by Meili Cady
I was nervous as we walked into the crowded hotel bar, tugging at my dress to make sure it was lying flat. My feet were already throbbing from the stilettos. Just as the actor at the showcase had predicted, no one asked to see my ID. The party was loud and overwhelming, and I stayed close to my father as we scanned the room for Bonnie. We found her in a group of actors from the showcase.
“You made it!” she shrieked as she threw her arms around me and gave me a half kiss on my cheek. “Meili. Let me get a look at you, my darling.” She took my hands in hers and stepped back to take in my appearance, nodding approval.
“You look like a star. I’m so thrilled that you’re joining the studio. We’re going to have a lot of fun.” Her eyes shined as she smiled at me. She turned to my father.
“Don’t worry,” she said. “She’s in good hands. Now. Honey, have you met Daniel?” Bonnie led us to Daniel, standing nearby holding a beer and wearing a black button-down shirt with jeans.
“Hi, kiddo. Welcome to Hollywood,” he said as he shook my hand. He was Mexican with a stocky build and curly gelled hair. Daniel had an easy disposition, and something about him made me feel comfortable right away. Most of the people I’d met here so far seemed vaguely uninterested in me, like they were looking for someone behind me and hoping to give no more than a cordial hello. Daniel seemed genuinely content to talk with me, even when he was the center of attention at his own birthday party.
My father and I didn’t stay long at the party. While I enjoyed speaking with Daniel and Bonnie for a few minutes at the beginning, I felt awkward, like an outsider. My feet were aching and blistered from my shoes within an hour, and I began to feel silly wearing them. The actors from the studio were polite but stayed at a distance. After wandering through the hordes of strangers and eyeballing men in suits who looked important, I was tired and ready to leave.
I saw Daniel again on my way out with my father. We wished him a happy birthday and he told me to take his phone number in case I needed a friend when I moved into town next month.
A FEW WEEKS AFTER MY move to Los Angeles, I got my first visitor from home. Cate had been my best friend for as long as I could remember. She was beautiful, obsessed with fashion, wild, and politically savvy. Back in the day, our mischief was watching R-rated movies and tying up our parents’ phone lines until four in the morning. Now she was visiting me in L.A. to shop and look for movie stars.
I pulled into arrivals at the Los Angeles International Airport. Cate was waving at me from the curb and looking ready for L.A. with oversized sunglasses and too much luggage. Her shiny brown hair looked longer than it was when we said our farewells at my parents’ house before I left.
We greeted each other in a tight hug. “Get it together, girl,” she said. “You’re going to ruin your makeup.”
“It’s just . . . really good to see you,” I said as I quickly wiped my eye and lifted a floral-patterned suitcase into the trunk of my Jetta. I hadn’t realized how much I missed Cate. Close friendships were much harder to come by here than I’d expected. Los Angeles can be a lonely city.
We drove to Beverly Hills and found parking at Barneys New York. The potpourri of expensive perfume hit us as we passed through the cosmetics department, and white balloons and loud music filled the room—we’d stumbled into some kind of fancy summer shopping event. Thin women with long hair and perfect breasts sauntered through the space like models, smiling at consumers and handing out glasses of champagne from a silver tray. I wondered if that was real champagne. It couldn’t be. I hadn’t seen a single person be asked to show ID.
“All right! This is what I’m talkin’ about. I’m going to go do some damage in the shoe department,” Cate said. It occurred to me that she was more at home here than I was at this point. “You coming?” she asked. “It’s all you,” I said. “Have fun.”
Cate was a workaholic as a waitress in Washington, and she had always seemed to afford her taste for designer labels. I was on a tight budget with no job and a modest allowance from home, so I had no business in the shoe department at Barneys. Cate left me standing wide-eyed near a makeup counter.
I was startled when I realized that someone was speaking to me, convinced that I was invisible here. They were probably going to ask me to stand somewhere else—I was standing too close to the display and this would understandably interfere with their marketing strategy. I was clearly a departure from their desired demographic.
