her.
"God, I'm so glad it's you!"
"You have no right to abandon American filmmaking this way!" he would say affectionately, and she would laugh loudly, for minutes without stopping. She was starting to have two speeds: Coma and Hysteria. Two meals: breakfast and popcorn. Two friends: Charlotte Peveril and Tommy. She could hear the clink of his bourbon glass. "You are too gifted a person to be living in a state that borders on North Dakota."
"Iowa."
"Holy bejesus, it's worse than I thought. I'll bet they say that there. I'll bet they say 'Bejesus.'"
"I live downtown. They don't say that here."
"Are you anywhere near Champaign-Urbana?"
"No."
"I went there once. I thought from its name that it would be a different kind of place. I kept saying to myself, 'Champagne, ur
bah
na,
champagne
, ur
bah
na! Champagne! Urbana!'" He sighed. "It was just this thing in the middle of a field. I went to a Chinese restaurant there and ordered my entire dinner with
extra
MSG."
"I'm in Chicago. It's not so bad."
"Not so bad. There are no movie people there. Sidra, what about your
acting talent
?"
"I have no acting talent."
"Hello?"
"You heard me."
"I'm not sure. For a minute there, I thought maybe you had that dizziness thing again, that inner-ear imbalance."
"Talent. I don't have
talent
. I have willingness. What
talent?"
As a kid, she had always told the raunchiest jokes. As an adult, she could rip open a bone and speak out of it. Simple, clear. There was never anything to stop her. Why was there never anything to stop her? "I can stretch out the neck of a sweater to point at a freckle on my shoulder. Anyone who didn't get enough attention in nursery school can do that. Talent is something else."
"Excuse me, okay? I'm only a screenwriter. But someone's got you thinking you went from serious actress to aging bimbo. That's ridiculous. You just have to weather things a little out here. Besides. I think willing yourself to do a thing is brave, and the very essence of talent."
Sidra looked at her hands, already chapped and honeycombed with bad weather, bad soap, bad life. She needed to listen to the crickets tape. "But I
don't
will myself," she said. "I'm just already willing."
she began to go to blues bars at night. Sometimes she called Charlotte Peveril, her one friend left from high school.
"Siddy, how are you?" In Chicago, Sidra was thought of as a hillbilly name. But in L.A., people had thought it was beautiful and assumed she'd made it up.
"I'm fine. Let's go get drunk and listen to music."
Sometimes she just went by herself.
"Don't I know you from the movies?" a man might ask at one of the breaks, smiling, leering in a twinkly way.
"Maybe," she'd say, and he would look suddenly panicked and back away.
One night, a handsome man in a poncho, a bad poncho—though was there such a thing as a good poncho? asked Charlotte—sat down next to her with an extra glass of beer. "You look like you should be in the movies," he said. Sidra nodded wearily. "But I don't go to the movies. So if you
were
in the movies, I would never have gotten to set my eyes on you."
She turned her gaze from his poncho to her sherry, then back. Perhaps he had spent some time in Mexico or Peru. "What do you do?"
"I'm an auto mechanic." He looked at her carefully. "My name's Walter. Walt." He pushed the second beer her way. "The drinks here are okay as long as you don't ask them to mix anything. Just don't ask them to mix anything!"
She picked it up and took a sip. There was something about him she liked: something earthy beneath the act. In L.A., beneath the act you got nougat or Styrofoam. Or glass. Sidra's mouth was lined with sherry. Walt's lips shone with beer. "What's the last movie you saw?" she asked him.
"The last movie I saw. Let's see." He was thinking, but she could tell he wasn't good at it. She watched with curiosity the folded-in mouth, the tilted head: at last, a guy who didn't go to the movies. His eyes rolled back like the
"God, I'm so glad it's you!"
"You have no right to abandon American filmmaking this way!" he would say affectionately, and she would laugh loudly, for minutes without stopping. She was starting to have two speeds: Coma and Hysteria. Two meals: breakfast and popcorn. Two friends: Charlotte Peveril and Tommy. She could hear the clink of his bourbon glass. "You are too gifted a person to be living in a state that borders on North Dakota."
"Iowa."
"Holy bejesus, it's worse than I thought. I'll bet they say that there. I'll bet they say 'Bejesus.'"
"I live downtown. They don't say that here."
"Are you anywhere near Champaign-Urbana?"
"No."
"I went there once. I thought from its name that it would be a different kind of place. I kept saying to myself, 'Champagne, ur
bah
na,
champagne
, ur
bah
na! Champagne! Urbana!'" He sighed. "It was just this thing in the middle of a field. I went to a Chinese restaurant there and ordered my entire dinner with
extra
MSG."
"I'm in Chicago. It's not so bad."
"Not so bad. There are no movie people there. Sidra, what about your
acting talent
?"
"I have no acting talent."
"Hello?"
"You heard me."
"I'm not sure. For a minute there, I thought maybe you had that dizziness thing again, that inner-ear imbalance."
"Talent. I don't have
talent
. I have willingness. What
talent?"
As a kid, she had always told the raunchiest jokes. As an adult, she could rip open a bone and speak out of it. Simple, clear. There was never anything to stop her. Why was there never anything to stop her? "I can stretch out the neck of a sweater to point at a freckle on my shoulder. Anyone who didn't get enough attention in nursery school can do that. Talent is something else."
"Excuse me, okay? I'm only a screenwriter. But someone's got you thinking you went from serious actress to aging bimbo. That's ridiculous. You just have to weather things a little out here. Besides. I think willing yourself to do a thing is brave, and the very essence of talent."
Sidra looked at her hands, already chapped and honeycombed with bad weather, bad soap, bad life. She needed to listen to the crickets tape. "But I
don't
will myself," she said. "I'm just already willing."
she began to go to blues bars at night. Sometimes she called Charlotte Peveril, her one friend left from high school.
"Siddy, how are you?" In Chicago, Sidra was thought of as a hillbilly name. But in L.A., people had thought it was beautiful and assumed she'd made it up.
"I'm fine. Let's go get drunk and listen to music."
Sometimes she just went by herself.
"Don't I know you from the movies?" a man might ask at one of the breaks, smiling, leering in a twinkly way.
"Maybe," she'd say, and he would look suddenly panicked and back away.
One night, a handsome man in a poncho, a bad poncho—though was there such a thing as a good poncho? asked Charlotte—sat down next to her with an extra glass of beer. "You look like you should be in the movies," he said. Sidra nodded wearily. "But I don't go to the movies. So if you
were
in the movies, I would never have gotten to set my eyes on you."
She turned her gaze from his poncho to her sherry, then back. Perhaps he had spent some time in Mexico or Peru. "What do you do?"
"I'm an auto mechanic." He looked at her carefully. "My name's Walter. Walt." He pushed the second beer her way. "The drinks here are okay as long as you don't ask them to mix anything. Just don't ask them to mix anything!"
She picked it up and took a sip. There was something about him she liked: something earthy beneath the act. In L.A., beneath the act you got nougat or Styrofoam. Or glass. Sidra's mouth was lined with sherry. Walt's lips shone with beer. "What's the last movie you saw?" she asked him.
"The last movie I saw. Let's see." He was thinking, but she could tell he wasn't good at it. She watched with curiosity the folded-in mouth, the tilted head: at last, a guy who didn't go to the movies. His eyes rolled back like the
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