Lights! Camera! Dissatisfaction...

by Kim Cayer

  I was the first one to exit the theatre. I stood by the exit and waited for Sue and Sam’s wife to appear. I hoped Velda wouldn’t miss me backstage because I wasn’t going to be there. I was going with these ladies, although they weren’t to be made aware of it. I was going to tail them.

  The first thing one said when they left the theatre was, “Where can we find a taxi?” Oh shit! How was I going to follow them by cab? I don’t think I had more than five bucks on me.

  Fortunately, Sue asked Mrs. Sam and not some fellow Torontonian. I dropped my Sam Spade impersonation and jumped right into their conversation.

  “Oh, do you need a cab?” I innocently asked. “I’m going to catch one too. I can show you where to get one.”

  “Why, thank you!” Mrs. Sam cooed. “That’s very nice of you!”

  We began walking down the street. Cabs usually drove by the front of the theatre every couple minutes, so I didn’t waste time. “I figured you were from out of town,” I remarked. “You have some sort of accent.”

  “We think you have an accent!” Sue said and laughed. Yup, they definitely sounded Southern.

  Hurry, Alice. “Where you from?” I asked, then decided I was wasting time on trivial matters. “Where you staying in Toronto?”

  “The Four Seasons,” Mrs. Sam replied. “Lovely hotel.”

  “Did you like the show?” I enquired.

  That set them both off; they’d been subconsciously searching for a third party to pile more kudos on. I nodded and agreed everywhere, even adding a few praises of my own. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw an empty cab driving up.

  Go for it, Ali. Just be nosy and pushy then say you’re an agent and that’ll excuse your behavior. “Look,” I began, “I represent one of the actors in the show. If you’d like to see the play again, I could get you complimentary tickets.”

  They looked at each other in delight. Then Mrs. Sam turned to me. “We’d love to bring our husbands. Can you arrange for four tickets? Is that too much to ask?”

  “No problem,” I said, hoping it wouldn’t be. Then I went for broke. “My name’s Ali Kumplunkem. Why don’t you save some time after the show tomorrow? I’d like to take the four of you out to dinner.” That way they’d be sure to come see the show.

  “You Canadians are so nice!” Mrs. Sam declared. “Oh, here’s a cab! You take it!”

  “No, go ahead,” I offered.

  “No, you,” she insisted. “You’ve already been so kind to us strangers. Oh, I’m Iris Platnum and this is my friend, Susan King. Now you go ahead and take this cab. We’ll see you at the theatre tomorrow.” I stalled. “Go on! We’re fine! We’ll flag down the next one.”

  “Alright, thank you,” I said, getting into the taxi. “See you tomorrow.”

  “Where to?” the squinty-eyed driver asked me.

  I didn’t think he was going to like me. “Around the corner,” I ordered. He swore a bit, and even more when I discovered I didn’t even have enough money for that. To compensate for it, I suggested he go back and pick up the two rich ladies I was with.

  The next morning, I asked Velda for four comps to her show. She didn’t know if she could swing that many and asked why.

  “Uh…I’ve invited some people to see your show before it closes…,” I began.

  “Which is tomorrow night,” Velda added, dejected. She wasn’t sad because she didn’t have another job lined up, but because she was thoroughly enjoying this theatre experience.

  “They’ll be coming tonight,” I said.

  “What kind of people?” Velda asked.

  “Uhhh…producers?” I gamely said.

  “Oh, Ali!” Velda shrieked and went into her ‘good agent!’ speech. I asked her to meet us after the show. “Sure! Where?” she asked.

  “Ed’s Foodhouse,” I’d decided. It was the most gaudy restaurant I could think of and the one that would most appeal to showbiz people.

  That day I made a few calls around town, trying to find out who Sam Platnum was. I was beginning to love that anonymous phone. However, I had no luck with my calls. No one in Canadian theatre had heard of the guy. I hoped I wouldn’t be dishing out $300 treating some nogoodniks to a fancy meal. I decided to go with my instincts though.

