INT. MY APARTMENT – TUESDAY – 11:09 a.m.
I lie in the ever-shifting piece of sunlight that has found temporary residence on the floor. I feel it on my face and on my cheeks. It washes over my closed eyelids. I stare out at a wall of red and wish to be anywhere but here. All winter, not even the sunlight has seemed to bring warmth; I have spent the last three months under blankets in the shade. I have been slowly suffocated – by winter, by my apartment, by New York – but I feel the effects suddenly, creeping up and landing on me with an unforgiving heft.
INT. MY APARTMENT – TUESDAY – 11:21 a.m.
As my sense of floundering reaches a scrambling mania, I sign onto American Airlines, placing a hold on a flight for that evening, leaving JFK at 7:10 p.m., arriving at LAX at 10:20 p.m. I call my mom to see if she can pick me up at the airport. I used to have a boyfriend who did this for me, greeting me with happiness and kisses, but boyfriends come and go while mothers stay. She says she will.
INT. DESIGNER’S LOBBY – TUESDAY – 12:30 p.m.
I arrive at a casting, my only one for the day, looking again like a puffy-eyed mess. Girls crowd the lobby, holding their books and BlackBerries. The job shoots on the 11th and the 12th, but I have given up on hoping for jobs, so the dates are irrelevant. Earlier that morning, I had asked my New York booker about a job I was on hold for. “Did they confirm?” I now ask. “Released,” she responds, simple and straightforward, as this job so often is.
Catch and release.
Catch and release.
I am a fucking miserable fish.
A woman takes a picture of me, not telling me to give more attitude like she did the other girls; I imagine I look adequately nasty without direction.
EXT. NEW YORK CITY STREET – TUESDAY – 1:14 p.m.
I email my booker in Los Angeles, something to the tune of, “I’m having a nervous breakdown and likely coming to Los Angeles tonight. Do you have any work to keep me distracted from myself?” I have been working with her nearly since the beginning of my not-so-illustrious “career.” She responds right away, telling me she hopes I am OK and then follows with, “Booking you on a job in Portland????”
Yes. Yes. Yes.
INT. MY APARTMENT – TUESDAY – 2:10 p.m.
My friends in Los Angeles convince me to come out. “It’ll be good for you,” they say. The light from the outside has already begun to dwindle, leaving my walls awash in their unforgiving icy blueness devoid of shadows or depth. I have become well acquainted with the white flatness of winter. The light reflects off my bare legs, pale beyond compare. I need a sunny day and some Vitamin D. I confirm my flight.
INT. MY APARTMENT – TUESDAY – 2:19 p.m.
I pull my ex-boyfriend’s carry-on luggage out of the closet. He gave it to me when I was moving out of our apartment. “I won’t use it,” he said in an act of laziness or altruism. At the time, I didn’t think I would, either; the prospects of thinking of him every time I traveled made me want to throw up. I took it anyway, knowing I would just donate it to Goodwill or throw it away if it actually caused any real emotional duress. A year later and I have been cured of any sorrow-induced nausea, at least on account of him.
I fill the suitcase with too many pairs of underwear and not enough shirts. I add a pair of shorts because I think it might be warm enough, but throw in a pair of tights just in case it’s not. I crumple a nice dress into a ball, rendering it unwearable with all of its unruly creases. There are things missing, but as has been the case with everything all week, I don’t care.
INT. MY APARTMENT – TUESDAY – 2:45
My booker in Los Angeles sends me my itinerary for the job, leaving the following day from LAX at 6:15 a.m., arriving in Portland at 8:10 a.m. There are only eight hours in between flights, three of which I will find time to sleep during. More airplanes, more distractions, more not being in New York.
INT. NYC SUBWAY – TUESDAY – 4:10 p.m.
The E train is busy and I stand over my luggage, listening to the same stupid music I’ve been listening to for the last week. Sad music. Music for wallowing. I should have left New York a week ago and not sat festering in my own overwrought self-loathing. I find that the older I get, the more fragile I feel. A precariously placed set of dominos, all standing and ready to tumble, begging for a push.
INT. JFK – TUESDAY – 5:30 p.m.
I attempt to check into my flight but the kiosk computer won’t allow me. I get sent to an American Airlines employee, who informs me that I didn’t actually purchase a ticket. In my anxious haste, I had apparently missed a button or two. She laughs and rebooks my flight. I smile falsely, wondering when my brain will once again begin to function.
INT. JFK – TUESDAY – 6:02 p.m.
I buy a bag of soy chips. Apple cinnamon. I’m not hungry, which makes their tastelessness ever more apparent. I take a picture of some airplanes and send an email I shouldn’t send, accompanied by nasty words attempting self-preservation. “This is fucking easy,” I say, because in my hurry – with my packing of bags and booking my flight and getting to the airport and finding my gate – I have begun to forget this person as they are likely forgetting me. I’m trying to push someone away with my own pathetic behavior, trying to forget them by placing myself in a different time zone, trying to remember that I was a happier person just over a week ago. I’m running away from this version of myself I have created, in hopes that she will leave me alone.
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