by Cindy Bokma
“What are you running from? Why are you so scared?” Her voice was low, eyes on me with laser focus. “What has Leo done to you?”
I fixed my stare on Will and refused to look at her as I spoke. Even the smallest bit of kindness might make me start to cry.
“I shouldn’t have gone for a run. That was careless. Don’t ask about Leo, Camille. I can’t talk about it. Just . . . don’t ask. The less you know, the better,” I whispered to my friend, keeping my voice quiet so that Will wouldn’t hear.
My friend didn’t take her eyes off of me, searching my face for a clue, an answer.
I shook my head and motioned to Will. “I can’t talk about it.”
"I wish you would tell me." She paused and rubbed her hands together. “Well then, let’s go inside and get some breakfast,” she said brightly.
We called to Will, who pouted about having to leave his plants and bugs, and went inside for something to eat.
Camille introduced me to Juana, a short, dark skinned woman who was busy baking bread. Juana’s long, black hair was braided down her back and when she smiled, I noticed two gold teeth peeking out. As she looked me up and down, she muttered something in Spanish and then quickly looked from Camille to me and back again, making the sign of the cross.
“What? Why did she do that?” I panicked. If questioned later, certainly Juana would remember me. I gripped the cup of fresh orange juice that Camille had poured.
Camille waved her hand in Juana’s direction. “Don’t pay attention. She’s superstitious and gets nervous around anyone who comes in this house.” She put her arm around me and sat me at the table. “Let’s have a pleasant breakfast and relax.”
Later we sat outside in the hot sunshine, lying in teak chairs, sipping spiced ice tea, and eating off a fruit platter Juana prepared. I ate papaya, chewing it without tasting the flavor. My mind swirled with thoughts and plans and worry. Will swam in the pool, looking like a white fish against the navy blue tiles. Camille had purchased flippers and a mask for him and he was having a ball.
Sometimes, when I least expected it, a memory of my childhood would pop into my head. Suddenly, I remembered how my parents used to take David and me to a local lake during the summer months, usually on Sunday afternoons. My mother would pack a picnic lunch for us and she and my father would sit in their lawn chairs while David and I played in the water. Many of our friends visited the lake, too, so we always had people to swim with.
We each got one dollar each to buy popsicles from the tiny convenience store. My favorite was coconut with chunks of fruit in it.
We did this for years, until David got too old and thought he was too cool for the lake. My parents eventually gave up trying to continue the tradition. I can still remember the taste of the coconut popsicle, the humid air hanging over the lake, and the sun warmed sand on my feet.
Why did they have to die? Where would I be if they were still alive? How different would my life be now?
I closed my eyes against the memories. When I opened them, I studied Camille. Contentment was written all over her. She was peaceful and happy. I wished I could say the same about myself.
She was fortunate to have a husband who loved her and let her be herself. She lived an uncomplicated life here in Mexico. They had enough money to live well. She didn’t have any children, but she chose not to. She didn’t care about Academy Awards and celebrity sightings; she didn’t want to be in Vanity Fair or entertainment magazines. She lived in an unknown town in a pretty hacienda where she created artwork and was left alone by the press and bloggers and photographers. It wasn’t such a bad way to live, and, in fact, it appealed to me. Was this a place I could settle with Will? Or was it too close to Leo? Was there a place that he could never find us?
A memory flashed through my mind as quick as a bolt of lightning. Leo’s face, inches from mine. His eyes as sharp as a knife blade. His breath on my face.
“You can never leave me,” he hissed. “No matter where you’d go, I’d be right behind you.”
I blinked my eyes and shook my head against the memory.
“We’ve come a long way since those days in Hollywood,” I commented, not taking my eyes off of Will.
Will hardly came up for air. When he did, he looked at me and waved, diving right back into the water again.
“Yes, we sure have. Ever wish you made it as an actress?” she asked.
