Psychic Junkie (9 page)

Panic sped my steps. “Where are what?” I said innocently. “What are you doing here? You want some wine?”

Nothing could distract her, and of course she didn’t have to look hard, since the cards were spread out on my bed, in exactly the spot I’d left them just seconds before. With one swoop she gathered them all up, stuffed them in their worn and tattered box, and demanded to see the others.

“I know you’ve got more. Tell me where you’re hiding them. I’m not leaving till you tell me.”

“But what will you do with them?” The thought of the cards, my friends, discarded in a trash can, forced to nestle Gina’s empty box of American Spirits for warmth, or turn to a crumpled Diet Coke can for companionship, filled my heart with anxious sadness. “You won’t hurt them, will you?”

“No. They’re coming to live with me until you get your sanity back. I’ll return them when I think you’re ready.”

“So it’s not good-bye?”

Gina rolled her eyes. “It’s a temporary good-bye. It’s a little break, that’s all. Now, I know you’ve got an Aleister Crowley deck too.” She watched as I shuffled to my nightstand. “And the Rider Waite deck. And the Arthurian Legend. And the Tarot of the Cat People.” She nodded. “That’s it. Keep ’em coming.”

One by one I gathered the decks together and agreed to be good. One month, I was told; if I went one month without tarot, she’d release whichever hostage I chose. I eyed my Aleister Crowley deck. I agreed. I promised. I wanted her to leave.

She was halfway down the stairs when suddenly she stopped. Head tilted, a smirk on her face, she turned to me. “And the Goddess deck.”

With that, with the removal of that last deck (which I kept beneath my pillow in preparation for late-night readings), it was official: I’d just been heaved onto the wagon.

In a way it was a relief. Amid uncertainty, worry, and panic, I felt a certain amount of freedom being cardless. To celebrate my liberation, and to give myself something to do so I didn’t sit around all day missing my cards, I convinced my parents to buy me a plane ticket to visit my cousin in Paris. Before I knew it, I was in the sky, flying above clouds so thick it seemed impossible to think they wouldn’t catch us if we fell. My visit would only be for a few weeks, but these weeks were monumental in their importance, as they were the last chance I’d get to recharge my battery and prepare myself for the impending hard whack of reality. Upon my return I was going to have to get a job. It was that simple. A real job—one that could interfere with auditions, one that could make me sit in more traffic, one that could make me…work. I was so not happy about that.

Still, I had weeks to enjoy denial and live up the last remnants of my unshackled life. Once settled into my cousin’s apartment, I informed her of several things I wanted to do: visit the Louvre, go for strolls in the park, see the new exhibit at the Musée d’Orsay, climb the Eiffel Tower (I figured I’d try that “exercise” thing), and, naturally, drink wine and eat blocks and blocks of Brie.

“All this is fine,” she said cheerfully. “Oh, did you bring your cards? Can you do a reading for me?”

I shook my head. “No, I left them at—”

Before I’d finished my sentence, she was gone, bounding into her room and then racing back out. The world now had a horrible slow-motion quality to it, like when a glass slips from your hand and the seconds spread out in a way that only happens when something terrible is about to occur, when a horrible shattering mess is inevitable.

I took a deep breath. There before me stood my well-intentioned cousin, and, of course, in her hand was a deck of French tarot cards.

THERE ARE FEW EVENTS IN AN ACTOR’S LIFE MORE
traumatizing than the Hunt for a Job. Working nine to five in an office is pretty much out of the question, since an employee suddenly emerging from the bathroom in, let’s say, full disco regalia, can be quite a workplace disturbance…but when that employee then bounds out the door with the promise that she’ll try to maybe return in a few hours, the reception isn’t usually all that welcoming. Disappearing for auditions is frowned upon, to say the least, and without auditions or meetings or some kind of activity that involves acting, you don’t feel so great about calling yourself an actor. To a lesser degree, obviously, at that point you could almost equate yourself to a high school dropout who one day declares he’s a neurosurgeon. To be an actor you must act, and, after a while, perfecting random accents while doing the dishes just doesn’t cut it.

Hence, actors turn to waiting tables or bartending, jobs with flexibility or vampire hours. Unfortunately, in a pressured situation like a loud and crowded bar with desperate and drunken cries for drinks, I knew I’d end up hiding beneath a table, eating maraschino cherries, and pretending that I, too, had no idea where that damn bartender had gone. Waiting tables was also out of the question; long ago I’d discovered I possessed a strange inability to carry a tray. Seriously. The manager who actually really wanted to hire me for the position was shocked and ended up studying the angle of my wrist and the bend in my fingers, in an effort to discover the root of the difficulty…yet to no avail. That damn tray simply wanted nothing to do with my hand.

