“Take a look at those. You’re a pretty girl, I’m sure someone would hire you for something else,” she said.
“Something else?”
“Perhaps as an air hostess or tradeshow model. I hear they make good money,” she said. Her thick bob didn’t move an inch as she spoke.
“And, you’re basing this on what? You haven’t even looked at my tape,” I said.
“Oh, you’re good, I’m sure. I just try to push everyone away from this business. It’s nasty out there and I make sure they know it,” she said. The phone rang.
“People like you don’t make it any easier,” I said, holding back tears. She put up one finger and pressed the speaker on the phone.
“Divine Talent, this is Lorraine,” she said into the phone. The person on the other end told her that her next meeting had arrived. I took the time I had while she was on the phone to gather my thoughts. “Thank you. We won’t be but a minute longer.” She hung up.
“I’m not going to sit here and promise you I will become a big star and say that you’ll be sorry,” I said. “I’ve seen a million actors do that before, and it always looks cheap and desperate. I’m just going to say that it takes a lot of guts for us to put ourselves out here, and although I appreciate you doing your best to build up our thick skin, perhaps your time would be better used getting us jobs.”
I got out of my seat. “It certainly looks like you could use a few more actors. This office isn’t exactly Beverly Hills, now is it? Never forget where your money comes from, Lorraine. It comes from us. We bring in the money.” I picked up my bag and grabbed my headshots off her desk. My face was bright red; I knew it. “Thank you for your time.” I swung the office door open.
“You might want to check your teeth before you go on a tirade like that,” Lorraine’s voice called out to me. “It’s never as effective with lipstick on the teeth.” I didn’t look back. I stormed through the office. It was all too much. How could I have let myself get so emotionally involved?
The industry was degrading. I was reduced to nothing more than a type, and nothing less than trying to qualify my selling potential. No amount of speaking about my education or training would convince anyone that I was worthy. I needed more work to prove to an agent that I was worth representing, but in order to get more work, I needed an agent. But what agent was going to hire someone they couldn’t sell? And, if I believed I wouldn’t be an easy sell, then how would the agent believe otherwise?
Those three agents nearly killed me. But they didn’t.
I slapped on my grandma’s red lipstick, and made a few more phone calls. Cigarettes and hikes would have to get me through.
***
That Saturday evening, I did some food shopping - something that I had not done for some months. I could have gone out on the town, but relished my alone time more than anything. Grocery shopping sounded therapeutic to me - mindless. Exactly what I needed to take my mind off the agent fiascos.
It was just a quick walk down the street to the Fresh and Easy supermarket. It did me good to get out and stretch my legs rather than sitting in front of my computer, hoping I would get an email from Martin Scorsese because he had seen me act on television as the Chinese Food Delivery Girl, and knew from those five lines I had uttered that I was to be the star in his next epic movie about food delivery girls during the Great Depression.
No, I wasn’t that delusional.
Martin Scorsese would probably never be home on a Friday night late enough to watch that show. Perhaps, an email from John Waters was more likely. He seems like he might be home on a Friday night, and he’s from Baltimore so I got that going for me.
Outside of my apartment complex, I spotted the trusty, old, cigar-smoking, big-eyeglass-wearing man from the next building. I could always count on him to be standing in that spot in front of the palm tree and next to the concrete steps wearing his red polka dotted pajamas and suit jacket. No matter if it were two o’clock in the morning or five o’clock in the evening, he would be there with his cigar, puffing away.
I bet he had some fascinating stories to tell.
Sometimes he had a younger male friend with him, also in glasses, not in pajamas. Today, he was alone. I had yet to speak to either of them. Perhaps afraid I would be disappointed by what they had to say. My imagination got the better of me. I found myself envisioning Pajama Man as one of Einstein’s long lost cousins, a genius who preferred to stand just on the perimeter of Hollywood watching life go by, not in the midst of it. He’d already lived his life, and no longer needed to be a part of the action. Unfortunately, he couldn’t leave Los Angeles. Life in the remote mountains would be inconsequential, would lack the vibrancy he found off Hollywood Boulevard. He still needed the energy of the young to feed him and the frenzy of city life to keep him happy.
