by Kim Cayer
“I was thinking they’d make me do the monologue again,” Velda figured.
“No, they saw you do that already,” I thought aloud. “They’re going to want to see something different.”
“The director said I should be prepared to do two scenes,” Velda recalled. “Maybe it’ll be the monologue and the dream scene.”
“No, if there’s a second scene, it’ll be the one with her and her daddy at the end,” I declared. That was where her father tells her she’s old enough to get a job during the winter months, when farming was slow, and he’d arranged for a waitressing job at the local tavern in town.
“You think?” Velda asked quizzically.
I nodded, satisfied with my choices. Then, for some dopey reason, I said in a solemn tone, “Take my advice.”
“Alright,” she said, “then what shall I wear today?”
She was already wearing a long paisley skirt. It was rather nice but Velda thought it too quaint, and only wore it around the house when she felt cool. Over that she wore a heavy wool sweater. “That,” I said.
“Again? With just the clothes I threw on for the day??” she groaned. I nodded. Velda kept her clothes on.
The door opened at noon, signaling Velda’s return from her callback audition. I sensed it didn’t go too well. I’d been lying in bed, trying to quell my nerves. I jumped up to check on Velda.
I could tell she’d been crying. “Ali, I bombed!” she wailed.
“Why? What happened?”
“I was doing that scene with my dad…the one you said they’d make me do? I’m cooking supper over this stove prop when my dad comes home from town, right? …And I’m about to deliver my lines…and I start coughing. I just got this tickle.”
“Did you have to stop?” I asked.
“No, I got through it,” Velda said. “And the dream scene, when I’m rushing around trying to serve customers? Well, I trip over my skirt and I’m embarrassed, so I just spring right back up and I’m laughing and I keep on going like a fool…”
“Do you think the director liked your work?” I asked.
“Not like yesterday,” Velda stated. “After I finished the last scene, they said they’d be contacting everyone’s agents by this afternoon to let people know one way or the other, and that was it. I left.”
“Well, don’t let this audition bother you,” I told her. “Remember, you said you don’t let them get you down.”
“This was different!” Velda groaned.
“Don’t forget the other one…your commercial audition this afternoon,” I reminded her.
“Oh, yes, right,” Velda recalled. “Get to see Shirley Bloom again. You know, for once, at this theatre audition, Ms. Bloom wasn’t my competition.”
Even though Velda was in a bitchy mood, she still managed to leave the house looking like Christie Brinkley’s sister. I could see her heart wasn’t into this audition and I wanted to tell her to cheer up, but I felt bad for her too. Poor girl; only getting called in for roles that require someone beautiful.
I was reading the Help Wanteds in the newspaper and had made a few calls regarding employment. The phone rang and thinking it was the TraveLodge calling me back about the housekeeping position, I answered.
“Ali Kumplunkem?” a woman asked.
“Speaking,” I said, wondering if I’d mistakenly given personnel my new nickname.
“This is Margaret McKay,” she announced. “I’m the artistic director at Nightwood Theatre. I’m calling in regard to Velda Springfield’s audition today.” I was about to say Velda wasn’t home but I remembered I was supposed to be her agent, so kept quiet. “I must say, she quite impressed us.” Now if she were talking about an audition of mine, this is where the “but” would come in. I waited for it. “Very, very natural on stage.” I waited some more. “A sense of honesty, sensitivity and naivety that would perfectly suit the role of the farm girl.” BUT…? “She’s really the one to play that part.”
I wanted her to get to the point. “Yes?”
“Yes,” she said. “Would she be available for the next six weeks?”
How did I know? Velda was a busy girl. I know she really wanted the part but did my little cadet know that a play lasted six weeks at the minimum? I wasn’t about to make any major decisions on her behalf. “Could I get back to you on that?” I asked. “I’ll have to speak to Velda.”
She encouraged me. “I called Equity, the stage union, and found out Velda didn’t belong to the theatre union. As well as being able to get her union card, we’d also pay her scale and a half.”