I anticipated that the Hunt for a Job was going to be traumatic. But then, in an odd stroke of luck, a friend of mine (another actor) got a job at an Internet start-up that was not only hiring but was understanding of actors’ “special needs.” Word spread, and with barely a clue of what the job entailed, several actor friends and I enlisted. Soon we learned the company specialized in something called “buzz marketing,” also enticingly known as “viral marketing,” and that our job was to go undercover to online forums and chat rooms and pose as fans of upcoming movies, to create a “buzz” around the film’s release. If we did our job right, people everywhere would end up at theaters, buying tickets for movies they had no desire to see.

Though I’d started with only a very fundamental understanding of computers, within a matter of time that drastically changed. In addition to the more standard ins and outs of a PC, I also learned how to deviously cover my tracks online and hone the art of creating phony identities and fake e-mail accounts. It was my job to learn the tricks of the trade, and it was a very sneaky trade with very, very wily tricks.

Unfortunately, the most popular forums, and those with the most traffic, were porn sites, and hence that’s where we spent the majority of our time. I can safely say there were some images I wish I’d never seen. Yet the other, almost less appealing option was to spend my days at movie-gossip sites and film-fan forums, gushing about actresses I’d once been in direct competition with, actresses whose careers had taken off while mine remained curiously snagged on the starting gate. But that was my job. It was up to me to learn everything about all the up-and-coming movies I was in no way a part of, to study up on all the actors whose careers were golden and gleaming. Essentially, it was my job to torture myself in long, drawn out twelve-hour shifts.

The fact that I’d gone from a supposedly rising star to an earthbound Internet marketer who helped other actors’ careers soar was an irony that was not lost on me, and within a matter of time I sank into a depression like someone starved for sleep would fall into a feather bed. I couldn’t get out. I didn’t want to get out. The rest of the world was simply not one I wanted to be a part of, as, among other things, it often lacked the sensitivity a struggling artist requires. For instance, though the phrase “What have you been up to?” is a seemingly innocent inquiry, it is actually Hollywood’s way of determining if you’re someone who’s just completed work on the next blockbuster and are hence essential to talk to—to be
seen
talking to—or if you’re a loser who’s not had a job in a while and thus, in terms of strategy, now rank one step below that of the valet. “What have you been up to?” can be directly translated as “What was your last film, and when’s it coming out?” And in response to such a question, I could only shrug and eye the door.

All this was reiterated to me like a smack to the head the night I mistakenly lifted myself from my downy nest of nothingness and headed off to a party at the Chateau Marmont. The Chateau Marmont combines a mixture of horrors, the first being its location on Sunset Boulevard, which involves fifteen-dollar parking and streets plugged with poor misguided souls who enjoy “cruising”—the art of creating traffic jams so thick that traversing the length of one block can take twenty minutes. Another aspect of the Chateau’s horror is that it can be hard to get into, so once inside, you’re generally surrounded by people who tend to remind you of why you should’ve stayed home.

After using a considerable portion of my paycheck to park, I showed my ID to the doorman and beelined my way toward the models, I mean “bartenders,” who were haughtily pouring drinks. If I bought a drink now, that would mean I’d have to use the latest AT&T check for food and not skin care. So I was trying to figure out who might want to have me over for dinner for the rest of the week, when I heard my name. As the voice was male, and coming from the vicinity of the bar, I turned with hopes of at least a free Coke or just something to sip, and saw, a few dark wood stools over, the editor from the magazine who’d once deemed me one of the twelve actors to watch. His smile was big, he was motioning me over, he certainly could afford to buy me a drink…. Yet the one thought that had grabbed my brain and wouldn’t let go was
He remembers my name! Yay!

“Sarah,” he said again, “it’s so funny I’d run into you. We were just talking about you in the office the other day.”

My heart started pounding—was there some publicity in my future? I had no idea what the publicity would be for; I had no movie coming out, no upcoming projects. Could it be just because they liked me? I was likeable! I deserved good things! See? There was a reason I’d gotten out of my pajamas on a Saturday night! “You were?” I asked coyly.

“It’s coming up again, the Twelve Actors to Watch issue, and we were going over a few back issues, looking at the girls we’d picked. There you were.”

There was a long, painful pause, during which I wouldn’t have been surprised had one of the model bartenders gazelled her way over the bar and finished his sentence with,
“…the only one who wasn’t worth watching.”

The editor continued, oblivious to the knife he was wedging into my heart. “Whatever happened to that movie you did?”

His clone friend, whom I’d not noticed till now (perhaps because he wore almost the exact same outfit as the editor, had the exact same haircut, and effectively appeared to be nothing more than a slightly skewed and miniature reflection), chipped in. “Which one? Which movie?”

“
The Blackout
,” the editor said. “Abel Ferrara.”

The clone paused, his face tilted toward the impossibly high ceilings—a necessity in such a bar, in order to allow for the egos. Clearly the clone was trying to place the movie, and I prayed for a swift and dramatic subject change. Had the clone suddenly said, “Gosh, I’d love to have a lengthy conversation about football,” I would’ve done a dance of joy. Unfortunately, I had no such luck.

