their remembering they even represented me was gift enough. Seriously. When I’d call to talk to my agent, I’d say my name and cross my fingers.

Even the water stain had been fixed, repaired by a man who’d stubbornly insisted it looked more like Elmo than Oscar.
Oh, well,
I thought. Everyone’s got his own particular dream.

All I could really complain about was my lack of love and that my cat had started to stubbornly mistake my bathtub for her litter box. To anyone else the bathtub–litter box confusion would simply be an annoyance. But to me, a bath freak, it was beyond devastating. No longer was I able to gaze proudly at my vast array of bath products, as their view had been eclipsed by ugly bottles of Clorox, Tilex, Ajax, Comet, and a few others. (I tend to overreact.) Despite my dutifully cleaning the litter box and even hanging catnip on the wall above as a sort of temptation, nothing worked. She knew what I loved, and continued to go for the kill.

Then I was cast in another movie. Working again not only meant money, which tends to come in handy for that whole survival aspect of life, but also served to reinforce my agent’s frail memory of who I was. Though I wouldn’t be making bankloads of cash on the film, it was another great role (I played an innocent girl whom a psycho plots to kill), and the movie starred an ex-Brat-Packer whom I’d worshipped during some of my most formative/traumatized years—a chunk of time in the eighties when I’d failed to adjust from my old posh private school in Australia to my new tough high school in New York.

Yes, the ex-Brat-Packer and I would become best friends. We’d try on each other’s lipstick, and laugh over the fact that during those high school years I’d endured the wrath of the most popular cliques, evil girls who used to insult my outfits loudly and cruelly, though sometimes they tired of speaking and simply hissed when they spotted me in the hallways. To me their picking on my thrift-store finery was a clear indication that my Australian hipness was just too avant-garde for them and their penchant for feathered hair and rhinestones. Though, I admit I did go through a dress-like-a-carrot stage, an unfortunate time when I insisted on wearing bright orange shoes, thick orange tights, a blaring orange miniskirt, and a fluorescent green top. But still, I thought I looked pretty darn cool.

It was when I hid in my room, pretending to be sick in order to evade the harassment, that I watched the ex-Brat-Packer’s movies over and over, sometimes throwing
Grease
into the lineup—even though that movie was a harsh reminder that my powers of concentration and determination had failed, as upon
my
move to the states, John Travolta was nowhere to be found. At any rate, I’d known at the time that the then-Brat-Packer would see me as the cool fashionista I was, and I imagined that one day she’d be my best friend and after school would pick me up in her convertible, music blasting as we tore off to get an ice cream cone or go roller skating or partake in any number of ridiculous activities my fourteen-year-old mind could conjure. Then, of course, all the evil popular girls would be so jealous they’d spontaneously combust, the Aqua Net–juiced flames leaving nothing but piles of ashes and rhinestones on the sidewalk.

And now it was actually going to happen. The ex-Brat-Packer and I
would
be best friends! The only problem was that the movie in which I was cast was set to shoot in Detroit. Not that I had anything against Detroit. I mean, I’d never been there—though I’d heard they made lovely cars—but in my experience, going on location for months is a little like going off to summer camp: It could be great and you might make lots of friends, or you could be miserable and be praying nightly for someone to come save you. And usually when on location, I get stuffed away in a tiny brown-carpeted hovel, a place where the fake wood–paneled television (with its two maddeningly fuzzy channels) hovers in the upper corner of the room and some poor soul has undertaken the colossal challenge of bolting down everything that can be bolted, the only exception being the Bible in the nightstand drawer. If I’m lucky, I walk away with a bag full of horribly drying mini shampoo bottles that I will never use but take anyway so I can add them to the collection of hotel freebies I keep hidden in my bathroom.

An aside about the hotel freebies: There are a few motivations at play. First, I tend to collect. Doesn’t matter what it is; I’ll collect it. Second, I enjoy the sport of raiding a maid’s unattended cart. Third, I’m an actress with no steady income, so my life is spent in constant preparation for Rock Bottom, a land where I could very possibly end up too poor to buy shampoo and where I would be forced to stand in a cold shower with wet and latherless hair. But now, thanks to my foresight, should that time come, I may not be able to eat, but damnit, I’ll have clean hair and a couple dozen plastic disposable shower caps.

