“Name?” he asks without looking up.
“Becca Harrington,” I say. He pulls out my ID and slides it across the counter as he launches into a speech about what makes a good pitcher. As I place my ID in my pocket, the guy who he’s talking to says, “Hey, it’s you!”
I look up and see the man who bought me juice after my first disastrous non-meeting. “Hi!” I say.
“You know, it’s only been what—a week or so?—and you don’t look like you’re from out of town anymore.”
“I’m working on it,” I say, wondering what it is about me that has changed. There’s something about him—his sparkling eyes and boundless energy—that gives me a lift.
“Fast learner,” he says, and checks his watch. “Great catching up with you, Joe.” He nods at the security guard and then turns back to me and winks. “I’d buy you another juice, but I don’t think you need it anymore.”
“Thanks,” I say. “And thanks again for the first one. It really did make me feel better.”
And then he’s off, jogging toward the elevator bank, calling, “Hold the door!”
WHEN I GET BACK to the Chateau Bronson, I review my list. I officially check off number nine.
Raj and Marisol feel like really solid friends. Then I make a note next to number one:
It’s not what I wanted exactly, but once I write it down, I realize that it’s something. It’s progress.
I stare at number twelve:
Without thinking about it too much, I decide to call him. Marisol is right. I’m not a damsel in distress. I’m a modern girl. If I want to call him, I should. It’s not as if my mom has had the best luck with men, anyway. She broke up with her last boyfriend almost four years ago now. What am I waiting for?
“Becca?” Alex says. I hear in those two syllables excitement, sweetness, and joy. Maybe he misses me just as much as I miss him, but has been too embarrassed about the way he acted to call me.
“Hi,” I say, very aware of the sound of my voice, which is too perky and higher than normal. “What’s up?”
What I really want to say, of course, is what happened? What are you thinking? Where have you been? Meet me right now at the Leaping Dolphin Inn. We will talk and you will tell me how sorry you are and you will hold me so tight and make this better. But for some reason, even though, except for my mom, there is no one I know as well as Alex, and no one who knows me as well as he does, I can’t find those words. Something inside tells me to hold back. I’m not used to holding back. I don’t want to, but I can’t seem to let go and speak my mind.
“Becca, wow. It’s great to hear your voice,” he says.
“It’s great to hear yours,” I say, melting into the moment I’ve been longing for. I feel the wonderful relief of talking to someone who is deeply familiar. Because as great as Marisol and Raj are, nothing can replace the bond of first love. I say his full name in my mind, Alexander William Goddard, and collapse on my bed. “How are you? How is everything?”
“It’s awesome and beautiful here. The classes are amazing, my roommate is this kid from New York City who’s, like, the smartest guy I’ve ever met, and, oh, hold on—”
I hear some shuffling in the background. Alex’s muffled voice. I smile up at the ceiling and wonder, Has this already become a funny story? If we get back together, and this moment is crystallized and clarified by hindsight, will we hold it up like a special Christmas tree ornament: the moment we knew we were still in love?
“How’s Ruby?” I ask.
“Ugh. Ruby died,” he says.
“What? That’s so sad!” I say.
“Not really,” he says matter-of-factly. “I sold her for parts. It was time for an upgrade.”
“How can you say that?” I ask. I feel a shift in energy that’s both subtle and incredibly clear. Ruby: the car I named, the one we made out in at stoplights all across the country, the metal beast that carried us safely to California. Lovely, quirky, one-of-a-kind Ruby. “You just discarded her like a hunk of junk?” I’m trying to sound casual and funny, but I can feel the edge in my voice.
“So many things went wrong as soon as I got here. She was on her last legs. Or…wheels.”
“What about my camera?” I ask, swallowing even though my throat is dry. Could all of our memories have vanished along with the Volvo?
“Oh, yeah. No, I got it. I took it out. It’s here somewhere.”
“Did you get the pictures printed?” I ask, verbalizing what I suppose has been my secret wish all along—that he would discover the film, get it developed, and remember us. Remember me. Those photos are evidence of our love.
