Playworld

There Is No Try

And to this day I so rarely feel things when they happen.

I remain so insulated from myself that, tucked away in my high tower or secreted in my dungeon’s ninth level (I’d play a lot of D Gould holds her hand atop the table, he is so in love.

Like Konig, Clayburgh is also in high spirits.

She’s just landed a major role in a Bertolucci film—she is out from under Konig’s shadow, she’ll spend most of the upcoming winter in Italy.

It is all at once authentically celebratory and also a game of one-upmanship—in other words, decidedly adult.

The scene is shot tight: the camera tracks right, in what appears to be a circle around the table;

it loops, swinging back, with each piece of happy news, to my character, Bernie, to whom no one is speaking, who is registering his progressive abandonment, and who can’t help himself finally—at the scene’s climax, he smacks the table.

Everyone turns to look at him.

The camera fixes on him, in close-up, and, eyes full of tears, he says, “Why did you bother? Having kids.

Me.

What was the point? Jesus Christ, I’m like Charlton Heston in Planet of the Apes.

This whole time I’ve been thinking I’ll finally get back to Earth when this is it.

This is my home.”

Nailed it on the first take.

And after Hornbeam held the shot at its conclusion, I just broke down.

I couldn’t get it together, even after Hornbeam yelled, “Cut,” and the entire crew erupted into applause.

Even after Hornbeam, who, along with Jill and Shelley and Elliott, rubbed my back until it warmed my shirt, and even Diane appeared and put her arms around my neck—here too my sobs turned to laughter.

I laugh-cried myself into comfort.

I knew I’d done something excellent, but everyone’s appreciation sounded far off; and not for a second did it occur to me that the sadness I’d so torrentially tapped into came from elsewhere.

“You decide to become a great actor,” Hornbeam said to me later, “and nothing’s going to get in your way.”

Perhaps Oren was right after all.

—

Now, however, back at Boyd full-time, I devoted myself to a detailed investigation aimed at answering the following question: Why was Amanda in love with Rob Dolinski instead of me?

There were obvious and glaring differences between us.

There was, first and foremost, the figure he cut.

He was easily over six feet tall, with a classic swimmer’s frame.

His dark double-breasted suits accentuated this—he even occasionally wore a vest—their tailoring, cuffs to hems, imparting to his movements lines that cohered in a geometry unknown to me.

He had some of the actor in him too, evinced by his choice of tie or shirt, one of which (or both) was always light blue, and had the effect of turning on another light behind his already bright eyes, which like a husky’s were hard to look away from.

But looking away was one of Dolinski’s most devastating weapons of seduction: in the mornings, say, upon entering Boyd’s bustling front hall, Dolinski, midconversation—with a teacher, perhaps, or with whomever he’d happened to walk into the building—made it a habit to shoot a glance, midsentence, at some girl his junior, who’d been trying very hard (she too midconversation and seated on the pews with several half-huddled friends) to intentionally ignore him.

But having felt the flash of him and confusing, as Elliott liked to say, her hope with her evidence, she’d meet his gaze full-on.

And like the proverbial deer she then froze in anticipation—of a smile, a nod, some sort of acknowledgment—but was flattened by his dismissal, by the complete and utter indifference with which he strode past.

The most impressive thing about him was not his poshness, which I considered the definition of Upper East Side (and corroborated by checking his address in the Boyd directory, the Carlyle—“a very well-appointed building,” Dad had remarked when I asked), but the fact that nearly all the teachers adored him.

I often spotted him lounging in Miss Sullens’s office, chatting about books.

He’d pulled down Mr.

McElmore’s pants, but they could be seen yukking it up as they waited in line together at Kris’s Knish, parked just inside Central Park, on Ninety-Sixth Street, as if it had all been in good fun.

“Just have one more look,” Dolinski pleaded with Mr.

Heimdall as the two departed the chemistry lab.

Heimdall, mock annoyed, briefly eyed the marked-up exam Dolinski held.

“You’re determining the concentration of sulfuric acid, Robert, not interpreting a passage of Shakespeare.”

To which Dolinski replied, “Compounds can be as elegant as sonnets.”

“Be that as it may,” said Heimdall, smirking with real affection, “come by at office hours. I’ll be easier to butter up then.”

Miss Brodsky—this was mind-boggling—once took his arm.

Dolinski was standing by the front-hall pews, talking to Sophie and Andrea, when our permanently unfriendly IPS teacher sidled up to him, clutched his elbow, and, in a gesture that was both girlish and motherly—was, when I thought about it, Naomi-ish—pressed her shoulder to his and tilted her head as if she were going to rest hers there.

“Well, well, well,” Brodsky said, to the ladies as much as to him, “look at you, all grown up and handsome.

