Carrie Fisher - Postcards from the Edge

“Calming it is,” said Roger, popping a Windham Hill tape into his player and starting it. He looked at Suzanne. “Early, isn’t it?” he said maternally.

“It’s so early it’s late,” she said somberly.

“That’s cute.” Roger laughed. “Did you just make that up?”

“I don’t know,” said Suzanne. “I should know later.”

“Listen to her!” Roger called over to Marilyn. “We’re going to have a ball!” Suzanne smiled.

Marilyn lit a cigarette and walked to the door. “Can I get either of you anything from Craft Services?”

Suzanne looked at her. She was blond, somewhere in her forties, with blue eyes in a tan, weatherbeaten face. She was tall and thin, and she wore blue jeans and a T-shirt that said, “Some of us are becoming the men we wanted to marry.” Suzanne smiled—she had the same T-shirt at home. “If there are any doughnuts or pancakes… ,” she said shyly, suddenly convinced that food—particularly fun food—would wake her up.

“Not really a health nut, are you?” said Marilyn, through her just-inhaled cigarette smoke. “I’ll see what I can do.”

“She’s a trip,” said Roger, shaking his long, tinted, curly blond head as the door closed behind Marilyn. He plugged in the hair dryer. “We’ve worked on…” He rolled his eyes upward, as if the number of films they had done together was hidden high in his head. “Fifth,” he said. “This will be our fifth picture together.” With that he raised the dryer like a friendly gun, pointed it at Suzanne’s head, and said, “Bang bang, you’re dry.”

Suzanne searched her mind for an appropriate rejoinder. When none turned up, she simply sat grinning inanely at Roger in the mirror, the silence burning through her.

“I’m so glad to have a chance to work with you,” Roger enthused. “I’ve always been a fan.”

“Thank you.”

“But more of you than your hair,” he went on. “I’ve never actually seen a flattering hairstyle on you in any of your films. Not that you didn’t look good, I just thought your hair could look better.” He turned on the dryer and continued the conversation, shouting over the loud whine of hot air. “Except for Mist on the Lake. That’s the best I ever saw you look.” He ran his fingers through her hair as he spoke. Suzanne frowned at her reflection.

“But my hair was wet for most of Mist on the Lake ,” she screamed.

“Exactly!” Roger shouted back with satisfaction. “And that’s close to what I want to try with you on this picture. Slicked back. The wet look. Dramatic but casual.”

“Great!” she shouted.

Show business, Suzanne thought, as this man she had just met—this man she would probably know fairly intimately by the end of the week—played with her hair. It’s all about distraction, a way of being transported out of your life, of having someone else’s life for a while. Identifying with them. Feeling relief that their predicament isn’t yours, or feeling relief that it is. A way of dreaming outside your head. Tilting your head with the actors when they kiss, thinking, “It’s so real.” The New Real.

The New Real was not being real, it was acting real. Suzanne was in the business of seeming—of entertaining people with her ways of seeming real. Portraying reality had become her way of experiencing it. She knew how to act like a regular person. She was self-consciously unselfconscious. She didn’t mind being watched, but on some level she minded being recorded. It was as if she became an African native the moment the cameras started rolling, and felt her soul being robbed. If the natives were right about this, Suzanne figured her soul level was unacceptably low by now. It occurred to her that after she noticed her soul was completely gone, she would quickly lose her all-important ability to seem okay.

The door opened and Marilyn came in. “Lucky you,” she said, placing several chocolate doughnuts in front of Suzanne. “I got to the doughnut tray before the camera crew, so there were plenty of the icing ones left.”

“How can I ever repay you?” asked Suzanne, looking at the doughnuts as if her medicine had arrived.

“Just hold still while I’m doing your eyes.” Marilyn moved to her area and took the lid off her Styrofoam coffee cup.

“She’s all yours!” Roger announced to Marilyn, gesturing grandly. Suzanne thanked him through a mouthful of cake, then made her way across the room into Marilyn’s chair. She squinted into the glare of the lights around the mirror, trying to adjust to their fluorescent horror.

“Loud, aren’t they?” Marilyn said.

“Deafening,” Suzanne agreed.

“Well,” Marilyn said, placing Kleenex in Suzanne’s collar to protect it from the makeup. “Is there anything you’d like to tell me about preferences or allergies or pet peeves? We might as well cover it before we get in too deep.” She sipped her coffee, watching Suzanne over the rim of her cup.

“Just make me look like my face is thinner than it is and my lips aren’t as thin as they are, and I can survive anything,” Suzanne said. “Also, I have a particular horror of blemishes.”

“Thin lips, fat face, and zits,” Marilyn mused, as she examined the source of Suzanne’s complaints. “Well, that won’t be too much of a problem. We’ll use lip line, shadow, and concealer. I frankly don’t quite see what you’re talking about, but if you ask me, most actresses look at their faces for too long and find too much wrong with themselves.”

As she talked, she began applying base to Suzanne’s face and throat. “I’ll have you know that I’m famous for my zit cover,” she went on. “I have a special little pencil I use, with almost a yellow tint to it, and over that I apply base and powder, and then, if more is necessary, I use a cover stick. Medium. You don’t seem to have any spots at the moment. Were you referring to something specific, or were you just warning me for the future?” She stood with her sponge suspended over Suzanne’s jawline, waiting for a reply, but Suzanne—lulled by the music, the makeup, and Marilyn—was asleep.

“Wake up, Sleeping Beauty. Your prince has arrived.”

Ted shook Suzanne gently by the shoulders. “My mother thinks I’m a prince,” he explained.

Marilyn watched Suzanne carefully as she surveyed her face in the mirror. “Pretty good for six thirty in the morning, huh?”

Suzanne smiled. “This has to be one of my favorite things. Going to sleep plain and waking up pretty.” She eased out of the chair and walked with Ted to the door.

“I’ll slick you down on the set,” shouted Roger, who was blow-drying the pin curls on a wig.

“She’s on her way to wardrobe,” said Ted gravely into his walkie-talkie. “We’re literally out the door,” he continued, as they stepped out into the cool desert morning. “The producer is coming to see you,” he said to her. “I mean, one of the producers.”

“How many producers are there?”

“Three,” he said. “The Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost.” He opened her trailer door for her.

“And which am I endearing myself to this morning?” she asked, climbing into her hamster cage.

“The Holy Ghost. Joe Pierce, our alleged line producer. Can I get you anything before he comes?”

“Coca-Cola,” she said, as a red-haired woman appeared behind Ted with an armful of clothes.

“Rita, my darling,” Ted said, “this is our artiste, Suzanne. Suzanne, our wardrobe mistress, Rita. Ladies, I leave you temporarily to yourselves.” He bowed and wandered off, soothing someone on the other end of his walkie-talkie.

“I brought your clothes,” said Rita, a voluptuous woman verging on heavy, with the kindest watery blue eyes Suzanne had seen on a movie set. “We should probably get them on you.” Suzanne saw that Rita also had dimples and freckles—all the friendly features. Rita helped Suzanne get into her undercover cop outfit, which consisted of jeans, a sweatshirt, and sneakers. Just as she was tying her last sneaker, Ted came in brandishing a Diet Coke.