by Kim Cayer
“Aw, I don’t know,” I whined a bit.
“Come on!” Velda pleaded. “Just for a few minutes? I promise I won’t introduce you to anybody.”
Sounded like a fair shake. Besides, I was dressed to kill. Why hide it in a dark theatre? We walked over to the bar and Velda immediately started chatting up a storm with a well-dressed man. I ordered two white wines. Just as the bartender handed them to me, Velda grabbed my elbow. “Let’s go to the food table,” she directed.
“But weren’t you talking to someone?” I asked.
“He’s the father of one of the actors,” Velda informed me. “Nice guy, but not the director, you know?” Sometimes I got the feeling Velda could be cold-hearted but she never gave you more than a fleeting doubt. Even as she said that last line, she laughed girlishly. And I guess she WAS at this party for a purpose.
The food table was laden with all sorts of delicacies as well as my favorite – desserts. There was quite a crowd of people surrounding the table and Velda surveyed them for a quick moment. She motioned me to follow her over to the other side where she then squeezed us in between two gentlemen. Helping herself to some pate (just the end of the table I didn’t want to be at), she struck up a conversation. “Wasn’t the show fabulous!” she gushed.
Control the fireworks, Velda, I thought, but one of the men beamed. “I’m glad to hear you say that!”
“Why?” Velda innocently asked. “Do you have something to do with this production?”
“I was one of the investors,” the portly man preened. “Floyd Wortman. And this is my friend, Ron Base.”
“Don’t you write an entertainment column?” Velda coyly asked.
“A few,” Ron replied. “Pleased to meet you.”
“My pleasure!” Velda stroked their egos. “I’m Velda Springfield and this is my friend, Al…” she was pointing directly at me when she remembered our deal. “Ali,” she concluded.
“Hi,” they both said to me and resumed conversing with Velda. Just the fact that she was still talking to them confirmed that they were ‘important people’. I had had enough pate and excused myself to wander down to the cheesecake section. I was debating over the double chocolate or raspberry-topped when I became conscious of a very attractive woman standing next to me. A little too much make-up though, I thought. Why, her eyeliner is extended far too much, you can tell she’s wearing pancake make-up and the four-inch eyelashes have to be fake. She looked like one of the hustlers in the play I’d just seen.
“Are…are you an actress?” I asked.
“Yeah, I was in the show,” she beamed, then waited for my compliments to tumble forth. Instead I rushed back to Velda. She was still in deep conversation with both men. She hadn’t even touched one bite of her pate.
“Vel…Velda,” I whispered, trying to get her attention. She kept on talking so I bopped up next to her, waiting my turn. She finally responded to my tugging on her skirt and turned to look at me. “Vel, actors are coming to this party,” I gravely reported.
“Well, they have a right, don’t you think?” Velda replied. “Why, what’s the matter?”
“JOE! He’ll probably be here,” I said in a panic.
“Probably,” Velda agreed, then changed her mind. “Oh, but probably not. You remember Joe! He’s so intense. He hates parties.”
“That’s right!” I remembered and relaxed. How could I forget Joe’s behavior? Our cozy nights at home, watching Francis Ford Coppola films for the umpteenth time. And he WAS intense. I remember watching Rumblefish and almost choking on an acrid odor. I finally said to Joe, “Joe, honey, your socks stink.” He responded by jumping up and throwing my bookshelf to the floor. “I’m going back for cheesecake,” I told Velda and turned around.
I was staring directly into Joe’s face. He looked at me blankly for a moment until realization came into his eyes. “Well, if it isn’t Alice Kumplunkem,” he drawled, just loud enough for Velda’s companions to hear.
The investor, Floyd, whipped me around. “You’re Alice Kumplunkem?” he asked. I could only nod in fear. “Do I have a sweet deal to offer you! Listen to this! I’ve got the money to put into a film and I think the film should be based on your life story. Ron here can write the screenplay and you…” here he stopped a brief second and took a hard look at me, “…your friend here can play you. Whaddaya say?” He spoke so quickly.
“That’s a great idea!” Velda chimed in.
“Uh…no, thanks,” I stammered. “It wouldn’t be a very good movie.”
