“My mom’s a Catholic. But I’m not that.”
“Christianity seems like a good idea if they could ever get anybody to practice it. I don’t know if I could make ‘turn the other cheek’ work for me.”
“Okay, back to vices. You don’t gamble?”
“The sport of idiots.”
“Jimmy would have said that.”
“Again, Jimmy was?”
“He was a great guy. Like a father or an uncle. When I met him I was eighteen and waiting tables and crammed into a small apartment with three other girls eating macaroni without the cheese. I was being turned down for bit parts as fast as I could scurry from one audition to the next.
“I was going to acting classes when I could and determined that I was going to be an actress.
“I vividly recall the awkward blind date followed by continuous puking on the sidewalk. The restaurant did a great job with the food poisoning. That’s what started it all with Jimmy. Anyway, I’m kneeling on the sidewalk in front of my place nearly unconscious with dehydration and I feel this hand on my forehead and another on the back of my neck. And I see this old guy with a big nose and wrinkles like canals and I’m thinking he’s a pervert. I tell him I don’t know him. And he says: ‘Right now, do you really care?’
“Somehow he goes and gets this lady who has an apartment next door to his. He lives in the only really good building on the block. Next thing I know I’m in her place with a compress on my forehead and a compazine suppository shoved up my rear. It turned out that she was a nurse.
“They called him Jimmy Beam because he drank too much of the stuff when he was in the Navy. His real name was Erik. Crusty on the outside, a doll on the inside. He had friends everywhere he went. He always insisted, maybe demanded, that I would amount to something. I agreed with him. Everybody needs somebody who agrees with them contrary to all the evidence.
“Jimmy did come with a big dose of humanity: he picked his teeth incessantly and carried a metal box of cinnamon-flavored mints, constantly offering them to whomever as if he was conscious of his own bad breath. If he had a glass of apple juice, he’d fondle it like it was whiskey. After dinner his old bowels constantly farted. I complained about him, and I loved him.”
“How often did you see him?”
“Like once or twice a week before I moved out of the neighborhood. You know, sometimes it was with my friends. They liked him too. Sometimes on the steps to his building. We talked on the phone. Every time something really big happened, I called my mom, my sister, and then Jimmy.”
“What about your dad?”
“I was twelve when he died. Kind, humorous, always joking, upbeat. Never a down moment.”
“You make him sound nearly perfect.”
“A life as wrinkle free as a new starched shirt. I still idolize my father. But you know, there was one thing about him. I couldn’t get him to be serious, I guess. I don’t bring it up. My mom, my sister, and I, we just remember him as the perfect dad.”
“But?”
“Well… it doesn’t matter now… he died of cancer. Bowel cancer that spread everywhere. It was hard.
“I think I cried harder when they lowered Jimmy into the ground. Because my dad was so horribly sick, dying was deliverance from misery. Jimmy dropped through a trapdoor out of a happy life into the grave. I suppose the special thing about Jimmy was that he had no reason to love me and no nudge from mother nature. He didn’t want fame or money. I guess he just wanted to enlarge his life with other people.
“Later, after my first big movie, Jimmy reminded me that I was just a girl from McLean, Virginia. Of course I would tell him that I was reminded of that every time I went to a party. I didn’t sing or do the hoochy coochy or quote Shakespeare. So I’d say: ‘Look, Jimmy, I go to a party and I’m a big deal that doesn’t do anything.’ Then he’d smile at my poor floundering ego. Jimmy died four years ago.”
“Jimmy’s talk must have taken. On those TV shows you always protest that you’re an ordinary gal with an unusual job. Ah, shucks-no special insight, wisdom, or wit, you tell them. Of course nobody believes a word of it. Especially me. Then for the rest of the program you’re expected to be very witty and wise in addition to being humble.”
“I really do feel regular.”
“Get over it. And don’t tell us about it on TV. Maybe you once were normal, but you can’t be normal or ordinary or whatever the hell you call it when you sneeze and the entire world offers you a hanky. If you act with kindness despite all that-now, that is golden.”
“So, Mr. Publicist, what should I say when they stick a microphone in my face?”
“On national television, you can tell us that you were blessed with some good luck but that you still like being with your family and friends. You like doing the usual things. And for God’s sake don’t bat your eyes and act as if you suddenly woke up and noticed you were famous. That’s crapola again.”
“How long have you been waiting to say that?”
“Probably all my life. So then you had your mom and your sister?”
“Yeah.”
“What was your mom like when you were growing up?”
“Catholic workaholic.”
“Who always wanted to be a movie star but taught drama instead.”
“You don’t mince words, do you?”
“Peter told me.”
“Peter? Oh, ho. So you do know each other. And you know each other well.”
“Big clue there, huh, Sherlock?”
“So how did you meet Peter?”
“No more clues for now. I want to know about your mother… she was a wonderful inspiration in your acting career… you can skip that part.”
“You are tough.”
“I gather your mother was working a lot when you were little?”
“I had a baby-sitter or day care.”
“Are you close with your mother?”
“Very.”
“When you were growing up?”
“My mom was working her head off to make ends meet like any kid, I was probably disappointed a little.”
“But you got over it.”
“Yeah. I wrote a poem about it.”
“Always embarrassing.”
“Especially when you quote it in junior college English class.”
“Can you still quote it?”
“No.”
“Come on. Your memory for scripts is legendary.”
“You would make fun of me.”
“Because you’re not a poet? No. Amateur poems can be very touching. I have a feeling about this one.”
“I do not believe this. You are beer and football. Maybe hot cars or hot boats and maybe… maybe French restaurants where you order in French. You’re a man of contradictions. But I won’t stretch to poetry.”
“How about I’m a collector of information?”
“I see. Poetry as fact-gathering. That’s an emotionally challenged point of view.”
“Touche. Touche. What about your brother?”
“Jason departed my life shortly after my twenty-second birthday. There was a major fight. His wife was asking for custody of Grady, their baby girl, and I got into it on her side. I thought he was an arrogant bastard at the time.”
“You seem almost obsessed with saving your brother from his own decisions.”
“I am.”