“I’ll mention that to her,” I said. “Look, I’ll be in touch by the end of the day.”
I hung up then whooped. Velda got the job! And somehow I felt like I had also gotten the job. I was exhilarated. Moments later, Velda came home.
“Hey, Vel,” I greeted her, feeling smug. I had a secret! “How’d it go?”
“Fine,” she said apathetically. “Blue jeans commercial. I stare at my boyfriend’s rear end as he walks away, turn to the camera and whisper, ‘He’s so fine’. How can you blow that?”
“Was Shirley Bloom there?”
“Of course. I’m starting to wonder if we don’t have the same agent,” Velda pouted.
“Think you got it?” I idly required.
“I don’t know,” Velda replied. “I don’t care. That’s not the part I wanted.”
“Oh, you wanted the theatre job?” I tried to lift my eyebrow. “Don’t worry about that. You got it.”
I was too blasé. Velda didn’t get my drift. She gave me a weak look and said, “Ah, you’re just trying to cheer me up.”
I sprang to life. “No, Velda! You got the play! They just called! You got it!” We spun in circles and squealed and cried. Then I had to calm her down. “Listen, Vel, I told them we’d get back to them this afternoon about it. I didn’t want to say yes without talking to you first.”
“Call them!” Velda said, pushing the phone at me. “Book me before they get somebody else!”
“Oh, they want you, there’s no doubt,” I said. “They’re gonna give you your Equity union card AND pay you scale and a half.” Velda’s face clouded over for a moment. “Hey, I didn’t ask for it. They offered it!”
“Scale and a half on my first theatre gig?” Velda was amazed. “You should have just said yes right when they called.”
“Velda,” I said sternly, “do you know that they want you for six weeks? That means you can’t just drop them if a movie comes along. You can’t leave them in a bind. And the money isn’t as good as film work either.”
Velda also knew the value of a stern voice. “Alice, you know how badly I want this part. I thought about what you said, about breaking this image I have, and a better opportunity couldn’t have presented itself. And I know what I’m committing to – six weeks of real work.”
“So I’ll call already,” I said, Jewish all of a sudden. “What I do for ten puhcent.” I was efficient once I was speaking to Nightwood Theatre’s director though.
“Hello, Ali Kumplunkem here. Velda Springfield will be able to do My Favorite Field… Your terms were agreeable, yes…You’d like her to start when?” I looked at Velda, who whispered she’d start today if they wanted. “…Tomorrow will be fine…Yes, just send the contract to me.” I gave her my address and we had a deal.
“I’m very impressed, Ali,” Velda informed me. “You really are a pro.”
“Ahhh, I’m just helping you out, Vel,” I shucked and shawed.
“Well, you deserve every cent of that commission,” she replied.
“No, no!” I protested. “My saying I was your agent was just a scam to get them to see you. You don’t owe me anything.”
“Listen,” she flatly stated. “I’m a professional too. You got me the audition and you handled my contract. In my books, you are automatically entitled to a commission. Besides, you were there for me emotionally and spiritually and helped me prepare myself. That was more than my real agent ev
er did for me.”
* * *
Velda’s real agent was extremely angry at her. Freaking, shrieking, roaring mad at her. They were speaking together over the phone and Scott was so thunderously peeved that I heard every word he boomed out.
Scott had phoned earlier and left a message with me. Velda was to contact him immediately. I did not want to say that Velda was at rehearsal because he wasn’t supposed to know about the play. I don’t know how Velda planned to pull it off. Sooner or later he would find out. Scott didn’t leave any more details with me but later I imagine he tried to, because the phone rang more often than usual. The answering machine took over.
Velda waltzed in. I could see she wanted to enthuse a bit but I stopped her. “Your agent called. He wants you to call back immediately.”
“Yeah, I didn’t charge my cell phone, so I didn’t get my messages today. When did he call?” she asked.
“About six hours ago,” I said.
“Yikes,” she replied and started dialing the phone.
“WHERE WERE YOU??” an earsplitting voice came over the line. “I’ve been leaving messages all day!”
