Confessions of a Hollywood Star

by Dyan Sheldon

  I was thinking that the reason Mr Triolo’s pizza was so good was obviously because he came from solid peasant stock and marinara sauce flowed through his veins with the blood, when Mr Triolo must’ve noticed I was going into a trance and suddenly said, “Hey, Lola. You’ll be interested in this. Guess who that is at the back table?”

  My gaze fell on the table tucked into a dark corner at the rear of the restaurant (any further and it would’ve been outside). There was a couple sitting at it. He had his back to me and she was wearing a floppy hat, so it was hard to see her face. They were leaning towards each other, talking intensely. From what I could see of her mouth they were probably arguing.

  I shrugged. “I give up. Who is it?”

  “Oh go on…” It just shows how adding a little excitement to the most prosaic lives (by filming a movie in their town, for instance) can change people. Mr Triolo’s always been a man I associate with flour and cheese, and not with a carefree, exuberant nature, but now he gave me a playful poke with the menu. “I’ll give you a hint. The guy’s producing that movie they’re making here.”

  Sam groaned out loud. “For Chrissake, Sal. Not you, too.”

  Mr Triolo and I both ignored him.

  “Really? Hal Minsky?” I’d read his name in the local paper. Nonetheless, I wasn’t sure Mr Triolo could be trusted on matters of Hollywood trivia. He once boasted that he hadn’t gone to a movie since John Wayne died. “Are you sure?”

  Mr Triolo nodded. “Waitress heard them talking when she brought them their drinks. That’s when she recognized the young lady.”

  I squinted into the gloom at the rear of the restaurant. I could make out a few golden locks peeking out from the woman’s hat. But it was the mouth that gave her away. The collagen injections made it look infected.

  Because of Sam’s lousy attitude about the movie and everything connected to it, I hid my excitement. “Why that’s Lucy Rio, isn’t it?” I made it sound like I was identifying a pizza by its ingredients; mozzarella and goat’s cheese with capers, why that must be the house special.

  “Thatta girl.” Mr Triolo gave me a playful wink. “Got it in one. I knew you’d know.” He tapped his chest. “Me? I wouldn’t know who she was unless she was wearing a nametag.”

  Having woken me up, Mr Triolo returned to discussing his car with Sam. I waited until they were deep in the world of spark plugs and pistons and then, very casually, I excused myself to go the ladies’ room. The door that leads to the ladies’ room is opposite the corner where Lucy Rio and the producer were sitting.

  I walked slowly and calmly, a girl with nothing on her mind but checking that her mascara hadn’t gone spiky. When I got close to their table, I stopped to look at one of the pictures on the wall (Mrs Triolo with Goofy at Disney World).

  “For the last time, Lucy, it’s impossible,” Hal Minsky was saying. “There isn’t enough room at the Santinis’ for another fifty people. You’ll have to live without the astrologer, the herbalist, the psychic and the aromatherapist for a few weeks.”

  So much for Lucy Rio not being spoiled by being a big star.

  “I don’t see why we can’t go to a hotel,” said Lucy Rio.

  “And have the press camped outside for the duration? Have you forgotten what a bad mood having the press camped outside puts you in?”

  “Not as bad a mood as living under the same roof as that jerk Bret Fork,” she snapped back.

  And so much for the rumour that Lucy Rio and Bret Fork were secretly dating.

  “You won’t say that if they get hold of that story about your father.”

  Lucy sniffled and her voice quivered. “That’s my father’s problem, not mine. I’m just an innocent victim.”

  Hal Minsky sighed. “And that’s another thing. Enough of the fights and tantrums. You haven’t been there forty-eight hours yet and already you’re—”

  Obviously, not as nice as she could be.

  Suddenly aware of my presence, Hal Minsky glanced over at me. Acting as though I didn’t even know they were there, I gave Goofy and Mrs Triolo one last affectionate smile and casually stepped through the door marked Toilets.

