My Life as a Doormat (in Three Acts) Read Free Page A

She was hardly ever interested in my plays. She would come to see them, more out of obligation than interest. That was actually one of the things that had drawn me to her in the first place. She was a nice vacation away from the relentlessly aesthetic theater world that I seemed to live in 24/7.
    â€œIt’s a romantic comedy.”
    â€œOh! Like a Meg Ryan/Tom Hanks kind of thing?”
    Well, no. In fact, it was really more an antiromantic comedy. I was calling it a “romanti comedy,” leaving off the c in order to form the word anti . I thought this descriptor very clever until I discovered that it took a good ten minutes to explain it to everyone. And even then I’d get vague nods and hear whispering as people walked off.
    In all actuality, Jodie Bellarusa, the main character, was about as close to a Meg Ryan type as Cher. She wasn’t perky. She wasn’t blonde. And she didn’t like men who continued to be in romantic comedies long after they were considered adorable.
    You’re going to do it, aren’t you? You’re actually going to nod your head. Meg Ryan/Tom Hanks—repulsive and com pletely unrealistic. Look, you know I respect you. You created me, after all, and who wouldn’t respect their creator? But I have to question this relationship sometimes. I mean, I’ve been in some unhealthy relationships, thanks to you. But what good is a relationship when you can’t be real? That’s what I’ve been preaching since I came into existence! Forget the romance. Forget the flowers. Let’s all be real here! Be real!
    â€œSure. Wouldn’t I be lucky to get Meg Ryan?” I lied.
    â€œI’d kill for her curls. And her body. And her money.”
    â€œSpeaking of no curls, no body and, well, no money, I need your help. Your fashion help.”
    That perked her up. “Oh?”
    â€œI’ve got to go to this thing with Edward tonight. It’s a semiformal outdoor dinner party, but the real challenge is the company I’ll be keeping. Physicists. And some other scientist-types.”
    â€œSo that low-plunging number won’t do.” Elisabeth was being facetious. By low-plunging, she was referring to a scoop-neck dress I wore to one of her parties. For me, it was risky, because I didn’t like my neck exposed.
    She followed me into my bedroom where I opened my small closet. She let out a laugh. I did too. Again, a regrettable fly-swatting moment, and I could sense Jodie Bellarusa’s disapproval.
    â€œHow do you get by?” Elisabeth lamented. “And why is everything black?”
    â€œIt’s an artist thing.” It wasn’t. It was actually an insecurity-about- color-and-the-attention-it-drew thing, but I kept mum.
    â€œNone of these will do,” she finally said after scooting every hanger contemptuously down the line. “We have to get you a new dress.”
    â€œNew? In case you haven’t heard, playwriting isn’t the lucrative business it used to be for me.”
    â€œCome on. I know where to find all the bargains.”
    How ridiculous. I didn’t need a new dress. Any of these would suffice. “Okay.”
    Glavier had a deceivingly fancy name. Inside it looked more like a warehouse that had potential for conversion but hadn’t been converted. The dressing room, I noticed immediately, was a sheet strung from one empty clothes rack to another.
    â€œDon’t worry,” Elisabeth said. “I know it looks a little scary, but I’m telling you, one of these days you’ll hear about Glavier in all the best fashion magazines. Kitty has a real vision for what’s in style.”
    â€œKitty?”
    â€œShe owns the place.”
    In place of a meow, the petite, middle-aged woman came around the corner and greeted us with an exquisite politeness. Elisabeth got busy explaining my desperate need for a new dress. But Kitty seemed more interested in me.
    â€œIs this outdoor