“I was busy,” Velda began, “I…”
“You know damn well you’re supposed to keep in constant touch with me!” Scott roared. Since I couldn’t help but overhear, I couldn’t resist giving a haughty snoot to this remark. Velda glanced at me and nodded.
“Scott, I do not HAVE to do anything,” she replied firmly. “Maybe I wanted a day off or something.”
“Then tell me, Velda!” Scott yelled. “Anyhow, you got the Rodeo Blue Jeans commercial.” I didn’t quite catch the last part so I leaned forward a bit.
Velda cupped the receiver and whispered to me, “I got the commercial!” She then returned to Scott. “Does it shoot on the weekend?” she asked.
“Of course not,” Scott retorted. “Next Monday. I’ll get back to you with more info later.”
By now Velda and I were both listening on the same earpiece. “I’m sorry, Scott,” Velda said, “I’m working on Monday.”
“No, you’re not,” Scott informed her. “I have your schedule right in front of me.”
“I…uh…I’m in a play,” Velda actually came out and told him. “It’s an amazing part, Scott! It’ll…”
“A PLAY!?” Scott screamed. “Get OUTTA it! Now!”
“I can’t,” Velda said. “I signed a contract.”
“Bring the contract to my office,” Scott commanded. “I’ll get you out of it.”
“I don’t WANT to get out of it!” Velda shouted back. “Scott, I know what’s good for me, and this play is very important to my career.”
Scott was fuming. “Rodeo Jeans is very important to your career!” he yelled. “They might even get you to do a poster!”
“Jeez, Scott, I don’t want to be a pin-up girl,” Velda bewailed to her agent. “I want to be a REAL actress.”
“Real actresses don’t make any money, honey,” Scott said patronizingly. “Rodeo is prepared to pay double scale right across the board. Is your little play going to pay anything near that much? You’re not even Equity! Don’t tell me you’re doing AMATEUR theatre?”
I couldn’t stand listening to Scott rant on like he was such a smarty-pants. I reeled to the couch and flung myself down. Velda was mad too. “Listen, Scott, I’ll have you know I now belong to Equity! I am also being paid top dollar. And @#1@I ALSO happen to be enjoying my new job very much. So you know where that leaves Rodeo Jeans?”
“If you take a play, you can’t do anything else for weeks!” Scott let her know.
“I know that,” Velda replied. “I’ll let you know when I’m available for work again, alright?” She was trying to get off the phone on a good note.
“Listen, Velda, you’re not a big star yet,” Scott said. I could smell a threat. “If you don’t drop this silly play, then you can kiss our association good-bye.”
Velda gave me a look. It wasn’t one of fear; it was more impish. She then blew a loud kiss into the phone. Covering the receiver again, she giggled. “I wonder if he got my point?”
“Velda, does that mean what I think it means?” Scott screamed. “Answer me, you bimbo!”
Oohhh, never call Velda a bimbo. She may look like one and even act like one sometimes, but she is definitely not a bimbo. She gathered herself together and in the most dignified Boston-bred accent, she spoke. “Scott, the association between myself and your tasteless turd-licking agency is OVER.” With that, she severed the connection.
She looked triumphant. I looked worried. “Velda, he was the best…” I warned her. “Maybe you should call him back.”
“Are you serious?” Velda laughed. “Oh, I feel so good about it! What a weight off my shoulders! I’ve been oh-so-wanting to do that for ages!”
“But, Vel,” I tried to get her back on track, “what are you going to do for an agent?”
“You’re my agent for everything now,” she calmly informed me.
I saw a challenge.
* * *
Being Velda’s agent was pretty simple the first few weeks. She was busy, so I didn’t need to find her a job. Basically I’d serve as her sounding board at the end of rehearsals. Some days she was euphoric. “Ali,” she softly said, “I reached deep inside myself today to conquer a scene. I pictured my puppy Rosalita when it died in my arms. And I used that sadness in a field scene, when a fire has just destroyed three of our henhouses. I actually cried.” Other days she was near hysteria. “My father and I aren’t connecting! I don’t feel a deep paternal love for him. It doesn’t help that he eats Greek food every day for lunch!” All in all though, I could see that this play was enriching Velda, if only for the fact that she finally had to really work for her pay.