That’s what I pictured. In reality, he could be a crazy old loon who wet the bed at night, was on welfare and lived with his sister who hadn’t left the apartment in twenty years. The smell of her was what kept him outside. So, I preferred to keep my romanticized view of him.
Food shopping wasn’t as relaxing as I’d hoped. My head was filled with flashbacks of holding hands in the aisles and giggling at inside jokes that no longer seemed funny to me. Plus, each time I reached for anything with carbs in them, that little voice on my shoulder told me exactly where those would be going if I were to eat a bite – my ass. Being a single girl meant I had to worry about these types of things again. I surrendered to grapes, a bottle of diet coke and rice cakes. How thrilling.
The next thing to happen was peculiar (not that my entire life since breaking it off with the ex wasn’t).
I passed by Pajama Man again, and skipped up the front steps to the wire gate. I thought I heard someone calling me, so I turned around. A group of at least fifteen men passed by across the street. Foreign men clearly. Hair perfectly coiffed, smartly dressed. Probably European of some kind. Only Pajama Man was on my side of the street.
I continued to punch the code into the gate’s lock. I looked back one more time. One of the men looked my way, but then continued on. Probably the blonde hair was reflecting light again. The old man didn’t know my name - that, I was sure of.
I re-entered my apartment complex, passed the garden, and the sight of some boxes laying on the ground in the parking lot caught my eye. The trunk of a Mercedes I had never seen before was left wide open. I went to get a better look and a roundish, stout man with a dark, black mustache, blue suit and a Bluetooth attached to his ear shuffled down the courtyard stairs towards the parking lot. If I were to cast an actor to play him (a game we had often played in the casting office), I would cast a pre-bushy-bearded Rubeus Haggard from Harry Potter – Robbie Coltrane. Robbie Coltrane had the same kind eyes as this man did.
I waited for a moment at my doorknob to see if he was the one with the boxes, my key poised in the lock. The Robbie Coltrane look-alike toddled straight to the boxes. He grabbed a few more and a pulled a lamp out of the trunk. A little goodwill never did anyone any harm, and if he were just moving to Los Angeles, then he would need all the goodwill he could get. I quickly unlocked my door, threw my groceries inside the doorframe and locked it again behind me.
“Hey,” I said as I approached, “do you need some help?”
“Oh,” he said. He turned around with his hands full. God must have based his face on a drawing of a cartoon. It was a perfect circle, with perfect red cheeks and the tiniest eyes I had ever seen. “Hi. I didn’t see you there.” He put the lamp down and wiped the sweat from his forehead. “That would actually be great. I’ve just another couple of runs to go, but that would cut down on the back and forth. You don’t mind?” Sweat was also dripping from his mustache, but he didn’t seem to notice those dribbles. In this heat and through all of the trips up and down the stairs, I admired that he still wore his suit jacket. He was obviously uncomfortable. The type of man who kept his jacket on no matter what.
“No, of course not. What can I gr
ab?” He gave me the lamp, pillows and comforters. I know he was being nice by handing me the lightest objects in his car, but I had a little phobia about other people’s sleeping linens, and I tried not to breathe in.
Please don’t give me any diseases, please don’t give me any diseases. I just don’t like the thought of what he could have done at one point on these sheets, or the drool that could have crept from his mouth in the night.
“You OK, think you can handle that?” he asked. He adjusted his jacket, letting some air blow into it.
“Oh yeah, not a problem whatsoever,” I lied. “So, where are you moving here from?” I made idle chit chat in an effort to forget the bed bugs that could possibly be crawling all over me.
“Just from Seattle,” he said. He picked up two more boxes off the ground, and we headed for the complex. “I still live there, but will be setting up some things here in LA. Figured I’d rent first, and then see where it goes from there.”