“With the right director and a great script…” Ron began.
“She’ll get back to you,” Joe said, taking my arm and steering me away from them. Obviously he remembered my old behavior because he walked me over to the dessert section.
“They’re going to tell everybody I’m here!” I worried aloud. “I don’t want to talk to anyone.”
Joe looked over toward Velda and the men. “Not for a while yet,” he deduced. “They’re going to try and get to you through Velda, so they’ll be talking to her for a while longer.”
“Hi, Joe,” I said.
“Hi, Alice, Little Miss Show-Us-All,” he said jokingly. “How’ve you been?”
“Oh,” I laughed weakly. “I’ve had my ups and downs. Hey, what are you doing at this party?”
“I’m in the show,” he said.
“I know, I saw it,” I told him. “You just were never the party type.”
“I’m still not,” Joe declared. “I hate all the schmoozing that goes on. I’m hungry though. I’ll eat a plate of food and then split.” He started helping himself to the buffet. “Will you join me for a bite?” he asked like a gentleman.
“Sure,” I replied. We filled plates and walked over to a secluded portion of the room. We talked idly, sort of just checking to see where we stood with each other. I found I wasn’t mad at him anymore and I guess he found me bearable again. And Joe, never given to flattery, remarked that I really fixed up my looks.
We finished our meal and left the plates on a table. “Look at your friend,” Joe said, pointing to Velda. “That’s the director she’s talking to now. She’s good.”
“Yes, she is,” I agreed. “Can you excuse me a minute, Joe? I have to use the washroom.”
“Sure,” he replied.
I walked into the washroom behind two cutesy young types, obviously actresses. I was still occupying my stall when they finished their tinkle. “How’d your audition go today?” one asked the other.
“Oh, I’m so mad at that director!” the second exclaimed. “The first thing she said when I walked into the audition was ‘You’re not the right type!’ Couldn’t she tell from my photo what type I was?”
“Shit. I’m the same type as you and my audition is for tomorrow,” the first said, a bit unsettled.
“Well, I don’t know what to tell you. The role called for a farm girl. I wore jeans, put a bandana in my back pocket, a checkered shirt, everything. What else do they want?” the second girl said bitterly.
“Hey, did you hear who’s here?” the first asked. “Alice Kumplunkem!”
I had been about to exit my cubicle but held back. “Really?” the second girl asked. “How do you know?”
“Someone told me,” the first said, “but I haven’t seen her yet. She’s in a black dress.”
“We’re all in black dresses,” the second said. “Is she pretty?”
“Not as pretty as us,” the first stated. “Let’s go look for her.”
They left the washroom and I came out feeling ill. Now what the hell did people want to look at me for? This was what I’d feared. I slunk out of the ladies’ room and scurried over to Joe. He stood up. “I’ve had enough of this party,” he informed me. “I’m gonna split. What are you up to?”
I looked over at Velda. Now she was speaking to one of the actors in the show. I didn’t want to tell Joe I’d probably just hang out in a washroom stall until Velda was ready to leave. “Nothing,” I replied.
“Wanna come with?” he offered. “Let’s grab a coffee downtown.”
It was the perfect offer. I looked back at Velda, now stepping onto the dance floor with the actor. She’d make it home alright without me. Then I noticed someone pointing directly at me. How rude! Didn’t their mothers tell them it was impolite to point? “Yeah, let’s go,” I said to Joe.
He always had impeccable timing.
* * *
The next morning, Velda and I awoke late. I stretched contentedly. I felt good. Even though I realized I wasn’t able to relax in public yet, I’d had a nice time with Joe. Nothing romantic happened although I’d have screwed him if he’d asked, but it was comfortable just talking to him. He brought me up to date on his life since I’d last heard of him. His career was flourishing; he rarely had to audition for anything anymore and never in Canada. He didn’t exactly approve of my working on a soap opera (beneath him) but he did admire the fact that I’d switched to being a writer. And him and Beulah were splitsville. I felt inner satisfaction at hearing that. Maybe you should’ve stuck with me after all, Joe! He was going to be in town for another month and promised to call.