And one thing I’ve learned: The kind of freebies provided directly reflects the class of hotel you’re staying in. Bottom rung would be a place that only provides an infuriatingly tiny wedge—alas, a splinter—of soap, and a sad little bottle of shampoo. A step up would involve conditioner, lotion, and a shower cap, sometimes even face soap. Higher still would be a place with mini sewing kits, as everyone knows that the finer establishments encourage their guests to mend their clothes. Above that I’ve yet to encounter, though in my fantasies there are free little bottles of Chanel products and those great oversized fluffy robes, which the hotel wouldn’t charge you hundreds of dollars for, should one accidentally find its way into your suitcase.

At any rate, it’s been a rare and lucky day when I’ve encountered the mini sewing kits—and even in those places, I was afraid to touch the bedspread and insisted on wearing flip-flops in the shower. So, getting ready to head off to Detroit, I packed my conditioner, lotion, face soap, and flip-flops. I was prepared for the worst and resigned to using their shampoo at least until I got my per diem, which would then be blown on one horribly expensive shampoo containing some inane ingredient like white truffles or crushed diamonds, something that would ultimately make
no
difference to my hair and leave me feeling so guilty it would be months till I bought another bottle.

But then something happened. I arrived in Detroit—during what I swear was a monsoon—and was taken to a place that lacked a pulsating neon
MOTEL
!
DISCOUNT ROOMS
! sign. Utterly confused, I played along with what I knew was a cruel mistake and checked in to a beautiful hotel. We’re talking crystal chandeliers, cherrywood-lined walls, and a lobby with a fireplace where continental breakfasts would never ever be served.

An actual bellboy led me down the hall and stepped out of the way once he’d opened the door to Room 611; he then waited for me to stride inside. But I couldn’t. I couldn’t because what I saw was dark walnut living room furniture, flowers on the coffee table
and
dining room table, and French doors that led to the bedroom. (A bedroom!) So naturally I assumed I’d been brought to meet the director, which pissed me off because the shirt I was wearing had fallen victim to the ill-fated combination of a Bloody Mary and turbulence, and I was quite certain the humidity and rain had caused my hair to grow taller. Taller hair is never a good thing. Where was this director who insisted on seeing me at my worst? I stood at the threshold and scanned the room. No one was there. In fact, I didn’t see any luggage or signs of inhabitance. The bellboy was now watching me with concern. Tentatively I stepped inside. This couldn’t be my room, could it? My suite?

It was. And it got better. In the large marble bathroom was a huge, gorgeous, cat-piss-free bathtub—with water pressure, I guessed, unlike my little apartment where if anyone in any part of the building flushed a toilet, your hopes of a relaxing bath would fizzle and you’d end up angry and attempting to make the best of a puddle. And, I spotted with unadulterated glee, lined alongside said gorgeous tub was an array of Crabtree & Evelyn bath products. I felt tears well in my eyes as I approached the dazzling tub, running my hand down its smooth porcelain side.
You and I,
I thought,
we will get to know each other.

“Just down the street,” the bellboy said, “is a bath store.”

I looked back at him. He had a young face but was cute. Very cute.
No, Sarah, he’s like twelve.
I quickly tipped him so he’d leave.

Left alone with my tub, I immediately understood my new mission in life: to never leave this porcelain vessel. Sure, I may have to be on-set part of the day, doing that whole acting thing, but everything else—eating dinner, learning my lines, talking on the phone—all other activities could be conducted while I was turning into a prune and breathing in the vapors of over-priced aromatherapy products. I was so excited.

And on top of all this, I realized the next morning, I never had to clean. As I left for the day, I glanced over my shoulder. The bed was in a severe state of disarray, not unlike the bed in
The Exorcist
, and yet I knew that when I returned it would have magically repaired itself and the down pillow would have somehow birthed another chocolate for my sweet-toothed, sex-deprived self.