“Nice. Never been to Seattle,” I said.
“No? Where are you from?” he said as we climbed the stairs. “You don’t seem like a California girl.”
“Baltimore. Been here close to eight years though – well, on and off. I studied in Paris and worked in New York for a year in between,” I said. “I hear it’s just a really cool city, Seattle, if not a little bit rainy.”
“Rainy it is. Looking forward to the sunshine,” he said. We placed the boxes and the rest of his belongings just outside his door and he moved them in. I waited until he came out. “Just one more round, that should do it.” One more flight down, we grabbed the rest of his boxes and back up again. “This is a great little place. Have you been happy here?” he asked me.
“Definitely,” I said. “It’s my first time living on my own. Cody, the landlord is on top of his game, as well.”
“I can imagine. He seems, um, very friendly.”
“Yes, I’m sure he would be towards you,” I said. We both laughed. “You don’t have much stuff with you. That’s the best way to move.”
“Well, my wife and kids are still up in Seattle with the rest of the stuff. I’ll be doing a lot of commuting to and fro. Hey, thank you for helping me out. That was great of you. Can I buy you a cup of coffee or lunch to say thank you?”
“No, no. You just looked like you needed a hand, and it’s never easy to move to a new city. I don’t mind. If you need anything or have any questions about the area, let me know. I’m just right here,” I said. I pointed to my apartment on the first floor, the first apartment you see when coming from the parking lot. I secretly hoped he wouldn’t stop by too often, as I liked the fact that I no longer had visitors randomly showing up at my door.
“Thanks a lot. Oh, what’s your name?”
“Adele. And yours?”
“Timothy.” We shook hands.
“Nice to meet you, Timothy,” I said.
“Here’s my card if you need anything. The cell phone number is still the right one, but I have two now.” He popped out a pen from his suit pocket, and wrote down a number on the back of a blue and silver glossy business card. “I carry either one on me.”
“Great. Alright, take care,” I said.
“Bye,” he said. He was off.
I popped back to my sanctuary, and the whirring fan cooled me right down. I loved the fresh air and the white noise it produced. I tossed his card on my desk. I quickly put my groceries where they belonged, and popped a grape in my mouth.
A clean face would be nice. A glimmer from the desk stopped me. My head shifted towards it, and there was Timothy’s card, shimmering and shimmying. I redirected myself over to the blue and silver, shiny rectangle, and looked closely. His handwriting on the back was big and loopy. I then flipped it over. It read:
Timothy Thomas
Founder
Principal Talent Agency
Oh, is that so? Mister Timothy Thomas. Well, fancy meeting you today.
Thursday, 24 April, 2008
Jambo Adele!
(Yes, I’m learning the language.)
So nice to talk to you last week. Sorry been out of touch. As you can imagine, Internet is hard to come by here. I missed all the football scores, and more importantly your email.
Re: Chicago. I’m glad you decided to come to Chicago. I know it will be a good time. If you prefer me to come to you, I’d be glad to. I don’t want you to feel uncomfortable at any point.
I get in on the 10th of July, so give me 2-3 days to lose the jetlag. Actually, ignore the jetlag. I don’t get it, really. Tell me where you want to go – sights to see, etc, and I’ll sort it. Can’t wait, as will be quality seeing you.
I avoided the riots in Nairobi, as we were in Uganda at the time, so don’t worry, I’m still in one piece (despite bets to the contrary from Milesy!). According to him I already have a Malawi child by an African Queen named Yolandi. The only African Queen I’ve met so far was Gasper Schumacher.)
Trekked to the mountain gorillas in Bwindi National Park a few days ago, it was bizarre being an arm’s length away from a silverback gorilla in the wild, phenomenal really. I could have reached out and touched them had I been allowed. Cost a few quid to do, but worth every penny to be that close, got some snaps so will try to get them up soon.