Velda and I made coffee and sat around rehashing the previous night. I told her about Joe and she displayed all the business cards she’d received. It was a wonderful night for both of us.
“I still can’t get over how great that show was,” Velda repeated. “I feel so jealous of the actresses in that play.”
“So why don’t you do one?” I asked.
“Scott doesn’t send me to any auditions,” Velda answered.
“Oh, speaking of auditions, I heard of one last night,” I remembered, trying to recall more details.
“For what play?” Velda asked.
“I only heard about the character,” I said. “A farm girl. THAT’S what you should be playing, Velda. Something totally different from the actual Velda Springfield. Now that would show off your acting abilities!”
“Yeah, you’re right!” Velda said, considering it. “I’m gonna phone my agent and see if he knows what play it is.” She placed the call and it was brief. “Hello, Scott? Do you know what theatre in town is casting a farm-girl role? …Thank you. Bye.”
“He didn’t know?” I asked rather incredulously.
“No,” she said dejectedly. “Oh, well.”
“Hell, I bet with a few phone calls, he could find out,” I said, none-too-impressed with this Scott.
“Should I call him back and ask him?” she asked uncertainly.
“Of course,” I said, then, “Aw shit, I could do it myself.” With that, I picked up the phone and the yellow pages. After seven calls, we found out Nightwood Theatre was doing My Favorite Field and the farm-girl role was nothing else but the lead.
“Ohhh!” Velda exclaimed. “That would be the perfect part for me!”
“So call Scott,” I now directed her. “With his connections, he should be able to get you an audition.”
Velda dialed again and spoke to Scott. “Scott? I found out about that farm-girl role. Nightwood Theatre is doing it and Scott, it’s a great part! It would break the stereotype I’m stuck in…but…Yeah, but…Can’t you get…Scott, I…FINE, THEN.” She hung up. “I hate him!” she screamed.
“What’d he say?” I asked.
“He doesn’t want me doing theatre! There’s no money in it!” she retorted. It was an argument I’d heard before. “But he may have an audition for me tomorrow. A commercial. Marilyn Monroe types.” Even though Velda usually got those jobs, she didn’t seem to be too pleased.
“You really wanted to audition for a theatre job, didn’t you?” I asked. She simply nodded and began applying red nail polish in anticipation of tomorrow’s audition. I thought for a moment. “Hang on with that nail polish a sec, Velda,” I said. “I’m gonna phone Nightwood Theatre.”
Don’t ask me what I was doing. I just didn’t want to see my buddy so down and out. I managed to speak to the secretary handling the auditions. “Yes,” I said, “I’d like to know if you have any openings left for the farm-girl role.”
“I’m sorry,” the secretary said. “We’re booked up.”
Velda was hovering at my elbow. I whispered they were full and she threw herself dramatically onto the kitchen chair. I returned to my call. “Oh, too bad! Because Velda Springfield just got back from a six-month tour of the States. She heard of the part and really wanted to audition for it. But don’t worry, she’ll just take the…the Neil Simon play then.”
Velda was staring at me, horrified, but the secretary was invisibly impressed. “I don’t know if the director can see her, but if she’d like to come down any time before 4:30, maybe we can squeeze her in. Who is this?” the secretary asked me.
“Uh…,” I didn’t want to blow Velda’s chances by saying her room-mate, so I said, “her agent.”
“Fine,” she bought it. “I’ll pencil her in.” We hung up.
Velda pounced. “Ali! You told two barefaced lies!”
I laughed and snatched the nail polish out of her hand. “Red nails won’t cut it, Vel!”
* * *
I was waiting with such bated breath for Velda’s return that I almost became faint. It was murder getting her out the door.
“No, Velda!” I yelled as she plugged in her hair straightener. “No plucking!” I groaned as she pulled out her tweezers. “You’re not gonna wear make-up!” I wailed as she lugged her cosmetics case out. I was more nervous than she was.
“No make-up?!” Velda howled. “How can I go to an audition with no make-up? I don’t even leave the house without putting it on.”
“Vel, we have to think carefully here,” I cautioned. “Farm girl. Think of the image that comes to your mind.”
