I am going to rot into this lawn chair.

The sun is hitting me, blinding me. I have a feeling these sunglasses are fake, my eyes hurt. Am I hungover?

Yes. Yes I am. Low rumble. In my head or chest?

I want toast.

When all the trees in this city are in straight lines, you really notice when they swim. Neat little rows of palms swaying in either the breeze or my own vision. The plastic weave of the chair pressed into my skin overnight. The marks hurt because the skin is too close to the bone. Before all this, I had a layer of fat in between my thighs and bones.

I pull myself up. Get ready.

Shower, shave, smoothie.

Wipe off last night’s face. Put on new one.

Get in the car.

I have had the same driver for 3 years; he is a familiar-back-of-the-head. I don’t know if he is married, divorce, happy, depressed, a father, or even his name. No need.

But I do know that he has a scar the size of a dime behind his ear.

I didn’t eat any toast.

My body feels gross, thin limbs feel ready to snap, and kohl eyes are hiding red veins under thick black glasses. Before this I felt connected, head-to-toe. Now, I am sitting in my head trying to keep myself attached to the rest of me, piloting a disobedient ship.

I can afford it though, some damage to the hull. They have drips, needles, masks designed to fix it.

The back lot is busy. A thousand people with jobs more important than mine, all buried under top billed stars and production companies on screens overflowing with names. They see me and hurry away, the actress in my position last was cruel. They think we are all the same species, and they are often right. We get our hair bleached, our faces pulled, our implants done, our voices coached all at the same places, chosen by the same agents.

So I walk, in heels that wobble, towards a tiny trailer. Inside a “care package” built of diet water, soy stretched to imitate the foods I’m contractually Not Allowed To Consume, and acids disguised as skin care. It all makes me feel like my body belongs to the studio execs, and they rent it to me for the low price of standing in front of a camera. The tin walls plastered with vapid posters where my name stands in the lower corner under five male actors I had more screen time than.

The next scene is simple. Or I’ve done it for another movie. Either way, it’ll be easy. Before all this, i would have had to work at it.

It is a little trite, a little overdone. My bread and butter.

Hangover is pretty much gone. That’s nice.

I face the camera. The room is quiet, too afraid to distract me. A man behind the lights and boom mics reads the lines of an actor I will never meet. Our connection only visible on film. I love him, or I think I do. I’m pregnant, or I think I am. Innocent, demure, I smile into the lens. A pleading face.

Frame tightens.

Eyes dilate, and I use them to beg. I think of my central conceit, please don’t leave me, I love you, its yours, yes I’m sure.

Cut.

That’s a wrap.

Good job, no need for another take.

Of course we don’t.

Everyone loves me. Worships me. Little girls put my picture next to their mirrors and older boys hide my picture under their beds. I entice men, I anger women. They don’t see the bags under my eyes, they don’t smell last night on my breath, and they don’t realize my smile isn’t real.

I am a professional.

I am a icon.

I am a star.

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Note on Inspiration: This piece was inspired by Bojack Horseman specifically the character of Sarah Lynn.

 

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