Confessions Of A Falling Woman And Other Stories

Teeka returns, saying, 'Change of plans. They want you on the set.'

I'm escorted to a cavernous soundstage, past the catering table where half a dozen stagehands are scarfing down muffins and shooting the breeze, and through the clutch of suits who represent the agency and the client. The appearance of a one-eyed actor causes a stir. I can hear the whispered horror in my wake, but Teeka drops back to soothe and reassure them. 'Thank goodness he's wearing that costume,' she repeats. Yes, yes, we're all in agreement on that stroke of good fortune.

The set is something Kafka might dream up. Three walls of a room-sized cage have been constructed. Against the back wall is an enormous copier. Next to it, they've strapped a watercooler onto the bars of the cage. Strapped to another wall is a red-framed mirror and a large plastic chute filled with giant brown pellets, and from the ceiling hangs a big blue bell. The floor of the set is knee-deep in shredded paper. But the centerpiece of the set is a metal contraption, something like a small Ferris wheel. A half-dozen people are gathered watching a stagehand slowly revolve the wheel with his hands; he grabs a spoke and gives it a good pull, like Vanna White on Wheel of Fortune. Then a voice from up in the lights yells at him to hold. He stops the wheel with some effort, and they wait, staring up into the dark.

'Nope, we're still getting too much light off it,' the voice in the rafters yells. The group pauses and mulls this over. There's a palpable tension on the set. Everyone is glancing surreptitiously at a man in knife-pleated khakis and a lemon yellow polo shirt. When he turns around, I recognize the director. He is small and wiry and would probably identify himself as a serious runner. I'm guessing he's about my age, but his hairline has already receded, leaving behind an island of wispy, colorless hair that floats above his creased forehead. At the moment, his face is taut with concentration or suppressed anger, his already thin lips pressed into a straight line. He squints at us, then holds up a finger to indicate he will be with us in a moment.

'Okay, so you have to matte the surface? How long will that take?' He is staring at his watch, and because he isn't looking at anyone, there is a pause while the group decides who should answer. After a brief conference, they decide the paint job will take forty minutes, so they can do a run-through with me first.

The director then turns back to us and makes a fairly obvious shift to a friendly public persona. 'Dan, good to see you again. Chris Pitney.' He thrusts out a hand and shakes, vigorously and a fraction of a minute too long. 'Boy, they got you good. Can you see out of that eye?'

'Yeah. No problem.'

'Next time, just give them your wallet. I had a neighbor tried to negotiate with some thug for his ID. Ended up with a knife in his side.' I nod to indicate I'm filing this away – give them your wallet.

'No costume?' Again, the question seems not to be directed at anyone in particular, so I'm not sure if I should answer. Teeka jumps in that she can have Wardrobe bring it down to the set.

'No. Never mind. Well, just the paws. The rest we can do without for now. It's probably cooler under the lights without it.'

He refocuses on me. 'So Dan, let's get you on the wheel. Just hop up there and get the feel of moving on it.'

A stagehand holds the wheel still while I climb through the spokes and onto the wheel. There is a floor, if you will, of foam-covered bars spaced about a foot apart. I crouch on all fours and slowly advance to the next bar, one hand at a time, following with my feet. After a few false starts where I lose my footing and bang a shin, I start to get the hang of it. It's like climbing a ladder, except that the ladder is moving underneath me, pushing me forward. I fall into an easy rhythm, alternate feet and hands working in sync. Pitney encourages me to pick up the speed.

'What you're doing is great, Dan. But we need a sense of urgency, a frantic quality. Maybe if you put more into the shoulders.'

Because I have no peripheral vision on my right side, I can't see Pitney, but I can hear in his tone that he would just love to jump up here and show me how to make this baby spin. I start treading a little faster, and almost immediately, sweat beads on my forehead and begins to trickle down my ribs. I don't have a clue what he has in mind with my shoulders, so instead I try nosing my head side to side in quick little staccato motions. This is good, I can tell, and I hear what sounds like an approving murmur from the small crowd that has gathered at the edge of the set. A drop of sweat slides into my left eye and blurs what's left of my vision and I stop, gripping the bars as the wheel swings first up and then back, before coming to rest.

