I didn’t learn how to read until I was twelve. In my first film, Love in a Blameless Land or How I Gambled It All Away, I was cast to play an intellectually disabled child. My character was nonverbal outside of the final words of the film when I said, “Lola take care of you.” My tween body was crisscrossed on a tenement building’s kitchen floor, holding onto Charles Lillian’s head as his character overdoses. I tried to make myself cry by conjuring what the feeling of loss would feel like, but I couldn’t. My mom had to dab peppermint below my eyes and within a few moments, a tear dropped onto Charles’s forehead. Production tried to keep me away from the subject matter of the film, but of course my mom knew and signed off on it. A majority of the film’s themes went over my head. I started to piece the story together when I went over lines with Charles. He often invited my mother and me into his Airstream and I would repeat back to him what he had read out loud, acting like I was reading the lines from the script. I was a goofy, fatheaded tomboy talking about selling crack on the Lower East Side and it would put Charles into a fit of laughter. I would test out my so-called new characters, pretending to be the people I had encountered in the city. My new interest in profanities was showcased daily while I splurged on unlimited sodas from craft services. My mom would never admit it, but I was certain she had a crush on Charles. At the time, he was one of the most handsome men in Hollywood. Once you got to know him though, you realized how lonely and boring he was. Charles had been in the depths of a very expensive first divorce. He was also flirting with alcoholism, which would take his life a decade later. My mom often worried that the environment wasn’t safe for me. Charles’s Airstream, filled with French pastries and unfiltered cigarettes, was a reprieve from our lives. A place where he had to be sober and all I had to be was a kid.

I still have my scripts read to me today. Since Paul and I have been together, he’s the first one to read them to me. I find it easier to memorize my lines this way. I’ve always stumbled over words and it takes me twice the time to read a page. I called the lobby to order another green juice and four hard boiled eggs. Emphasizing the eggs on the side since there was confusion last time. I let my feet hang over the side of the bed. I remembered and asked the lobby girl, Oh and—did you happen to get my delivery yet for four dozen Intense Max shakes? Before putting my phone away, I swiped down to see if I had any missed calls or messages. There was nothing from Paul.

My luggage was splayed on the other queen-sized bed. I moved all my weights and equipment along the window. I had the bellboy haul up a squat rack for me and it took up a majority of the room. Sometimes I laid underneath the bench and watched YouTube like a rodent trying to burrow. José measured me after our session this morning and said I gained a full centimeter on my bicep. He recommended I increase my stack of Anavar and HGH. I was occasionally taking clenbuterol. I recently had my entire body insured. Holly had her tits insured for a quarter-million dollars each and only experienced positive press from it. She decided to do this after she was nominated for her role in Stunt Double, a biopic on Gretel Wintel, the porn-star-turned-NASCAR-driver who tragically died trying to combine the two. The bodega by Holly’s spot on Orchard hasn’t charged her for smoothies all summer. In exchange, the guy behind the counter gets to prolong his staring at her chest. Holly doesn’t mind, as she finally feels disconnected from her body. I was secretly hoping for my own version of this. Instead, I started doubling my therapy sessions, as my intrusive thoughts had become more vivid. During my morning workout, I was able to dip a few degrees below parallel, holding fifty pounds over my bodyweight. Every time I did this, I imagined my knees shifting forward, dragging my body back sharply. I completely crack myself in half. The injury would be gruesome, but I would be able to recover and go back to my roots of indie darling roles. I could still act from a wheelchair. I would probably get some pity roles for the first few years. A paralympic biopic or maybe a Colleen Hoover book adaptation on wheels. I do love her work. 

I tried to call Paul again and it went straight to voicemail. I wasn’t sure if he blocked me or his phone was off. I wrote out a text to his mom, but before I could hit send there was a knock on the door. I moved the curtains and slid open the balcony to air it out. I received two complaints this week regarding the smell coming from the room. Between the gym I had turned the room into and the high-protein diet, I had lost myself. 

I instructed the bellboy to stack the protein shakes wherever. He was one of the few people I had seen this week. I suspected he knew who I was since my face was all over the internet. 

