Someday, Someday, Maybe (6 page)

4
 

Most of the streets in Manhattan go in just one direction. Some of the larger crosstown streets and some of the major north—south avenues have two-way traffic, but in general, the odd-numbered streets go west, toward the Hudson River, and the “evens go east,” as Jane, the native New Yorker, taught me. Even our neighborhood in Brooklyn has mostly one-way streets, so I must see the sign with the familiar white arrow and bold black letters a hundred times a week, but I never take it for granted. For most people it’s an indication to look for the traffic coming from one direction, but I always take care to look both ways, in case someone missed the sign and is accidentally going the wrong way. It’s been this way for most of my life. I check not once, not twice, but three times before I cross a one-way street. And that’s how, one Tuesday afternoon before class, I see James Franklin.

I’m sure he wasn’t there the first two times I checked the traffic headed west on 45th Street, but when I check for the third time, there he is. James Franklin, the working actor who’s still in class, the one who got the part in the Arturo DeNucci movie. He’s wearing a green army surplus—type jacket and faded jeans and has a long blue and red striped scarf looped around his neck. His hair is dark and a little wavy. He’s so handsome that it almost hurts my eyes. Even from across the street he stands out like the sun is shining just a little more brightly on him, giving him the slightest bit more attention and warmth than everyone else.

He’s across Sixth Avenue heading west, and I’m about to head north. If I can cross 45th before the light changes, and stall convincingly for a moment, there’s a chance we’ll accidentally run into each other. Maybe he’ll recognize me, maybe even remember my name, although he’s been back in class only a month or so after being on location and I’d just started with Stavros when he left. But if he does recognize me, maybe I’ll ask him for a light, and we’ll stand on the corner having a smoke and talking about class, or maybe he’ll ask if I want a cup of coffee, and we’ll go to a diner and sit down and talk about … 
Shit
. What will we talk about? I’ll think of something. I’ll think of something funny to say and he’ll say, “You’re funny. I never realized how funny you are. I’m so glad I ran into you.” And maybe we’ll go out sometime, and maybe we’ll fall in love. And someday we’ll happen to be walking down this very street and he’ll say, “Remember that day when we accidentally ran into each other here?” But none of that can happen if he walks by me on the street today.

I make my way across 45th Street and hover near a trash can, digging in my bag as if I’m looking for something I need to throw out, waiting for his light to change. Finally, I can see him start to walk across the street. I look away so he doesn’t see me staring at him, and when I glance up again, I’ve lost him in the crowd. My heart starts to pound in panic but then he emerges again, and my face flushes with embarrassment.
Calm down
. He has a tan canvas messenger bag slung across his chest and a pager on his belt. The bag looks pretty full and I wonder what’s inside it. Maybe he had to pick up a script to prepare for an audition. Or maybe he gets his scripts delivered to him by messenger—I’ve heard they do that when you start to do really well. Maybe he’s carrying around books by John Osborne or Charles Bukowski because he’s trying to make sense of his darkly romantic view of the world. I’ll bet he brings a notebook with him everywhere in case he has a deep thought about something, which I’m fairly sure he does on a regular basis.

As he nears my side of the street I focus intently on my bag while facing the trash can, sighing in exasperation and shaking the bag dramatically up and down in an effort to “find what it is I’m looking for.” “Where
is
it?” I say too loudly for the audience of no one. Finally I retrieve the only believable trash I can find, a thin foil piece of gum wrapper, so light that—even with the force of my melodramatic aim—it flutters, missing the container entirely, and when I look up, James Franklin has disappeared.

My mouth falls open in dismay, and my bag slides a few inches down my shoulder as it slumps in defeat. Seconds later, some pedestrian slams into me, and my open bag is knocked off my shoulder and onto the ground. It’s what I deserve, of course, for my appallingly hammy bag acting, and for moving the bag from a stable cross-body position to the more vulnerable single shoulder in order to capture the attention of James Franklin—who is suddenly standing right in front of me.