That evening, I starred in a Ugandan reggae artist’s (Jonny King - King of the Mountains!) music video, very bizarre. We befriended a guy called Arthur who took us to the Pigmy Village (a village of small people who are the size of Jasper and Miles. They spend their days seeing to their crops, then getting stoned).
Well, Arthur took us for a tour to where they were filming and said we could be in the video. You can imagine the quality of the shoot, not great but we had a laugh. Haven’t been stopped for an autograph yet…a bit disappointed about that….
Went white water rafting on the River Nile yesterday (the source of the Nile starts from Lake Victoria in Uganda - bit of culture for you, kid). It was incredible. Grade 5 rapids (apparently 6 is the most severe), nearly drowned on the fifth of the six times we were thrown out of eight rapid attempts. Nice. Swallowed plenty of the water but at least my sinuses are clear.
Back to Kenya for a few days now for more game drives. We’ll basically be pitching the tents with the animals, lions roaring in the distance, etc. Going to be a wicked experience, that’s for sure.
It must be hard not having had a dad there for you the whole time. Couldn’t imagine that.
I like your questions.
1. What made me go over and start speaking to you? You made me. I honestly don’t go up to and chat birds up in bars (not just saying it - you can ask anyone), but I just blurted out whatever it was I blurted out. You looked fit, and then when you spoke I knew we’d get on. Don’t know why, but I’m pretty good at sussing people out in the first minute of meeting someone, but rarely am I as intrigued by someone as I was with you. Hard to explain, we’ll chat about it more when we’re face to face. (Funny story, hey?)
2. My mum’s description - She’s quality, as all mums are. I call her Guv (short for guvnor) as she runs our house. A real source of strength for the family as she’s the one who melds everything together. Been married to my old man for 37/38 years, since she was 17. Now 51ish? Maybe 52. First kid at 19. Grew up without much but turned it around so now they have money and a great home. They’ve both worked hard for what they have. It’s what she has always wanted – a nice home and a loving family. She is always on the go, whether it’s cleaning, cooking, walking or taking care of my nieces. You can’t beat Christmas at mum’s either - she doesn’t stop cooking for days on end. She cooks a twenty pound turkey, gammon, pastry pies (they’re actually called ‘minced meat pies’ but she put so much dough in each of them one year, the term has stuck - bless her), mash, veg - you name it, she cooks it. I end up a right porker by New Year’s.
Heart of gold, would do anything for us. Plus, she is pretty chilled when it comes to drinking, partners staying over, etc. Sure, she might even like a Yank!
Now it’s your turn to answer. You little minx, not answering your own questions! That’s not how the game works…
Sleep tight gorgeous,
G x
CHELSEA’S ARRIVAL
Chelsea arrived right on time. I picked her up from LAX airport, having taken the day off of work. I parked my car inside the garage and met her inside.
“Adele!” She ran to me in a bundle of high-octane energy. It was contagious. Any resentment flew away with the next departing plane; I was prepared to completely forgive her…eventually.
“Chelsea!” We hugged like sisters.
“I can’t believe you came inside,” she said in a flurry. “You didn’t have to do that.”
“Of course I did. We always come inside for each other,” I said.
“True,” she said. She paused to look at me. “You look amazing.”
“Don’t lie,” I said, lightly shoving her. “You look great yourself.” She looked exactly the same – her dark curls fell just past her shoulders, her toenails were perfectly painted, her belt matched her sandals. We breezed past any talk of the last four months and onto easier discussions of her flight, who she sat next to and getting out of cold, dreary Baltimore for a few weeks.
“This can’t be March,” she said. We skipped towards the car. “It just can’t be. God, I don’t even know if I need this scarf, it’s so warm.”
“You will at night,” I said, “trust me.”
We dropped her stuff off at my place. “I got you a little something,” she said. She opened up her red suitcase and pulled out a small box.
“What? Why did you do that?” I asked. She was always so polite.
“For having me. I know it’s a bit of a hassle with me being here, and I know you have other commitments, but I just wanted to show a small token of appreciation,” she said, her subtle Baltimore accent coming through.
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