“No. I’m glad I never gave in. Too much drugs, sex, and drinking. That wasn’t for me.” I sighed. Living with Aunt Priscilla and Taffy, I saw California as my only way out of a life in that offered me nothing. I was grateful that my dreams of being famous led to me Los Angeles, even if the dreams never panned out exactly as I hoped. Having Will was the best thing that could have happened to me. I knew heartache and loss. I knew about hard work and having dreams. And now I knew what it was like to be a mother.
I bit my nails nervously, hoping Camille wouldn’t ask any more questions about my life.
“I really love it here. It’s so peaceful.” I glanced around, making note of the ivory carved wind chimes tinkling in the breeze, flourishing verdant plants, and the yellow sun high in the sky.
My eyes grew heavy, closing against my will. Camille took my hand, holding it lightly. I shut my eyes for a moment and fell into a peaceful sleep.
Chapter 7
Past
Leaving Florida was something I looked forward to since the day I walked through the door of the sour, humid house of Aunt Priscilla, Taffy, and their mangy cats. I literally counted the days until I left that house once I purchased my ticket to Los Angeles. I rode my bicycle home with that ticket secured through the elastic of my underwear. When I was alone in my room, I ran my fingers over the print announcing my destination.
Since Taffy made a habit of helping herself to my clothes without asking, I hid the ticket under my mattress, almost halfway toward the middle to ensure she wouldn’t find it.
My muscles twitched with excitement. I was on board the red eye to LAX, stopping only in Dallas/Fort Worth to change planes.
Taffy would probably be worried about who would take care of her baby without my help and Aunt Priscilla would miss my housekeeping and monthly rent money.
As soon as the wheels touched down on the tarmac in California, I almost exploded with excitement. After two long, miserable years, Florida was in the rear-view mirror and my future was as bright as the sun that shone in the blue Californian sky.
Los Angeles was everything I hoped and more. It was bright and sunny, cool and breezy. The air was scented with jasmine and honeysuckle. When I roamed Hollywood Boulevard and Sunset Strip, I thought someone would point to me and yell, “That girl, that’s the one I want for my movie!” so I always made a point to dress nicely and carry my head high. I lived with the expectation that I would be successful. There was no other option. I’d clean toilets if I had to. I’d never go back to Aunt Priscilla and Taffy.
I spent one week trying to find a cheap apartment, eating only one hotdog a day from the vendor on the corner of Sunset and Vine. I was nervous about how I spent my money. I didn’t have much, only enough to get by for a little while until I found a job.
With the expectation that I’d be discovered any moment, I made myself very visible, strutting down the main roads wearing my miniskirt and neon orange tee shirt with my hair in a ponytail. I wore large black earrings and lots of bracelets on my wrist. It wasn’t long before I realized that I and a couple hundred other girls all shared the same dream of being discovered.
I signed up for acting lessons held at a small empty warehouse in a seedy section of Los Angeles. Ten other students and I studied every night, led by a former soap opera star that was now reduced to acting teacher to a bunch of hopefuls.
I created an elaborate resume, produced at Kinko’s on a rare, rainy afternoon. I noted that I worked for years at a very fine restaurant in Orlando, and added that I coordinated animation projects at Disney World. I also wrote that I was a sous
chef at the Hard Rock Café. Who was going to check? “You have to fake it till you make it!” was my mantra.
Finding work at an exclusive catering company, I went to parties and set up the food, working under pressure to make each event a success. I presented trays of intricate snacks and helped to create endless platters of cheesecake and chocolate tarts. I poured wine and champagne into crystal flutes and smiled and quietly went about my work.
I then met Camille who quickly befriended me. I trained her on how to use the ovens and how to clean and pack up. If we were lucky, we would take home the leftover bacon spinach wraps and salmon puffs. She, too, was an aspiring actress and she had a head start in the game after appearing on Club MTV in New York City.
We spent our days at grueling auditions waiting hours for a five minute meeting, our nights at acting class, and in between we catered parties, serving gourmet food to industry insiders. Carrying serving plates of puff pastries, we wore short black skirts and blousy white tops with black high heels.
