minute!” But that most likely was just an excuse to be alone.
Dorothy walked to the bar. The hotel’s décor was earthy but still oddly matte. Green leaves sprouted from potted plants at the corners of the room, and an Indian man wore a tan suit with white bucks with gum soles beside a painting of a red sun rising while a ship, below, sank. The room was filled to the brim with people, but the Indian stood alone. He leaned against the painting and it tilted slightly. He listened to a girl with a strawberry-blonde bob play the guitar. Girls who play guitar don’t have nice fingers. Dorothy never understood those girls at all. Not even a little. The guitarist played “Für Elise” and sat beside a dartboard. In the room’s center burned a gas fire from a black chrome fireplace—a fire that you could turn on and off with a switch that sat on the damper—and along the leather couches were royal-blue andapple-red feather pillows. Dorothy arrived at the bar. There was a line of people. She waited her turn for a drink. Fatigue had struck her and, as she licked her dry lips and tasted the stink of incense and patchouli, she reached into her purse for her cherry Chap Stick. She applied her cherry Chap Stick, and then licked her lips, and she was better. She put it back.
“I’ll have a white wine, I think,” she said as she reached the front of the line.
The bartender wore a tuxedo and had a moon face with his hair parted neatly to the side. He corkscrewed a bottle and poured full a plastic highball and handed it to her.
Dorothy walked around the party, switching her plastic glass of wine from one hand to the other, from time to time making her way back to the bar. It was crowded, but she’d begun to enjoy herself. She knew some of the guests from when she used to go to her own premieres, years prior. They remembered her, and they missed her. Many asked why she’d stopped. She wanted to be a good mother, she replied. Really, though, there wasn’t room for two successes in her household. Too much personality. One person had to float while the other floundered. One sailed, one sank. Highs and lows. Peaks and valleys. It didn’t matter which one, she thought. It used to be her, but now this had to be. In this world—on this side of the country—there are some people who carry the piano, and some people who play the piano. But Dorothy wanted both. But, again, Dorothy had begun to enjoy herself. Enjoy the party. She was chatting, and being cordial, and then she started laughing—even laughing!—and nobody judged her. She was free, for the time being. It had been a while. Nobody told her what to do. And as the hours passed, people’s ties began to loosen.
Then, from above, Dorothy saw Dale enter. She was upstairs and could see the front door from her vantage point between the shoulders of two men. She was speaking with two executives who had some ideas about her career, and from below they were all you could see. They said they could help her get back to where she was and even further. That she should be in the movies! That she should have a name! Her ownname! That she should be on top, like she was supposed to. And she was talented. And she was prettier than she ever was. She liked to hear that. My goodness, she loved it. As Dale walked in, though, the party was at its most full, so he couldn’t see Dorothy’s ear-to-ear. She began to see her name in lights—MARQUEED—and she smiled, and the suits then further beamed. He’d changed into a red shirt, and, paired with his green evening jacket, he looked like a Christmas card. Dorothy wore white. She was over statement pieces. I mean, in terms of what she wore. Dale looked around the front of the room, but he didn’t see her. Then he walked to the back. He looked up, for a moment, toward the second floor, but he couldn’t see her past the men in suits. Dorothy saw him, though, and pushed between their arms. “Dale!” She hung out over the railing. “Dale!”
Dorothy walked to the bar. The hotel’s décor was earthy but still oddly matte. Green leaves sprouted from potted plants at the corners of the room, and an Indian man wore a tan suit with white bucks with gum soles beside a painting of a red sun rising while a ship, below, sank. The room was filled to the brim with people, but the Indian stood alone. He leaned against the painting and it tilted slightly. He listened to a girl with a strawberry-blonde bob play the guitar. Girls who play guitar don’t have nice fingers. Dorothy never understood those girls at all. Not even a little. The guitarist played “Für Elise” and sat beside a dartboard. In the room’s center burned a gas fire from a black chrome fireplace—a fire that you could turn on and off with a switch that sat on the damper—and along the leather couches were royal-blue andapple-red feather pillows. Dorothy arrived at the bar. There was a line of people. She waited her turn for a drink. Fatigue had struck her and, as she licked her dry lips and tasted the stink of incense and patchouli, she reached into her purse for her cherry Chap Stick. She applied her cherry Chap Stick, and then licked her lips, and she was better. She put it back.
“I’ll have a white wine, I think,” she said as she reached the front of the line.
The bartender wore a tuxedo and had a moon face with his hair parted neatly to the side. He corkscrewed a bottle and poured full a plastic highball and handed it to her.
Dorothy walked around the party, switching her plastic glass of wine from one hand to the other, from time to time making her way back to the bar. It was crowded, but she’d begun to enjoy herself. She knew some of the guests from when she used to go to her own premieres, years prior. They remembered her, and they missed her. Many asked why she’d stopped. She wanted to be a good mother, she replied. Really, though, there wasn’t room for two successes in her household. Too much personality. One person had to float while the other floundered. One sailed, one sank. Highs and lows. Peaks and valleys. It didn’t matter which one, she thought. It used to be her, but now this had to be. In this world—on this side of the country—there are some people who carry the piano, and some people who play the piano. But Dorothy wanted both. But, again, Dorothy had begun to enjoy herself. Enjoy the party. She was chatting, and being cordial, and then she started laughing—even laughing!—and nobody judged her. She was free, for the time being. It had been a while. Nobody told her what to do. And as the hours passed, people’s ties began to loosen.
Then, from above, Dorothy saw Dale enter. She was upstairs and could see the front door from her vantage point between the shoulders of two men. She was speaking with two executives who had some ideas about her career, and from below they were all you could see. They said they could help her get back to where she was and even further. That she should be in the movies! That she should have a name! Her ownname! That she should be on top, like she was supposed to. And she was talented. And she was prettier than she ever was. She liked to hear that. My goodness, she loved it. As Dale walked in, though, the party was at its most full, so he couldn’t see Dorothy’s ear-to-ear. She began to see her name in lights—MARQUEED—and she smiled, and the suits then further beamed. He’d changed into a red shirt, and, paired with his green evening jacket, he looked like a Christmas card. Dorothy wore white. She was over statement pieces. I mean, in terms of what she wore. Dale looked around the front of the room, but he didn’t see her. Then he walked to the back. He looked up, for a moment, toward the second floor, but he couldn’t see her past the men in suits. Dorothy saw him, though, and pushed between their arms. “Dale!” She hung out over the railing. “Dale!”
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