Someday, Someday, Maybe Read Online Free

my babies. A bunch of us were hanging out in his trailer after wrap this morning. We had mimosas!” She grins crazily. “I’m sort of drunk!”
    Jane is trying to become a producer, which is perfect because she’s very smart, and one of those people who inspires confidence in others by appearing to have all the answers even when she has no real factual information. In the meantime, she’s a production assistant on the new Russell Blakely movie, Kill Time . The job seems to entail mostly food retrieval, occasional paperwork delivery, and attending to the whims of the movie’s star. Whenever Jane talks about Russell Blakely, all I can picture is that line everybody was quoting from his last movie, Steel Entrapment , where he calls out to Cordelia Biscayne, “Honey, I’m home,” while hanging by one hand from the landing gear of a helicopter, bare-chested.
    “Today’s specials from the set of Kill Time : an assortment of bagels that were only out on the craft service table for about three hours, but are not, sadly, accompanied by cream cheese, and that Chinese rice thing that Dan likes, which I don’t think was too aggressively sneezed upon.”
    “Bagel, please. And outfit approval, if you can see anything through those shades.”
    “Please. I’m a professional.” Jane dips her glasses slightly, but only slightly, down her nose, and studies me carefully.
    “Now, of course, I’ve seen this outfit before. But today, it’s really speaking to me, positively singing to me with personality. Today it says: happy housewife who loves staying at home, who’s devoted to her family and possesses an enthusiasm for floor wax seldom seen in the Western world.”
    “Close. Passionate love of clean clothes.”
    “Ahh. Laundry detergent! You’re perfect. So wholesome, I want to run to the laundromat immediately. That face! Familiar, yet a breath of fresh air, and your hair seems positively subdued.”
    “Thanks, Janey.”
    “I would, however, lose the belt.”
    I hang my wayward attempt at fashion on the banister, and for no particular reason decide to make a dramatic entrance out of the kitchen/alcove into the living room where Dan is working, and pose, Price Is Right style, like I might be illuminating the features of a NEW CAR!
    “Hey, Dan,” I say. “Do I look like someone with really clean clothes?”
    “Hmmph?” he says, not looking up.
    My first pose having gone unappreciated, I decide to change it up and attempt an even more dramatic attitude, a sort of King Tut, Egyptian-tomb look.
    “Dan,” I say, standing mummy style, hands bent in an L-shape at the wrists. “Jane’s home. She brought food.”
    “Garphmm,” he mumbles, scribbling furiously in his notebook.
    Finally, I clap my hands at him. “Dan, emergency! Your fly is open!”
    “What?” he asks, finally looking up, blowing his bangs out of his face. “Sorry, Franny, I’m really struggling with the Photar creatures.” Dan is trying to write a science-fiction movie for some sort of competition. I’m sure he’ll win. He was apparently a straight-A student at Princeton, and no one is more passionate about aliens than Dan. When he tries to describe the story to me, I find myself counting the planks in our floor, weighing the merits of vegetable versus scallion cream cheese, but I’m sure it’s better than it sounds.
    “How’s my hair? I’m taking an apartment-wide poll.” For some reason, this time my question is accompanied by a weird sort of tap-step flourish, in order to “sell it.”
    I hate myself. I must be stopped.
    “Um, big?” he says, hopefully.
    “Huh?”
    “Well, that’s what you’re going for, right? Big, with a sort of curly fountain thing on top?”
    From the kitchen/alcove I can hear Jane snort, as though orange juice just came out of her nose. Worse, I realize that while waiting for Dan’s answer, I’ve stayed sort of frozen, still holding my Bob Hope—movie, high school dance recital jazz-hands pose. Dan just