Camille and I found a small place in an apartment complex that featured a broken fountain in the courtyard and a birdbath with no water. I liked the jungle feel of the overgrown green plants that lined the perimeter of the apartment. The building was old with ornate arches and fancy doorways. I imagined famous actresses of the forties and fifties living here. The inside of the place was big enough for one bed and one pull-out couch. Though it carried a light smell of old cigarettes, it was clean. To me, it was wonderful.
One night, while serving steak tartar to a group of executives from a major movie studio, I was cornered by an overweight, balding businessman holding a flute of champagne.
“So, you wanna be an actress?” he asked, licking his lips.
I nodded politely and offered him an appetizer. He laughed and pushed the tray away.
“You know, I’m in charge of production. I can get you to the top,” he whispered, his lips touching my ear. “All you have to do is help me and I’ll help you.” He wiggled his eyebrows and licked his trout lips.
“Oh, no. No, thanks,” I stammered, backing away into a wall. I cleared my throat. “I don’t need help.” I tried to smile, but my lips were frozen.
“Oh, but you do need help. Little lady, there’s only one way to make it here. Casting couch prevails.” He shrugged at my neutral expression. “You’ll find out. Then you’ll come back to me.” He took a business card from his pocket and put it on my tray. “Call me,” he commanded. I threw the card in the garbage bin, heaping wilted lettuce leaves on top of it.
In the evenings, Camille, our transgender friend Steve, and I hit the wild clubs and crowded bars. We dressed up in our coolest club clothes and roamed the streets in the breezy Los Angeles night air. We sauntered into the Whiskey Bar, visited the Hollywood Athletic Club, and went dancing at Gotham Hall.
Often we ran into C-list celebrities who offered their assistance, always for a price. I dated three minor stars—one guy from a television show, an extra from a movie, and a third guy with a chiseled jaw and pointy cheekbones who modeled underwear. I dated the model for a few months until he had to fly back to New York City and the next thing I knew he was engaged to a socialite back in Manhattan, as if I never existed. I was slightly heartbroken but kept too busy to let it get me down.
We continued to serve at parties all over Santa Monica, Hollywood, Beverly Hills, and Brentwood. One night, I was cornered by Maxwell Sharp, the head of a major film studio. I was busy serving pink cocktails off a sterling silver tray, smiling and twirling around in my short black skirt, laughing and offering drinks, when a vice-like grip took hold of my upper arm.
“Cosmo?” I offered, breath catching in my throat. I didn’t mind a little flirting, but touching was not okay, and his grip caught me off guard.
I looked at a short, very tan, little man with gray hair, dressed in an expensive blue suit and black alligator shoes, still holding onto my arm with a manicured hand. His breath smelled like cigars, and he gave me an open smile and an invitation to his hot tub.
“Oh, no, thank you anyway,” I answered politely.
He laughed. “Playing hard to get?” he asked with a wink. “Don’t you know who I am, little lady?”
I knew him but played dumb and shook my head.
“I’m Maxwell Sharp. I run the biggest film studio in town. Stick with me and I’ll get you into films. Or is it television you’re interested in? Modeling? Do you have a screen play?”
I refused, but a thought flickered through my mind—how easy would it have been to take these men up on their offers and quit going to auditions and waiting in crowded rooms full of pretty talented girls, all trying to get one minor walk-on role in a film.
In between film auditions, I tried out for tampon commercials, douche commercials, coffee commercials, and soup commercials. I won a role for maxi pads and was both horrified and thrilled to get the part.
I sat in a little sandwich shop in Beachwood Canyon with Steve, lamenting on our lives. Dressed in a feather boa and black wig, with red lipstick calling attention to his mouth, Steve agreed with me that it was nearly impossible to become a star.
“Darling, try being me. All I can hope for is a cabaret act in a piano bar.” He sighed, drinking his ice water with a wedge of lemon. His legs were crossed, clad in velvet pants with chunky elevator shoes on his feet.
I nodded. “I know. It’s not easy. I thought I’d come to Hollywood and become an actress overnight. I was so wrong.” I bit my nails.