“No. Wait. Was I supposed to?”
“Oh,” I say, feeling disappointment like a sandbag on my chest. “No. That’s—”
“I’ll FedEx it to you when I find it.”
“Okay. Good.” My heart hammers. “Aren’t you going to ask about LA?”
“How is it?”
“It’s so great,” I say, forcing enthusiasm into my voice. “I have really good friends. And I’m waitressing and it’s so crazy. I got my headshots. And today I actually had a meeting with an agent.”
“I’m happy for you.” There’s an awkward silence. I feel like I’m scaling a wall of ice. This conversation started out so well, but now I can’t get a foothold.
“Um. I kind of have to go. Is there something you need?”
“Not really. Do you know what you’re going to be for Halloween?” I ask. I’m grasping at straws, I know, but this all feels so slippery. I’m afraid that when we hang up, he’ll disappear forever.
“Halloween?”
It’s October, so it’s totally legit for me to ask. “Remember when we went as a shark and a lifeguard?”
“This isn’t a great time for me, Becca. I can’t really talk.”
“Alex. Wait. I don’t know. I just feel like…Like. Ugh. I don’t know.” I cover my eyes. I’m shivering. “I guess the thing is…The thing is that…I miss you.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah. I mean yes. Yes.” I lie back on the bed, phone held tight, straining for his response, gauging his breath.
“Thanks,” he says. He mutters something under his breath.
“Is someone with you right now?” I swing my legs off the bed, put my feet on the floor, and stand up like a jack-in-the-box released. “Are you dating someone already?”
“I don’t think now is the time—”
“Alex, are you with someone?” I actually feel like I’m going to throw up.
“Kind of.”
“But it’s only been a few weeks! That’s nothing.” My breath is rapid and shallow. My body is going into some kind of shock. How can I just be dropped like that? It dawns on me that I was actually left on the side of the road, traded in like Ruby.
“Are you sure you want to argue about this?”
“Yeah. I am. I don’t think it’s healthy for you. I don’t think you’ve processed your emotions. And I think you might be headed straight for a midlife crisis to be totally honest with you.”
“A midlife crisis?” He laughs.
“I’m being serious!”
“Okay, well…I’m sorry that you feel that way.”
“Why are you being like this?” I ask.
“Like what?”
“So polite and distant and weird.”
“I apologize. I have to go, Becca.”
“Don’t say my name like that.”
“Like what?”
“Like that.” Flat, I think. Devoid of emotion. As if I’m just an actress knocking on your door without a headshot or résumé.
“Look. I’ve got—”
“I know. You gotta go. So do I.” I turn the phone off and slide down the wall, my face in crying position. The floor feels like it’s dropping away from me, and that I might fall straight through the apartment below, through the hot center of the earth, all the way to China. Did that conversation really happen? I feel warm and gross like I’m getting the flu. Th
ere’s a knock on the door. My hand is still clutching the phone. A drop of sweat rolls down my rib cage.
“Hello?” Marisol asks, opening the door. I guess I’d forgotten to lock it, which is a really scary thought considering Oh Fucky is right upstairs.
“Hi,” I say, heaving a breath.
“Are you okay? I was taking out my trash and heard you yelling in here.”
“Not really. I just called Alex, and he’s dating someone.”
“Oh, boo. I’m so sorry.”
“I thought he loved me,” I say. “He said he did, like, last month. Can people’s feelings really change that quickly? Can love just disappear?”
“I don’t know,” she says.
“He was talking to me like I was a nobody,” I say to her.
“You’re not a nobody,” she says. “You’re my best friend in Los Angeles.”
Marisol holds me while I cry. She lets me cry a good long while. And then she pours me a glass of water. As I drink the cloudy tap water from my Ikea cup, she brushes my hair with her fingers.
“So, more important, how did it go with the agent?” she asks.
