Smoke

by Meili Cady

  I’d never seen anyone act this way; it was like he was playing a role, only a movie-of-the-week, two-dimensional, and unlikable character kind of role. This was not at all how I’d imagined my date with Aiden Cohen going. Part of me wanted to walk out and leave immediately. I wondered how long it would take for him to notice, or even if such a mild disturbance could pull him away from talking about his fame with total strangers. As I contemplated this, Aiden ended a conversation with one of the men and leaned across the table to get closer to me. Finally, my date was giving me some attention. I felt very forgiving when he flashed me a handsome smile. “Are you going to finish your wine?” he asked, indicating the three full glasses of wine in front of me. The British men had been ordering bottle after bottle, and everyone was passed a glass whenever a new one was opened. I’d been trying to stay relatively sober so that I didn’t risk having one too many and making a fool of myself.

  “I already had some,” I told Aiden.

  “Aw, come on,” he said. “You need to catch up.” Another wink. I’d never seen anyone wink so much in my life. The wink may not have been charming, but Aiden himself possessed the charm of a TV star, and it was enough to convince me to make all three glasses of wine disappear in a matter of minutes. Based on what I could remember the following morning, it’s safe to say that this decision did not add to my own charm.

  I woke up with a throbbing headache and an intense feeling of nausea. I opened my eyes and looked around me. The vague familiarity of the room suggested that I’d stayed the night on a friend’s couch. The details were fuzzy, but I thought I remembered calling her when things went south at Bar Marmont. From what I could recall, everything had turned into a fiery train wreck after I chugged that wine. The combination of alcohol and subsequent rants from me to Aiden about how “just because you’re famous doesn’t mean you can treat people this way” had led to an uncomfortable and rather abrupt “adieu” when Alec’s private driver named Stavros was asked to take me “wherever I needed to go,” which ended up being to my friend’s nearby apartment to sleep. And vomit, apparently, from what I could gather from the horrible taste in my mouth. I was mulling over every humiliating detail that I could remember when my phone rang. It was Aiden.

  “Hello?”

  “How are you feeling this morning?” Oh, no. It must have been worse than I thought.

  “Um, fine.”

  “You were pretty upset last night.”

  “I was?”

  “Oh yeah. I believe that you called me an asshole.” I cringed.

  “Sorry.”

  “No,” he said, “it’s okay. I have a habit of infuriating people. I just wanted to call to apologize.”

  Aiden said that he had an incoming call and needed to go, but told me to “feel better” before he hung up. Somehow I suspected that the purpose of that call wasn’t to make me feel better, but perhaps to make him feel better about the possibility of an unflattering story about him getting out. I tossed my phone on the coffee table. Part of me wanted to throw it at the wall instead. I believed him when he said he had a “habit of infuriating people.” His call hadn’t made for much of an apology; it was simply an acknowledgment of the fact that he’d treated me poorly. I seriously doubted he felt any guilt about it. And why was I apologizing? I called him an asshole because he acted like one. I wasn’t sure if his celebrity had gotten the better of him or of me. I’d like to think that I wouldn’t usually have tolerated this kind of treatment from anyone, but clearly I allowed myself to be blinded by something. Maybe I was just starstruck, a common misstep among young, aspiring actresses in this town.

  I spent the next evening with Lisette and told her everything. She fumed over her glass of wine. “What a fucking idiot. He’s ugly anyway, babe. You can do so much better.” Lisette consoled me, then shared stories of her own dating escapades with other actors like Channing Tatum and Leonardo DiCaprio. Every story of hers ended with the actor falling hopelessly in love with her though, much unlike my experience. “You just haven’t met the right guy yet, sweetie,” she assured me. She vowed revenge if she ever crossed paths with Aiden. “If I ever see that fucking Smurf face, I’m going to bury him alive. No one messes with my girl.” She always had a way of making me feel better, even when it was through unwarranted threats of violence.

  On more than one occasion, I saw Leonardo DiCaprio in VIP sections when I ventured out with other friends to nightclubs. I contemplated approaching him to say that we had a “mutual friend,” but I never did.