Bellboy: Chocolate Birthday Cake Surprise. They try so hard to flavor these like dessert but they all taste like blended cardboard. 

He was unloading the cases of protein shakes into the fridge slowly, reading every label. He looked to be in his early twenties, frail and pale like a malnourished lab rat. Superhero movie fandom seemed to have missed a majority of Gen Z, so there was a chance he had no clue who I was. I asked him if he enjoyed his job, to make small talk. He lifted the next case of shakes by hinging from the hip with the little power he had coming from his arms. 

Bellboy: Yeah, it has its perks. I’ve met a bunch of actors and musicians. You ever seen the Clowntown trilogy or wait—you know the main guy in the films about the SoundCloud rapper who is hired by the FBI to become a hitman?

I nodded my head and before I could speak, he interrupted me. 

Bellboy: Well, I met his wife. She stayed here for a couple nights to do some press stuff. She smells like expensive cinnamon rolls.

I crossed my legs on the bed and decided to say thank you, signaling him to leave. I had to then uncross them as they didn’t fit as snugly on top of each other due to the rapid quad growth. My body was used to being sore. The impact of the lactic acid wasn’t as intense as it had been when I first started training. My forearms had veins that protruded and made my arms look masculine. I was supposed to start filming soon. Probably take two-to-four months. Training for this role has already been six months. I haven’t had a single cheat day. I’ve kept a low profile as I didn’t want the public to start speculating anything. I even kept this role from Paul. I didn’t want to keep it a secret maliciously, I only thought he would be excited. Someone tipped off TMZ about the casting news and then my face was plastered everywhere.

I tried to call him again. Nothing. I tried again. Hoping that maybe a third call would alert him and make him worried about me. It’s been nearly a week with no communication. I mean, he knew where I was. I always come to Hotel Bergamot whenever I want to disappear or we argue. At least ever since I’ve had money I come here. Even as a child with very little means, I found hotels and motels comforting. I love eating in bed. Falling asleep with the Chinese takeout occupying the pillow beside you. Waking up in the middle of the night and opening up the Bible drawer to eat leftover carbonara. I find it annoying how hotel fridges are always so far away from the bed—they’re practically useless, the size of the freezers can’t even hold a tub of ice cream. Last night, I ate a grilled chicken breast while naked, staring out the peephole for ten minutes waiting for anyone to walk by. Hoping that someone would feel my big perverted presence, but no one even stopped. 

I called Paul again. He picked up but I had to glance to see if the call timer had initiated. 

Paul? I asked into the phone. 

Paul: Yes. 

Me: Hey—I haven’t been able to get a hold of you, so I wanted to see how you were. 

Paul mumbled that he was fine. His ability to be so short and cold was pathetic. Acting nonchalant and fulfilled by being alone. He had probably been on the phone with everyone in his contacts but me. 

Me: Alright—that’s good. I’ve been worried about you. I wanted to make sure that you were doing okay, and you figured out how to feed Zero.

Paul: Two and a half scoops of the dry food with a handful of blueberries. Twice a day. Medicine in the evenings.

Me: Yep. Well, I’m sorry again that I kept this a secret. I didn’t mean to hurt you, I thought this would be more exciting, like a surprise.

Paul: Well, it was a surprise. A huge surprise. I didn’t think you would take a giant shit on something so important to me. 

Me: I thought I was adding to your cinematic universe or whatever. I thought you would be excited for me—for us.

He hung up. I called back. I tried again. And then tried a third time a few minutes later. I stared down at my forearm that now seemed even veinier and red. I put my fist through the welcome screen on the television. When I pulled it back, I was surprised I hadn’t cut myself too bad.

I was on the phone with the lobby gal again. Hey, sorry for the late call, I said. My TV broke and I was wondering if you happen to have any spare TVs around or if it would be possible to exchange a TV from an unoccupied room for the night?

I wrapped the TV in a bed sheet and placed it in the corner of the room. The same bellboy entered and rolled the new one in. He placed the new remote between my Academy Award and empty protein shakes. He pointed to the golden statue and asked what it was.

Bellboy: So you’re an actress?

Me: No, I’m an actor.

