Lights! Camera! Dissatisfaction...

by Kim Cayer

  “We’ll see,” Joe decided.

  Joe didn’t mind claiming our seats early. He wasn’t one for socializing. We thumbed through the program. “Holy shit,” Joe remarked. “Velda will flip when she sees her photo.”

  I searched it out. It was a shot of a plainer Velda, still lovely, but looking more like Miss Red River Valley. Her smile only showed six teeth and her hair was left unstyled. “No,” I corrected Joe. “She knows about it.” She’d brought a copy of the photo home and studied it for four solid hours. I had also been expecting a flip-out, but none came.

  The theatre became packed. There wasn’t an empty seat in the house. Joe recognized a couple faces in the audience – theatre critics from the city’s biggest newspapers. The lights were just about to go up when a loud crash was heard. The lights went back down and a giggle went up from the crowd. My heart sank. Don’t let this be a forewarning!

  An interminable time later, at least three minutes, the stage lights came up again. There sat Velda, my morning Velda, staring out of a farmhouse window. Joe leaned forward in his seat, stared hard, then whispered to me, “That’s not Velda, is it?” I nodded and he shook his head in amazement.

  The play went from swell to downright magnificent. When it ended, I wished I’d grown up on a farm in New Brunswick. I yearned to go home and put on a flannel nightgown and make a stew. There was curtain call after curtain call and finally, a standing ovation. Tears were streaming down my cheeks and for the first time, Velda looked right at me. She started crying too and blew me a kiss.

  When the applause died down, I turned to Joe. “Guess we should go to the party for a bit,” I said negatively.

  “Yeah, sure,” Joe said. He seemed to be lost in thought.

  Joe bought me a beer and we just stood around. I could sense he wasn’t in the mood for conversation but I didn’t blame him. That play really had an effect on us! I was waiting for Velda’s arrival but she was taking her time. Joe finally spoke up. “You got her that play, huh?”

  “Yup,” I simply said. As if it was a run-of-the-mill occurrence. “Oh, there’s Velda!” We moved to greet her but about thirty people got in front of us. Velda looked ravishing. She wore a gingham dress, but it was low-cut and off the shoulder. Her make-up was on in full force. She really was a smart cookie. Let the people see you plain but never let them think you ARE plain. Here she was showing that she could also play in the Hugh Hefner story. She assaulted the senses.

  It was impossible to get to her. She saw us, waved and shrugged her shoulders. “She knows we’re here,” Joe said. “Let’s go. I wanna talk to you.” He said this so gravely, I wondered what I did wrong.

  “What’s the matter, Joe?” I asked as we walked along.

  “I’m just trying to decide something,” he said then paused. “OK, I’ve decided. You’re my new agent.”

  That stopped me right in my tracks. “WHAT?” I shrieked like a fishwife.

  He opened the door for me at some eatery. I didn’t read the sign; I was too busy studying Joe’s face for signs of a joke. He chose a seat for us then told me more. “I just want you for my agent.”

  “But what’s wrong with your agent?” I continued nagging. “He’s done so much for you!”

  “Yeah, in the beginning,” Joe said, which was all of two years ago. “Now he just takes the phone calls. He’s not pushing for me.”

  “Not when they’re offering you work on a platter,” I scoffed. “Joe, you’re one of the busiest actors in this country! No agent can do more for you.” It really sounded like I was trying to talk myself out of a job.

  “You’re probably right,” Joe agreed. “But I like to take chances. I’m bored with my guy and wanna switch. So what’s the big deal? Or don’t you want to take me on?”

  “Joe, I’ll take you on…,” I began. What was I saying? “…but I have to tell you, I’m new at this. I’m real green. And I have a confession. Velda’s play? Pure fluke. We just lucked onto it. You better think about this some more.”

  “Nah,” Joe settled it. “You’re my agent. Cappucino?”

  * * *

  It was pretty easy being Velda and Joe’s agents. They were both working. Velda was raking in accolades for her role as the farm girl and Joe was leaving the next day for Texas, where he was playing some desert terrorist role. As a matter of fact, Joe had scheduled a ‘meeting’ with me. We were going to get together at my ‘office’. I was in my pink housecoat and fuzzy slippers when a knock came at the door. “It’s open!” I yelled. Yeah, yeah, I know…stupid of me. But hey, I was in Toronto now, not NYC.