  I met the foursome at the theatre. Iris and Sue had noticeably had their hair frosted. Roy and Sam were two well-fed jovial types. Both wore suspenders they liked to tug on. These men looked more like good ol’ boys wearing suits than artistic directors of theatre. “I’m sorry,” I said. “I won’t be sitting with you. Why don’t we meet in the lobby after the show? We’ll go to dinner from here.” I thought it a good idea to let them have their space so they wouldn’t feel pressured into liking the show just because I had some actor in it. I wanted them to have a natural reaction.

  “I could go to dinner right now!” Roy declared, patting his ample belly. “Ah’m starved!”

  “Oh, Roy!” Sue chided him. “You’ll love this show. At least watch the first act! Come on, let’s go get our seats.”

  I had neglected to get myself a ticket so I waited in the lobby until the show let out. I had been worried that Velda would have an off-night but by the sounds of it, she was terrific as usual.

  I was happy to see my foursome approach me after the show. I took them over to Ed’s Foodhouse, anxious to discuss business. As we took our seat, I asked how they liked the show.

  “Well, Ali, I know show business, and I’d say this play will be held over for at least another six months,” Sam prophesized.

  “It closes tomorrow,” I informed him. “Another show was booked for the theatre. It’s already been held over for three weeks.”

  “Ali represents one of the actors in the show, Sam,” Iris told her husband. “Don’t you, Ali? Which one?”

  “Velda Springfield, the one who played the farm girl,” I proudly stated and got the expected response. Both couples went into spasms on her acting ability.

  “Oh, are you directing a show?” I asked him. I really wanted to know what this guy did for a living.

  “I own a string of theatres in the South,” Sam said. “Right now I’m putting together a big show that’ll tour all my places.”

  “He starts casting on Monday,” Iris told me. “Sue and I managed to talk him into taking us on a lil’ holiday before he really gets going with this show.”

  “Velda will be available for work as of Monday,” I pushed. “Her last show is tomorrow night.”

  “Honey, I’ll tell you, that Velda is about the best actress I’ve seen in ages!” Sam said. “I wouldn’t even bother auditioning her if only I had a role for her. Now that guy who played her daddy…him I could probably use. He was pretty good. Whaddaya think, Roy?”

  “He reminded me of my father,” Roy replied.

  I tried. But if there were no roles for her, then that was it. I couldn’t do anymore. They were probably producing some war drama. “What kind of play is it?” I asked dully.

  “Something the Southern audiences will just eat up,” Sam said. “A remake of Frankie and Johnny. You know that story? We have the perfect Nellie Blye. Meg Ryan promised she’d dye her hair red for the role.”

  I tried to recall the story. Frankie and Johnny? Sounded like a song I’d heard…then I remembered the Michelle Pfeiffer film. “Who’s playing Frankie?” I enquired.

  Sam shrugged. “We’ll find out Monday. That’s when casting begins.”

  I persisted. “Would you consider looking at Velda?”

  “Honey, Velda’s a wonderful actress, I don’t have to repeat that, but she’s too plain for Frankie…too earthy,” Sam said regretfully. “We want to cast a real siren for Frankie.”

  “Fine,” I simply said and waited for Velda’s arrival. She was late, and we were about to order when I saw Sam and Roy’s jaws drop. Every man was staring at something and I turned around to see what it could be. A luscious blonde vision in a clinging red dress, hair cascading around her shoulders, made her way across the room. I turned arou
nd again and watched the amazement in Sam’s face when this bigger-than-life creature walked right up to our table.

  “Everyone,” I smugly announced, “this is Velda Springfield.”

  * * *

  It was Monday afternoon, only a couple hours to go before my interview with the Star. I didn’t know where I’d gone wrong. Velda had charmed the pants off Sam and, perhaps more importantly, his wife. As we parted company at the restaurant, all buddy buddy, I gave them my phone number. I was sure Sam would call before the weekend was over. I guess Velda wasn’t right after all. Obviously she wasn’t bothered. She was too busy studying a photo of herself that had appeared in today’s gossip section of the National Post.

  I was readying myself for the newspaper interview. My matte-finished face was ready for any photos to be taken and I had a speech prepared defending every move I’d ever made. Velda had abandoned trying to pep me up for this interview. “Just believe in yourself, Ali!” she insisted. “Do you want me to leave when they get here?”