  I locked myself in the far cubicle so I wouldn’t be disturbed while I rehearsed what I was going to say. I didn’t want to be too obvious (Lucy Rio once threw a bag of poo at a photographer for trying to take a picture of her scooping up after her dog), so I’d pretend that it was Hal Minsky I recognized. “Excuse me,” I’d say. “I don’t want to bother you, but don’t I know you from somewhere? You seem really familiar. Do you work around here?” Then, to throw him off his guard, I’d say, “Maybe in the Walmart? Or at the gas station?” Then – suddenly and with an endearing touch of embarrassment – I’d recognize him. “Oh, I don’t believe it,” I’d gasp. “You don’t work in Walmart. I know who you are. You’re Hal Minsky, the famous producer, aren’t you?” Everybody knows how egocentric movie people are, so I figured the famous bit would make him mellow and allow me to go on. I’d tell him how, as an aspiring actor myself, I’d always admired his work. “Oh, of course,” I’d say. “How could I forget? Carla Santini did say you were in town.” He’d be delighted to discover I was a friend of Carla’s. He’d say, “You know, we are looking for a few extras, if you wanted to come along…” I’d be surprised – happily, but modestly, surprised.

  After I finished my rehearsal, I had to touch up my make-up and make adjustments to my hair of course. First impressions are very important. There was some old movie star Mrs Baggoli once told us about who was discovered sitting at the counter in a soda fountain. Think of it. If she’d been having a really bad hair day, or had a spot on the end of her nose like a Christmas light, she would never have been noticed. She would’ve ended up going back to the boring little town she came from, her dreams all turned to dust, and ended up overweight and working in a diner.

  When I was finally ready I stood behind the door for a few seconds, controlling my breathing. Then I counted to three, pushed open the door and stepped through.

  Hal Minsky and Lucy Rio were on their feet. She was standing at his shoulder, still talking at him and swinging her bag as if she might hit him with it. He was concentrating on taking his receipt from the little plastic tray. They were ready to leave.

  It’s true that under our veneer of civilization the primitive man still lives. In that instant, the same instincts that guided my ancestors when confronted with angry woolly mammoths took over. Spurred on not by thought but by the need to survive, I flung myself across the space that separated them from me.

  “Mr Minsky!” I cried. “Mr Minsky, if you could just wait one minute, I really have to talk to you.”

  He didn’t even look at me. “I’m afraid you’ve made a mistake.” He took Lucy Rio’s arm and yanked her towards the door. She stepped on my foot.

  But a little pain wouldn’t have deterred my ancestors and it didn’t deter me. I grabbed hold of his elbow. “No, I haven’t made a mistake. I know you’re Hal Minsky. I’ve seen your picture in the paper. I—”

  He finally looked at me. Well, he looked at the hand that was holding onto him. “Would you mind letting go of my arm?”

  “But I really have to talk to you.”

  “I’m not going to ask you politely again.”

  I let go. “I’m sorry, Mr Minsky, I’m really sorry, but it’s extremely important that I—”

  “I’m warning you young lady, if you don’t leave me alone I’m calling the manager.”

  Young lady? I always imagined movie people were really hip and cool, but he sounded astoundingly like my mother. I was so surprised I took a step backwards. “But I—”

  “I don’t know who this person is you’re confusing me with, but for that last time – I am not he.”

  “But Mr Minsky, I’m a friend of Carla Santini’s.”

  This announcement had the same effect on him that it would have had on me. He gave Lucy Rio a shove that made her stagger. “Damn hick towns. Come on, let’s get out of here.
” He bolted for the exit.

  I think my jaw fell open. Damn hick towns? Was he calling me a hick?

  I watched them steam to the front and out of the door. I was too numb with shock to even think of going after them.

  “You know, I did recognize him,” said Sam when I got back to our table. “I saw him being interviewed once. He’s that dude who made that crappy movie about the President getting abducted by aliens. What’d you say his name is?”

  I eyed him coldly. Talk about going back to your boring little town with your dreams all turned to dust. “I’m sorry,” I said, “but I promised I wouldn’t talk about the movie tonight.”

  My mother was in the living room reading a book when I got home. She glanced over as I hurtled into the room.

  “Have a nice time, Mary?”

  Despite my disappointment at the way Hal Minsky had treated me I was in a good mood. I’d got close. It was a sign from the gods of theatre that the next time I’d be successful.

