Acting In Love

Roger Williams is sitting on a green and white chaise longue. The air is so dry it seems brittle. From a balcony twenty stories high, he is overlooking a Bahamian resort. When he stands, a hand over his eyes filtering out the rays of the sun, he distinguishes cruise ships extending cables, then tethering to docks. Like a parade of ants, passengers descend gangplanks to the casino several hundred yards away. Farther, a circular water field surrounded by boulders has been carved out for dolphins. Dolphins are cavorting in the water, human masters whipping them in balletic quartets high into the air, urging them into back flips which bring them crashing down nose first.

He takes out a cigarette, taps out loose tobacco, and lights it. Blows smoke contentedly into the morning air. The day will grow warm, even hot as it progresses, but for now, the air is cool. He revels in it.

Roger is pleased with himself. He sits back exhaling a cloud of smoke. After a decade of playing community theatre, partaking of commercials featuring only his feet, barely noticed in cameo movie parts, he has made it on TV in the role of a young private detective in love with the daughter of the owner of the great stallion, Miramar. The steed has won six races before narrowly losing in the Derby under suspicious circumstances. Taping is over for the next two months and the young man can finally relax. One of his actor friends recommends Atlantis in the Bahamas which he claims will settle him down. “Just sailing there on a cruise ship,” the man avers, “is a soothing adventure.” His friend is right. “First of all, the boat is large enough to avoid detection.” Shunning recognition on trips, he prefers to be undetected, spending his time focusing on an inner world of rest rather than adulation. The latter may come soon enough, he trusts, when he returns to Babylon Revisited in the fall. Concerned only about his weight. He has been taking in gobs without regard for his figure. And after all, his body should be well manicured if he is to thrive in his highly successful soap opera. Jason Fierst, his director, scoffs and tells him to munch away, to consume tons of lard and steaks, down quantities of liquor and eat morning bagels with eggs and cream cheese. “For how can you unwind if you are constantly fretting about the food you eat?” Roger remains unconvinced. Nothing should deter from the attention he has received from fans of the soap. When he returns to tape again in the fall, his first scene will find him in prison playing opposite Ari Bloom, one of the mainstays of the soap who, he understands, will now finally meet his end on Babylon. Might as well be dead for real, he chuckles.

Only one thing troubles him in paradise. Fruit. There is little on the island. More precisely, to purchase a simple banana at the downstairs bar costs upwards of four dollars. Something wrong with this, he mutters to himself, but the entire island is costly. A simple plate of spaghetti and meatballs runs $40. He hadn’t counted on spending so much for even the simplest meal.

In the moment, as he dresses, he is considering strolling the quarter mile or so to the dolphin exhibit. Dons shorts, a t-shirt with a pocket for his Larks, hitches up his suspenders, descends the elevator twenty floors and walks sprightly through the swinging front doors. Now turns left. In a few moments, he arrives at the dolphin area. Before a sandy area, he spies a coffee stand where he partakes of a latte which will set him back six dollars. Six dollars! He is beginning to rue the day he descended into heaven. But pays anyway. He wants a coffee badly. Walks to a covered trellis by the exhibit and awaits the next show. Finishes his drink. Puts down the Styrofoam cup. Dozes. Then a startling roar invades sleep. The crowd is approving the first of the dolphin pirouettes. Someone is narrating in an incomprehensible cackle through a loud speaker. Roger listens but cannot grasp more than the gist of the man’s words. Doesn’t care. Likes to watch the mammals flying in obvious graceful, pleasurable leaps and turns. One of the trainers, her arms the signal flags for the dolphins, is a young woman dressed in appropriate wet suit gear. Black hair. Wide eyes. A broad smile. Lips part slowly in wonderment as she observes her charges flying above her.

“Who is that woman?” he asks the barista.

“Don’t really know much about her,” the man replies without looking up. “I believe her name is Denise.”

The dolphins are now in full motion cruising on the rim of the water until, upon a single command, Denise has them cartwheel into the air one after the other back into the water. A loud roar of approval from the observant crowd. The woman turns slightly and places a hand over her chest to receive an accolade. Five more minutes’ pass and the show is ending. The dolphins start to feed from buckets of fish. Denise is wading through the cool water towards shore, her wet suit dripping, her dark hair resplendent in the reflection of the morning sun. Flecks of brilliance blaze from her hair as she agitates water out of it. Mesmerized, Roger thinks she displays an aura around her, an indescribable halo. He puts down his cup, his mouth open. Gets up. Hitches up his shorts, ties the string tighter. Ambles towards her. They meet somewhere near the center of the path.

