Catching a falling star was all very well and romantic, but not when it was your own star you saw hurtling from the heavens. And even Linda couldn’t fail to notice that her star, never overly brilliant to begin with, was most assuredly on the wane.
Linda Williams was afraid.
“Yes, I am back a bit early from vacation. You know me, I’m just a hopeless workhorse, and just between you and I, Santa Fe is a hopelessly sleepy little hick town. Nothing like New York to get the blood going.” Her smile was bright and brittle and empty as crystal. “Still, I can hardly believe that this is the best you can come up with for me, even on such short notice. Don’t tell me that you, of all people, are losing your touch, Sam! What’ll I have left to believe in?”
Sam Marin, her agent, scrutinized her with an unsettling intensity. In his book, Linda Williams was the antithesis of all that was genuine. If she was ever unfortunate enough to get hit by a car, she wouldn’t die; she’d do a death scene. Little danger of that, though. Nothing ever happened to Linda Williams; Linda Williams happened to other people. She was one of those who caused the car wrecks of life, then walked away from the wreckage without a thought for the welfare of other survivors. She never really seemed to feel anything that wasn’t for the benefit of an audience, he mused, although she certainly seemed to be smarting from what he had to tell her today.
Not that he could afford to hurl any stones too blatantly, his house being glassier than most. Born Salvatore Marinaro, he’d systematically purged every hint of ethnicity from his being, starting with his name and working up to the bland suit, hairstyle, speech pattern, and expression which distinguished him (or, rather, failed to distinguish him) today. To thine own self be true. You gotta love this business.
He’d have made a nice addition to Linda’s stable of Kens, actually. Not that she hadn’t tried. Unfortunately, Sam liked them young, and by his standards, Linda was positively matronly. He sighed, and tried to break this latest bit of bad news to her gently. “Linda, hon, nobody’s lost their touch, here. Not you, not me. The thing is, that move you tried to make into movies backfired on you, you know? If you remember, I advised very strongly against it, I said it was not the right thing for you, but nothing would satisfy you but trying your hand at the big screen. That’s not the right medium for you, Linda, I think even you realize that now. You’re a stage performer. You can wow ‘em all the way back to the umpteenth row with the force of your personality. Unfortunately, in a full-screen close-up that’s just a little too much wow.” She shifted indignantly in her chair, yanking down the skirt she’d hiked above her knee. Her smile took on a manic cast.
“That wouldn’t be such a problem on its own, Linda. You know we all make our little errors in judgment now and then. But the theater world doesn’t stand still and wait for you to come back. It’s moved on, and your name isn’t on the tip of everyone’s tongue like it used to be. The offers aren’t coming in like they used to. It’s not that they’ve forgotten you, it’s just that this town has a very short attention span. They need their memory refreshed a little. You need to work your way back in, grab their interest, remind them of what you can do on stage, not what you can’t do in the movies. This is the way to do it.”
“I see,” she sniped in a tone that clearly said “not really, but I’m humoring you.” She yanked her skirt down a bit further. “Look, Sam, I appreciate the fact that you’re trying, but off-off-Broadway? What career move do you have in mind for me next? Do you want me to be the token visiting celebrity for local theater troupe productions? Maybe co-star with Gary Collins, in between his Select Comfort commercials?”
Sam Marin’s mouth twitched at the corners. “From what I hear, Gary Collins’ agent had to work his butt off getting him those commercial spots. Gary got some pretty good reviews in the Witchita production of ‘My Fair Lady,’ though. Maybe he’ll be moving back up in the world.” He exhaled in exasperation at the “we are not amused” look she flashed in response. “Look, Linda, I’m joking with you, just lightening the mood a bit. You’re nowhere near that desperate yet, and I swear you won’t be. You just need to pay some dues again, that’s all, and make them remember what they loved about you. It’s only for awhile, Linda. Trust me, OK?”
She swallowed hard. Pride did tend to stick in one’s throat so. But with Mark gone, dues weren’t all she had to pay; bills were piling up, too. She needed the money, plain and simple. More had been sold for less.
“OK, Sam.”
Sarah headed home from the 24-hour coffee shop in the frigid darkness, eyes focused on nothing, her aching muscles and bones convinced that gravity was in overdrive tonight. She’d washed her face and changed her clothes, but she still looked slept-in, somehow. It was several double latte’s later, and she didn’t feel any less exhausted. Worse, probably, thanks to crashing down from the caffeine-and-sugar high, but sleep was out of the question. What if she dreamed of HIM again?
You’re being ridiculous, Sarah. So what if you do? It’s only a dream. Dreams only have the power you give them. I mean, what do you intend to do? Be the first freshman to go an entire semester without sleep? Or at least the first freshman outside of the Greek system to go an entire semester without sleep?
She slammed heavily into someone, or someone slammed heavily into her. Hard to tell in the darkness; they really should spring for a streetlight out here. Her heart stopped for an instant, her apology dying on her lips, as she caught a glimpse of long blond hair and an ice-blue eye, but resumed its rhythm as the vision resolved itself into the figure of a perfectly ordinary, if somewhat annoyed, fellow student. A heavy-metal buff, by the looks of him. “Hey, watch where you’re going!” he barked, his tone slurred a bit by alcohol, peering at her woozily as if trying to resolve two Sarah’s into one. A rush of almost audible memory overwhelmed her in mid-retort. You can’t look where you’re going if you don’t know where you’re going . . . She pushed past him and ran the rest of the way back to her dorm. At least she was getting plenty of exercise; she’d be first on the team if Existential Crisis Dorm Sprinting ever came into vogue.
The room was empty, as usual. Her grungeaholic roommate, a skinny girl principally characterized by an excessive love of plaid flannel and an insufficient attention to personal hygiene, usually spent 98% of the weekend over at her boyfriend’s apartment, leaving Sarah to her own devices. However, she was considerate enough to return just long enough to leave ample tokens of her presence strewn randomly around just in case Sarah missed her. Stained clothing, Nirvana CD’s, cigarette lighters, Taco Bell wrappers. It was enough to warm the heart.
Wading through the mess to the medicine cabinet, she fumbled around for a minute. It was there somewhere, she knew she hadn’t thrown it out, even after all this time . . . Ah, there. A small prescription bottle with “Valium” scribbled on it in her mother’s distinctive scrawl. “If you ever have trouble sleeping,” she’d counseled, “just try one or two of these. Trust me, they do wonders. The world could end and you wouldn’t even turn over.” She shook one out onto her palm. After a moment’s thought, she shook out a second one to keep it company. Rummaging through her small fridge, she grabbed the last remaining Diet Pepsi spared by the ravages of her roommate and washed them down.
Changing into a pair of baggy navy blue sweats, she brushed away the Taco Bell wrappers and curled up on the bed, clutching her pillow and waiting for sweet oblivion to quell her inner turmoil for a few hours. Everything always made more sense after a good night’s sleep. Hopefully, even the Goblin King was powerless against Mother’s Little Helper.
Feather image edited from Graphics by Tammy; Moon image edited from Yahright Graphics Archive; Background from Joerg Doehring's Backgrounds.