  Joe popped into the kitchen. “Hi,” he said. “Coffee still hot?”

  “I’m just putting it on,” I replied. “Velda’s not even up yet.” The saintly farm girl was living it up post-performance, allowing herself to be squired around town on the arms of various noteworthy men. I just slept in because I had nothing else to do.

  Joe reached into a large brown paper bag. “I brought us some bagels.”

  “From that shop…” I began, then stopped. I was going to bring up a romantic aspect of the past. You know how they have ‘our song’ or ‘our table’? Well, we had our ‘bagel bakery’; a shop where a tiny pair of overworked Chinese men served the best bagels in all of Toronto.

  Joe nodded. I served coffee while Joe got the plates. We were munching when I prodded him. “So?” I asked. “What’s the meeting for?”

  “Oh, I just thought I’d drop by before I left,” Joe said. Oh, really? “Anyways, I completely cleared things up with my old agent. This job is the last one with them. I have no bookings after. I wish I didn’t have to do this one as it is.”

  “Joe, you don’t have to do it,” I said. “Well, at least, you didn’t have to, but then you signed that contract.”

  “That’s what I’m going to like about you, Alice…”

  “‘Ali’, during business hours, thank you.”

  “I feel like you’re gonna stand behind my decisions,” Joe stated. “You were an actress once too, so you know this end of the business.”

  “If I were an actress still,” I told him, “I wouldn’t pass up a chance to work with Vin Diesel.”

  Joe looked crestfallen. “You like them beefy types?”

  “No! Of course not!” I laughed. “But he’s a big star. A lot of people go see his films.”

  “I don’t care,” he groused. “I’d be happy doing a role I really liked on a stage in front of 11 people. Or working with someone I really admired, like…”

  “I know, I know,” I interjected. “Coppola, Pacino…” There were a couple more but those two were his favorites. “Joe, did you remember to bring me that stuff?” I asked. I’d been asking every day for photos and his demo tapes and he kept forgetting them.

  He reached inside the paper bag again. “Here’s about twenty photos. I’ve only got a couple demo tapes left too.” He gave them to me. “My resume is on the back of the photo,” he showed me. I didn’t know you could do that with your resume.

  “Well, Joe, I’ll see what I can do for you,” I told him. At that moment, I didn’t have a clue.

  “Something will come up. It usually does,” he calmly said. “And if not, I guess we starve.” We laughed. “Well, I should get going. I thought I’d do my laundry before I pack.”

  I stood up. “Have a good trip. Say hi to Vinnie for me.”

  We both stood looking at one another. It was an awkward moment. Joe yet again reached into that worn paper bag and this time he withdrew a box of chocolates. “Uh…these are for you,” he said.

  A box of candy? It may have been the thing to do at one time, but absolutely no one bought candy for the lady anymore. It was an old-fashioned move and that’s why I loved it and that’s why the awkward moment became even more awkward. “What for?” I breathlessly asked and looked up into his deep brown eyes.

  “Ah, you know,” he said loudly. “For being my agent, I guess. Well, I’ll see you in a few weeks.”

  A coup
le days later, I sat musing at the kitchen table. I’d just finished watching one of Joe’s demo tapes seven times and that started me thinking fondly of Joe. I even chuckled over his pet desire – to work with Coppola. For a lark, for something to do and knowing I was at least making an effort, I started making phone calls. My target was a mailing address for Francis Ford Coppola. I got a kick out of talking to all those people. So what if I’m asking dumb questions? You don’t know who I am. Not entirely true, since I was introducing myself as Jane Poundoff. And usually I got a great answer to a stupid question.

  Eight phone calls later, I had an address for the man. Then I wrote a short but to the point letter to him. Hey, Frank! This guy is big-time in Canada, he’s crazy for you, he wants to work for you, he’s a superb actor but I’ll let his demo CD do the talking. Call me sometime, Ali. No, really, I was a little more formal but that was the gist of it. Funny, I didn’t have a difficult time writing the letter. It seems easier to write about something you actually believe in.

  Throwing the tape, photo and CD into an envelope, I decided to send it by Priority Post. Might as well try to impress someone along the way, and there was less chance of it getting lost in the rest of Coppola’s mail. Didn’t cost much more than a hamburger, so I went without lunch.