  SINCE MOVING TO LOS ANGELES I’d signed up for what is called “extra work” a handful of times. “Extras” are essentially warm bodies positioned in the background of movie and TV scenes to make them appear more realistic to the audience. Most extras are struggling actors who need a paycheck, but there is also a mix of retired folks and non-actors who do it because they like the feeling of being on a set. I’ve heard that a lot of ex-cons sign up because the job doesn’t require a background check, which I’ve never been able to confirm, but it makes sense. The gross pay for nonunion extra work is around sixty dollars for an eight-hour day.

  The first time I worked as an extra was for a Rob Zombie music video. I was one of about twenty-five girls dancing around a stage that had been built in the middle of a field. The video was filmed on a farm, and the way that the extras were literally herded around on the grass gave new meaning to the common comparison of extras to cattle. I’d had friends in acting class warn me that if casting directors saw me as an extra, they would never take me seriously as an actor. This scared me off at first, but the fact remained that extra work was the best way to get into the union. And if you wanted to be a professional actor, you definitely wanted to be in the union.

  To be eligible to join the Screen Actors Guild, or SAG, an actor needed to earn a minimum of three union vouchers. These coveted vouchers were given to nonunion actors only under certain provisions. The one other way of becoming eligible for SAG was called a “Taft-Hartley.” If a producer decided he or she would like to hire a nonunion actor for a union project, then the producer had to justify to SAG why that particular actor was needed, as opposed to someone who was already a dues-paying member. Getting Taft-Hartleyed into the union was rare because it only happened when someone really, truly wanted to hire you.

  Central Casting was the main office in town for background work, where people went to register to be considered for jobs. After giving a photo and all relevant personal details, the information was kept on file and actors could be called on if work was available and appropriate for them. I’d practically forgotten that I was still registered at Central Casting when I got a call from their offices, from a woman asking me if I’d like to work on the set of Californication the next day. It was going to be a large call, filming at the Rainbow Room on Sunset, and they needed “all their girls” to be there to fill the restaurant while David Duchovny did a scene with a guest star. I didn’t like the idea of working for sixty dollars before taxes were even taken out, but I knew that it could be a chance to get a union voucher. I had only one voucher to show for my more than two years of being in L.A., and I needed to get two more before I could pay my dues and join the Guild. I agreed to work the next day, determined to somehow earn a voucher.

  In the morning I woke up two hours early to get ready for work. It took me three failed attempts, but I was finally able to glue fake eyelashes onto my eyelids. They looked a little wonky, so I globbed mascara on to compensate. I hadn’t had my coffee yet and I was barely conscious, but I knew that I had to make myself stand out today to have a chance of getting a voucher. I carefully packed the sexiest, most revealing wardrobe I had into my rolling suitcase. The extras coordinator had instructed all the girls to bring lingerie and anything that would be fitting for fetish-driven rock-and-roll groupies to wear at the Rainbow Room, a landmark on the Sunset Strip and a legendary hangout for rock stars.

  I arrived at the top of a parking structure a full half hour before my 10 A.M.
call time, my suitcase thudding along behind me. I walked toward a sun tent with folding tables and chairs where two production assistants were standing around looking sleepy. I approached one and he told me to get some breakfast at catering.

  After waking up a little over coffee and eggs, I walked my suitcase over to the wardrobe trailer. I was greeted by a woman named Caroline who was in charge there. She seemed pleased that I’d brought so many options of clothing to pick from. “This is a nice one,” she said as she examined a lacy cream-and-black bra. I laid out a few skirts for her to look at.

  “We need the Rocker Girls to wardrobe!” one of the production assistants called out. Caroline told me that there was a preselected group of eight union actresses who needed to get ready to be presented to the director. “I’m sorry,” Caroline said with what seemed like genuine apology. “You’ll be first after them.” I gathered my items and moved them aside as the selected girls crowded ahead of me in line. I had a sinking feeling that there would be no SAG voucher for me today. If casting had gone to the effort of organizing a group of girls to get especially gussied up, that likely meant that someone was going to be chosen for a featured role, and it was clear that they wanted someone who was already in the union.

