Maybe the Moon

about other closet midgets in Hollywood, some of which, I promise you, would curl your hair.
    Imagine my excitement when Isaac called a week later to say that he’d proposed a little people episode for What It Is ! and that he wanted me to guest star. (That was just the way he put it.) I was to play a clown who meets Ikey at a Dallas mall and teaches him about the true nature of compassion. How I was to accomplish this inspiring feat of liberalism Isaac didn’t say, but he assured me the role would be both touchingly hilarious and cutting-edge, a surefire candidate for the Emmy.
    No sooner had I phoned half the population of Baker to spread the good news than Isaac called to say the project had been killed—by his own producers, no less. They were desperately afraid that another little person on the show might provoke a discussion of the subject in the press, thereby blowing Ikey’s cover. It was just too risky, they said, given that the kid’s voice had already changed drastically and he was “in grave danger of becoming a grotesque.” Isaac had fought for the idea tooth and nail, or so he assured me, but the powers that be were unbending. My long-awaited showcase role never even got to the script stage.
    To his credit, Isaac called out of the blue about six months ago to see how I was doing, but I didn’t have much to report, career-wise. I had picked up some money doing phone solicitations for a carpet-cleaning service in Reseda, but the work had proved boring beyond belief. My boss there had said some nice things about my speaking voice, however, so it made me consider the possibility of radio work. Since Isaac seemed to think that might be a good approach, I phoned Leonard Lord, my intrepid agent, and asked him to keep an eye open. He told me his contacts in that arena were minimal, but he’d put the word out and see what he could do. I haven’t heard from him since.
    That’s enough for tonight. It’s late and I’m beginning to depress myself. The rain clouds have shifted a bit, and there’s the oddest little nail paring of a moon hanging in my bedroom window. I’ll concentrate on that and the nice warm breeze that’s rippling my curtains. Things could be worse, after all, and I’ve always been able to cope. I have my friends and my talent and my commitment, and I know there’s a place for me in the firmament of Hollywood.
    If not, I’ll get a new agent.

2
    A WEEK LATER . O N MY AIR MATTRESS IN THE BACKYARD .
    I’ve just read my first entry and can’t believe how dismal it sounds. Oh, well. I could blame it on the wrong time of the month, I suppose, but I don’t think you’d be fooled for long. The truth is, it’s the wrong time of the century. I don’t know when this happened, or how. The world simply changed when I wasn’t looking—when I was out eating a cheeseburger, maybe, or buying a magazine or catching a flick in Westwood—so that when I got back it was utterly different, an alien place filled with people I’d never known and customs as inscrutable to me as the control panel on my VCR.
    This morning, for example, I looked out the window and saw a huge yellow ribbon tied around my lamppost. I put aside my sewing and went outside, glaring up at this plastic monstrosity and wondering for a moment if Renee could be responsible. It was just beyond my grasp, but I managed to yank it down after a few graceless leaps. No sooner had I done so than Mrs. Bob Stoate, my next-door neighbor, came running across her perfect lawn in a neat little seersucker shirtwaist.
    “Cady, what are you doing?” She looked as though she’d caught me selling dope to her kids.
    I told her I was taking the tacky thing down.
    “But Bob and me got them for the whole street.”
    I peered up and down, in both directions, and saw what she meant: there was a ribbon at every single house. “Well, that was very nice of Bob and you, but this is my front yard, and I don’t want it.”
    She flinched a little. “It’s an American tradition.”
    I walked back to the house, dragging the ribbon behind me. “And I thought it was just a stupid song.”
    She hollered after me. “We only did it because we figured you couldn’t…”
    “Reach,” she was going to say, but she caught herself just in time.
    “The war is over,” I yelled. “Stop gloating.”
    “We’re just showing the boys how we feel!”
    True enough, when you think about it. Like everybody else around here, the Bob Stoates can barely contain