'That's good. Great. Don't go past your limit. We can always speed up the film if we have to.'

A dark, parrot-nosed woman dressed in pink overalls has emerged through the knot of observers and approaches Pitney with what looks to be an armful of stuffed animals.

'Oh, good. I'm sorry, what's your name? Sheila? Sheila here has your paws. Go ahead and put those on and we'll run this one more time. Frank, how's it looking?'

The paws are made of smooth white fake fur and have long prehensile toes ending in claws. On the undersides of one pair are pink cotton gloves. The other pair are designed to strap over my shoes. Sheila helps me Velcro the paws into place, and I hold up my hands in front of me, slowly examining them with exaggerated horror.

'Can this be evil?' I intone and then laugh maniacally. There are a few obliging chuckles around the set. No telling how many of them recognize an imitation of Spencer Tracy's Jekyll and Hyde and how many think I'm just another loosely hinged actor. I catch Jodi, Teeka's assistant, watching me intently and sucking on a strand of hair. I wink at her, and her eyes drift to the floor.

'Okay, whenever you're ready…' Pitney is smiling, but it's a thin smile of tolerance. He doesn't have time for fooling around. I get the sense that this is a break for him, too, the chance to do a big-budget national instead of the local RV and furniture warehouse ads. He may even have private fantasies that this will break him out, that it will lead to bigger things, a TV pilot or who knows what else. Of course, he's wrong. This is a job, nothing else, a couple days' work, and at best it will lead to more days just like this one. I could tell him, relax, your life isn't in here. It's outside that door, out in the world somewhere. This? This is ridiculous. But would he listen to the one- eyed actor with the rat paws? Not a chance.

I climb back up on the wheel, my rat nails clattering against metal, and begin climbing the wheel. The paws take a little getting used to, but they also help me visualize myself as Lab Rat. I pick up speed and start the sniffing motions and manage to keep all these balls in the air until Pitney says 'Cut.' Again, the wheel slows to a halt and I can see a half-circle of satisfied mugs, some encouraging nods. We're in business.

Next, we run the final shot. Pitney instructs me to lie on my back on the wheel. 'What we're looking for here is an exhausted rat. But also at the end of his rope. Really crazed.'

'In other words, just be yourself, Dan,' I joke, but of course, no one knows if I'm kidding or not, so they smile uncertainly, humoring me.

I lie back, raising my legs and arms above me, and start slowly bicycling my feet and twitching a bit, squeaking pathetically.

I'm practically giddy with sleeplessness and disdain, and who knows, this may be working in my favor. Whatever impulse comes to me, I follow it. I feel like Steve Martin or Robin Williams, ricocheting in high gear from one new piece of business to the next. At one point, I try grabbing handfuls of paper off the floor and flinging them overhead, shaking my feet so my claws clatter, and squeaking ecstatically. This is a keeper; even Pitney is chortling. I've been a little hard on him; he's not such a bad guy. Then we do the shot with the giant copier. The doors of the copier are open, and they've got it rigged to spew out shredded paper from the side. I'm supposed to nose around, lift the various levers and pull out drawers. I throw in the ear scratch bit, and it gets a good laugh from Pitney. Then I scrabble over to the side of the copier where the paper is coming out and start stuffing paper into my mouth. It's an inspired bit, and the crew is laughing. As I'm doing this, I hear a voice on my right. 'A rat's not gonna eat the paper. He should just sniff it.' I twist around and grab a peek – it's one of the agency goons, Ben Somebody. Everybody wants to direct.

I raise my eyebrows, a la Jack Benny, and hold up my rodent paws in appeal to my audience. This is a bad move, and I know better. I'm just the hired rat. You don't bite the hand that feeds you.

Pitney is nodding earnestly, the weenie, doing his best to pacify the suits. 'Good point, yes. So, Dan, let's try that. Just sniffing the paper as it comes out.' I sniff.

By the time they're done with me, I'm starving, but the catering table has been cleaned out – lots of crumb- dusted trays, wadded napkins, and used paper plates with half-eaten muffins, crusts of quiche, and melon rinds – and another three hours before lunch. I grab a couple of glazed donuts and a cup of sour coffee, and Jodi takes