  I sat down at a folding table for a while until it looked like the girls were done. I walked back and asked Caroline if I should get my things. “We’re still working,” she said sympathetically. “Are you sure you’re not in the group?”

  I shook my head. “No, I wish.”

  “Why don’t you ask him?” She nodded to a production assistant. This had never occurred to me. “Tell him I told you to ask.” I rushed over to the assistant.

  “Caroline told me to ask you if I could be one of the Rocker Girls.” I held my breath, waiting for his response. He rolled his head back and looked at Caroline.

  “Get over there,” he said.

  “Thank you!” I ran back to Caroline.

  “See?” she said, thumbing through my suitcase. I beamed as I showed her what I thought might work well for the scene.

  In my experience, the people working in wardrobe on movies and TV were understandably pressed for time and didn’t often give special attention to extras beyond what it took to get everyone ready for set. Every hopeful actor wants special attention, but you’re likely to be sorely disappointed if you actually expect it. I knew better than to expect it. But over the next hour, much to my surprise, Caroline poured unusual kindness and effort into putting together a truly stand-out ensemble for me. She excitedly handpicked the most extreme, provocative pieces of wardrobe that she’d carefully preselected for the shoot. She instructed me to wear the cream-and-black lace bra that I’d brought from home with a tight black corset that stopped right below my breasts so the bra was fully visible. I wore a six-inch leather skirt with a slit over ripped fishnet stockings. The slit in the skirt was held together by two safety pins.

  “Is it too much?” Caroline asked with slight hesitation. “I love it,” I told her. “It’s crazy and perfect.” As I examined my new look in her full-length mirror, she walked up to me with a pair of long boots. “Wear these.” She held the boots close to her chest, as though she were a museum curator about to show me her most prized piece of art. She handed them to me and I saw that they were lace-up, knee-high pleather boots with eight-inch stilettos in the style of Marilyn Manson. I laced them up with some effort and stood as though on stilts. “Can you walk?” Caroline asked. “I’ll make it work,” I told her, grateful. She eyed her creation and hugged me. “You look great,” she said. “Good luck.”

  All the fiftysome extras were shuttled to the set at the Rainbow Room. Extras “holding,” the designated area where extras were kept when they’re not needed on set, was in the upstairs of the neighboring building. Instead of waiting there, I stood at a polite distance from set and watched all the goings-on with fascination. The outside patio area of the restaurant had been set up to look like a different location, and the crew was filming an unrelated scene from the show with two of the main actresses at a table. I could see the screen of the monitor from about fifteen feet away, and I watched as the actresses performed their casual dialogue.

  I wanted to be on the other side of that camera like the actresses I saw on the monitor, and I felt that much closer to it today—I couldn’t believe my luck in having been invited to be one of the Rocker Girls. Even if I wasn’t chosen to be featured, it was worth it just to be here.

  As I stood near the cameras, I was aware that everyone who passed was staring at me. Caroline did a masterful job in wardrobe, and her work was reflected in everyone’s stunned reaction to my appearance. Instead of looking in the other direction, I said hello to every person who looked at me. David Duchovny strolled by on his way inside the Rainbow Room. “Hello,” he said, glancing down at my boots. He looked much younger than I’d expected and strikingly attractive in his jeans and black T-shirt. Another man passed by in a white T-shirt and a ball cap. He also looked at my boots and seemed genuinely shocked by my entire ensemble. “Hi, how are you?” I said in a quiet voice so as not to disturb the filming. “Good, good,” he said before walking inside.

  After an hour or so, my feet had lost almost all feeling, and I found a place to sit where I could still see the monitor. The production assistant who’d given me a break earlier appeared and called out, “Rocker Girls to set! The director needs to see you guys.” The other girls came down the stairs from holding, and we gathered near a booth inside the Rainbow Room. The man with the ball cap who had passed me earlier walked up to our group. The production assistant introduced him. “Girls, this is Dave, the director.” Dave studied the nine of us. He pointed to a blond Russian girl and said, “You.” My heart fell into my stomach. He continued to look at each of us, thinking. His eyes slowly landed on me and paused for a moment. “And you.” He walked off.

