Forever in Hollywood

by Jovana Rodolakis

  “Dan, can we talk? I don’t like the way we left things, and I haven’t heard from you in two days. Please call me.” There was a sinking feeling in my chest as I said the words, “This is my third call. Please, just let me know you’re okay.”

  By 5:30 I was seated in front of the mirror in the makeup trailer in my fancy 1700’s French style dress, made of what I can only assume to be red silk with gold filigree capped sleeves.

  I closed my eyes, wishing I grabbed a coffee before sitting down, as the hairdresser rolled my hair around a pencil-sized curling iron. It took much less time than I imagined, and before I knew it, I was standing on a porch attached to a beautifully detailed Colonial style edifice front.

  The back, on the other hand, boasted plain plywood and two-by-fours bracing it up. “Rolling!” someone called, apparently signaling for the air conditioner to shut off. Followed by “Sound!” shouted from the same vicinity. The place became silent, the eerie calm of a sound-dampening stage was prevalent while I stood waiting. Then my cue “Action!” was called. Wait five beats then go. What the hell is five beats? Are we talking music tempo, seconds, what? Who comes up with this jargon?

  So I nervously waited what I assumed to be five beats then bounded down the stairs of my fake porch screaming, “No!”

  “Cut” the director bellowed from behind camera one. “Take two.”

  Someone could have simply told me my only line was “No” much quicker than handing me five-pages of sides to read the night before. Only after my third read-through did I accept there was only one word I had to say. Oh well, such is show business I guess.

  We shot the same three-minute take roughly eleven or twelve times. They made a few takes, then changed the camera lens for a closer shot, re-measured the distance from the camera to me and shot a few more before turning the whole setup over my shoulder to catch Billy’s face.

  Running—literally running—around in a full length dress with a petticoat underneath wasn’t an easy feat. The dress was heavy. I admired eighteenth century women for doing it all their lives.

  A little bottle of water sitting in the production assistant’s hands, with its beads of sweat slowly running down the label, looked like heaven right now.

  We eventually broke for a wonderful catered lunch. I sat with my new friends, Billy and Whitney, and drank my weight in water. “How do you guys do it? I was dying out there, and you all seemed so comfortable. I think I sweated out seventy percent of my eighty percent water.”

  “Marissa, why didn’t you ask for water if you needed it?” Billy asked in disbelief.

  “I don’t know. I didn’t want to be a pain.”

  “Hun, passing out from heat exhaustion won’t do anyone any good. It’s part of a production assistant’s job, and they’d gladly get you a bottle of water. Don’t do that again.”

  I smiled and nodded. Billy shook his head, exasperated, before popping another spare rib in his mouth.

  ****

  The days blurred into each other as I got up hours before dawn yet again.

  Seated in the tiny makeup trailer getting fake blood applied for my death scene, I finally met a few of the stars of the film. Two of the chairs were occupied by supporting actors, like me preparing for their deaths. It seemed like everyone on this shoot had a list of credits I could only dream about.

  The heroine and my intimidating guitar player arrived as a duo to have their makeup done. It was Anne, the lead heroine two chairs down who spoke to me first, breaking the silence between the larger named actors and me.

  “How do you like Los Angeles?” she asked.

  I looked up to see her staring across the British Officer at me as the makeup lady applied the finishing touches to her dirt-stained face.

  “I haven’t really gotten a chance to see much. I just arrived.” My gaze traveled from her, momentarily to the gorgeous man seated next to me, then quickly back in front of me. God, those lights around the mirrors are way too bright. They highlight blemishes not seen with the naked eye, damn them.

  “It’s nice, not humid like Florida. Although, yesterday it felt like the sheer heat might singe my eyelashes off.”

  She laughed. “It is unseasonably hot for this time of year.” She stretched and rose from her chair. “Where in Florida do you live?”

  “Well, I was born and raised in Orlando, but I live in Boston now.”

  She was almost a head taller than I, rail thin, with high cheekbones and a sun-kissed tan. She was gorgeous, making me feel rather like a plain Jane light brown haired girl. Even though her eyes were a more common brown compared to my hazel, they were expressive doe eyes that I envied.