Do you remember what a terror you were in ninth grade?”

“Yes,” Dolinski said, with a generous, self-effacing batting of his eyes, “and I also remember you being my favorite teacher.”

“You and your sweet lies,” said Brodsky.

And then she noticeably gave his arm an extra squeeze.

“You almost make me want to be a different woman.”

One afternoon, I spotted Sophie, Andrea, and Dolinski leaving the building, so I followed them.

They were headed “under the stairs,” to the carport that was at the bottom of a ramp between two buildings on Ninety-Seventh Street.

I too descended, breathing the trio’s smoke, which wafted toward me as I tapped the iron railing on my way down the steps and, once arrived, and having no idea what I was doing, took a spot at the far end of the space across from the three upperclassmen, leaning against the wall and trying not to be too obvious about my out-of-placeness.

I glanced, now and again, toward the stairs, as if my buddy were arriving any second.

At first the trio paid me no mind, but it wasn’t long before I had their attention.

“Waiting for someone?” Andrea asked me.

“Dude’s a narc,” Sophie said, and then, like my grandmother, tusked smoke through her nostrils.

“It’s Griffin, right?” Dolinski said.

Then to Sophie: “He and I were in detention a couple of weeks ago.”

I was shocked he remembered my name.

“McQuarrie,” he said gloomily, “was our proctor.

He never did get around to tying us up in his little dungeon down there, did he?”

I shook my head, disarmed by the olive branch of his inclusion.

He said, “You wrestled my friend Vince Voelker.

From Dalton.”

“I guess you could call it that,” I said.

For Dolinski, smoking was an art.

Even I, who’d never taken a single puff, could appreciate his grace.

He took in each lungful with gusto, as if he were testing his wind, letting it float out on his words as he spoke.

“He told me you were one tough nut.”

My heart had been bruised by Amanda, it was true, but I couldn’t help finding this cheering.

“ I still think he’s a narc,” Sophie said.

Mr.

Damiano appeared.

He was greeted by the trio warmly, familiarly.

When he spoke, the unlit cigarette in his mouth jumped like a seismometer’s pen.

He was offered a light by Dolinski—his Zippo tinging when he opened it and whose scent of butane also reminded me of my grandmother.

He covered the flame with his hand, even though we were hidden from the wind.

Damiano, acknowledging my presence, said, “Your date not show?”

I shrugged.

“Griffin’s in my spring play,” Damiano said to the trio.

“And the new Alan Hornbeam picture.”

“An actor and an athlete,” Sophie said, and stamped her dropped butt.

“Can he dance too?”

Dolinski shook his head at her, then flicked his cigarette to the ground and, chuckling, dragged his sole across it.

“You are such a bitch,” he said.

“What he can do,” Damiano said, “is squander his talent playing a superhero.” Then he reached into his blazer’s breast pocket, produced his pack of cigarettes, and, shaking one out, extended it toward me.

“But I’m trying to change his evil ways.”

“Well, you know what they say, Mr.

Damiano”—I bit the filter between my teeth, cupped my hand over Dolinski’s flame, and, before inhaling, repeated an observation I’d heard my dad make a thousand times—“those who can’t do, teach.”

A ghost filled my lungs.

Its steamy form draped itself against my chest’s cavity.

Its barber-hot towel softly stuffed my ribs.

Its billowy expanse, rising up, wanted to escape my throat; and I finally let it, in one great arrow-straight stream that hissed past my lips, this imitation of a seasoned smoker so spot-on I appeared like some street urchin who’d taken up the habit at ten.

“Be seeing you,” said Dolinski.

“Later, narc,” said Sophie.

“Nice to meet you, Ethan,” said Andrea.

“Rehearsal this weekend,” said Damiano, and pointed at me.

I flicked the butt to ash and, in a farewell gesture, winked at them as they took the stairs.

As I watched them ascend, I felt the color leave my face and the blood abandon my buzzing brain.

The moment they were gone, the nausea rose up while I bent double, palms to knees, and with a terrible gargle sprayed the carport with puke.

There came a second gushing heave.

And then with my back arched, I spewed a third time.

I wiped my mouth and then flung my last cigarette ever onto the puddle, spitting several times at the mess.

Spitting through my watery eyes.

Spitting at the man that, to Amanda at least, I was not.

—

Several weeks passed.

Spring was in full bloom.

Central Park was the forest of Arden.

As You Like It was about to premiere.

I’d taken Marc Mason up on his offer to join the game in between rehearsals, and was deep into the D now that, at her request, we were “just friends,” she called me almost every night, and I lived for these chances.

It was like being her boyfriend’s understudy; it made me hope he’d actually break a leg.