“
The Blackout
,” the clone said. “I’m just not placing it. Who else was in it? When was it released?”

“It wasn’t,” I said. Then I smiled brightly, proudly said the dreaded words “Straight to video,” and excused myself. With a speed I never knew I had, I raced out the door, flew across the traffic on Sunset, and was back in my room, where for hours I tortured myself with variations of the conversation that took place earlier in the week between the editor and a coworker. “Check it out, it’s our past issue.” “Who’s this one?” “Who?” “This girl, I’ve only ever seen her here, on this page.” “Oh, yeah. That’s Sarah Lassez…right. I don’t know. Obviously she wasn’t one to watch. But five outta six ain’t bad. You feel like a Mojito? I feel like a Mojito.” “Nah, I’m much more in the mood for a sidecar.” “A
sidecar
? We just time warp back to the thirties?” “Last week a guy I know told me Drew Barrymore was drinking one.” “Drew? Really? Okay. Sidecars it is. Put that magazine away.” “Yeah, but I gotta say, it’s a great shot. This Sarah chick with a guitar, posing as a depressed musician. You don’t get better than that. Great work, man. Sidecar’s on me.”

To make myself feel better I pulled out my French tarot cards.
Will I get an acting job soon? Will it lead to more acting jobs? Will I be able to support myself as an actor?
For hours I asked questions, and each time I shuffled, there it was, insistent on being seen: the Knight of Wands.

“Who are you?” I wanted to scream. “And why aren’t you here yet?”

Misery loves company. I admit that the saying is true, but if I could, I’d add “and a couple bottles of wine and a block of Brie.” I had the wine, and Gina stopped at Whole Foods for the Brie, a mission that involved her calling—completely overwhelmed—from the cheese section, whereupon she told me how pretty all the cheeses were and that she just knew I’d like Jarlsberg if only I gave it a chance. I agreed to try it simply to get her out of the store, and then found a platter I hoped would fit her final selection. Mercifully she showed up with only a handful of choices: Edam, Jarlsberg, Gouda, Brie, and a farmer’s cheese she swore was “refreshing.” After a little rant about how Panela should be sold at more stores and accepted as the amazing cheese that it is, she sat back and announced that she hated her job.

“So, you work at a literary agency,” I said. I was still trying to figure out exactly why she’d taken the job. “But you don’t want to be an agent.”

“Nope.”

“And they rep screenwriters, but you don’t want to write screenplays; you want to write books. That’s what you went to school for, why you have all that student loan debt.”

“Right. Thank you. But just being around writers makes me feel better.”

“You’re around the writers?”

“No. They don’t write
at
the agency. We get what they write. All the scripts. And writers are very close to their agents, you know. You learn a lot about their lives.”

“And your agent, the one you work for, he reps some good writers?”

“Well, no. My agent actually just reps directors. Mostly TV. No writers.”

“But you don’t want to be a TV director?”

“God, no.”

“So you want to write books, and you’re working for a man who gets television directors jobs.”

“Give me the wine.”

“I’m just saying it makes perfect sense.”

“I know what you’re saying, Miss Internet Marketer, now give me the wine.”

We spent the next bottle comparing notes on our miserable states of employment. Gina eventually won the You’ll Never Believe What Happened Award with her tale of an agent who’d witnessed a car accident while driving, and then called his assistant to have her
conference
him with 911.

“I mean, had he forgotten what number you dial to reach 911? Or does he really think he’s so important that he needs to be announced when he comes on the line? ‘Yes, Officer, please hold for Ken Steinberg. He represents several Emmy-nominated writers and has just seen an accident.’ Seriously, who
are
these people?” Gina laughed.

“I’d say they’re the successful ones.”

“Oh my God, that reminds me. I forgot to tell you. I was looking for Gouda earlier and started thinking about you and totally had a vision of you and your husband. You were standing with him in front of a really gorgeous two-story brick house, with a black SUV in the driveway. A
new
SUV.”

“So, we’re married? We have a house? And why does Gouda make you think of me?”

“I don’t know. I can’t answer any of that. I guess it could’ve been my future house, but I’m totally out of my wanting-a-brick-house stage. It’s Craftsman or nothing. The woodwork is amazing. Some of the built-ins will literally give you palpitations, and the—”

“Gina.”

“Yeah, okay. I don’t know if you were married, but you were definitely
with
him, and I think it was your house, and he was cute, too. Very preppy-looking. Blond hair and green eyes.”

A couple things struck me about this latest claim. First, preppy-looking with blond hair and green eyes is pretty much the polar opposite of the type of man I’m drawn to. Just that description brings to my mind a guy who’s got a semblance of a life, someone with a job, someone who plays golf and showers regularly. That is not who I date. Blindfold me and stick me in a party full of men, and I’ll sniff out the empty wallet and pained soul of the one actor/musician in the building. Dark and messy is how you’d describe the men I date.
Not
preppy with blond hair and green eyes.