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gold-brown. I watched the film about crazy Van Gogh.
    The real Van Gogh used to walk a whole day just to see the girl he loved step out of a church. I had almost watched the whole movie when the phone rang. I pressed pause and Van Gogh was stuck at the asylum missing half his ear.
    It was Sabrina.
    “Hi, Jerry. I talked to the partners, and we think that you need a little more experience, okay?” she said.
    “Okay,” I said. “But how do I get experience?”
    “Well, you need to work more.”
    “Okay.”
    “You understand?” she said.
    “But how do I get work if I don’t have an agent?”
    Pause.
    “Yeah, well, we just all thought that you need a little more experience.”
    “Uh, right. That doesn’t really make sense, but okay.”
    “Okay, thank you. Talk to you later.”
    She was waiting on the line. I heard paper.
    “Good-bye,” I said, and she hung up.
    I paged Bree, and then I turned the movie back on. Van Gogh fussed about, and then he went to the field where the black crows were and shot himself. I put in
A Place in the Sun,
which I owned, and then Bree called.
    “Are you mad at me?” I said.
    “What? What do you mean?” She sounded good, almost as sweet as usual. Her voice transmitted something solid, light blue and reassuring.
    “I don’t know,” I said. “I didn’t do well in the scene in class, and I thought maybe you didn’t like me anymore.”
    “Jerry, that is ridiculous. I don’t care about a stupid scene in class.”
    “I know, but I really thought I was good. I mean I really believed what I was saying, and I can’t believe he told me I was faking it.”
    “What do you mean? Believed what?”
    “Just about my feelings. Nothing, never mind.”
    “Jerry…” she said, and then nothing.
    “Do you like me?” I said.
    “Of course I like you, don’t be silly.”
    “Okay, sorry.” I almost felt good, but I knew something was gone between us.
    “Don’t be sorry,” she said. “You’re great, you’re such a cool guy and such a good actor.”
    “And so you’re not disappointed that your agent didn’t want me?”
    She answered really quickly.
    “Oh no, she liked you. She just thinks you need more experience.”
    “Right.”
    Then there was silence. The soft blue thing was there, hanging in the black space between us, but it was just out of reach, and I was suffocating. In the real world, the sun had long ago dropped behind the palm trees and apartment buildings, and the living room was black except for Monty Clift on the TV looking sensitive. He had Elizabeth Taylor in his arms and was telling her something very important, but the sound was down and I couldn’t hear him.
    “Well, do you think I could see you again?” I said.
    “Of course,” she said. “I’m working on a new movie, but we’ll get coffee or something soon, okay?”
    And that was it. I turned the sound back on, but I didn’t watch. I just lay on the couch, which was actually my bed, and stared at the ceiling as the movie played. The light flickered in black and white on the ceiling and walls. I was in my own movie with light all around. There was a vague storyline running in my head, something dramatic. The most obvious part of the daydream/movie was that I was the star. I was an antihero lying on the couch thinking of stardom and wanting to be something so cool and sensitive that a whole generation would want to know me, and
be
me, and let me lead them. After a while of thinking like that, Shelley Winters started whining in the background. I looked up and they were in the boat. And then Monty killed her.
    Bree didn’t come to class for a while because she was working on her new movie. Class wasn’t as exciting without her there. I would do myscenes and work really hard, but there wasn’t the same kind of satisfaction, because she wasn’t watching. I wanted that light-blue feeling. And I also felt shitty because of the agent. I knew that I could do well in class, but it wouldn’t matter to the