Staring at her own reflection, she brushes away a rolling tear with her fingertips. She winces at her own touch--not because her touch feels cold, although it does. She winces at the confirmation that her face, which she hardly recognizes, is her own. Transfixed, even as her heavy makeup begins to smear down her face, she watches as her tears wash away this lie for the last time. What would they think if they saw me now, she wonders of all those who claim to adore her.
"I'm serious, Joe, I want to take lessons!" She said, the night she realized she was a joke and had always been a joke.
"Why, Jeane? You're wonderful," He said in a bored voice. The book on his lap was currently more interesting to him than she was.
She turned from him, toward the window that looked onto the city of Los Angeles. "I know how third rate I am," she said, realizing he would never appreciate how much it hurt her to admit it, "I can actually feel my lack of talent, as though it were cheap clothes I'm wearing inside."
He was silent.
"You know, Joe, I used to look out at the Hollywood night and think 'there must be thousands of girls sitting alone like me, dreaming of becoming a movie star. But I'm not going to worry about them; I'm dreaming the hardest,' little did I know, It was always better off as just a dream."
Still, he was silent. Was he even listening?
"Joe?" she said softly, now sitting on the window sill, still staring out into the night. She needed to feel his presence, to know she was not alone.
"Yes, Jeane?"
She remained silent for a moment, partly because words failed her. But mostly, she felt that every word she spoke that night exposed some raw part of her soul. And yet, she felt an unyielding desire to speak from her heart, regardless of how erratic it may sound.
"No one ever told me I was pretty when I was a little girl," she glanced at him, he was looking up at her, "All little girls should be told they are pretty, even if they aren't."
He laughed and something inside of her cringed. She turned to the window again so he would not see it in her eyes."I like jokes, Joe, I just don't like to look like one."
He turned a page of his book before speaking, "What is it with you tonight? You're speaking nonsense."
She was silent. Though she could not see it from her window, there were billboards of her out in the Hollywood night; Her name, up in lights. The first time she saw one of them she thought, 'God, somebody's made a mistake.' But there it was, in lights. And she sat there and said, 'Remember, you're not a star.' Yet there she was, up in lights.
She sits in front of the mirror now, her tears have dried but her eyes are swollen. Her makeup has now completely smeared her face. For a moment, she has half the thought to fix her makeup but then she laughs, realizing she is still playing a role even as the curtains are nearly closing. Her whole life, she decided, had been a joke. She rattled the pill bottle in her hand. Despite herself, a smile came over her face. She found the sound sweet, like the sound of the rattling toys babies played with. She probably never played with one herself, though she could not be sure. She was an orphan child and now the adult equivalent. She was alone, truly, for who even really knew her? Her very last thought as she lost consciousness was that few people, if any, would know Norma Jeane Morteson died that night. They would be too concerned with the death of someone else, someone that did not really exist; Marilyn Monroe.
"I'm serious, Joe, I want to take lessons!" She said, the night she realized she was a joke and had always been a joke.
"Why, Jeane? You're wonderful," He said in a bored voice. The book on his lap was currently more interesting to him than she was.
She turned from him, toward the window that looked onto the city of Los Angeles. "I know how third rate I am," she said, realizing he would never appreciate how much it hurt her to admit it, "I can actually feel my lack of talent, as though it were cheap clothes I'm wearing inside."
He was silent.
"You know, Joe, I used to look out at the Hollywood night and think 'there must be thousands of girls sitting alone like me, dreaming of becoming a movie star. But I'm not going to worry about them; I'm dreaming the hardest,' little did I know, It was always better off as just a dream."
Still, he was silent. Was he even listening?
"Joe?" she said softly, now sitting on the window sill, still staring out into the night. She needed to feel his presence, to know she was not alone.
"Yes, Jeane?"
She remained silent for a moment, partly because words failed her. But mostly, she felt that every word she spoke that night exposed some raw part of her soul. And yet, she felt an unyielding desire to speak from her heart, regardless of how erratic it may sound.
"No one ever told me I was pretty when I was a little girl," she glanced at him, he was looking up at her, "All little girls should be told they are pretty, even if they aren't."
He laughed and something inside of her cringed. She turned to the window again so he would not see it in her eyes."I like jokes, Joe, I just don't like to look like one."
He turned a page of his book before speaking, "What is it with you tonight? You're speaking nonsense."
She was silent. Though she could not see it from her window, there were billboards of her out in the Hollywood night; Her name, up in lights. The first time she saw one of them she thought, 'God, somebody's made a mistake.' But there it was, in lights. And she sat there and said, 'Remember, you're not a star.' Yet there she was, up in lights.
She sits in front of the mirror now, her tears have dried but her eyes are swollen. Her makeup has now completely smeared her face. For a moment, she has half the thought to fix her makeup but then she laughs, realizing she is still playing a role even as the curtains are nearly closing. Her whole life, she decided, had been a joke. She rattled the pill bottle in her hand. Despite herself, a smile came over her face. She found the sound sweet, like the sound of the rattling toys babies played with. She probably never played with one herself, though she could not be sure. She was an orphan child and now the adult equivalent. She was alone, truly, for who even really knew her? Her very last thought as she lost consciousness was that few people, if any, would know Norma Jeane Morteson died that night. They would be too concerned with the death of someone else, someone that did not really exist; Marilyn Monroe.
Posts
well written, as usual. i knew her name was Norma Jeane, I like that you started out just calling her Jeane, because i didn't know you were writing about her until the end. so sad. beautiful tribute.
ReplyDelete