James Franklin is standing right in front of me.

His canvas book bag hit my canvas book bag just as he passed. It’s like our shoulder bags kissed.

The thought of our shoulder bags kissing and eventually falling in love and moving in together makes me smile a little, which is bad, because finding myself amusing is taking up the space I need in my brain to conjure a way to be charming. I’ve got to think of something to say. Something devastatingly witty. I’m running out of time. He’s just staring at me. I pick my bag up off the ground and stare blankly back at him, frozen like those lottery winners on TV who scream without forming actual words, or one of those actors accepting an award who you know will regret not having written a speech later as the clock ticks by and they completely blank on who they were supposed to thank. “Your wife!” you yell to them through the television, but the orchestra swells and their chance is gone.

“Whoops—sorry about—”

“I’m in class with you!” I announce, too squeakily.

“Oh, yeah?”

“Yes! Stavros’s class? I’ve only been there for a few months and you’ve been gone … you … working actor, you.…” I trail off, smiling at him idiotically.

“Oh, yeah. Yeah. I think I recognize you .…” He nods, slowly, and smiles in a slightly lopsided way. “Yes.”

He has some sort of accent, almost a drawl. He’s from the South somewhere. Maybe he grew up on a farm in Texas, or Georgia. Maybe he had chores in the barn every day, and helped his father harvest corn.

He still hasn’t looked away from me. He stands perfectly still, not shifting at all. I can feel myself rocking back and forth on my feet. I try to stay steady, like he does, but it’s impossible for me to do.

“I really like your work in class,” I say, ducking my head.

“Oh yeah?” He looks embarrassed, glancing down at his feet.
He’s shy
, I think. The city must be so loud for him after all that wide-open quiet space he’s used to.

“Yes! I mean, we’ve all seen guys who yell ‘Stella! Stella!’ Like Brando? But you made Stanley really, uh,
you
. I think.”

I’ve got to get a grip. I hope I don’t sound pretentious. Anytime a person uses “Brando” in a sentence, the odds of sounding pretentious are high. I take what might be my first breath in the whole conversation. “Anyway.” I smile and try to hold his gaze the way he held mine, then hold out my hand. “Franny.”

“Franny. From class.” His eyes narrow a little, probably to avoid the smoke as he takes a drag off of his cigarette, but I feel like he’s sizing me up. “You said you’re new?”

“Who, me? Well, sort of, yes. I’m new to class, but I’ve lived in New York for a little while—two years. Over two years. I worked for my dad at his school, and then I was in a theater company for a long time before that. Touring. Also, I’ve done one commercial. And uh, that’s it!”

Ugh. I’m babbling. At least I didn’t tell him the company was called GO! KIDS! and we played stupid fairy-tale characters and the only places we “toured” were elementary schools in the tri-state area. Oh God, what if he asks what company I was in? I wish I hadn’t mentioned the commercial, either. He would probably never do commercials.

“That’s cool, that’s cool,” he drawls, giving me a smile. “Work is work, right?”

“Right. Yes! Work
is
work, isn’t it? How true!” I’m relieved. I must stop repeating him, though.

There’s an odd buzzing sound and James reaches down to check the pager on his belt. “Sorry about that. That’s my agent,” he says, casually. “I’m supposed to meet him somewhere.”

“So you aren’t going to class?” I say, with way too much panic in my voice.

“No,” he says. Then he pushes his bottom lip out a little. “Not tonight, sweetheart.”

He looks almost sorry for me, as if he’s canceling some sort of prearranged date, or I’m five years old and he just told me we can’t go to the zoo. I resent his assumption that I’m even slightly disappointed that he won’t be in class tonight, although the truth is I’m inexplicably crushed.

“Me neither. I’m not going to class either, because ah, it’s funny, but I have to pick up some scripts, too, actually.”
Shit. Lying. Stop lying
.

