I’m not used to being this happy, and I can’t imagine it lasting all day. If I’m still this high in ten hours, I’ll be hurting, like at the end of an orgasm when it all becomes too much. You know, it’s kind of sad being this happy, because it can’t last. And the second you realize that, the joy begins to wane. And once you start coming down, you wonder if you were really happy at all, because shouldn’t real happiness withstand the knowledge that it can’t last? And once you realize you weren’t really happy, it occurs to you that what caused this interval of euphoria was nothing more than a bunch of chemicals floating around in your brain.
Fuck me. I’ve talked myself out of being happy.
When I finish the short stack and the bacon, I get my coffee refilled and pull out the script. It’s only a twenty-eight page play. My lines begin on page fifteen and end on seventeen. Matt’s gone to the trouble of bolding them for me.
As it turns out, my character is a therapist—the absolute worst therapist you’ve ever met in your life. And in my scene, Gerald brings Cindy (they’re the main characters in the play) to have a session with me because Cindy has mistreated the love of Gerald’s life—his dog, Poopsie.
I’m Dr. Lovejoy, and the scene goes like this:
ACT ONE
SCENE FIVE
AT RISE:
The following morning. GERALD and CINDY are sitting beside each other on a loveseat, alone in the office of a psychiatrist, DR. LOVEJOY. DR. LOVEJOY walks in and sits down in a chair before the couple. GERALD is visibly upset.
GERALD
Thank you for seeing us on such short notice, Dr. Lovejoy.
DR. LOVEJOY
Yes, well, my time is extremely limited, so why don’t you tell me the problem.
CINDY
(sarcastically)
I’m the problem.
DR. LOVEJOY
I’ll decide that.
GERALD
No, she’s right, Doctor. She most certainly is the problem. She’s an enormous problem.
DR. LOVEJOY
(to Gerald)
So. You initiated this session. What would you like for me to say?
GERALD
What do you mean?
DR. LOVEJOY
What did you come here to hear? Everyone who comes into this office has something in mind they want to hear. Some behavior they want rationalized. Permission to cheat on their wife. Write off their parents. What is it that you want?
GERALD
I want you to help us to—
DR. LOVEJOY
(standing and shouting)
Just stop! Let us dispense with you trying to make me think you really care about having this relationship healed. Let’s go right to the end of where all of this is going. What do you want? Permission to leave her? Go ahead. Leave. You want to change her. Knock yourself out. I don’t care. Just tell me what you want to hear, and I’ll say it convincingly and sympathetically, and give you my bill and you can go ahead and do what you were already going to do, with my four hundred and twenty-five dollar-an-hour blessing. So, Gerald. What. Do. You. Want. To. Hear.
GERALD
(tearing up)
Last week, Cindy microwaved my dog, Poopsie, for forty-five seconds. It didn’t kill her, but she walks diagonally now. I want to microwave Cindy’s Persian cat.
DR. LOVEJOY
(sits back down and leans forward, looking intently at CINDY and GERALD)
Ready?
BLACKOUT
Chapter 6
returns to Edenwald ~ in Central Park ~ oops ~ rehearsal ~ tries to act ~ fails ~ has an epiphany
After the night I’ve had, it’s a bit of a letdown returning to the Worst Hotel in the World. It’s nearly 11:00 a.m., and the sun already showering through the blinds. I can tell it’s going to be another blistering day. Laughter reaches me through the cracked window, and I stand peering through the blinds for a moment, watching the boys throwing dice down on the baking concrete steps of their apartment building. I wonder if they do this all summer long.
It feels terrible to be here, like a great, fat lie, so I change into a pair of khaki slacks and a white oxford shirt and get the hell out of this rank hotel.
Since I still have several hours before I have to be at Hamilton Studio, I catch a cab to W. 110 St., the northern boundary of Central Park, and follow a path until the smell of trees is stronger than the smell of traffic.
I wander off the path and find a place in the shade of a big oak. The grass is soft and warm. Through the foliage, I see pieces of blue, spring sky, and I smile at that joy swells up in me again.
I take the script out of my satchel and read through my lines once more. I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t a little scared. Matt’s expecting an Oscar winner to pull off this scene in his play. Jansen’s a terrific actor. Sure, he does his share of suspense flicks that don’t call for the nuances of brilliant acting. But he’s also put out five or six Oscar-caliber performances, and it’s these against which I’ll be judged.
I’ve got my lines down cold, so I’m not worried about forgetting them. My memory is photogenic. What I’m worried about is me reading onstage with the other actors, and Matt and everyone in the theatre knowing instantly that I’ve never acted professionally in my life. I have the physical resemblance to Jansen to pull this off, and I can do his voice. But what concerns me is not knowing if I have the hardwiring to play this part. Sure I’ve said Jansen’s famous lines to myself in the mirror while shaving, and I thought I was pretty good. But honestly, what do I know?
I eat lunch at a Greek deli on Central Park N. Rehearsal is only an hour away, and my mouth runs dry just thinking about it. As I’m standing to leave, this woman saunters over to my table and says, “I’m sorry to bother you, Mr. Jansen, but could I trouble you for an autograph? I’m a huge fan.” She hands me a pen and a credit card receipt to sign.
“What’s your name?” I ask, turning the receipt over on my table.
“Lauren. I just loved you in My Last Day.”
I sign, “To Lauren,” but I can’t really think of anything remotely witty or charming to write. So I just sign my name, hand it back to her.
On my way out the door, I realize that I signed Lancelot Blue Dunkquist.
I hate that fucking name.
I arrive at Hamilton Studio at 2:05 and walk through the lobby into the theatre. It’s dark and empty except for the stage, where the director and two stars sit on the sofa set-piece, basking under that autumn-afternoon lighting.
I’ve never been in a theatre quite like this. Well, I’ve never been in any theatre since I did Thoroughly Modern Millie in middle school, so I guess that doesn’t mean anything. The stage is the low point of the room. Seats surround it on three sides, each row a little higher than the one in front of it. For Love in the 0’s, the stage consists of several hardwood panels that jut out from the back wall. There’s no curtain. Set pieces are swapped out under the cover of darkness.
“Jim!” Matt calls from the sofa as I descend toward the stage between the rows. He rises, along with his actors, and we meet at the foot of the first hardwood floor panel.