Velda thought then said, “Ugh.”
“Exactly!” I congratulated her. “Now look like that.”
She looked at herself in the mirror. I was seeing the real Velda. The morning Velda – in her natural state. Her mussed-up hair was held in a loose ponytail, her clean-scrubbed face sans make-up, a scrubby pair of sweatpants and a baggy oversized t-shirt. “Shit!” she complained. “I may as well go looking like this.”
That was a hell of a good idea! “Velda, yeah!” I exclaimed.
“What?!” she said, aghast at the idea. “Show up at an audition like this? You’re crazy!”
“Listen,” I commanded, “you don’t want to go looking like your usual self because then you fit that Marilyn Monroe look, and not a farm girl. BUT, you don’t want to go looking like a stereotype of a farm girl either.” I was remembering that other girl’s get-up. “You follow?” Velda looked undecided so I took the plunge. “Take my advice. Look like you look right now.”
Velda looked at herself in the mirror again then sighed. “Alright,” she said, “but I’m taking a cab.”
I was staring at the front door two hours later; the anticipation was killing me. The phone rang and I jumped like a startled cat. I grabbed it, thinking it was Velda. “Hello??”
“Velda?” a voice asked.
“She’s not home,” I said. “Can I take a message?”
“This is her agent. When do you expect her back?”
“I have no idea,” I said. “Do you want to leave a message?” I wish I’d left the impersonal answering machine on. I didn’t want Scott pressing me for any more details.
“I have an audition for her tomorrow,” Scott said. He proceeded to give me the information.
I had just hung up when Velda danced in. “Ali!” she hollered for me. “I got a callback!”
I came running into the entrance, proud mother hen. “A callback!” I was thrilled. “Congratulations!” She may as well have won the Tony award.
Velda proceeded to tell me how her audition went. “They were quite nice! I got there and to tell you the truth, I was nervous ‘cuz all the other girls were in jeans and checkered shirts and I’m looking like a slob…I was thinking of those holey designer jeans I have…Anyways, they let me have time
to read my lines over…Ali, the best scene in the world! I’m fighting with this farm hand ‘cuz he’s cheating my daddy; he’s feeding his family with our chickens! So I fight with him and then I storm off to this unused field and then I had a monologue! About how I want to leave the farm and go to the city and…get this…be a waitress! So the whole audition went quite smoothly and at the end, they asked me where my photo and resume were. Ali, we forgot them!”
I quickly saw the benefit in that and told her. “Good thing too, Velda. Your photo makes you look like a Barbie doll.”
“No way!” Velda strongly contested.
“I’m kidding, but it is a very glamorous picture of you,” I told her. “And your resume just screams film, film, film, no theatre, all over it.”
“Yeah, you’re right,” she conceded. “So they asked me who my agent was and I don’t want Scott knowing about this and I remember on the phone you said you were my agent, so I gave them your name…”
“Me?!” I gasped.
“I said ‘Ali Kumplunkem’, if that’s any consolation,” Velda said. “And I was NOT going to say I didn’t have an agent. Let me have a little dignity!”
“Well, it’s OK, I guess,” I said. “So then what happened?”
“So they write your name down and then they say, ‘Can you be here tomorrow at 11 a.m., for a callback?’ And look!” she said, displaying a script. “The director gave me a copy of the play to read!”
“Oh, that reminds me, your agent called. You have another audition tomorrow, at 2 p.m.,” I recalled, giving her the rest of the information. She briefly glanced at it and said disdainfully, “Same ol’, same ol’.”
“Wanna read the play together?” I asked.
“You’re such a big help, Ali. Ali, my theatre agent!” Velda laughed, then naively added. “Ok, I’ll read the farm-girl part.”
* * *
The next morning, I was up at dawn with Velda. She was re-reading the play and I was trying to make a decision. Finally I told Velda, “You know, I think they’re gonna make you do that dream scene.” There was a scene in which the farm girl dreams she has that dream job in the big city. A quick set and costume change, the other actors double as city folks in a restaurant, and the farm girl is the waitress. In her dream, the job would be wonderful all the time, a far cry from reality.