  “I love Disney! Why would you move away? Isn’t it cold in Boston?” She looked at me with the same astonishment as most people who have never suffered though a summer in Florida.

  “My husband got a job in his hometown so we moved.”

  Honestly, I could probably have guessed what she was thinking. I can’t believe you would move away from sunny Florida for a guy, especially to somewhere as cold and bitter as New England. Truth be told though, even with its dreary early spring, I loved having four distinct seasons.

  Seasons meant nothing to me in Florida, unless you wanted to count ‘hurricane’ season. I grew up with heat and humidity so thick you could slice it with a knife. My hair, being naturally wavy, always resembled a great lion’s mane: dark, untamable, and fierce. When I moved to Boston, I was amazed each day looking in the mirror at how tame and stylish my hair became.

  Fall quickly became my favorite season. Seeing the trees burst into colors that resembled flames amazed me. I had never seen such colors in real life before then.

  “Oh you’re married? That’s nice, isn’t it, Andrew?” she asked. By her overly sweet voice only another woman could pick up on, I knew she must either be in a relationship with the British Officer, Andrew, or want one. I arranged my features to appear demure yet happy.

  “Don’t pretend you can’t hear me.” She snapped her fingers in Andrew’s direction, but he sat still, eyes closed while the makeup lady finished a cut over his chest.

  Afterward, they left together.

  I sighed and leaned back for the makeup artist to continue her ministrations of effects blood via a ketchup squeeze bottle. A trickle ran down the crevice of my tightly laced chest causing me to shiver at the odd sensation.

  It wasn’t long before an assistant director announced we were to go to set. The scene would be shot across the street from the back lot, at a small park obscured by trees.

  Thankfully a cast shuttle bus transported us from base camp to set. I certainly didn’t want to cross a busy street such as Lankershim Boulevard in my scandalously ripped bodice covered in crimson syrup.

  After laying on my mark, I realized the extent of my costume damage and shot straight up with a squeak. My pale left breast had come completely out of the tear below it and was acting like a beacon of white against the stained dirty dress. Billy, who knelt beside me, was startled by my alarm but not so much as when he glanced down to see me exposed.

  “Wait!” I fumbled to force the dress into modesty.

  “Here, use this.” Billy, whose face was now the color of my effects blood, thrust his hat in my direction.

  On the verge of tears, I laid half-naked in a field full of cast, crew, and fifty background men. Humiliation knew no limits to what I experienced as my cries for help drew many eyes in my direction. My nightmares were coming true.

  A white-haired lady ushered me into the little white star wagon with my character’s name, Margret, written on it. She sat me on the tiny built-in blue and cream-colored couch and fixed my wardrobe malfunction with several strips of double-sided tape placed along the underside of my breast.

  “It’s all right darling, no one saw a thing. Just calm down now,” she said. “Breathe, darling. I’ve taped up your tit right nice.”

  When her words sank in, I burst into a fit of giggles, completely forgetting my despair. W
here else would it be appropriate to say “I have taped up your tit.”?

  She looked utterly relieved by my mood change and dabbed a tissue beneath my eyes with a motherly touch. “That’s better, isn’t it? You wouldn’t want to ruin your makeup and have to sit another hour while they re-apply it.”

  She was right. The syrup was congealing, making it uncomfortable to move.

  After I took a moment to compose myself, I walked back onto the field with as much dignity as I could muster. I handed the hat back to Billy, who couldn’t look me in the eye.

  The same assistant director waited outside to bring me back to my mark. “Is everything okay now?”

  “Only one way to find out.” I eased myself down. The tape pulled on my skin but held the fabric in place. “Good to go.”

  He spoke into the opaque microphone attached to his earpiece and assured the crew I was ready to shoot, then rushed off the field.

  As we waited for the rest of the crew to adjust to my sudden reappearance, Billy struck up a random conversation. “So, Sam told me about this rental car place, they are cheap and rent by the week instead of daily. I checked them out, good rates. Thought you might be interested.”