  The rest of the Rocker Girls were led away while the blond Russian and I were each given paperwork to fill out. She leaned in to me and said in a heavy accent, “Dun’t sign nahtink until you oounderstahnd vhawt it is. I’m not sign till I know. I muz know vaht I’m ask to do.” I ignored her entirely. I couldn’t fill it out fast enough. I scribbled out everything I knew the answer to in the paperwork. I soon heard her in a discussion with an assistant director nearby. By the time I looked up from the paperwork, she was nowhere in sight. The assistant director came up to see if I was done. “I have to tell you something,” I said. “I’m not in the union.” He looked surprised. “Oh . . . Okay. Um, we’ll see what we can do about getting you a voucher, but I gotta tell ya, Showtime is pretty strict about this stuff.” I told him thanks and he disappeared.

  I was told to wait on the patio. A makeup girl came with her kit to touch me up. As she patted my face with powder, I couldn’t stop smiling. I knew that I must look silly to her, but I was so happy that I felt like I might explode into pieces.

  When the makeup artist left, I noticed a middle-aged man in a light blue button-down shirt standing about ten feet away from me. He looked serious and he kept glancing at me and nodding while the assistant director spoke to him. I knew just from looking at him that he was a producer from Showtime. After I’d confessed to not being in the union, I was told that it might be necessary to call a producer to set. I smiled at him. I couldn’t help it. After a moment, he walked right up to me. He didn’t introduce himself, but he looked at me in a fatherly way and put his hand on my shoulder. “We’re going to do something a little special for you,” he said, and before I could come up with an appropriate response, he walked off.

  “They’re ready for you.” I was ushered to set by the assistant director. The director, Dave, was standing in front of a booth where David Duchovny sat with another actor. “Meili, hi,” he said as I walked up. “Have you met David and Callum?” I shook hands with each actor. Dave directed me to crouch underneath the table until Callum patted my knee as a cue for me to crawl up into the booth and kiss him. “Okay,” I said. Dave put h
is hand on my shoulder in the way that the producer had. “Meili, when you come up to sit in the booth, I’d like you to say something. Maybe ‘Anytime,’ or whatever you feel like saying. Okay?” In this moment, it dawned on me what the producer had meant when he said that they were doing something special for me. Dialogue was a whole other ball game. That wasn’t just being a “featured” extra. Dialogue meant an acting credit, not to mention about seven hundred dollars up from sixty. Far more meaningful, it meant a scene with dialogue on a major TV show and, as it turned out, a Taft-Hartley into being eligible to join the Screen Actors Guild. I wouldn’t be getting a voucher today, or ever, because I wouldn’t need it. I was getting a formal invitation to join the union.

  A FEW WEEKS LATER, THE episode aired on Showtime. I hadn’t told many friends to watch it because I knew there was always the chance that my scene would get cut. Of course I’d told Lisette everything, and she said that she couldn’t be happier for me. “Fuck that Russian broad,” she said when I told her the story. “Thank God she got out of the way and gave my angel some room to shine.”

  The scene opened with Callum Keith Rennie, portraying the record producer Lew Ashby, and David Duchovny, as the womanizing writer Hank Moody, sitting at a booth having drinks after Lew had just bailed Hank out of jail.

  Lew: Smell the history. This was Led Zeppelin’s table. Jimmy fucking Page used to get under-the-table oral from Miss Pamela right here. I bet you could still scrape some of his DNA off the floor.

  Lew asked Hank if he’d like a blow job.

  Hank: I don’t know. I think it might ruin the friendship.

  Lew: Take your pick. I’ll hook you up. Her? Her? Her? (He points to girls around the room)

  Hank: No, I’m good. I had a big breakfast.