Free Miss Fortune by Lauren Weedman Page A

shines.”
    Nico yells after him, “Careful you don’t make too much haywhere the sun don’t shine, my friend,” and busts out in a “you gotta love this guy, right?” laugh.
    Once R.T. is completely out of the building, the mood shifts. Nico takes a deep breath and makes a slow scan around the room.
    â€œIf y’all don’t want to be here . . . if there is anything that is keeping you from being completely present in this room . . . go do it. I don’t want y’all in here unless you are
here.
I’m serious. You won’t be fired. Just go do whatever it is you need to do in order to be here with your full self. When you’re done . . . come on back.”
    Nobody moves. I love it. Good stuff. This is how every moment of our lives should be lived.
    â€œWe looked for the bravest artists in the world. And we found y’all. The stakes could not be higher for us. That’s the kind of work we do. High stakes. If it’s not high stakes . . . If you’re not on the edge of a cliff about to fall to your death, you’re not doing ‘the work.’ Let me tell y’all something. Your fears are not that you are inadequate, but that you are powerful beyond all measure.”
    That’s what Oprah says. Oh my god, Nico knows Oprah. This doesn’t surprise me at all.
    Now it’s time for verbal contracts. She warns us that the work is going to be very personal. The contracts are vital for our unblocking our creative selves. She has us repeat after her:
    â€œI promise to be open, honest, and reactive
    â€œI promise to maintain confidentiality
    â€œI promise not to have sex with company members—”
    Ohhhhh. That’s why Billie was so nice to me. He knew about the contract. He knew he could dry hump me without needing to see it through.
    You know what? This is exactly what I need.
    Now I can be myself and not worry about if I had a chance withany of the Texas boys, which, considering the presence of our beautiful Italian set designer and the tall blond Dutch actress, was unlikely to happen anyway. I’m free to pretend that secretly everyone wants to have sex with me but they’re contractually bound not to.
    Nico pairs us up and puts me with Emile, a German playwright with very angular features and little tiny glasses perched on his nose that look like he’d stolen them off of a figurine of an old lady.
    â€œWe are going to practice being all knowing. Dipping into the collective unconscious. For the next thirty minutes you will be able to see into a person’s soul. Not pretending to see into their soul but seeing into their soul.”
    I’m being paid for this?
    â€œLook into your partner’s eyes. Do not look away. You are going to be able to see into their soul. Every image that comes up needs to be shared. Don’t think about it. Don’t judge it. Say it. Don’t hold anything back, and whatever you do, don’t look away from their eyes.”
    I offer to look into Emile’s soul first. I’m worried that I’m going to do it wrong. What if the only images that come up are about me? “I see me eating my breakfast. I see me eating my lunch.” Perhaps I should have had a snack.
    Emile takes off his glasses, and by golly if the images don’t start coming to me so fast I can’t keep up with them. “There’s a house. And flames. People are screaming. Horses—yes, there are horses running out of barns. There are men praying, clergymen, wrapped in red flags, handing you babies to save. There’s a food court in a mall—no, it’s not a mall; there are women with torches. It’s the French Revolution. Yes, the French Revolution . . .”
    By the time it’s Emile’s turn to look into my soul I’ve seen the moon explode and entire empires crumble and I’m completely drained.
    Emile needs his glasses to