“She told me to come back when I had my SAG card. But how am I going to get my SAG card if I don’t have an agent?” As I explain it to her, all of my previous hopefulness seems to fall away. “Do you have a SAG card?”
“Yeah, I got mine because of my boss. Her husband’s a producer, and he gave me a really small role in one of his films so I could get in.”
“That was so nice of him!” I say. “You’re so lucky.”
“It was my plan all along. It’s why I took the job,” Marisol says. “There are other ways to get a SAG card. You can be an extra on a SAG production—you can apply to Central Casting and see how that goes. But it’d be better if someone just hired you. Central Casting is pretty demoralizing.”
“It’s all so demoralizing. This sucks.”
“Here’s what you need to do—apply to every playhouse, every production company, get a body of work together. You want someone who wants to work with you.”
“What do you mean?” I ask.
“I guess I mean that an agent who really wanted to work with you wouldn’t have given you the SAG runaround,” Marisol says.
“So even if I do go crazy trying to get my SAG card, she might not want to work with me?”
“I’m just being honest,” Marisol says with a shrug.
“I know,” I say. “That’s why I love you.”
“I love you, too.” A mischievous grin spreads across her lips. “I saw something in the hall that I think will make you feel better.”
“Really?” I ask, wondering what she could have seen in our dirty, disgusting carpeted hallway that could change anything.
She scampers to my door, opens it, and comes back holding out a fake rose.
“What’s that?” I ask as she hands it to me. It’s made of a shiny, synthetic fabric.
“I saw the guy with the big teeth drop this in front of your door.”
“Oh Fucky?” I ask. She makes a face. “That’s, like, his catchphrase.” She bursts into laughter. “He’s so freaky!”
“He’s a hard-core Scientologist,” she says.
As she says this, the rose shape comes apart in my hand, quickly revealing itself to be a pair of panties. Marisol covers her mouth. I can see from her eyes that she’s laughing.
“Stop laughing. This isn’t funny. It’s gross and scary.” For a minute I’m seriously pissed at her. She turns away, her back shaking with laughter. “Marisol!”
“I’m sorry, it’s just…I can’t.”
“What if he tries to abduct me or something?”
“He’s a Scientologist, not an alien. All you have to do is tell him that you’re super into therapy and he’ll leave you alone.”
“Really?”
“Yeah. It would be literally against his religion to associate with you.”
“Oh, well, then, do you want these?” I throw them at her and they land on her sock. She shrieks and tries to kick the panties off, but the cheap fabric sticks. As she gets more frantic, I laugh. She picks them up and flings them across the room. I dive for them before they reach my pillow and toss them out the window, but they blow right back in, and Marisol falls on the bed in giggles. I throw them out again, and together, laughing, we watch them fall to the sidewalk below like a bright, exotic bird that’s forgotten how to fly.
After Marisol and I visit “her pool” and before I go to bed, I text Mom. I know it’s late there, but she never goes to bed before midnight.
Me: Hi, Mom. I talked to Alex today.
Mom: Really? He called?
Me: No, I called him.
Mom: Uh-oh.
Me: He has a new girlfriend.
Mom: Sweetheart, are you OK?
Me: Not sure. Actually, no.
Mom: He’s adjusting to college. I think he’ll be back.
Me: Does love just go away? Or does that mean it wasn’t love to begin with?
Mom: That’s a big question, honey. I don’t know if I have the answer.
Me: Everything hurts.
Mom: I know. Do you want to come home?
Me: Mom!
Mom: Sorry. I just miss you so much.
Me: Did you find a ticket for Christmas?
Mom: Yes. I’m coming out December 23. I hope there’s room in that apartment for me.
Me: Yay! I’ll get an air mattress.
“MY NAME IS THOMAS. I’m an independent filmmaker with Vagabond Productions and you sent me your headshot.”
