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Authors: C. E. Case
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had brought
their jeans out of storage.
She opened her cell phone. "Want to have
coffee?" she asked the voice on the other end of the line.
"Only with you."
Angel met her at the Starbucks on Broadway
and 8th and they stood outside sipping lattes, leaning against the
brick. He gave her his brightest smile, matching her height and
turning on the Latin charm, trying to be young again at
thirty-five, but she saw, after a month away, how gaunt he was, how
his teeth and eyes had yellowed, how long sleeves in summer hid
track marks and bad skin and veins.
"Let's see a show," Angel said. He rubbed his
arm and looked at her sideways.
"Oh, come on."
"You're a tourist, now, Leah. Do tourist
things. Fall in love with New York."
"Fine. But it can't involve Shakespeare."
"Why not?"
Leah flushed. She shrugged, and said, "So
overdone."
"We're going to see a Jew Grows in
Brooklyn ," Angel said.
"If we're going to see that, I could just
have dinner with my parents," Leah said.
"Oh, Leah."
"We're capturing the tourist experience
how?"
"Do I really need to explain symbolism and
meta and projection to an actor? You're supposed to be an
artist."
Leah sipped her coffee and looked south. She
couldn't see very far past the closest buildings. She imagined they
went on forever. New York was the entire world and places like
Durham only existed in old books and fairy tales.
"Do you want to go to Ground Zero?" Angel
asked.
"No, I'm good," Leah said. "It's great of you
to spend the whole day with me, you know."
"You've been gone. You were missed. You're
like an elusive celebrity now. We want you, girl."
Leah chuckled. She glanced at Angel. Angel
looked down at the concrete. No roaches, even by the cracks in the
building. Giuliani had driven them out like the pied piper. Or
maybe it had been the thunderous voice of Broadway, singing out the
plague, shaking the stages.
"What's wrong?" Leah asked.
"I got fired from the ensemble. I'm
unemployed again."
"Oh, Angel."
"They found coke in my locker."
* * *
Neither Angel nor Leah laughed much at the
play, but they smiled, and Leah let herself be immersed in theater
that didn't involve Sophia's descent into madness or Ward's
trembling fingers as he drank, as he looked at her and sang, so
afraid that someone would find out that the darkness in his heart
really wasn't all that special.
"Now that's theater," Leah said as the cast
took their bows.
Angel took her back to Broadway, and asked,
"How could you leave all this?"
"How could you?"
"Let's go to a party," Angel said.
"There's a party?"
"There's always a party."
"I have to meet with my agent in the
morning," she said.
But she went anyway. The trick to combating
loneliness was to be so worn out that the apartment felt welcoming,
so exhausted that she could stumble into bed with her eyes shut, be
too drunk, so that the pounding in her head echoed against the bare
walls by morning, and filled the space.
* * *
"How would you feel about singing "My Funny
Valentine" on a compilation of Broadway's 100 greatest love songs?"
Her agent asked over omelets at the Plaza hotel. She wondered
briefly if he'd brought her there to impress her. The way he was
glancing around, probably more to be seen. Everybody had to be seen
in New York.
She raised her glass of orange juice, careful
of her pinkie placement, and asked, "That's what you've got for
me?"
"That's what I've got. Honey, the anime's
recasting your character with another voice."
"Whose voice?"
"It's not--"
"Whose?"
"Gates McFadden."
"What?"
"They feel the only way to really legitimize
themselves with an American audience is through Star
Trek ."
"I've worked with Mark Hamill on dozens of
projects."
"Twice. You've worked with him twice, and
Gates McFadden is bigger than Mark Hamill."
"In what universe? She had, what, two lines
in Patriot Games ?"
"It's just business, Leah."
"What else do you have for me?" she
asked.
"The End wants you to do a set."
That was
their jeans out of storage.
She opened her cell phone. "Want to have
coffee?" she asked the voice on the other end of the line.
"Only with you."
Angel met her at the Starbucks on Broadway
and 8th and they stood outside sipping lattes, leaning against the
brick. He gave her his brightest smile, matching her height and
turning on the Latin charm, trying to be young again at
thirty-five, but she saw, after a month away, how gaunt he was, how
his teeth and eyes had yellowed, how long sleeves in summer hid
track marks and bad skin and veins.
"Let's see a show," Angel said. He rubbed his
arm and looked at her sideways.
"Oh, come on."
"You're a tourist, now, Leah. Do tourist
things. Fall in love with New York."
"Fine. But it can't involve Shakespeare."
"Why not?"
Leah flushed. She shrugged, and said, "So
overdone."
"We're going to see a Jew Grows in
Brooklyn ," Angel said.
"If we're going to see that, I could just
have dinner with my parents," Leah said.
"Oh, Leah."
"We're capturing the tourist experience
how?"
"Do I really need to explain symbolism and
meta and projection to an actor? You're supposed to be an
artist."
Leah sipped her coffee and looked south. She
couldn't see very far past the closest buildings. She imagined they
went on forever. New York was the entire world and places like
Durham only existed in old books and fairy tales.
"Do you want to go to Ground Zero?" Angel
asked.
"No, I'm good," Leah said. "It's great of you
to spend the whole day with me, you know."
"You've been gone. You were missed. You're
like an elusive celebrity now. We want you, girl."
Leah chuckled. She glanced at Angel. Angel
looked down at the concrete. No roaches, even by the cracks in the
building. Giuliani had driven them out like the pied piper. Or
maybe it had been the thunderous voice of Broadway, singing out the
plague, shaking the stages.
"What's wrong?" Leah asked.
"I got fired from the ensemble. I'm
unemployed again."
"Oh, Angel."
"They found coke in my locker."
* * *
Neither Angel nor Leah laughed much at the
play, but they smiled, and Leah let herself be immersed in theater
that didn't involve Sophia's descent into madness or Ward's
trembling fingers as he drank, as he looked at her and sang, so
afraid that someone would find out that the darkness in his heart
really wasn't all that special.
"Now that's theater," Leah said as the cast
took their bows.
Angel took her back to Broadway, and asked,
"How could you leave all this?"
"How could you?"
"Let's go to a party," Angel said.
"There's a party?"
"There's always a party."
"I have to meet with my agent in the
morning," she said.
But she went anyway. The trick to combating
loneliness was to be so worn out that the apartment felt welcoming,
so exhausted that she could stumble into bed with her eyes shut, be
too drunk, so that the pounding in her head echoed against the bare
walls by morning, and filled the space.
* * *
"How would you feel about singing "My Funny
Valentine" on a compilation of Broadway's 100 greatest love songs?"
Her agent asked over omelets at the Plaza hotel. She wondered
briefly if he'd brought her there to impress her. The way he was
glancing around, probably more to be seen. Everybody had to be seen
in New York.
She raised her glass of orange juice, careful
of her pinkie placement, and asked, "That's what you've got for
me?"
"That's what I've got. Honey, the anime's
recasting your character with another voice."
"Whose voice?"
"It's not--"
"Whose?"
"Gates McFadden."
"What?"
"They feel the only way to really legitimize
themselves with an American audience is through Star
Trek ."
"I've worked with Mark Hamill on dozens of
projects."
"Twice. You've worked with him twice, and
Gates McFadden is bigger than Mark Hamill."
"In what universe? She had, what, two lines
in Patriot Games ?"
"It's just business, Leah."
"What else do you have for me?" she
asked.
"The End wants you to do a set."
That was
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