“Oh yeah?”

“Yeah. And then, I have … ah … stuff, you know … with all my uh, agents, also,” I say, hands flapping vaguely in the air.

“Very cool. Who are you with?”

I realize I’m too exhausted to continue. “I’m with It’s All in My Head, Inc.?”

“You’re, wha? Oh, I get it. You’re kidding. Ha.”

“Yes, I’m kidding. I’m currently between agents. Currently and formerly between them.”

“Ah, well …” James trails off. He looks embarrassed. I’ve blown it. We’ll never speak to each other again. I’ll wave to him across the theater once in a while, but mainly I’ll pretend this whole thing never happened. My face is burning as I try to think of a quirky exit line, something Diane Keaton said in
Annie Hall
, when James lowers his cigarette and smiles a slow, Southern smile.

“Can I get your number?” he asks.

I was definitely not expecting that. It seems to have come out of nowhere. It occurs to me that perhaps this is his way of compensating for my not having an agent. I decide I don’t care.

“My number? Yes. Sure. For representation?”

He looks confused. “No, for—oh. Kidding again. Ha.”

It’s a little weird how he says the word “ha” instead of actually laughing. He must be one of those cool people who appreciate humor subtly from the inside, who never giggle uncontrollably, streaming tears and spitting milkshake down their shirt.

I tear a scrap of paper from my Filofax and write my number down. When James says goodbye, he gives me a little kiss on the cheek, brushing my face with his so that I can feel the stubble on his chin. “I’m glad I ran into you,” he says in his raspy voice, and my knees almost buckle.

“Literally,” I say coolly, and this time he laughs for real.

Success!

I
’ll have to hurry now to make it to class on time, but I don’t mind. Navigating the crowd on the sidewalk is a challenge I like. I’m running without touching anyone else on the street. I’m a character in a human video game, keeping my bubble of space from being invaded, eyeing an open slot on the sidewalk, speeding up to grab it before someone else does, slowing down until I see another space, working together with the strangers on the street as though we’re all performing an elaborate dance perfectly choreographed for thousands of people.

I’m happy. A guy I like got my number. Everything will be okay.

But I’m so excited that I run a little too fast, and I manage to get to class at exactly the wrong time. Stavros opens the doors to the theater at precisely five fifty-five and closes them at precisely six. If you get there too early, practically the whole class is clustered around the door, and there’s a nervous tension in the air and no way to avoid overhearing almost every conversation.

CONSEQUENCES OF GETTING TO CLASS AT EXACTLY THE WRONG TIME

Characters overlap, all are talking the whole time

CASEY
.
(20s, beautiful, can be weepy, talking to Franny)
Franny! Thank God! Did you hear? About what? Franny, I left a message on your tape, how can you go even an hour without checking your machine? Okay, listen. Remember that diet I told you about that all the girls in L.A. were doing? Where you eat a banana and then wait until you are totally starving and then you eat a hard-boiled egg and wait until you are about to pass out, and then you eat another banana? Well …

CHARLIE
.
(20s, brooding, talking to another brooding guy)
Why would you see that horrible show, man, why? It’s the biggest piece of commercial bullshit in town right now … They are? Oh, really? They’re replacing the guy in that part? How did you hear that? Really? You’re going in on it? Do you think they would see me for it? I mean, not to, but, would you mind? Can I tell my agent? I mean, we’re so different, man, it’s not like we’re competing in any way, we’re both so totally different. No, well, I said that, but, I didn’t mean it was the worst thing I EVER saw. I’ve definitely seen worse, and anyway I snuck in at intermission, so I only second-acted it. Maybe if I’d seen Act One the whole thing would have made more sense …

DON
.
(20s, male, bubbly, talking to another classmate)
You don’t know it? You’re kidding. Yes, you do. From “A Little Night Music”? I’ll just do a little of it. Sorry, I can barely … I have a slight sinus infection:
(sings into friend’s face)