I’m walking to work, my cell phone held tightly to my ear. I remember sending my headshot to this production company. To get my mind off of Alex, who I’ve decided is in complete and total emotional denial, I’ve been doing exhaustive research and sending my headshot to every production company in Los Angeles, just as Suzi Simpson recommended in her book. (“I know you’ve got a good brain because you bought this book. Go ahead and use it, kiddo! Research the production companies. Get their addresses. Be a bloodhound!”) Suzi Simpson also advises her readers to use other people’s doubts as fuel to work even harder. Alex has certainly given me that. Once I’m famous, once Alex sees how talented I am, he will regret treating me the way that he did on the phone.
I know from my research that Vagabond Productions formed in 2012 to make political films. Last year, they produced a small film called Clotilde that won several awards at festivals. I hadn’t exactly heard of the festivals where it won awards, but I was still impressed. It was reviewed by the LA Times, and one of the actors went on to get a part in an HBO drama. I started reading the reviews and found myself swept up in the film’s purpose, which was to expose our internalized racism. In my cover letter I said their work was courageous, ambitious, and necessary. Let Alex play his stupid guitar within the ivory tower of Stanford. While he’s paying insane amounts of money to hide from the world, I’m out in the city, among artists like the director on the other end of the phone.
“We’re auditioning for a new film and we’d like to see your work,” Thomas says.
“Oh, I’d love to. Clotilde sounded amazing. I was moved by the reviews alone.”
“Thank you. You’re the only one who wrote a letter with your headshot. A very well-written letter, I might add. It made a big difference that you were familiar with our work. I probably wouldn’t have called you otherwise, as it seems you haven’t started your training in earnest.”
“I’m going to start taking classes soon,” I say. Once I win the lottery.
I really would love to take classes. I’ve even called a few studios around town (“around town” is an expression I picked up from Suzi Simpson). But they all cost way more than I can afford. I’m not sure how I’m supposed to pay for them and all of my living expenses. November’s rent nearly wiped me out completely.
I have five minutes to get to work, which is three minutes less than I need to get there on time. But I pick up my pace when it dawns on me that
my headshots and cover letters are working. Just like Suzi Simpson promised, action equals results. I pause at the curb and then dart across the street, hoping I don’t get a jaywalking ticket.
Thomas continues. “Let me tell you a little bit about the project. It’s titled Hamlet Lives.”
Ohh, Shakespeare!
He tells me that its purpose is to bring art to the people with the hope of sparking political action. “Art has become cake for the elite, but it should be bread for the masses. If people see actors transforming themselves, they feel that they have the power to transform their own lives, and maybe even their government.” Even when diluted through a cell phone, Thomas’s voice is full and rich—and vaguely British. His natural speech pattern has a strong rhythm. “And where are the everyday people every day?”
“Um, every…where?” I round a corner onto Vermont, breathless as I pass a man whose stride is twice as long as my own.
“Yes, but how do everyday people get everywhere every day?”
“Every…which way?”
“The Metro,” he says.
“In LA?”
“Touché,” he says, and laughs. “We can’t shoot an inspiring, modern Hamlet in someone’s Kia Soul, can we?”
“I guess not,” I say.
Thomas explains that this abridged version of Hamlet will be shot entirely on the red Metro line using the latest iPhone. All rehearsals, filming, and meetings will happen on the subway. The only compensation for the actors will be an unlimited monthly bus pass.
“You’d be amazed at the industry attention our last film received,” Thomas says. “My lead from Clotilde is now—”
“On that show about the prison guard, I know!”
“Becca, do you want to be a Vagabond?”
“Yes, I do.” I don’t know how I’ll pay my rent if I have to miss waitressing shifts, but if I get the part, I’ll find a way, as Suzi Simpson says. (“We actors are a scrappy bunch!”) In about six heartbeats, I come up with a plan. As soon as I get the shooting schedule, I’ll trade shifts with someone. And if that doesn’t work, well, now that I have some experience, I might be able to get a different waitressing job. And the job won’t hurt as much, because I’ll have this secret, private, other life that has nothing to do with waitressing. I’ll be a working actress.
Hello, Sunshine Page 9