After your world ends, she asks you if you want to disappear. All I want is to disappear, you say. Let me buy your ticket, she says. You don’t let her. You buy your own ticket. No. Your dad buys it for you. He’s worried. He wants to help, somehow. He doesn’t know how to help. Nothing will really help, you say. Let me get the ticket, he says. Okay. It is for Tuesday. The day you were supposed to arrive. Instead it is the day you leave. There is something symbolic about that. You don’t know what it is. You search for meaning. The better part of you has stopped believing in meaning. The better part of you has stopped believing. It scares you. Stop thinking, you say. Your thoughts, right now, are not your friends. You stop thinking. You get on the plane and you go. You land in Chicago. You stay with her seven days. She is an actress. She is doing a play. She is the star of the show. You sit in the audience and you watch. You applaud her as her dreams come true - as you have just lost yours. There is something symbolic about that. You don’t know what it is. Stop thinking, you say. Your thoughts, right now, won’t help you. You get up. You search for her. You find her in the lobby. She is surrounded. You are embarrassed. You don’t know what to say. She looks up at you. You don’t know why you are embarrassed. She says she’s happy that you are there. You smile. She introduces you to her friends. She introduces you as important. She believes you are important. You almost believe her. You go home with her. You are in love with her. And for a moment, you forget, that you are sad. The days pass like this. You answer texts. From your parents. From your friends. They are worried. You say you are okay. You finish a one thousand piece puzzle. You joke it is your life’s work. She laughs. You laugh. You are playing pretend. You believe you are okay. And now it is the seventh day. And it is your birthday. You are 29. It is the end of a decade. It is the end of something. There is something symbolic about all of these endings. You are afraid to know what it is. Make a wish, she says. There is too much to wish for, you think. You are too old to start over. You are too old to have nothing. Youth, at least, is an excuse to be without. And the thoughts rush in. And you feel yourself losing. And you feel your heart breaking. And her boyfriend calls. And you are reminded that you are playing pretend. This is not your life. It is hers. And you are simply running away. You drink too much. You’re on your knees. You throw up until your throat is raw. You hold her like a baby on her bathroom floor. You want to disappear. You are so sorry. You are so sorry. And you know that it is time to go.
You land in New York. At home you type an email. You say that you need space. You sob into your keyboard as you hit send. And it is sent. And you can’t remember why you’ve sent it. And you can’t remember why you’ve typed it. And you can’t fathom why you would ever want to lose her. You miss her. It’s been five seconds. It’s unbearable. Your friend tells you you are replacing one pain with another. You think, why would I want to do that? You think, no, I know myself. I’m protecting myself. This is for the best. You repeat it to yourself as you cry yourself to sleep. This will help. It’s not helping. It’s worse.
The days pass like this. Your brother asks you how you are. You tell him if you stare at a wall long enough, it is eventually tomorrow. The days pass like this. You wake up. It’s late. Later than usual. You don’t need to set an alarm. The days pass like this. You wake up. You are reminded that everything that was once true is not true anymore. You relive this every morning. You have no job. Your premiere is not happening. Eight years of your life has built to nothing. You can’t text the girl. You text everyone else. Your therapist remarks that all your worst nightmares came true. You’re not sure if this is meant to be validating. Your friends text you back. They ask you what happened. You explain it over and over. The responses annoy you. They are all the same - can’t that be fixed? Here’s ten ways to fix it. It can’t be fixed, you say. If it was fixable, it would have been fixed. You repeat this over and over. It would take a miracle. Your industry friend invites you to dinner. He says he is sorry. You hope for a miracle. You sit across the tiny table. He tells you you look great. It took you forty minutes to get out of bed, you think. This is why you are late. You say thank you. He asks you what happened. You explain what happened. You were one week away. You were so close. It was almost yours. He pauses. You hope for a miracle. What comes out of his mouth is not a miracle. It is a warning. Listen, he says. No one in this business is your friend.
Outside, it is raining. You duck your way into the train. Your head is down. Someone grabs you. You turn. It is Her friend. Her best friend. No one in this business is your friend. How are you? He asks. There is a kindness in his eyes. Your words catch. You wonder how much he knows. You hope it is very little. You say nothing. If you say anything at all, it will be everything - the premiere, the email, the bathroom floor. It will pour out. It’s about to pour out. You are losing control. The train stops. The doors open. I have to go, he says. He has a show. You get it. You watch him go. And you feel yourself losing. And you feel your heart breaking. He turns over his shoulder as the doors close. There are tears in your eyes. It’s just a moment, he says. And he is gone. And you are alone. And you question, how long must this moment last?
You decide you must end this moment immediately. You consider what is true. You have no job. Your career-launch was cancelled. You can’t text the girl. You consider what is in your control. You touch up your resumé. You add your recent hospitality experience. You think bartending again might crush you. It is March 1st. Rent is due. You don’t have a choice. You send out your resumé. This is what’s in your control. You text your agent. You worry if she hates you. You worry if she will leave you. You realize you’ve texted her at an inappropriate hour. You feel confident now that she will leave you. You text her you are sorry. Oh God. You’ve just texted her again. What are you doing? You are too desperate. You need too much. What if every good thing in your life will leave you? Stop thinking, you say. Your thoughts, right now, might kill you. You email all your contacts and ask if they will meet with you. This is what’s in your control. You don’t text the girl. You hope she is not angry. You hope she can forgive you. As you lay your head down on your pillow, you hope she thinks of you at all.
