Sounds Like Crazy (15 page)

“Minor voice talent. How dare they!” exclaimed Betty Jane inside my head.

“Shut up!” I muttered in between saying
shit
.

The receptionist glanced up when I pushed open the glass door.Then she looked down quickly. I tucked a stray hair behind my ear and walked past the desk, ready to smile if she looked up again. She didn’t. My heart started to pound. She only did this when Walter was in the studio.

Inside my head, Sarge sat alert on the Committee’s couch. Ruffles ate chips double-time. The Boy whimpered while the Silent One did calming breaths. I tried to mimic him. Inhale, two-three-four. Hold. Exhale, two-three-four. Hold. Inhale . . .

“Holly!” It hit me like an unexpected slap. I held my breath.

I turned and there stood Walter, looming over me with the
Post
rolled up like a policeman’s baton. I flinched.

“I am heading out to L.A. today,” he said.

I nodded my head. He tapped the rolled-up
Post
against his palm.

“I’ll see you next week at the awards ceremony.”

I dealt with the Emmy awards ceremony the same way I coped with everything that required something I didn’t want to give, talk about, participate in, and so forth. I ignored it and hoped that, by my doing so, it would go away.When Walter mentioned the ceremony, I realized the light at the end of the proverbial tunnel had just announced itself as a speeding train.

“Next week, then,” said Walter over his receding shoulder. I exhaled.

When I left the studio, I called Milton.

T
he day before I was supposed to leave for L.A. and the Emmy awards, Milton said if I’d agree to resume our regular, twice-weekly meetings when he returned from his vacation in France, he’d have a physician friend write a note saying I had an inner-ear infection and couldn’t fly. I wanted to report him for blackmailing me to come back to therapy, but I wanted to escape L.A. and the Emmy awards ceremony more, so I agreed.

We all watched the awards ceremony on TV. Having the presenter accept the award on my behalf reminded me that Walter liked to trot out his cash cows at these events, and by not going, I’d made him look bad. I hoped that a trophy and an uptick in ratings would transcend my notable absence in L.A.

Miffed
barely did justice to Walter’s reaction over my absence. At least, that was what I thought until I found myself suffering Betty Jane’s reaction as well for the next two months. Suffice it to say that Ruffles’s warning had come to pass and I choked on Betty Jane’s collar.As if that weren’t enough, Brenda started booking
me on endless stupid projects and then I finally understood that this was a form of punishment from Walter. I swear I lapped the island of Manhattan several times a day, the entire time with Betty Jane’s whip constantly striking my bloody back.

 

At the beginning of November, we were recording the last of the dialogue for the animation that had come back from production when Walter walked through the door. The energy in the room shifted from congenial to trepid. We’d just had the pleasure of his company a week ago. Before I skipped the Emmy awards show, we’d always had about three weeks, twenty-one days, or five hundred- plus hours in between visits. Not that I was counting. For the last two months,Walter had taken to showing up at random at least once or twice a week. He spent a lot of time in the air just to torment me. If he met Betty Jane, she’d have congratulated him for keeping me as off balance as she could by the mere showing of his face.

“Take five, everyone,” said Mike.Then he said to Walter,“The focus group responses are back.They loved Harriet.”Walter nodded and sat down at the console next to Mike.

Mike turned to the writers and said, “I want you guys to rewrite the scripts for the second half of the season to include her.”

Inside my head, Betty picked up a book the size of the Oxford English Dictionary and threw it across the Committee’s living room. My head jerked as the book dented the wall before falling spine-up on the floor.

“Who knew she could read?” said Ruffles smugly. She had responded to Betty Jane’s recent tyranny with a show of solidarity. I knew she meant well with the gesture, but over the last several months I had found myself increasingly caught in the middle.

The crew watched me with exasperated faces, and I realized that if I didn’t move pronto, a Walt’s World lecture, or worse, would certainly ensue.

As if on cue, Mike got up and walked over to me.“Holly? Are you okay?” he said, putting a steadying hand on my shoulder.