I still hadn’t found another line of work. Every time I mentioned to Velda that I should start carpet cleaning or delivering flyers, she acted as if I were making a joke. “Right! Ali Kumplunkem doing menial work!” She still had me up on some kind of a pedestal. “Don’t worry, Ali,” she said. “Soon I’ll be making big money again and you’ll be rich once more.” My pride didn’t allow me to say I WANTED a lowly job. In the meanwhile, I spent some time wondering how agents went about getting their clients work.
Out of the blue, Joe called me. He wanted to get together that night. I spent the entire afternoon bathing, primping, styling and dressing myself. I looked even more stunning than on the night I’d last seen him. He took me to a movie house that showed second-run films, where we viewed both The Godfather and The Godfather II. I was physically fighting off sleep when the films finally ended. “Coffee?” Joe asked.
“Sure,” I replied. It was going to take three cups of espresso to rejuvenate me.
Once we were seated, Joe went into a speech about how important this guy Coppola was. He was the director of the films we’d just seen. “He really knows how to bring out the best in his actors,” Joe declared. “Man! I’d love to work with him!”
“Get your agent to arrange an audition,” I suggested.
“Right!” Joe said sarcastically. “That’s like asking to have an audience with the Pope. My agents wouldn’t even THINK of approaching a guy of that caliber.”
“Guess what?” I asked. “I’m Velda’s agent now.”
“No kidding?” he replied. “You’re in the agent business now?”
“Sorta just fell into it,” I answered. “But I got Velda work already. A play.”
“Good for her. Good for you,” Joe, the master of eloquence, said. “Hey, didja like how Al Pacino stayed so cool when he had to kill those guys? Just his eyes showed…” He went on about those damn films. It was like watching a third movie. Thank God I had coffee to sustain me this time.
Things hadn’t changed much with Joe. But then again…they had in a couple ways. Joe got a bit more classy – he sent me home in a cab. Yet, unlike the old days, he didn’t give me a good-bye kiss. I don’t know why I wanted one. He didn’t exactly turn me on. I just felt com
fortable with him and thought the night would end nicely with a kiss. I guess he wanted to be friends.
And knowing now just how important friends are, I guessed I could settle for that.
* * *
Joe was my invited guest to the opening of My Favorite Field. It was Velda’s big night and my greatest task so far as an agent was getting her to the theatre.
She had fallen to pieces so much, I almost had to sweep her up and carry her there in a sack. It was even touch and go for a while whether I should call the theatre and inform the stage manager that Velda Springfield would be unable to make it for tonight’s performance. I promised Velda that I would be third row center. I’d left my jacket over two chairs for a week now, to ensure I had those seats. Velda wanted to know exactly where I’d be sitting so she could “play” to me.
After escorting her to the dressing room, I quickly made an exit. I ran to a nearby coffee shop and drank a cup slowly. I was intent on saying my Hail Mary’s three dozen times. I’m not big on religion but I wanted God with me on this score. If Velda did well, we’d all be happy. If she bombed, I had a feeling I was responsible for a lot of the blame. Big Mouth, Know-It-All Kumplunkem.
Joe met me at the theatre. He looked like he had just gotten out of bed. Two days’ growth of beard, jeans with holes in them and a baggy suit jacket worn over a lime-green t-shirt. I was wearing a backless dress. I guess I wanted to flaunt my back in front of Joe, now that my acne scars had disappeared. Instead, I just felt overdressed.
“New dress?” Joe asked. Of course it was. When I’d last seen him, over a year ago, I’d have been lucky to get a leg through the hole in the back. But at least he’d noticed. “Hey,” Joe hesitated to add, “I hope you don’t want to go to the party after?”
“I kind of have to. For a while, anyways,” I grimaced back. “This is the play I got for Velda.”