  Go ahead. Call it a shot in the dark. I was.

  * * *

  Someone finally called me! Not me, plain Alice, but me, Ali the Agent. “Am I speaking to Velda Springfield’s agent?” a voice asked over the phone.

  “Yes, you are,” I replied, my heart a-racing. What was I booking her for? A mini-series? Gossip Girl? A role opposite Tom Cruise? “Can I help you?” I asked.

  “My name is Guenther Schomberg. I work for the Fashion Section of the Star newspaper. We have a photo spread of Lula Kola’s clothing coming up,” he informed me. “You probably know her stuff?” Refresh my memory. “All cowboy chic and farm fashionable. Lula saw My Favorite Field and thought Velda would make a wonderful model. I spoke to the theatre already; they wouldn’t mind the publicity. What do you think?”

  I wanted to know if this was a freebie. It felt like it. But what the heck – may as well put on the tough act and see where that leads. “What’s the pay?” I asked, praying he wouldn’t answer “exposure!”

  “Six hundred, and it shouldn’t take more than four hours, three tops. We’ll supply a hair and make-up artist. Thing is, I’d like to do it this afternoon. Is she busy?”

  “Hang on a sec, I’ll wa…” I was going to say ‘wake her up’, but I didn’t want people thinking we had anything more than a working relationship. “Waaa…wait, I’ll check her schedule.” I was still going to wake her up and see if she felt like doing this shoot, but I stopped. Hell with that! I know she isn’t working until later tonight and if she made a lunch date, well, toots, you gotta break it. I need to make money so you gotta work. Too bad you didn’t get home until three a.m. Put on some cowboy cheek and make me sixty bucks. “Yeah, Guenther? Be there at two, OK?” I said. “You can have her until five at the latest.”

  Thankfully, Velda really was a professional. I woke her up, told her the news and she launched out of bed. “Oh, boy!” she cheered. “Exposure!” She never stopped yammering while she bathed and refreshed her appearance. “Do you think I’ve gotten fatter? Are my teeth still white-white? Oh, Ali, you’re such a good agent for getting me this job!”

  That’s what kind of bothered me. I didn’t get her the job. The job came to her. I had a feeling jobs would be coming for Joe as well. But wasn’t I expected to find GOOD roles for them? If I could find just one, maybe I’d prove worthy of the title ‘Agent’.

  Guenther was right on time. His assistant started setting up lights in the living room. They’d asked for permission to shoot Velda at home and I’d agreed. I figured Velda’s beauty would overshadow the messy background.

  The make-up artist sighed when Velda came out of her bedroom. “Ohhh, you are such a natural beauty!”

  “That better not mean you’re not going to make me look even better,” Velda wisecracked. It was the beginning of an enjoyable shoot. A lot of bantering, joking and tomfoolery. The outfits Velda was modeling were hilarious; even Guenther thought so. Even so, Velda did a marvelous job of looking comfortable and at home in them.

  The only unsettling thing was that Guenther kept giving me the occasional look. Make that stare. I didn’t sense any romantic interest in me and I don’t think we’d ever met before, so I wondered what the attention was about.

  As they were packing up to leave, Guenther asked me, “What was your last name again, Ali?”

  Instantly on guard, “Why? Is this for the photo spread?”

  He laughed. “Can’t a person ask for someone’s last name?”

  “It’s Kumplunkem,” I said, waiting for the usual guffaw.

  He nodded. “I thought so,” and that was it. They left and Velda showed me the cards she’d received from the make-up artist, hair stylist and photographer.

  Two days later, a knock came at the door. I opened it and there stood Guenther and another man. Guenther looked startled. “Ali? I thought Velda lived here.”

  “Uh…she does,” I replied. “I’m visiting. Do you want to see her?” That meant I would have to wake her up.

  “As a matter of fact,” Guenther said, “you’re the one we want to see.”

  My warning antennae bristled. “Why?”

  “This is Bud Whilt,” Guenther said. “He’s a reporter for the Star.” I felt a dead faint spiraling on. “I figured it was you – Alice Kumplunkem, the Canadian girl wonder in the USA.”