He grinned. “You know what? I think you are going to make it big. I know it. Just look at you. You’re so sexy.”
We laughed because I was as unsexy as one could be. At that moment, I was wearing baggy pants and a turtleneck with a baseball cap over my brown hair. My nails were clean but bitten down to the nubs. I wore makeup everyday, but it didn’t make much of a difference. No one had to tell me that I was plain and uninteresting, completely opposite of the beautiful, skinny girls I saw at the auditions.
Thankfully, I made a small amount of money by doing commercials.
“You have an All American look,” I was told again and again. “People connect with you,” one director told me. I was excited; this must mean my career was on the very edge taking off. Immediately, I imagined a leading role in a major film. Every time I drove down Sunset Boulevard and saw the huge billboards, I imagined my face up there.
With a few commercials under my belt, I was on my way. Maxi pads and breath mints today, major film star tomorrow. Wearing my acid washed jeans and high-heeled boots, I dropped off head shots at William Morris and International Creative Management. I called every agent in the phone book, but, with only commercials to my name, I wasn’t making any headway.
I went to one audition and waited two hours in a crowded hallway with a hundred other hopeful starlets. When they called my name for the reading, none other than Maxwell Sharp sat in front of me. His bulging eyes lit with delight as I walked into the room.
“Well hello there,” he said, a lascivious smile on his lips.
Within a second, my face grew hot and red, blood rushing to my cheeks as I handed over my head shot and resume. I stuttered and had to reread my lines twice; I was flustered by his presence. I knew I had blown it. Needless to say, I didn’t get the part. I walked out of the room with my head down and tears stinging my eyes.
Camille began singing and auditioning for bands hoping to supplement her income through music. We hit the club circuits when we weren’t working at our catering job. She briefly sung in an all girl band called “Image.” The group made one video—big haired, sexy blonde vixens prancing in front of a camera with smoke machines and flashy red cars. The video played on an obscure music channel but never got airplay on MTV. The band fell apart as quickly as it came together.
Steve got lucky and was hired as the stylist for a music video and actually got steady work after his “big break.” One day he was working with Camille and her group, the next month he was working on a Madonna
video. I heard he even was flown to Miami and worked with a major Latin pop star.
“I’m done,” Camille announced, sitting on the couch with a plastic glass of cheap, red wine in her hand. “I can’t do this anymore. My life is passing me by while I go on auditions.”
She put her feet up on the coffee table and stretched out, her Adidas wind pants making a swish swish noise as she moved. Her biggest gig had been playing on Pictionary and meeting Alan Thicke.
I sat on the floor, clothed in the floral baby doll dress I had worn to an audition that afternoon for a dating show. I was tired of taking buses all over town for auditions that would never earn me a starring, or even supporting, role. I took off my straw hat and tossed it at Camille.
“I agree. I’m over it. So what now?” I asked. I looked around for a crossword puzzle. I always had a book of crosswords to do somewhere.
“Well, we could always find a handsome executive and sleep our way to the top. Ugh, when I think of how I didn’t get that role on Beverly Hills 90210, I get so mad,” she cried.
“And I could have been in a movie by now if I had gone home with Clay Mooney. Remember that night when we catered that huge party after the Golden Globes? He invited me home with him and I said no. Gosh, I was so stupid.” I smacked my forehead.
Sitting down with a nubby pencil and a puzzle, I listened to Camille rant and rave, reflecting on how we met so many people from the business but our connections led nowhere. I met three girls from Baywatch at a bar on Sunset, and from time to time I met up with friends who worked on a popular TV show but knowing other actors hadn’t helped either of us.
I became disenchanted with “making it big” and stopped looking for my “big break.” What else could I do? There was zero money to go to school and I had no other home. My brother was now in Poland; it was almost four years since I last saw him. I had nothing and no one to help. I was orphaned and unmoored, floating alone through life. Shoving the growing hopelessness down deep, I refused to wallow in pity and plastered on a smile, pushing through the days.