After winning an Academy Award, the comic book movie offers started coming through. I couldn’t pass up on the money, it would be stupid not to. This was the only script I didn’t have Paul read. When news broke on the casting, he had sided with the majority of internet blogs that believed a woman shouldn’t be playing the new Batman. The last thing Paul said to me as I was walking out the door with my luggage and Academy Award was, Why can’t you be more like Halle Berry? 

Bellboy: Nice, yes, sorry, I’m never sure what the correct term is nowadays. 

He picked the remote up and tried to turn the TV on. It didn’t work, so he opened up the back of it and wiggled the batteries around. He asked where the other remote was. I got on my hands and knees and started looking under the bed. He wandered around and came out of the bathroom yelling that he had found it. He exchanged the batteries and turned the TV on. 

Bellboy: Oh yeah—her!

He pointed at the actress Cindy Varloo, dressed in clown makeup crying hysterically over her boyfriend in a hospital bed. 

Bellboy: That’s who I met. She was unbelievable. Like, you think you see people on the screen, and they’re flawless, and no way they look like that in real life. But when I met her, it was even better. She had these tiny little feet all painted up and when I brought her breakfast—oatmeal, side of honey, no fruit, whole milk—she tipped me twenty dollars and called me baby. I couldn’t even look her in the eye, I just kept staring at her little feet.

He kept watching the screen, smiling to himself. I felt like an intruder in my own hotel room. He asked if I knew her.

Me: Yeah, I’m friends with her boyfriend actually. We’re currently working on a film.

Bellboy: That’s awesome. She’s the best. 

Me: Yeah, the best.

I felt embarrassed by the state of my hotel room. My physical appearance was probably unsightly. I hadn’t showered after my morning workout and went back to bed. I thanked him and asked if he could take the old television away. He looked over at the TV wrapped in a sheet in the corner of the room.

Me: You can bill me and please let management know I’m deeply sorry. I slipped and fell into it.

I hadn’t looked down at my hand in a while. I could finally feel a surge of pain that had now eclipsed the entirety of our awkward encounter.

Bellboy: You’re bleeding.

I looked down and raised my hand, as blood had pooled by my large unpainted and calloused feet. I ran to the sink, rinsing off the blood. The bright light made the gashes violently prominent.

Bellboy: Let me call someone—I can call 9-1-1 on my work phone—

Me: No–no–no—please do not do that. I can do a house call. Just, um, I will wrap it in this towel for now and it will be fine. 

Bellboy: I’m going to stay with you until they show up—it looks serious and I don’t want you to pass out or anything.

He sat on my bed and continued to watch Clowntown 2. I sat on the other side of the bed and dialed Paul. He answered after the first ring.

Me: Hi, um, I’m glad you picked up. I had an accident and was wondering if you were available for a house call?

Paul: What?

Me: I am bleeding from my hand, I had an accident and I need you to come over and help me. Might need a few stitches.

The bellboy looked over at me and then down at my hand. He gave me a thumbs up and smiled with only a third of the adoration that I imagined Cindy Varloo’s tiny painted feet had received. Paul agreed to come to the hotel room. I hung up—well, Paul hung up first. I stayed on the line and acted like he was still there. Playing a character seemed to be the only thing I could do right then. I looked over at the bellboy and tried my best to dismiss him by offering him cash but he declined.

Bellboy: Ma’am, I’m sorry but I just—I had my grandma pass recently from a similar accident and she wasn’t found for a few days…

Sorry to hear that, I said with a disappointed exhale.

Bellboy: I told myself that I will always be there for someone, family, stranger, friend, actress, whatever.

Me: Alright, thanks. Can you grab me a protein shake from the fridge please?

He got up without looking away from the screen and unscrewed the top and held it to my lips. I was caught off guard but decided to let him do this since it seemed like a new paternal instinct that this young man was testing out. I coughed to let him know I had enough of the shake. He grabbed a towel from the floor and wiped my mouth. I leaned back onto the headboard and watched the screen as Lucas Rough’s character took his final breath. Cindy Varloo is always good at crying on command. A tight shot on her face showed a tear falling from her eye and rolling into her mouth. I was supposed to take care of you, she said as she buried her face into the hospital bed her clown boyfriend laid in.