I felt like snapping,
I have a voice throwing a tantrum in my head; of course I’m not okay.
Instead I said, “I need an aspirin.” My face felt clammy and hot.Walter narrowed his eyes. After that night at Barolo, Walter’s PA had mentioned to me that he’d noticed I regularly came to work hungover. I knew Walter had spies everywhere, but this remark had left me incredulous, because apart from that one night, I rarely drank. Any perceived hangover was not from alcohol.
Yeah,
I had thought when I heard this, I’d love to give Betty Jane to Walter for a day and see how he looks the morning after.

 

Betty Jane and Ruffles recorded the voices of Violet and Harriet through the end of December, and during that time, Betty Jane’s behavior mirrored a terminal illness, growing progressively worse with each passing week.At first she said, “From now on, I want all Committee members present when Ruffles records.” A few weeks later she said,“We are neglecting the Boy’s education. He shall have French lessons when Ruffles records.” Who knew she spoke French? But she ruled the Committee, so we had to comply.

While Ruffles’s recordings improved weekly in direct proportion to Betty Jane’s bad behavior, the mounting mistreatment started to fray her edges until the strain became apparent. I probably could have managed better if my pride hadn’t forced me to treat my sessions with Milton as “tune-ups only.” Even though he did help me out with the Emmy awards excuse, the fact that Milton thought I could not make it without him rankled. So I never talked about Betty Jane or any of the Committee members when we met.

The only bright spot during that time was the absence of Walter, who hadn’t visited since November. Then I found out from Mike that Walter’s spies were talking overtime, and I’d better shape up quickly or things were going to get really rough at the studio. In other words, our current state of affairs, which emulated class IV whitewater rapids, was about to transform to Niagara Falls if I didn’t find a solution in the two months we had before we started recording season three.

My solution was more work.

I called Brenda and said, “I need to be so busy I can’t see straight.”

“Boyfriend troubles?” she asked.

I wish.
“No, just troubles. Oh, and can you book jobs only for my Violet voice?”

Brenda didn’t ask any additional questions. More work for me meant more money for her. She complied and then some. In a short time, Betty Jane was on top again and life became peaceful once more. So much so that I managed to convince myself the worst had passed.

We returned to work on
The Neighborhood
in March, and that meant Ruffles was back in the sound booth with Betty Jane. It took about two weeks before bad took a sharp turn to worse. Starting with me walking into the studio twenty minutes late.

The crew lounged at the mixing board sipping coffee, and the cast stood behind the glass, headphones around their necks, chatting. I didn’t bother with a good morning or an apology. As I reached for the sound booth doorknob, Walter entered the studio.

“The Little Waitress arrives,” he said, “without coffee.” I paused, alternating between waiting for the Walt’s World tirade
and hoping Mike would intervene on behalf of the production costs and we’d get started. “You’ve heard the news?”

The banana I had eaten in the car turned to vinegar in my stomach. The Committee sat alert in my head. The crew in the room and the cast on the other side of the glass stood frozen, as if someone had paused time and movement. I searched for the words that would hopefully get me out of this public sharing unscathed, while Walter waited for me to answer. Stumped, I finally shook my head.

“Still under the influence of your celebrating, I see,” said Walter.

Celebrating? I shook my head again.

“For your work this season, you’ve been nominated for a Juried 2 Emmy—OutstandingVoice-over Performance. Based on your current conduct, though, I can’t say that you deserve it.”

After I’d received my first nomination, I’d discovered that the award for OutstandingVoice-over Performance is juried, meaning each entrant is screened by a panel, as opposed to voted on, and then passed on to a second panel, which must vote unanimously in order for the nominee to win. Also, you are not competing with other nominees for the award. Rather, the second panel could give the award to multiple candidates.

Inside my head, Betty Jane fluffed her hair and looked around at the Committee members. This would be Emmy number two under her belt.

“Great,” I whispered.

“We sent them an edited version of an episode from the second half of the season,”Walter went on.

I froze.These were the episodes with Harriet as a permanent character.