“Would you like one?” It was one of the fembots with the fake champagne. She handed me a glass from the silver tray before I could tell her that I don’t care much for cider. I took a sip. Oh boy. This is definitely not cider. I looked around me to make sure that I wasn’t in trouble, but no one seemed to notice or care. I took another long sip. I was nineteen years old and drinking real champagne at Barneys in Beverly Hills. This is awesome.
Any sense of time or normalcy escaped me as I sat down in a makeup chair. A beautician layered my face with product. Apparently, I was due for a makeover. I was polishing off my second glass of champagne when Cate reappeared with two massive bags of shoes. “I just met Frasier!”
“What?” I asked. “How? What do you mean? You met Kelsey Grammer?” I slid off the chair, not wanting to miss out on any excitement.
“I don’t know what his name is, but it’s definitely Frasier. Him and his wife. I helped her pick out shoes. I told her that I’m a fashion student and that she should choose the shoes that make her feel the most beautiful, because that is what the designer had in mind when he designed them.” Cate glowed with pride.
“Are they still here?” I asked, checking my new look in the mirror. “What was he like? I love Frasier!”
I bought a twenty-dollar eye shadow to be polite to the beautician, then hurried off to the shoe department with Cate. “I just want to see him,” I told her, scanning the room. “There he is,” she whispered to me. The actor stood at the opposite end of the room with his blond wife. She looked like one of the fembots. I’d had only a moment to be starstruck when I saw their eyes land on us and he called out (in the same imperial tone as his TV alter ego), “There she is!” He pointed a finger straight at Cate. The couple made a beeline to us, and before I could process this absurdity, we were face-to-face with the celebrity.
He smiled at us. “We just wanted to thank you again,” he told Cate. “I’m so glad that we were able to find you. We were afraid that you might have left. What you said back there—it was beautiful.” They introduced themselves and asked us where we were from. When we told him that we were from “around Seattle,” I waited for him to say something about Frasier because the show was set in Seattle, but of course he never did. He told us to enjoy our day and left with his wife.
As they walked away, I turned to Cate. “Want some champagne?” We exchanged smiles and hurried back to the cosmetics department.
The next day, Cate tagged along to acting class with me. Bonnie had insisted that I study there five days a week, and I religiously followed her instructions, even if it cost half my monthly allowance to do so. Cate sat at the back of the studio and read fashion magazines to keep her occupied for the six hours that I’d be there. Though she was anxious to leave and hit up L.A.’s hottest vintage shops, she was curious about what I’d been doing.
There were about twenty students in every class. We signed in at the entrance and paid twenty-five dollars to be there. Each class began with an introduction by Bonnie, and then we moved into emotional warm-ups and improvisations to loosen us up before we began scene work. Bonnie gave us an exercise that involved repeating letters of the alphabet and channeling emotional meaning into them. In turn, five actors took the lit-up stage area and repeated, “A, b, c, 1, 2, 3.” The idea was to repeat this sequence aloud and explore a gamut of emotions through it. I took the stage with four other actors and we all began. “A, b, c, 1, 2, 3. A, b, c, 1, 2, 3. A, b, c, 1, 2, 3!” Bonnie urged us along, hovering over each of us individually, intent on excavating some emotion as s
he passed.
After I’d repeated the phrase twice, I found Bonnie in front of me, like a drill sergeant addressing a soldier. “I want to hear your heart BREAKING, Meili! You need to go there. You need to LET GO! Pull that stick out from under your ass! What happened?! Oh, it broke your heart, DIDN’T IT?!” Tears welled up in my eyes on command, and I screamed passionately at the top of my lungs, “A, B, C, 1, 2, 3!” Bonnie was delighted. She threw her hands up in success. “YES! Now, Meili, I want to see something else. I want LUST. Give me your LUST. Stick your tits out! I WANT TO HEAR YOUR OVARIES CLANGING TOGETHER!” Feeling the eyes of the class, I struggled to follow her instruction.
