Carrie Fisher - Postcards from the Edge

“Let me get totally into my now,” Suzanne thought. “We are in a fabulous house in Bel Air sitting under Picassos and discussing the character of Dorothea with Dorothea over bad oyster soup.”

She had embraced the values of the room and found she had nothing. She promised herself to remember this sensation the next time she was invited to a party.

She looked across at Joan, who seemed to be listening to a faraway concert of weird classical music, then looked at Chris. She thought he looked like an old boy—someone who should wear a backpack instead of carrying a briefcase, but a very high-style backpack.

She realized with dismay that this was her type of guy. She always ended up with guys like this, in relationships she likened to being partners on a school science fair project. She always felt like calling them up afterward and saying, “You left your beaker and your petri dish here. Do you want me to bring it to class tomorrow?” Now the old boy was telling a joke.

“How many surrealists does it take to screw in a light bulb?” he asked, then looked around with his eyebrows raised and his mouth open. After a moment’s pause, he said, “Fish.”

There was another short pause, and then laughter. Selena Warner said, “How clever,” several times. Suzanne said, “Funny,” to Gustav Bozena, who nodded with reserved enthusiasm. She considered explaining it to him, then realized the enormity of the job and thought better of it. Then Fred asked if anyone had heard any WASP jokes. Suzanne had, but she said nothing.

Fred Weaver was radiant with joke hope. “Two WASPs run into each other on the street,” he said, “and one WASP says, ‘How are you?’ and the other WASP says, ‘Fine.’” He glowed and waited.

“Oh, I get it,” Selena said. “That’s the joke.” Everyone had a hearty delayed laugh. Gustav looked confused.

“What is a WASP?” he asked Suzanne.

She hesitated. “A kind of insect,” she whispered earnestly. “Like a bee.” He nodded and stared in front of him vacantly, using this news to try to unlock the puzzle of the joke. By now, though, Fred was telling another one.

“A WASP is trying on a suit in a clothing store and he turns to the salesman and says, ‘How much is this?’ and the salesman says, ‘Four hundred seventy-five dollars,’ and the WASP says, ‘I’ll take it.’”

Everyone at the table roared, even Gustav, who said to Suzanne, laughing, “A bee buying a suit!”

The desserts arrived, little cakes in raspberry sauce. Everyone made “Mmmmm” noises as they chewed and swallowed and clinked their forks against the china. Suzanne ate all her raspberry sauce, then broke apart the cake to find the filling, some kind of nut paste. Suddenly, there was a burst of laughter at the next table. Suzanne saw Wallis standing with Brian Whit-lock, a New York director whom she now whisked over to Suzanne’s happy group. Wallis was radiant. “I’m sure all of you know Brian,” she said.

“Certainly,” said Selena Warner, nodding enthusiastically. The others mumbled vaguely in the affirmative, though in fact no one at the table had ever met him.

“Well, I’m forcing Brian to tell this fabulous story of his to everyone,” Wallis said. “It’s just the most fabulous story.”

Brian looked embarrassed. “Wallis, just let me tell it, okay?” he said. He pulled over a chair and sat between Selena and Fred.

“I was invited to this concert in London last week,” he began. “Some benefit thing where everyone played—Bowie, Sting, Elton John, everyone. And the Prince and Princess of Wales were there. Well, I wanted to meet her so bad I was quite mad.

“Afterward,” he continued, “there was a reception, and I found myself standing a few feet away from her. I knew she could hear me, so I started saying all this funny stuff, and I could see that she was listening and laughing, and I thought, ‘She gets me. She literally gets me.’ So I got myself introduced, and the guy who introduced us said, ‘This is Brian Whitlock, he directed The Punishing Blow .’ And she said, ‘ Really? ’ It turned out she’d seen The Punishing Blow.

“So I’m in heaven, she’s asking questions about my movie, and I’m making her laugh—she was very cute—and all of a sudden I hear someone say, ‘Brian!’ Well, I’m talking to the Princess of Wales so I try to ignore it, and I hear again, ‘Brian!’ And I look, and it’s an Oriental girl in sunglasses. I have no idea who she is, but she knows my name and she comes and stands between the Princess and me and says, ‘I’m Yashimoto, I work in the office across the hall from yours. How long are you in London for?’

“So I lean behind her and I silently say to the Princess, ‘I don’t know who this is,’ and Yashimoto says, ‘I’m here doing publicity on this show and then I’m going to Lisbon tomorrow. Have you ever been to Portugal?’ And the Princess drifts away, and Yashimoto says, ‘I can’t believe you’re here, this is so great.’ And I say, ‘Do you realize who I was talking to?’ and she says, ‘Oh, I’m just one of those people who’s not impressed by anybody.’”

Everyone laughed uproariously, even Suzanne. “That’s actually true?” asked Chris Hunt.

“It has to be,” answered Selena on Brian’s behalf. “No one could make up something that absurd.”

“But did you know the girl?” asked Joan Lilly.

“She worked across the hall from me in New York, I guess,” shrugged Brian. “In the Brill Building.”

Everyone at the table seemed to be entertained, so Suzanne figured she’d take a bathroom break and kill some time. Soon, she thought, she could go home. Soon the bell would ring dismissing her from party class, and she would run up the street with her hair flying behind her, free…

She excused herself to Gustav, and to anyone else who felt particularly close to her, and ventured forth into the huge house. There was no one in the little waiting room, so she went into the bathroom, closed the door, and locked it. The walls were all soft rose-colored cloth, and the sink was rose marble. Suzanne put the toilet seat down and began some real party breathing.

She heard someone enter the tiny room just outside. Two voices. Two women. They seemed to be reviewing the evening. “Did you see Selena Warner?” one of them said. “She looks ancient .”

“And what about that burp of a husband she’s got,” said the other.

“Well, you know what they say,” said the first voice. “TV stars can’t be choosers.”

Suzanne was not breathing as comfortably now. Their voices suddenly became more muffled. Why couldn’t she hear them? She put her ear against the door.

“I feel sorry for her,” one was saying.

Who? thought Suzanne. Me?

“She hasn’t worked in a while, and she lives alone,” said the other.

It is me! she thought. Oh my God, they’re talking about me. How will I ever get out of here?

“Why can’t she get work? She’s a pretty good actress, and she certainly has connections.”

Suzanne was humiliated. I can never leave this powder room, she thought. She was breathing like a sick baby.

“Haven’t you heard?” said one of the voices. “She’s put on a lot of weight.”

Everyone knows! Everyone’s talking about me!

“Really?” said the other.

“Oh, yes, about thirty or forty pounds.”

“Really?” said the other.

Oh, thought Suzanne. Who? Thirty or forty. Oh.

She was devastated now. It hardly mattered that they hadn’t been talking about her. The way she felt now, they might as well have been. She had to get home, that much was clear. She flushed the toilet and walked out into the little room. The voices belonged to two attractive women in their forties, neither of whom Suzanne knew. She smiled and nodded at them as she passed, trying to look hopeful and thrilled.