  “Really? That’s a fantastic idea. Can I get their number?”

  “Of course, it’s in my trailer. If I have to wait for the van one more day, I might murder someone,” he joked.

  “If I had some wheels maybe I’d get brave and explore the city. It would be nice to not have to ride with that maniac van driver any more, too.”

  His easygoing manner and kindness helped me forget about my utter humiliation. The uncomfortable pulling sensation caused by the double-sided tape and hardening effects syrup was soon also forgotten.

  “Look sharp everyone, the squibs will be used this take,” barked the burly stunt coordinator.

  With my eyes closed in the scene, I would at least be able to avoid flying dirt getting in my eyes. “Squibs” were tiny explosive devices that, when triggered, would blow a small mound of dirt into the air simulating a cannonball hitting the ground. There were no cannonballs on the field. They would be added to the film in post-production.

  “Action!” shouted the director.

  I lay motionless, scared to breathe, nervous the squib would be loud enough to make me jump and ruin the take.

  Billy knelt and delivered his heartfelt lines. His lips touched my forehead for a moment, before I was showered with dirt. A squib went off nearby, but all I heard was a muffled thud. The background actors were making more of a commotion falling to the ground than the squib.

  ****

  The director’s voice boomed, “Martini” and the clack board snapped shut.

  I’d managed to lay motionless during numerous squib fires, but the snap of a piece of plywood startled me upright. The clack board operator drew a little martini over the digital board with a piece of chalk and waved it over his head. “Last shot of the day folks, let’s make this martini count,” he shouted and pointed to his artwork.

  Could he be grabbing his own martini after a stressful day? I wasn’t sure, but alcohol sounded good right about now. Unfortunately, I was resigned to go back to my hotel room for the night.

  There was talk around the set some of the cast was going out for drinks on the Sunset Strip. No one directly invited me, and after the embarrassment with my wardrobe malfunction, I was too shy to ask if I could tag along.

  Maybe a little humor at my expense would get Dan to start talking to me again. I obsessively checked my phone throughout the day and still received no communication from him. I was really beginning to worry.

  If he continued to ignore my calls, the hotel did offer Wi-Fi, I could write him a very heartfelt, apologetic email. A whole night should be enough time to figure out how to say I’m sorry properly.

  Perhaps it could wait until after I thoroughly washed off this sticky mess. Flies were buzzing around me.

  Chapter Four

  On the way back to the solitude of my hotel, I called Dan yet again, and yet again his voice mail picked up.

  “Dan, I get that you’re mad at me, but we’re never gonna get past this if you won’t talk to me. Besides, you won’t believe what happened today! Call me back so I can tell you about my terrible day. I really wish you were here, I could use some comfort.” My voice trembled so I hung up before tears started falling.

  Whenever things were bad, Dan would wrap his big bear arms around me and hold me, gently stroking my hair. He’d never gone this long without talking to me, and now it felt like a part of me was missing.

  Chinese food sat next to me uneaten. I’d opened the box and intended to eat it while typing the greatest email ever to Dan. One that would make him jump on a plane to come see me the moment he read it. I stared mesmerized by the blinking cursor on my laptop. “Dan” was the only word written of my intended, heartfelt letter.

  After what felt like an agonizing hour, I gave up on both the letter and dinner. One look inside the container turned my stomach. A congealed layer of grease surrounded my food. Much like my marriage, the longer it sat untouched the more unappetizing it became. Since there was nothing I could do about either right now, I hopped in the shower. The hot water beating down on my skin felt incredibly soothing. It relaxed my muscles and flushed my skin red.

  When the room hazed over with a thick fog and the steam filled my lungs, I turned off the water and stepped out to grab a stiff towel from the rack over the toilet.

  The feeling of isolation hadn’t dissipated any. It gave me an overall uneasy feeling. Dan hadn’t returned my call. I did the math to figure out the time difference and knew he was home from work.

  I had to get to know some of the cast so I could go out with them and not dwell on this. A deep sigh passed through my chest.