Confused and somewhat disoriented, I yelled, “A, B, C—” My concentration was instantly broken by the growing sound of giggling at the back of the room, as Bonnie whipped around to face the interruption. From the stage, I could see brown hair shaking suspiciously behind a summer issue of Vogue. Cate stood up, shaking with uncontrollable laughter, and excused herself from the studio without a word. The class watched in stunned silence as she left; a final explosion of amusement was audible after the door shut behind her.
To my amazement, Cate was allowed to return the next evening to observe the Thursday night showcase. After five weeks of class, Bonnie had deemed me ready to perform in my first “industry showcase.” I was excited that she thought I was making progress, but anxious. Every girl who came into the studio had to do the same scene for her first showcase, and it involved an orgasm. Or rather, faking an orgasm. I’d experienced neither in real life.
I’d only ever slept with one guy back in Washington, and I could say with certainty that an orgasm was not what I experienced. Now I had to play Meg Ryan’s part in the scene from When Harry Met Sally, when she faked a climax in the middle of dinner at a restaurant—in front of about fifty people, including my best friend since first grade and graying industry professionals Bonnie was going to seat in the front row. These “professionals” were usually older men, and I’d seen them shift around in their seats and smile as they watched Bonnie’s young actresses shake and moan their way through the famous scene. Now it was my turn for this rite of passage, and I felt sick to my stomach. At least Daniel, one of my only friends here, said he would be there for moral support.
The last sun of the day was casting shadows over Ventura Boulevard as Cate and I walked the stairs up to class. Actors stood outside the open door to the studio, smoking cigarettes and running lines for their scenes. Loud music played from speakers inside near the stage, setting the atmosphere for the evening. The male actors wore button-down shirts and slacks, some with ties and jackets if it was right for the material they’d be performing; for actresses, Bonnie insisted that we showed a lot of skin on showcase night, regardless of what was appropriate for the scenes. “You want to get cast? Show ’em what you got!” she said. So the girls came to the studio gussied up like prize pigs headed to the county fair. I was now a part of the livestock show. Dreading the risk of potential wardrobe malfunctions in a skirt—though certain that any such malfunctions would be quickly forgiven—I decided to wear jean shorts and a tank top. Bonnie brushed past me holding a script, deep in conversation with another actor. She noticed my bare legs and gave a subtle nod of approval as she passed. Though I felt exposed, I was content to know that I was pleasing my mentor.
Daniel spotted me and walked up to offer advice before I entered the packed studio. “Be as loud as you can, and if she tells you to climb on top of the table, just try not to fall off. And definitely don’t fall into the audience. Or do. At least you’ll stand out.”
“What do you mean ‘climb on the table’?” I asked.
“Well, sometimes Bonnie likes to have the girls jump up on the table and do the orgasm from there. Like a music video girl on the hood of a car, circa 1985.”
“Wait a second . . .” I began. Daniel stopped me. “Meili, your sexuality is going to be a powerful tool in this town. Don’t be afraid to use it. Besides, if you don’t do a good enough job, Bonnie will bring another actress onstage and put her on the table to do it better than you, and it will be embarrassing. Good luck, kiddo.”
I couldn’t believe how pretty some of these actresses were. I bet that they could fake an orgasm. Even more, I bet that they’d had real orgasms. If I could have one, maybe I wouldn’t be so uptight all the time. This would be good practice for me. Yes.
Bonnie took center stage to open the showcase by introducing the “industry professionals” in the front row to the studio, including Daniel, whom she introduced as a director, though he had never been employed as a director, and as far as I knew he had no intention of becoming one. She looked down at the scene list on a clipboard and shouted, “Okay! Harry Met Sally is up! Meili!”
I nervously teetered on three-inch heels as I stepped into the hot studio lights with my male scene partner. The audience quieted as we settled into the chairs. I cleared my throat a little too loud. Er, not sexy. Apparently I had to use my sexuality, and repulsing anyone within earshot the moment that I step into the lights was not a good step in that direction.
I tried to stop my hands from shaking, but it seemed impossible. Just don’t fall into the audience. I barely knew my scene partner’s name, but he’d been in class far longer than I had and was intimidatingly handsome sitting across the table from me in a tight T-shirt. I wondered if he could give me an orgasm. Maybe we should have rehearsed this in private.