  “NOOO!” I wailed. “I need moral support!”

  The phone rang. “Please let that be the Star cancelling,” I prayed aloud and picked up the receiver. “Hello?”

  “Ali!” a voice boomed over the phone. “It’s Sam!”

  Sam? Sam Putnam!! “Hi, Sam! How was the trip back?” I brilliantly asked, as if that were my uppermost concern.

  “Splendid,” he replied. “Well, today’s Monday, casting day! I was wondering if we could use Velda for the Frankie role?”

  Could he?! Don’t ask me why, but I played it cool. “What’s the deal?” I asked. I listened to his proposition and then made my decision. “We’ll take it.”

  “I just faxed Meg Ryan’s contract to her agent,” Sam said. “What’s your fax number?”

  “Uhh…I just moved into a new office and don’t have my fax machine set up yet,” I said. “Just…uh…express it to me?”

  “It’s going in the package now,” Sam said. “Been great doing business with you, Ali. Look, do me a favor, would ya? Swing a deal with that actor who played the daddy in that farm play. It’s a minor role but I can discuss that with his agent.”

  I saw a quick way to make another five per cent. I was sure I could get that from Daddy’s agent. Velda wouldn’t mind working with him again; she’d grown to admire him. They were almost friends now.

  “I’ll look into that and get him to call you,” I said. “Good luck with the show, Sam. Velda will see you in a week.”

  I hung up. I was flushed from top to bottom. Damn if I didn’t do it! I got Velda a job! I walked into her bedroom, where she was pasting the Post article into her My Favorite Field scrapbook. It was already bulging with clippings.

  “Vel, how does this sound to you? Three months in Alabama, Georgia, Mississippi and Louisiana, six grand a week, all expenses paid, in the lead role of a play?”

  She smothered me in her thankfulness. After ungluing myself from her embrace, Velda began talking excitedly. “I’ll be working in the USA!” she said, her eyes taking on a faraway look. “Down south! You know I’m really a Southern girl at heart. I can do the accent perfectly!” She began talking that way and it was pretty good. “Twenty-four thousand American dollars a month!” she exclaimed. Wow, she was right! We really were in the money. “And in another play! I was feeling so depressed already because this one was over and here you found me another one! And such an exotic one! Oh, Ali, my career has gone fabulous since you took me on.”

  For a moment there, I almost believed I did take Velda on as a client. Then I remembered she basically took me on, as did Joe. I was lucky to have such clients. “We’ll go out and celebrate after my interview,” I said. My impending interview didn’t even worry me anymore; I was in too good a mood.

  That reminded me. I had agent work to do. Velda gave me the name of Bill Dudley’s agent and I went to phone her. Five minutes later, I was five per cent richer. Yeah, I was getting to like this job.

  The phone rang again. With assurance radiating from my voice, I answered it. “Ali Kumplunkem?” a voice asked.

  “Speaking,” I said businesslike.

  “Francis Ford Coppola.”

  I actually clutched the table. This couldn’t be happening. My breath wouldn’t come. Surely, surely, this man would not be calling me. “Ali?” Lord Coppola asked.

  “Yes?” I gasped.

  “I received the demo tape you sent me for Joe Smith.”

  “Yes,” I gasped again.

  “I like it,” he simply said. “You sent it just in time. I was almost done casting The Godfather IV.”

  “Oh?” I squeaked. I hadn’t realized he was casting anything.

  “All the leads have been cast for months,” he said. “I have a small role I’d like Joe to play. It’s only about a dozen lines but if he works out, who knows? I always rehire actors I like.”

  “He’ll take it,” I managed to stammer out.

  “Great. I’ll put you through to the production coordinator and you two can hammer out a deal,” Francis said. “Thanks again for sending me that tape.”