  “I had a great time.” I threw myself into the nearest chair. “Wait’ll you hear what happened. You won’t believe it. Lucy Rio was in the restaurant! Isn’t that incredible? She was practically at the next table.”

  “Who?” asked my mother.

  [Cue: look of endless suffering at the hands of philistines.] “Lucy Rio? The actor?”

  Karen Kapok yawned. “Never heard of her.”

  “Of course you’ve heard of her. She’s the one who was in—”

  But I didn’t get a chance to tell her what movies Lucy Rio’d been in because at that moment my sisters charged into the room shrieking as if there were tigers after them.

  “Calm down,” I ordered. “I can’t understand what you’re saying. Tell me slowly – and one at a time.”

  They didn’t of course. They both shouted at once. “Guess what, Mary? Guess what, Mary? We’re going to be in a movie!”

  This time I heard exactly what they said. I gazed at them as Lot must have gazed at the pillar of salt that had been his wife. Of what cruel ironies is life composed! Of what sad truths! The only talent either of my sisters has ever shown is for cheating at Monopoly, and the one time we took them to a real play (without singing and dancing) they both fell asleep. And here they were about to appear in my Hollywood film.

  “You’re going to be in the movie? Are you sure you’re not deluding yourselves? I don’t know who told you that, but they could be wrong. You know what this hick town is like for rumours.” Like warm, moist lungs to a viral infection.

  “But it’s true! Oona May at day camp said so.”

  Karen Kapok was nodding.

  I gave Pam and Paula a concerned, sisterly smile. “But you can’t act.”

  “They don’t have to act,” said my mother. “All they have to do is sit.”

  Apparently they were using all the kids in the day camp for a scene that called for a school bus full of children.

  “Aren’t you happy for us?” asked Paula.

  “Don’t you think it’s cool?” asked Pam.

  “Of course I’m happy for you.” But how could my soul not wince at the bitter twists of Fate? “Of course I think it’s cool.” But how could my heart not sigh at the sad reality of a world where chance beats the stuffing out of genius? What with one thing and another I’d had a very frustrating and stressful day. I didn’t really want to spend the rest of it listening to them yammering on about their one-and-a-half seconds of fame. I clutched my forehead. “Unfortunately, I’m not really feeling too well. I’m going to bed. I think I’m getting a migraine.”

  “You don’t get migraines,” said my mother.

  I closed my eyes against the pain. “I do now.”

  Giving Up Is Not In My Nature

  In my experience (which is considerable considering my youth), spiritual exhaustion is just as debilitating as physical exhaustion, and my spirit was as limp as a rag. I couldn’t face going to work the next morning. My heart was scarred by the cruel twists of fate it had suffered and my soul was passed out cold. I rang Mrs Magnolia and told her that the washing machine had gone berserk and I had to help my mother so I’d be in late.

  I stayed in bed, listening to my favourite CD and thinking spiritually nourishing thoughts. Time does really heal and music does really soothe the ravaged soul. After only a couple of hours my resilient nature rose up like a phoenix from the ashes of despair. (Being me is a little like being a mail person. You know, neither rain, nor snow, nor dark of night shall stop this courier from completing her appointed rounds – and neither surly costume designers, nor irritable producer, nor Carla Santini will make me give up.) After all, I realized, it is the most ordinary people who are often the most lucky. And I don’t think it’s something you can really begrudge them. It’s the gods’ way of balancing things out. You know, because these people aren’t gifted, their souls are as flightless as the dodo and their hearts are nourished on the spiritual equivalent of potato chips and diet soda, the gods let them win the lottery. What else do they have to look forward to, poor things? But those of us who are gifted, who have soaring souls and hearts that are nourished by the spiritual equivalent of lentil stew and greens, don’t have to rely on luck. We make our own.

  By the time I got to work I was in my usual upbeat mood.

  “Everything all right?” asked Mrs Magnolia as I came whistling into the store.

  “Red alert over,” I cried. “The flood’s been staunched and all is well.”

  “Thank heaven for that,” said Mrs Magnolia. “When mine overflowed we had to rip the whole floor up.”