Bonnie positioned herself directly in front of us, just out of the spotlights.
“All right!” she said. “Let’s see it.”
We made it through the short dinner dialogue at the table. I reprised Meg Ryan’s role and said, “It’s just that all men are sure it never happened to them, and most women at one time or another have done it. So, you do the math.” The male actor said Billy Crystal’s line, “You don’t think that I can tell the difference?”
I felt everyone in the studio watching me from the edges of their decrepit theater seats, waiting for me to start. My scene partner stared at me with a blank expression. A long moment passed. I closed my eyes, pursed my lips together, and took in slow, deep breaths. I let out a quiet sigh as I lifted my hands, still shaking, to run them through my hair. “Ooh. Yes. Oh, yeah . . .” Bonnie said nothing. I moaned as I touched my neck, bringing my fingers to my mouth and running them back and forth along my lips. My fingers smelled like the Subway sandwich I ate for dinner. I’m always still hungry after I eat Subway. What do they put in that stuff? No sound was heard from the audience. Good? Bad? Almost over?
I moaned louder, breathed faster, and attempted to reach my fake crescendo. “Oh God! Oh! Yes! Oh! Oh!” My hands had almost stopped shaking. I was in the clear. I rolled my head back and felt my way down from my neck until I was touching myself within an inch of my cleavage, moaning out, louder, louder. My scene partner gasped at me, in character. I could see Bonnie from the corner of my eye, moving closer to us. It seemed like she was about to cut the scene and declare the time of death. Finally.
“Meili! YES! That’s PERFECT!”
I breathed out and took my hands down. Relief. I began to get up and free myself from this farce. But Bonnie wasn’t done.
“Now!” Bonnie went on. “I want to see you UP! Into the lights, where you belong! I want to see you moving! Get on top of the table!”
No. Please, no. For a moment, I wondered how forgiving Bonnie would be if I just got up and ran out of the studio. A dramatic exit! Or perhaps I could pretend that I simply misheard Bonnie, stand in the lights to take a bow, then pass out headshots to the front row before sitting back into the audience with Cate.
Every showcase night at the studio comprised two shows: the actors in their scenes, and Bonnie. Her theatrical directing was a main attraction, second only to the fishnet stockings and plunging necklines that she encouraged all the young actresses to wear.
Still trying to stay in the moment, I leaned my upper body weight onto the rickety table. My handsome sce
ne partner was still sitting at it, staring at me. I felt like a sea lion attempting to hurl itself onto a raft. The table began to creak. I was certain I’d crush it like a taco shell at any moment, but by the grace of God it didn’t collapse as I climbed on top. Bonnie seemed pleased. “Yes!” she said. “Now, Meili, I want to hear your ovaries clanging together!” I sat on my knees on top of the table and moaned as loud as I could, breathing heavily, tossing my hair back. “Ooh!” I decided that it was time to just give Bonnie what she wanted, so I could crawl off the stage and hide in a seat. I swiveled my hips around in an awkward motion, as if I were struggling to move a Hula-Hoop. There was no way that this was a realistic demonstration of what an orgasm looked like, but Bonnie seemed to love it. I shrieked as loudly as I could, “OH!,” and threw my hands up in an exaggerated hallelujah. Bonnie clapped like a seal and faced the audience. “Aha! Now, THAT’S a print!”
I saw Daniel outside the studio after the showcase. He walked up to me with an amused grin. “Jesus. You did good, kid. I mean, I think I’ve seen better fake orgasms, but that was pure entertainment.”
“Thanks,” I said. “I’m just glad it’s over.”
Cate congratulated me on my bizarre induction into the class. “I won’t pretend to understand how this whole acting business works. That shit was crazy. But! It’s your thing and I’m happy if you’re happy.” She left to warm up the car as I said good night to everyone at the studio. Daniel offered to walk me to the parking lot. He walked slowly, like he had something to say. “Ya know, you need to make some girlfriends here. I should introduce you to my friend Lisette. She’s the Samsung heiress.”