  The condensation on the bathroom mirror had beaded and was streaking down the surface. With a palm I cleared an area large enough to see myself, and worked on brushing the tangled knots of my wet hair.

  Just then a loud banging at the door startled me. Who in the world could be here? A small twinge of panic rose in my stomach. Young woman alone in a strange city halfway across the country. Stranger knocking at her door. It read like the beginning of a horror movie.

  The knocking came again. I hitched the towel under my arms and walked out of the bathroom. On my way to the door, I grabbed my cell phone off of the nightstand. When I peered through the peephole I was shocked seeing who stood on the other side of the little bubbled glass hole. It wasn’t the dark bearded mass murderer of my imagination. It was the same face that scolded me earlier when I picked up his guitar.

  I unlatched the deadbolt and opened the door faster than necessary. His eyes widened. Heat rose from neck to forehead as I realized I was only covered by a towel. Oh well, too late to be modest now, door’s already open. He’d probably seen a good bit of my breast earlier on the field anyway.

  “Oh, did I catch you at a bad time?” His eyes scorched through the towel. He didn’t try to hide his flagrant ogling. Yes, he’d witnessed the breast escape. I would have words with the wardrobe lady tomorrow.

  “No, no, it’s okay. What’s going on?”

  “I thought maybe we could go over lines?” He raised his hand with the rolled-up script firmly between his fingers. “It looks like I might be overdressed though. I shall have to change and come back.” He smirked.

  I stood with my hand clutching the door. I wasn’t sure what to say…or how he knew my room number for that matter.

  His smirk turned upside down. He leaned his head to the side and gazed into my eyes. “Would you like me to leave?”

  I shook my head ever so slightly and shifted my gaze to the thick blue drapes to prevent myself falling into the abyss of those forest green eyes. He could interpret it however he pleased.

  For far too long to be socially acceptable, he remained in my doorway with a silly grin plastered across his face. I knew he was waiting for a more appropriate response. Water dripped fro
m my hair down the crevice of my chest moving ever so slow, like fingertips. I needed to say something now before further awkwardness engulfed me.

  “Sorry, no. Come in. Give me a minute to put on some clothes. I just got out of the shower, you caught me off guard, that’s all.” The door swung wide open, and he stepped inside.

  My gaze trailed over his back as he passed me. The toned muscles of his shoulder blades rippled the thin gray cotton shirt. God bless a soft clingy fabric on a man. My eyes followed the lines down his back. They tapered into a masculine waist, further down to a square but firm b—

  I diverted my eyes! I was a married woman, and my mind was wandering into forbidden territory. This was bad. Why was I feeling this attraction to him? Totally off limits, especially with a scratchy hotel towel as the only thing standing between him and I. Morals, not to mention the vows I’d taken, I couldn’t forget about those.

  My husband always trusted me in the past. But that would surely change if he could see how I dressed to open doors for strangers. Maybe if he’d returned my phone call I wouldn’t almost expose myself to every sexy Brit who knocked on my door.

  I shook improper thoughts of Andrew out of my head. Temptation was one thing, but even if my husband was being a dick, it didn’t give me an excuse to act on such thoughts.

  Andrew pulled out one of the padded chairs and sat at the little round table near the door. Thank God he didn’t choose the bed. I don’t think I could have kept my collected façade if he had.

  I walked to the suitcase beside the bed and realized I had a dilemma. Normally I would lounge around in gym shorts and a camisole top, but shouldn’t I wear something a little nicer to impress my company? That had to be temptation talking; I grabbed the shorts and retreated into the bathroom.

  Something dawned on me while I was slipping into my shorts. I’d read the script close to three dozen times front to back. “So, what lines did you want to go over? I don’t remember us having any together.” Mm, us having something together… Gah, I needed to stop thinking like this. He was a gorgeous actor who certainly wouldn’t find someone like me attractive. Sure, I took care of myself, eating healthy, and visiting the gym on a regular basis. I was blessed with a good amount of hair, lips, and breasts too, but there was no way I could compare to the rich models and other celebrities who flocked to him in droves.