  “Gosh…” I shook my head in sympathy.

  Mrs Magnolia smiled sadly over the rack she was hanging blouses on. I thought she was still thinking about her floor. “What a shame that you weren’t here this morning, though. You’ll never guess who came in.”

  With hindsight I can see that a three-year-old with ADD would have been able to guess who it was, so surely I should have, but I was in such a positive, who-needs-luck kind of mood that I didn’t. I said, “The First Lady?” Like Carla Santini, she likes to keep in touch with the poor.

  Mrs Magnolia giggled, which I have to say I don’t find attractive in anyone over ten, never mind forty. “Oh, no, no, no one like that. No one really important.” Hangers jangled as Mrs Magnolia hooked them onto the rack.

  Personally, although I’m sure the First Lady’s a very nice woman, I don’t count her as really important. Mostly what she does is stand next to her husband, holding the dog and smiling.

  “Mrs Carlucci?” I wheeled my bike to the back. Mrs Carlucci used to be one of our best customers, but she hadn’t been in since she bought a chenille robe that brought her out in a rash and blamed Mrs Magnolia, so I figured maybe she’d finally called a truce.

  It wasn’t Mrs Carlucci.

  “A very nice man who’s shooting a movie around here.”

  I was in the storeroom when Mrs Magnolia uttered these words, but I came out faster than you can say “Cut!”

  “What?”

  “I think he said he was the director.” She held up a floral blouse, eyeing it dubiously. “Or was it the producer?” She shrugged in the way of a woman who is used to customers returning things. “One of those.”

  A golden ray of hope rose up to warm my soul. Maybe the costume designers had told Charley Hottle about me after all. You know: Don’t we need someone to be waiting at the stop for the school bus? Well, there’s this terrific girl who works in the secondhand store who’d be perfect.

  “What was his name? Was it Hottle?”

  Mrs Magnolia blinked. “He didn’t say.”

  “Well what did he want?” I was as casual as a T-shirt and a pair of jeans.

  Mrs Magnolia slipped the floral blouse into the clump of patterned blouses. “Oh … just to chat about the town, find out where things are, that kind of thing. It seems they’ll be here for several weeks.”

  “Really?” My heart was pounding away like a flamenco dancer. What other crucial p
ieces of information had Mrs Magnolia gleaned in her conversation with maybe the director or maybe the producer? I opened my eyes wide as though this was all news to me. “Geez… I wonder where they’ll stay.”

  “Oh, I really don’t know. Not now the hotel’s closed down.” The Dellwood Hotel closed down due to lack of interest in the sixties and was finally converted into apartments in the eighties. She shrugged. “I suppose there are quite a few bed and breakfasts around.”

  And I had the aching muscles to prove that I’d been to most of them.

  I took up my position behind the counter. “Yeah, I suppose there are.”

  It may have been the shocking-pink blouse she was holding now, but it almost looked as though Mrs Magnolia was blushing. “But guess what else?”

  The way Fate was fighting against me I was almost afraid to. “He gave you a part?”

  “Oh no. I wouldn’t want to be in a movie. It’s so public.” Unlike running a store. “It’s Betsy.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Betsy,” repeated Mrs Magnolia. “You know. My husband’s car.” Mr Magnolia owns a 1956 baby-blue Chevy that he’s always fussing over. I once leaned on it really lightly and he acted as if I’d whacked it with an axe. “Mr Santini told him about it.”

  Was everyone and everything going to get a part except me? I smiled as though this was exactly what I’d been hoping to hear. “Wasn’t that nice of him,” I said.

  As soon as my mother and her other daughters retreated to the living room to be mindlessly entertained by the TV after supper I got out the local phone book and called every hotel that was listed. I used an English accent, which I’m good at since I was raised on the Public Broadcasting Service. (I read somewhere that Americans respond well to English accents. They think they sound educated and trustworthy.)

  “Pardon me for troubling you,” I said, “but I understand a friend of mine is staying with you … Hottle … Charles Hottle…” Maybe he was using a different name. “Are you certain?” I persisted. “He’s from Hollywood. He’s making a film.”