You wake to your alarm. It is Tuesday. You have a job interview today. It is an open call. Downtown. A summer dining destination. You review the email invitation. It asks you bring a printed resumé. You think, do they not already have my resumé? Is that not what I applied with online? Do they have a printer in the restaurant? You think, who the hell owns a printer? You stop. This line of thought is not serving you. You pivot. And you remember - your brother works downtown. He is a fancy corporate lawyer at a fancy corporate law firm. The fancy corporate law firm must have a printer. Right? You text him. Thirty minutes later you arrive. The lobby is massive. The columns are marble. This is life for some people. This is life for people your age. You put on lipstick. An elevator door opens. Your twin brother emerges. He is one minute younger. He is wearing a suit and tie. You look back at the lobby. Then at your brother inside of it. And you are so proud. And you are so self-conscious. And you wonder if he is self-conscious of you. He passes through the turnstile. There is a folder in his hand. I put your resumé in a folder, he says. I want you to look professional. You look down at your Chuck Taylors. You think that you might hug him. Instead you just say thank you as you take the folder from his hand. He stands next to you. He does not seem self-conscious. He does not know how much this means. He says anytime.
The interview is weird. You are not on time and you are asked to wait. You are directed to a holding room and a plastic folding chair. You look around. The room is cramped. The crowd squeezed in. Paint peels off the walls. You sit in the plastic folding chair. The man next to you wears a suit. You wonder how long he has been waiting. It makes you sad. You think, you’re aware this job is to serve water, right? Why are you wearing a suit? You text your friend. You tell her about the firm, the folder, the plastic folding chair. This is humility, she types back. And suddenly you are rooting for the man in the suit. You wait. He is called. Then you. You are brought upstairs and sat across the table from a man with all the power. He dives right in. What is your five year plan? He asks. How do you set yourself up for success? You have no plan. You’ve barely made it here today. You couldn’t feel further from success. You wish he would just ask you what’s in a damn negroni. That is a question you can answer. He points to a gap in your resumé. You haven’t worked in four months, he says. You politely explain what has happened. The future you almost had. The rug pulled out from under. He tells you he’s looking for someone bubbly. You’re not sure you’ve ever been bubbly, you think. In your opinion, bubbly people cannot be trusted. You stand from the table. You thank him for his time. He says he’ll be in touch. You are not sure if you believe him. You are not proud of the answers you’ve given him. But as you leave, it strikes you – you are proud you’ve answered him with the truth.
The days pass like this. The restaurants. The interviews. The train rides home. Your therapist tells you you are doing well. You say you are going through the motions. She says if you go through the motions, your feelings will catch up. You listen. You commit to the motions. You open your email. Your breath stops short - your industry contacts have replied. They would love to meet, they say. They are happy you reached out. You exhale. This is good, you think. Until you remember - you haven’t been to the theatre. You have stopped reading reviews. You used to be somebody who knew things. Now you have no idea what is going on. And the thoughts rush in. And you feel yourself losing. As you ask yourself cruelly – what if you can’t keep up? No. You stop thinking. You commit to the motions. You reply to the emails. You schedule times to meet. You reach out to your friends. You schedule times to meet. You leave your apartment. You ride the subway to Brooklyn. You buzz your friend’s door. She is visiting from LA. You sit on her couch as she asks you how you are. You have answered this question so many times. You are 29 now. You don’t want to play pretend. You think of the man with all the power. You think how you felt across the table. And you tell her the truth.
…And she does not leave you. She calls you every day for a month. You speak every day for a month. You have not been this close since college. You are on the phone when you receive an email. Congratulations! the subject line reads - you have been hired to bartend at Malibu Farms! You ask your friend if they have Malibu Farms in Malibu. She tells you that they do. You suggest you call each other from your dualling Malibu Farms. She puts it in her calendar. You smile. In this moment, you do not wish to disappear. You leave your apartment. You go to your meetings. You are not late. Your industry contacts greet you like friends. They do not ask you about the industry. They simply tell you they are so sorry. And what happened was not your fault. And you did not deserve this. You think that you might hug them. Instead you just say thank you as you find words to ask for help. They offer their suggestions. Here’s ten ways we can help, they say. It’s not a miracle, but here are ten ways we’d like to help. You call your friend as you walk home. She tells you this will make a great success story. Success is not promised, you say. Maybe this is just a story. And if it’s just a story, does it have to count for less?
Time passes. You send emails. You go to dinner. You tell your friends how much you love them. You tell your parents how much you love them. You tell them thank you for checking in. And then it is tomorrow.
You wake to your alarm. Today is starred in your calendar. It is Wednesday, March 19th. This would have been your opening. Instead you’re grabbing breakfast at a cat café downtown. You throw your laptop in a tote and grab your coat from its hanger. As you exit your apartment, you realize you don’t need the coat at all. It is 60 degrees. Spring must have come while you were inside. You ride the train downtown. As you enter the café, you consider what is true. You start your job in three days. The actress comes home in four. Not that you’re counting. You wonder what it will feel like knowing she is here - if you will look for her at every corner. Or if a loss is just a loss, no matter where you are. You open your laptop. You consider your future. It is a list of one thousand maybes. You consider what is in your control. You pull up your pages. You are writing something new. You don’t know what it is yet. But you think it might save you. You text your agent. You tell her you are working. You are holding yourself accountable. She heart reacts. You breathe in this moment – everything you have, and everything you have lost. She texts you back.
Keep going, she says. And you do.