She, as if to increase my already terrible confusion, made me hope.

She was so forthcoming and sweet I could, if I cauterized my heart’s ventricles, pretend to enjoy myself.

“Can you hear that?” Amanda said, cupping the receiver, which made her voice breathy and, somehow, nearer to my ear.

“That’s my mom on her ham radio.

Listen,” she ordered.

There was a pause while she held the phone in the air.

I could barely make out what her mother was saying.

“She likes to talk to friends from Australia late at night,” Amanda said when she came back on.

“Because it’s fourteen hours ahead.

Do you want to know the crazy thing?”

I wanted to know everything.

“The longer she talks to them, the more her accent changes.

And she picks up their expressions too.

You know what ‘hit the frog and toad’ means?”

“No.”

“Hit the road.

You know what ‘crack a fat’ means?”

I didn’t.

“Then I’m not telling you,” she said, “because it’s embarrassing.”

“Okay.”

“Unless you come babysit tomorrow.”

“Sure.”

Oren, on his way back from the kitchen, a bowl of cereal in hand, paused before my closet’s open door, shook his head at me, and, between spoonfuls, said, “Sad.”

I pulled the door closed so that Amanda and I wouldn’t be interrupted.

And I made it a point, after the previous evening’s conversation, to march straight up to Mr.

McQuarrie the next morning so I could impress Amanda with my knowledge that afternoon.

“Sir,” I said, “I have a question only you can answer.”

McQuarrie spot-checked me, shoes to tie.

“That’s a lot of pressure, Mr.

Hurt, but I’ll give it a fair go.”

“What does ‘crack a fat’ mean?”

“Well, crikey,” he said, positively amused, “it means we’ll see you on detention this Saturday.”

Amanda could not stop laughing when I told her.

We were at the garret apartment, and while she laughed, she pulled me close and cupped her hand to my ear, since Suzy was within earshot, and her touch sent a shiver straight to my soles.

“It means,” she whispered, “get an erection.”

I blushed, and Amanda smiled.

She adjusted her position so that she could lie on her side and place her ear on my lap.

“This is nice,” she said.

She curled into me.

Her face relaxed.

“Do you ever realize how tired you are all the time?”

I did, and I let my hand come to rest on her hip.

The window unit hummed.

It was Anthony Quinn week on The 4:30 Movie.

They were showing The Guns of Navarone.

We were at the part when David Niven discovers his timers and fuses have been sabotaged and that there’s a traitor on their commando team.

“This is a great scene,” I said to Amanda and Suzy, who was stretched out on the floor and looked at me, exasperated.

“You always do that at the good parts,” she said.

This was a good part, I thought, what with Amanda all to myself and my palm at rest atop her skirt.

Because Suzy was near us, because I was afraid to move an inch, the actors’ voices sounded especially distinct and loud.

So what does she do? Niven says.

She disappears into the bedroom, to change her clothes.

And to leave a little note.

And then she takes us to the wedding party, where we’re caught like rats in a trap because we can’t get to our guns.

But even if we can it means slaughtering half the population of Mandrakos.

Amanda, drifting off, said, “Tell me what’s happening.”

As best I could, I tried to catch her up.

The war hanging in the balance.

The Axis’s plan to wipe out thousands of marooned soldiers.

The elite team of commandos on a desperate mission to blow up the Germans’ top secret weapon, a pair of long-range guns housed in an impregnable mountain.

And now a spy in the team’s midst.

She said, “It sounds exciting.”

“My parents went on their honeymoon with Anthony Quinn,” I said.

“So cool,” Amanda murmured.

“My dad was his voice coach.”

Did I think Dad’s adjacency to stardom might confer on me a sort of glamour in Amanda’s eyes—as if it might function as a sort of spotlight that revealed me, standing on her stage? I’d been in a Hornbeam picture, after all.

Why did I need the assistance?

Softly, Amanda said, “I could fall asleep right now.”

Her eyes were closed, and I considered her profile.

She was very close, very far, very still; I was very still, very happy, very sad.

Oh, that tiny apartment, where we spent most of our time together.

Of all the places in my memory that I’m certain would seem smaller if I revisited them, this one, I’d like to believe, would in fact seem larger, being, as it was, the site of one of my first and most tender acts.

I raised my hand and stroked her hair.

I slowly dragged my thumb across her temple, letting my hand rise slightly as it ran past her ear and, in an unbroken circle, settle again, to touch her once more, until her weight gradually sank, barely perceptibly, into my lap.

An act that, imitating love, was the closest to it, at that moment, that I thought I could get.

And one of the rare occasions I caught Amanda acting, because her fluttering eyelids were a dead giveaway: she was pretending to be asleep.