“What?” screamed Betty Jane inside my head. “One of her episodes?” She stabbed a pointed red nail in Ruffles’s direction.
“Her?” She marched over to Ruffles’s pillow, grabbed her bag of Ruffles, and flung it in the air. Chips rained down in the Committee’s living room. “How could they choose you?”

Ruffles shrank against the wall. My head leaned over like a flower left too long in a vase.Walter, Mike, and the crew watched me, nonplussed.

I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry.

“I will not have it,” she said. Betty Jane savagely kicked Ruffles’s pillow until the fabric broke. Sarge and the Silent One moved to intercept her. Pillow stuffing mixed with the crushed chips on the floor.

“I will not let you win that award,” said Betty Jane. Sarge reached out to pull her away from Ruffles.

“Do not touch me,” she snarled. Betty Jane’s and Ruffles’s eyes were locked in visual combat. Without blinking, Betty Jane said, “Boy, clean up this mess.”Then with force, “Now!”

The Boy pulled out the vacuum.

“Holly?” said Mike. I shook my head. My hand clutched the doorknob, now slippery with perspiration.

“Sorry. I’m a bit overwhelmed by the news.” I pulled my sleeve over my hand and opened the door. I set up my script, put on my headphones, and nodded for them to start.

“I forgot to tell you,” said Mike through the talkback,“we’re going to start with Harriet this morning.”

I closed my eyes. Betty Jane remained fixed in front of Ruffles’s pillow. “Vacuum up the mess,” said Betty Jane inside my head.

“We can’t,” whimpered the Boy. “Ruffles has to record and that means I have French.”

“You,” Betty Jane snarled, and pointed a finger at Sarge, “take the vacuum.” She turned back to the cowering Boy and said, “Anyone worthy of an Emmy award can certainly record
over vacuuming and French.” Without taking her eyes off the Boy, she pointed her finger at the vacuum and screamed, “Do it now!”

Sarge plugged in the vacuum and switched it on right when Mike cued us to begin. I can safely say that the morning recordings were a catastrophe. I stopped counting the number of times I heard,“We can fix it in post; move on,” after the first hour. Finally, Mike called a break. I had fifteen minutes to get this situation under control.

I checked my watch and inhaled. Even though the temperature hovered just above freezing, I went outside for an emergency cigarette. I had sweated off my three nicotine patches and I needed to calm down.

I hid behind the studio in the back alley where they probably carried out the bodies of failed voice-over artists, dragged them down to the Hudson River, and tossed them in with the rest of the sinking garbage.The guard assured me nobody ever came out here. He’d better be right, because if I got caught smoking, the old adage “it could be worse” would come true.

I replayed the day I had let Ruffles audition, over and over again in my head. I knew this obsession fed Betty Jane’s fire, but I couldn’t stop.“Why did I open my mouth?” I asked myself again for the millionth time.

“Why indeed,” said Betty Jane inside my head.

She sat on the Committee’s couch, her red lips pursed in a mean line. Her sunflower pin popped against her perfect black suit.We were halfway through the day and I didn’t see one wrinkle. If I was wearing it, the suit would look like an old lady’s face.

I exhaled and backed away, at the same time trying to avoid the smoky backwash. Inhaling again, I said, “Are we ready then?”

Inside my head, Ruffles brushed the potato chip salt from her hands. “I’m ready.” She chuckled, and when she did, her eyes looked like little blueberries dotting the flesh of her face. Even though her hair hung limply and her face looked pale, she still had the energy to lob a salvo at Betty Jane. Relief rushed over me. At that moment, I didn’t care about her excess bulk or that she filled my days with crunching. I could always count on Ruffles.

“Of course she is ready.”
Course
sounded like
cause
when Betty Jane said it in her sugary, matter-of-fact way. I relaxed. Maybe the afternoon would go easier. “Unfortunately . . .” Betty Jane paused to inspect her manicure. Or maybe it wouldn’t.

I waited. Betty Jane smoothed her hair.The malevolent glint in her hazel eyes deepened and her body language belied the sweetness in her voice.