Carrie Fisher - Postcards from the Edge

Around noon, her friend Lucy called from New York, where she’d gone two weeks earlier to be with the married guy she’d gotten involved with. Lucy liked affairs with married men because, as she’d explained to Suzanne many times, “You don’t have to have entire relationships with them.”

“I met him on that TV movie I did,” Lucy said. “ Blood on the Snow , that ski resort murder thing. He played the murderer and he stalked me, and it was very romantic. I mean, he played a good murderer. He didn’t play a regular murderer, he played it like a charming guy. And we were on location in Idaho, and being on location is kind of a permission zone, anyway.”

“You’re a star fucker,” Suzanne said matter-of-factly.

“I like celebrities, I’ve got to admit it,” Lucy said, “but I’m not a star fucker. I’m a talent fucker, and this guy is very talented. Well, actually he’s limited, but the area he’s limited in is more interesting than most people’s entire range.”

“Scott Hastings,” Suzanne said. “He made that name up, didn’t he?”

“No,” said Lucy. “Actually, his first name is Bob. Robert Scott Hastings.”

“Bob Hastings,” said Suzanne, “ Colonel Bob Hastings. No wonder he changed it. So, is his wife there?”

“Holster Hips?” said Lucy. “Yeah, they rented a house in Connecticut, but he’s in the city a lot rehearsing for his play.”

“Another married guy,” Suzanne sighed. “I have to say, I never did like that last one.”

“Earl?” said Lucy, with some surprise. “Really? You didn’t like him? I thought you liked him.”

“Well, I told you I liked him,” said Suzanne. “I had to tell you I liked him, because you liked him so much. In fact, you liked him enough for both of us. What happened with him again?”

“He started to get sort of removed,” Lucy said. “I mean, more removed than I like. I need a guy to be a little unreliable so I can stay interested. I don’t know any women who don’t feel that way, but then maybe if I didn’t feel that way, I would know other kinds of women. Anyway, he got so removed he started having an affair with Isabel Hasbar.”

“The English actress?” asked Suzanne. “Reginald Fleemer Hasbar’s sister?”

“Yes, that Isabel Hasbar,” said Lucy. “It was painful, but it was painful in an interesting way. It felt like it was a necessary part of the process, and… Wait, I’ve got another call… It’s him, I’ve gotta go.”

“Say hello to the Colonel for me,” Suzanne said, but Lucy had already hung up. She switched the channel and saw a girl and a boy having sex. The girl opened her eyes and looked over the boy’s shoulder just in time to see a man plunge a stake through the two of them.

Suzanne looked away, scanning the horizon of her room. Her house had been driving her crazy lately. Whenever she wasn’t in a relationship, her house drove her crazy. First, her curtains didn’t shut out enough morning light, so she usually ended up putting pillows over her head. But then, she also thought that she had too many pillows, and that they weren’t soft enough. One of the paintings over her bed had a tear in its canvas.

Also, there were two orange soda stains on the white carpet, next to her bed. The cover on her smoke alarm had broken off. There were too many exposed electrical cords she was helpless to conceal, and a large basket of cassettes whose plastic cases had been lost sat beside her stereo. There were just too many things . Things growing over the surfaces of her home like a happy cancer.

She turned back to the television screen, searching it as if looking for a sign. A sign of life. Two men were fighting, and one of them went through a plate glass window, and she found herself staring at the bloodied face of Graham Davies, her first in a series of three actor boyfriends. Graham had been the nicest of the three—in fact, he had been her only nice boyfriend, because Suzanne was one of those unfortunate women who did not find nice men interesting. She’d learned her lesson after him. She found undesirables desirable. She sought out unpleasant boyfriends, then complained about them as though the government had allocated them to her. Still, at least she felt like she was taking part in something, even if it was a nightmare.

She changed the channel. Two women in riding clothes were talking on a hill. Suzanne knew one of them. She had done cocaine with her at a David Bowie concert in London. The girl had been wearing a very see-through dress, and she had also been present the night Suzanne started her affair with her second actor. TV was filled with memories for her, a liquid scrapbook. Maybe if she watched long enough, she thought, her whole life would flash slowly in front of her eyes. Now the girl she knew was playing with herself on a bus.

She reached for the clicker again and watched Ronald Reagan getting off a helicopter and waving. He cupped his hand to his ear and shrugged his shoulders while his wife was dragged ahead of him at the end of a dog’s leash. You can see why he has her, Suzanne thought. She’s angular. With that pointed head and all those sharp edges, she finishes him off in a way, so he doesn’t just bleed into the rest of the big picture. She zips him in.

He was still smiling and waving. It’s like he’s our IV hookup in the White House, she thought. Doctor Reagan, with a bedside manner for a dying nation like you can’t believe. Suzanne punched the clicker, and an actor she didn’t recognize appeared on her TV screen explaining that there was no such thing as an actor’s director. There were actors and there were directors. He was very convincing, but then that was an actor’s job. It got very confusing sometimes. Sometimes actors heard that note of conviction in their voices in real life and actually believed themselves. She switched to channel 11, where a movie called The Tattered Dress was beginning, then punched up MTV. She watched a Bryan Adams video, and wondered what life with him would be like. Finally, she switched back to the girl she had done cocaine with. It wasn’t a good film, but she was somehow more comfortable watching someone she knew, however vaguely. The girl was describing how she’d had sex with her uncle.

Suzanne looked at her bedside table, which contained a bag of potato chips, some weird health cookies, a box of vanilla wafers, two empty glasses, one half-full glass of two-day-old orange juice, a half-empty can of flat Diet Coke, and a jar of peanut butter. She went for the peanut butter with two fingers.

The phone rang. She waited through the life-indicating three rings and then answered as though she was in the middle of an enormous amount of carefree fun. “Hello!”

“Hello, dear,” said a familiar voice. “This is your mother, Doris.”

“As opposed to my brother, Doris, or my uncle, Doris?” said Suzanne. “Since we’re all named Doris in this family, I suppose it is necessary to establish just which Doris this is. Otherwise, it could lead to some highly embarrassing—”

“How are you feeling healthwise, dear?” her mother, Doris, interrupted in a concerned tone. “Because I spoke to Dr. Feldman just now and he says you might have food allergies. Wouldn’t that be wonderful? Then you could just stop eating the particular food you’re allergic to and not be in bed anymore. What exactly are you eating?”

“Just foods that lead inevitably to bypass,” Suzanne said.

“Don’t be smart, dear,” said her mother. “Remember my food allergies. I found out I was allergic to shellfish. My lips get all huge and my tongue blows up like a balloon, and they have to give me steroids or something. You could be eating something that makes you tired.”