“Quite a show,” Roger remarks as she passes, regretting that he has nothing more interesting to offer.

She smiles, shakes her head once more to eliminate water drops which have crept into her ear.

“Wait”, he says as she proceeds beyond him. “Can I buy you a cup of coffee””

Now she stops and turns to him, sees something she likes. Maybe it’s the blond unruly hair swirling above his head like a Medusa.

“Sure,” she responds. “I have some time now and I wouldn’t mind a coffee. But let’s not buy it at the stand,” she cautions. “I’ll bring out two cups from the employees’ station…and” she laughs, “both will be just as delicious. Maybe even tastier because they’re free.”

She returns with two brimming, steaming cups.

“Wish I had some fruit,” she laments after a sip.

He laughs. “Exactly what I was wishing for. But you’re an employee. Don’t they feed you properly?”

Lays down her cup. “Not ever enough fruit,” she sighs.

“I’m too cheap to pay for it on the island,” he confesses.

“I don’t blame you. But,” she adds, “if you leave the island, I am told there is a grocery store on the other side of the bridge where you can buy all the fruit you want at reasonable prices.”

“No shit”, he says.

“No shit,” she repeats, laughing.

“So, let’s go”.

She looks at her watch. “I need to be back by two for the next show.”

“How far can it be””

“Better than a mile,” she says. “And I’m not exactly dressed for hiking.”

“Do you want to change?”

“No.”

“What’s your name”?

“Denise” she says. They start out for the bridge. “Denise Rosen.”

He is looking at her in profile as they walk together. They are passing a fleet of yachts docked on the pier by the restaurants. On the largest yacht, four people with caps are playing cards aft. “Keep going,” she says. “We need to pass through this area to get to the bridge.” From the corner of his eye, Roger examines her. He does not find her beautiful. Maybe pretty. Exotically pretty. The girl’s look wafts, grows or dissipates, depending on her way of speaking, whether she is excited by something, or simply calmly reciting the obvious. But she exudes a vibration. A je ne sais quoi. It’s a femininity, a sexuality redolent in her entire body, the way she moves, the swing of her arms, her bottom shifting slightly upwards as it glides forward, lips which give way to a romantic pout, her white teeth barely revealing themselves in this moment, breasts shifting in motion just a tad, just enough so that Roger is aware of them.

“I’m here only through the season,” she says. “Then I return to the states.”

“To do what?” he asks.

“I’m an actress.” Lamenting now, she looks at him with eyes lowering. “Not a very good actress,” she adds.

“How do you know that?” he questions her.

“Because I am not getting roles,” she replies.

“What a coincidence,” he says and now begins to talk about himself, revealing his role on Babylon Revisited.

She giggles slightly. “I thought I had seen you before. Although,” she adds: “To tell the truth, I’m not a fervent watcher of your soap.”

They’re nearing the beginning of the bridge and now car traffic has accelerated in earnest. They scamper onto the bridge and begin to climb. At the apex of the bridge, half way across, ships, some bearing cargo, some with lounging, waving passengers in shorts pass underneath into the Atlantic.

“It’s longer than I thought,” she says, fretting.

“Getting tired?”

“No.” A drop of perspiration appears above her lips.

They forge onwards descending to the other side of the bridge. As they reach the bottom, there is a street to be crossed. On the other side, three black men are standing idly on the corner.

“Does this mean trouble?” he questions”

“I don’t know. I don’t think so,” she replies cautiously.

“Just keep on walking”.

The three black men are dressed similarly in jeans. One is smoking. They are staring. Not only at the woman, Roger notices, but at him as well. He wonders why.

“Good morning!” one of them speaks up agreeably.

They respond in kind, tension dissipating. A few yards up the street, there is a broken fence of a grassy field. A young black boy in beige shorts wiggles through the fence. He is smiling. His teeth are blindingly white.

“Can you tell us where we can find the grocery store?” Denise asks him.

“Sure,” he says. “I take you there. Come with me.”