  “You’re welcome,” I said, but he’d already connected me to another guy. I was glad to be finished with Francis; he was too much for my sensibilities. I was put on hold and sat there, numb for a moment. Then, with building force, a realization hit me. MY GOD! Ali Kumplunkem, you’ve reached the pinnacle of your current career already! I would never be able to top this. I was glad to be taken off hold because the production coordinator brought me down to earth. I turned back into SuperAgent. “That sounds fine, sir,” I said to the financial deal. “Do you think we can swing something else? Keep him around set for another week and if you need him, he’s yours for nothing.” That was readily agreed to. It may sound like an odd business arrangement but I knew Joe would appreciate being in the company of Coppola.

  The doorbell sounded as I hung up. My former defensive attitude had left me. It was replaced by a cocky Ali Kumplunkem. I was ready for the interview.

  To my surprise, I wasn’t ready for it. They weren’t the vultures I’d expected. Instead they were gracious, considerate and very attentive to everything I had to say. I told them they were the first to hear my big news and proceeded to tell them of Velda and Joe’s good fortune.

  “So you’re a talent agent now?” Bud Whilt asked.

  “That’s right,” I replied.

  “How many clients do you have?”

  “Only two so far,” I answered, “but I’ve just opened my business.”

  “And look how well you’ve done already!” Bud said, scribbling some notes down. “How does it feel to be back in Canada?”

  I praised this country. I didn’t say I had friends in this country, a roof over my head and plenty of food to eat. He would have thought I’d spent the last year in Ethiopia. Instead, I complimented the beauty of Canada and its people.

  “Do you think you’ll ever go back to the States?” he asked.

  “No,” I answered. Not on your life.

  “Not even if Fox TV or the New York Times wanted you?” Bud asked disbelievingly.

  “I’m very happy to be HOME,” I stated. “I love my new job and hope to succeed at it.”

  Bud made more notes then stood up. “Thank you, Ali,” he said. “You’ve been very cooperative.”

  “Uh…when is this story coming out?” I asked.

  “Most likely tomorrow,” Bud said. “Thanks again.” He left.

  They were just too darn nice. The reporter didn’t ask any embarrassing questions. The photographer took 200 digital photos of me, just to make sure one would turn out decent. Both treated me as if I were the First Lady of Canada.

  I knew I was in for a set-up.

  * * *

  The next day, Velda was up early. She was going to a library to research her role. “I’m going to stay home and wait for that package from Sam Putnam,” I said. “Can you pick up the Star on your way back?” In reality, I didn’t want to leave the house. I pictured r
epercussions of the last time a feature story was done on me.

  The package came and I was curiously studying the contract. It all looked too wonderful to be true. Velda would be paid for this, for that and for everything left over. I didn’t need a lawyer to tell me we had a legal, binding, lovely deal. My Grade Twelve education was enough. I signed for Velda, just as she walked in the front door.

  “Did you get the paper?” I asked, running into the entrance. She was carrying an armful of Stars. I grabbed one off the top of the pile. “Did you read it yet?” I asked her.

  “At the library,” Velda said. “Ali, you’re gonna love it!”

  She turned to the story and there was my photo. I can’t say I looked real pretty but I did look like I meant business. I quickly read the article and then went back to savor it. I was astounded. The reporter made me out to be some kind of world-class figure. I ranked in smarts with Henry Kissinger.

  Then it finally hit me. I should have realized it sooner from all of Velda’s chatter, but it took this article for it to hit home. Canada, my beloved country, approved and accepted me.

  Why was that? Because I had worked in the U.S. of A. Sure, I’d bombed, but the big thing was that I made it to the States. Now I actually WAS somebody. At least in my country, which is all that mattered to me.

  Velda started clipping one of the artless and singing, “More publicity, yeah, more publicity for me.” The Star had included pictures of my two star clients and the local update on their careers. Then I remembered! Joe was flying in that day! I didn’t want him getting the good news about his new job from some newspaper; and I knew he wasn’t travelling with a cellphone. I prayed I could have the golden opportunity to tell him myself, perhaps to brag a bit.

  I grabbed my datebook and glanced at one of the few entries. I saw the arrival of Joe’s flight and figured, if I left immediately, I should just catch him.

  The phone rang. “I’m not here!” I yelled at Velda. “I’m going to the airport to meet Joe!”