Free Miss Fortune by Lauren Weedman

the unseen forces that got me to this life-changing moment
where it turns out that I am better than all those schmucks whodidn’t make it in!
In your faces! I won! You lost! Find me a tailor in Amsterdam who works with purple satin; I’m making me a new suit the Bee Gees would kill for! Yes! Yes! Finally, yes! I am going to be a professional actor. Paid. With money!
    My phone rings. It’s my ex-boyfriend Hans. Buzzkill. Hans and I were together for almost two years. We’ve been broken up for a year. Every so often, he likes to show up at one of my housecleaning jobs and chase me home on his bike trying to kick my spokes, determined to make me suffer how “I made him suffer.” The last time I saw him was when he came over to my apartment at three A.M. , completely drunk, and accused me of having sex with strangers and never loving our pet rabbit, Liza. The next morning he sent me a Joni Mitchell tape to apologize.
    He’s calling to share with me the good news. He’s going to be a company member of an exciting new . . . Texas . . . blah-blah . . . bigger buzzkill.
    We both agree that we shouldn’t mention to anyone that we’ve dated because we don’t want it to get in the way of “the work.” Mostly I don’t want him complaining how hard it was to give me an orgasm in case I have a chance with any of the Texas boys.
    Monday morning. First company meeting.
    This is the funkiest group of artists I’ve ever seen in one place. It looks like a scene from a Fellini movie. People of all ages and pant lengths are running around the raw open space of the eighteenth-century canal house that is going to house the new theater. It’s a gorgeous space. People from Texas have so much money!
    With Hans safely on the other side of the room talking to an attractive blond woman with yellow paint splatters all over her face, I corner Billie to share with him my passion for life. “Thank god I got in this company. Not acting for me is like being a whale and taking in huge gusting breaths of air and not being allowed toblow it all out the top of my head.” If I ever want to have sex again, perhaps I should stop using whale analogies.
    Nico makes her entrance.
    All twenty-five people in the room go completely silent. She didn’t even have to go, “Shhhhhhhh.” It’s like a lion sauntered in. Or a movie star. Or someone with a gun.
    She is one tall, beautiful drink of lady water. Early thirties or late forties; I’m bad with ages. Miss Texas hair and dreamy blue eyes that look like they were painted on by the guy who designed the sixties Barbie face.
    â€œWhoa, now. I love you guys already!” Nico says and laughs. We all laugh with her. I can’t stop laughing. Right as I start to wonder if this is what an anxiety attack feels like, I look up and see Nico looking right at me. Immediately I feel a connection. She sees past my Michigan State sweatshirt and MC Hammer pants. (I’m the only one who took the “dress to move” note seriously.) She sees who I really am. What I’m capable of. Or maybe I look like a girl who goes to her hair salon. I get that a lot.
    Nico steps to the side and introduces R. T. Thomas, a retired Hewlett-Packard businessman. He is “a dear old friend, whose financial commitment and passion for truth have made all of this possible.” Amsterdam must be R.T.’s version of a Carnival cruise, because he’s wearing shorts and a Hawaiian shirt unbuttoned halfway down his chest, which blesses the viewer with a glimpse of gray furry belly, and he has a camera around his neck. R.T. became a die-hard supporter of the theater after seeing Billie play the title role in
Jesus Christ Superstar
seventeen times. He tells us that he’s very excited about what the future holds for this group of talented young people and excuses himself. “Gotta make hay while the sun