Now the three of them walk up the street. On either side, small brick buildings once occupied, many vacant. The air hangs acrid here.

“Are we being stupid?” Denise whispers.

Roger shrugs. “Come this way,” the boy repeats. “It only a few blocks away. Large store with many things.”

Suddenly, out of one of the buildings a middle aged black woman emerges, a woman of considerable girth. She sizes up the situation quickly and begins to walk next to the boy. “Thomas,” she says, “watcha doing?”

“Takin’ folks to the market,” he says.

“Takin’ me too,” she says. She has said nothing to either Roger or Denise. Now the four of them are walking stride for stride up the hill.

Three minutes’ pass before they come to the next intersection. “Look to the right,” the boy points. “There’s the store.”

Roger reaches into his pocket, pulls out a Bahamian dollar and hands it to the boy. “Thank you”, the boy says, checking out the bill. “You come back tomorrow and we walk some more,” the boy says. Roger takes Denise’s arm and heads towards the store. Turns once. The woman has her arm around the boy’s neck. The two are quietly watching them enter the supermarket. The market itself is large, cool and filled with fruit. Bananas cost forty-five cents a pound, Roger notices with pleasure, and buys a bunch. Denise scoops up strawberries and blueberries.

“This is worth the hike,” she gushes. They also buy chocolate bars before leaving the store. It is only then that they notice they are the only white people on the premises.

When they return to the island, Roger asks Denise to dinner. She laughs. “Better still,” she responds. “Come to my place. I can make you a plateful of spaghetti for nothing, and even give you a bit of wine with it. You deserve something after the caper we just pulled off.”

He relishes her spaghetti. The taste reminds him of dinners at Muggiano’s in Boston. The wine feels off, but he drinks a glass anyway. They spend the evening chatting away. Chatting about acting and what it takes to be celebrated. “Luck,” he says. “No,” she responds. “It must be more than that. If it’s only luck, then I might as well never think about it. No, there must be something in you that affects, even changes people. If you have that certain gift, they respond.”

He shrugs. “I have no answer to that. But I do believe in luck if you are ready for it, if you take advantage of it”.

“And how do you do that?” she asks.

“Take the shitty roles. We are never so full of ourselves that we can afford to turn anything down. True, once we become megastars, maybe then we can choose what to reject.”

She grins. “I would be happy to take any cruddy role that comes my way.”

“Maybe I can help,” he says to her. She looks up at him now, smiles and begins to scrape dishes. “Wait,” he adds quickly. “This is your moment to take advantage of your luck, your good fortune. I am in a position to help. Possibly. I can’t guarantee anything, but I do have a little pull with Mr. Fierst, the director of the soap. Maybe I can squeeze you in there.”

“I would kill,” she responds throatily, her eyes sparkling.

“No need to do that,” he responds. “You don’t even have to sleep with the messenger.”

“Hmm,” she says. “Could be a first. What’s your angle?”

“Just trying to help a fellow thespian,” he responds. “Besides, if you get the gig, then we’ll have a lot of time together, and I might even enjoy that.”

“So, I don’t have to fuck you to get this gig”

“No,” he says.

“Even if I want to?”

“I never fuck on a first date,” Roger giggles.

“Pity,” she sighs.

“I realize I’m a bit odd here, but I like to get emotionally connected to the piece of ass I’m fondling. Slow childhood development, I fear. Maybe even bad, late toilet training.”

“That is odd,” she laughs. “Should I really take you at your word?”

“No strings. No hidden agenda.”

Denise comes around, loosens an apron, plants a kiss on his cheek. A long, soft kiss. With her napkin, she smooths away a trace of lipstick. Grinning, he does not reply to her touch.

“How about some dessert?” he pleads.

“I thought that was what I was offering,” she pouts.

The Play Begins

From the wings, through a small aperture in a velvet curtain, Roger studies the first rows. Clients are murmuring. Always a seething hum before the curtain rises. The public has already settled in, but they’re edgily expectant. Churning, babbling, shedding garments in their seats. To while away time, they chatter to one another. Sounds of squirrels nibbling away at acorns. In France, Roger recalls that the beginning of the play is announced by three thumps on the stage. Then everyone quiets, eyes lift towards the stage. Here, only the raising of the curtain silences the audience. What are they doing here anyway? he asks himself.