  “The Star would like to do a story on you,” Bud informed me. “You’ve kept quite a low profile since your return to Canada.”

  “I’d like to keep that low profile,” I said. “I’m sorry to be rude, but no. No story on me.” I shut the door politely in their faces, walked to the couch, sat down and started shaking. What kind of dastardly turn would my life take now? Why did adverse publicity stalk me? Why couldn’t people leave my life alone? Why did some people choose water while others chose concrete when they leapt from high altitudes?

  A few days later, I had gotten over that newspaper-guy fear and was now dwelling on bigger problems. Velda’s play would be over soon. Joe would be home in a few days. No one had phoned me with any job offers. I didn’t know what the hell to do, so I drank my fourth cup of coffee. Velda woke up just before I finished the pot.

  “You look miserable, Ali,” Velda observed. “Cheer up! What’s the matter?”

  Obviously I didn’t want to tell her. I wanted her to continue thinking I was SuperAgent. “Nothing,” I replied. “Just down.”

  “Then come to my play tonight!” she insisted. “I’ll leave a comp at the door for you.” She knew how good her play left me feeling. I had seen it five times already.

  “Yeah, I’d love to see it again,” I said. “Thanks. I’ll wait backstage for you after the show.” With all her other admirers.

  “No, that’s silly!” Velda said. “You’re my agent, dummy. Come to the dressing room.”

  The phone rang and Velda picked it up. “Hello? …This is Velda…my agent’s number? …Uh, well, she’s right here, as a matter of fact. Do you want to speak to her?” She handed me the phone. My heart held out rays of hope. Work for Velda?

  “Hello?” I answered. “This is Ali Kumplunkem,” I corrected the man who’d asked if he was speaking to ‘Alice’.

  “This is Bud Whilt, from the Star. Do you remember me?”

  “Yes, I do,” I replied in an icy voice.

  “Look, Alice…Ali,” he said. “The Star is going to do a story on you regardless of what you want. Now I thought I’d give you the chance to represent yourself. That way, at least you’ve given us your side of the story. Our article will be fair to you.”

  WHY ME???? Where could I run to now? Cuba? But if they absolutely had to do a story on me, then Bud was right. At least let me get my two cents in.

  “Whe
n do you want to see me?” I asked glumly.

  “Oh, you set the time and place!” Bud said.

  I looked at my empty datebook. I needed a few days to prepare for this. “Monday, four o’clock, 150 Brunswick Avenue.” He thanked me and hung up.

  I told Velda and she was thrilled for me. I tried to impress on her that my life was the shits in America, but she pooh-poohed me. “Oh, just because you spent a few days in some dinky little institution.” Then she again raved about the wonderful jobs I’d held. There was just no getting through to her. In her eyes, my steady gig on a soap opera was only second in importance to being President of the United States. Even though Velda was extremely positive about the upcoming interview, I was a negative Nellie.

  I really needed a dose of My Favorite Field.

  * * *

  Aaahhh, it was only intermission and already I was feeling that familiar feeling – a mournful yearning for life on a pacific farm, where your biggest concern was a bunch of chickens and getting supper on the table in time. A simple but honorable life. My Favorite Field was really a very powerful play, and Act II, still to come, was even better.

  I was ordering a Diet Coke when I picked up on a conversation two couples away from me. A tanned lady was spouting off to her companion. They both looked like tourists because they were dressed better than anyone else in the room. “Sue, my husband should see this play!” the more attractive woman commented. “Every actor in this play should get a part in Sam’s show. I’ve never seen such good theatre.” She even had some kind of accent.

  “And to think we weren’t even going to come!” Sue exclaimed. “The boys should have come here instead of going to the casino. Of course Sam should see this show because that’s his job, but Roy hates the theatre, you know. Oh, don’t tell Sam I told you that! But I think Roy should see this too. He grew up on a farm!”

  “Tomorrow night,” Sam’s wife decided, “we make the boys come see this play.”

  “Tell Sam it’s his job,” Sue insisted. Wives’ talk.

  Their conversation stuck with me and during Act II, I came up with a plan. I hadn’t planned on making a plan, but ideas began hurtling themselves at me. I absentmindedly applauded at the end of the show and unthinkingly joined the standing ovation. I decided I was gonna try something.