Free Death of an Orchid Lover by Nathan Walpow Page A

down to one job,” she said. “When you get a role, it can tie you up for weeks at a time, or take you far away, and I would violate my responsibility to my employer if I were to leave suddenly.”
    It all came back to me, all the psychobabble her crowd had favored in the Altair days.
Responsibility
was another big word, like
commitment
and
intention
, and they flapped it around in the breeze like they were the only ones who’d ever heard of such a thing.
    “Did you ever consider just giving it up?” I said. “Saying,fine, I’ve given acting my best shot, but it just wasn’t in the cards, and now it’s time to move on with my life. Maybe doing community theater, just to keep the old chops honed.”
    She wasn’t angry, wasn’t sad, only amazed that I’d come up with such an idea. “Of course not. An actress is who I am. To be anything else would be to reject who I am. I couldn’t live that way.”
    I took a sip of my tea, stood, went to the photo of Werner Erhard. Werner—the est-holes all called him by his first name, like they were close personal friends—stared out at me with benevolent antagonism. His name was a pseudonym, I remembered. He was really Jack Rosenberg. Hiding his Jewishness. “So why’s Werner’s picture still up?” I asked.
    She shrugged and got up. “I guess I keep him around to remind me of the old days.” She went to the door, lit a Virginia Slim. “Why does anybody put things on their walls, other than those that are there for the pure aesthetics of it? Pictures of your family, things from when you were a child.”
    I thought of the Jefferson Airplane poster in my hallway. “Because they mean something to you. A remembrance of things past.”
    “Well put, Mr. Proust. And that’s exactly why Werner’s still up there. That was an important time in my life. I’m not going to repudiate it because I’m not into those things anymore.”
    She came back in, got rid of her cigarette, stood close to me. “Can I ask a favor?”
    “Sure.”
    “Would you throw me some lines?”
    “Didn’t get enough work with your scene partner?”
    “He got an under-five on
The Young and the Restless
and couldn’t make it. We’re putting the scene up in class tomorrow,and I feel if I don’t work on it at all today I’ll lose my momentum.”
    “I haven’t read anything but commercial copy in years.”
    “I just need to hear the lines. If we can run it a few times, I think I’ll be all right until tomorrow morning.”
    “I’ll give it a shot.”
    “Wonderful.” She picked a Samuel French script book off her tiny dining table. Actors are always carrying them around. Any play that ever gets a semi-significant production eventually ends up in one, or one by French’s competitor, Dramatists Play Service. Many were the hours I spent at the French store on Sunset Boulevard, scanning the shelves for interesting material.
    I looked at the cover.
Chapter Two.
“CORNS?” I said.
    “I’m perfect for Faye.”
    GORNS. Good Old Reliable Neil Simon. Let the artsy types scoff. “So I must be Leo.”
    “Right. This is the scene where he and Faye almost sleep together. Here, let me show you where it starts.” She found the place and handed me the book. I smiled when I saw the penciled-in cuts, the pink-highlighted Faye lines, the places in the margin where Laura’d made notes to herself.
Take a beat. Let him come to me. Just like snarvx.
At least it looked like
snarvx.
    “You’re supposed to have your shirt off,” she said, smiling. “But I think we can skip that.”
    “If it would help …”
    “No, that’s okay. Let me just get ready.”
    I was afraid getting ready would entail much fluttering of eyes and elephantine breathing sounds, but all she did was take a couple of deep breaths. “Let’s go.”
    I read off the first line. She responded. We traded back and forth. As Laura invested the lines with the sadness behindthe laughs, I remembered how good an actress she’d been. Now, with