Hollywood Ending

by Tash Skilton

  Then I notice that my laptop screen has gotten a little darker, indicating it’s no longer connected to a power source. I glance at the power strip underneath my desk. The red light is off. I’d been working without the lights on so I go to switch them on now. Nothing.

  I emerge from my room to a dark apartment—not surprising since Celeste must be asleep at this point. Only she’s not. She’s on a ladder in the kitchen with a flashlight, futzing around with the fuse box on the wall.

  “What’s going on?” I ask, so afraid of the answer.

  “Oh. You’re up. Sorry. I was testing out my new microdermabrasion machine and I guess it shorted something out.”

  My first thought, inexplicably, is that Celeste is really serious about this holistic spa business. My second, of course, is that no electricity means no internet. I look at the clock. 3:07 a.m.

  Okay. It’s fine. My phone and its cellular data should still work.

  I go back to my room and pick it up.

  It’s dead. I was so absorbed in the Lisbeth/Lucinda fanfic that I didn’t realize how low the charge had been running. Fuck. Me.

  I grab the laptop and run outside. Celeste is humming “If I Had a Hammer” to herself softly when I leave.

  I open up the network connections tab on the computer as I’m jogging with it, hoping to find any unsecure network I can log onto for just two minutes while I respond to Stu Stu’s comment. Little padlocks mock me from my screen.

  Shitshitshit.

  What are the chances an Australian rock star is on time though? I think, as I see the clock going to 3:11 a.m. Then 3:12.

  I’m running now, past an ocean of stucco houses with apparently no Good Samaritans who feel like gifting their neighbors with a passwordless connection. It takes me three blocks before my brain finally thinks of another destination to try.

  I sprint over to my closest Coffee Bean, carrying an open laptop in my arms like I’m an ER doctor rushing around with an unresponsive baby. I’m a sweaty mess by the time I reach the café’s parking lot, but I also see those miraculous curved bars that indicate I’m now connected to its internet. Thank God I brought my computer here to work last week, otherwise I’d never have the saved password on it.

  I sit my ass down right in the handicap spot in the parking lot and go over to Instagram. Right on time, a whole six minutes ago, Stu Stu has commented on the image. What’s a guy got to do for the honor of becoming a fallen soldier in the Kingdom of Six, eh?

  I type quickly, double-checking once for any typos, and then hit send so that the official CoRaB Instagram account has responded: You have an open invitation for a beheading anytime, sir.

  I slump back in relief against the wall of the Coffee Bean, my savior.

  I can’t believe I almost messed this up. Or rather, Celeste did. It’s the last straw. I need to leave her house ASAP. I’m going to let Sebastian know first thing in the morning that I’m taking him up on his offer of a place to crash while I figure something else out.

  CHAPTER 11

  This confidential information is the property of Casting Services, Ltd.—DO NOT COPY!!!

  LUCY’S DONUTS (RUSH—Auditions Today)

  1-hour Drama

  Episodic

  Alex & Company/Vasquez Studios

  Draft: 4/28

  Network: WatchGoNowPlus

  ELECTRONIC SUBMISSIONS ONLY—SUBMIT ASAP!!!

  AGENTS AND MANAGERS: DO NOT DOUBLE-SUBMIT

  We do not break top of show.

  SEEKING:

  [BROTHEL OWNER] 50s, male, portly, balding, all ethnicities, acts like he owns the place, because he does . . . NO NUDITY. 2 lines, 1 scene. MUST SPEAK WITH A BRITISH ACCENT. Auditions today, shoots Monday!! SAG Scale.

  [SEX WORKER] 18 to 28, female, pretty, all ethnicities, NOT jaded (yet), first day on the job, would rather not participate in an orgy . . . NO NUDITY. 2 lines, 1 scene. MUST SPEAK WITH A BRITISH ACCENT. Auditions today, shoots Monday!! SAG Scale.

  [ADDITIONAL SEX WORKERS] 18 to 28, female, fit/ attractive, all ethnicities, happy to be part of an orgy—at first . . . 3 grunts, 2 moans. NON-SPEAKING EXTRAS. NUDITY REQUIRED. SAG + 10%. Casting off photos. Shoots Monday!!

  [ORGY PARTICIPANTS] 28 to 75, male, all ethnicities and body types, presumably wealthy, happy to be part of an orgy, until it turns into a bloodbath . . . NON-SPEAKING EXTRAS. NUDITY REQUIRED. SAG + 10% Casting off photos. Shoots Monday!!

  SEBASTIAN

  Makes you wonder what sort of donut shop this Lucy is running, eh? I text Janine, who’s in Minnesota scouting locations and securing film permits. It’s still snowing there, and is projected to do so throughout the summer. Janine’s hoping to take advantage of the world’s extinction to save a few bucks on the ice-field battle scenes.

  She responds a minute later with an eye-roll emoji. Is that really your question?

  No, sorry. My question is, do the “Additional Sex Workers” have to grunt/moan with a British accent?

  She doesn’t respond, so I dial back the jokes. It’s my first time seeing a CoRaB casting notice, and excitement got the better of me.

  Sorry, I type. 1). What’s “top of show”? 2). What’s the “+10%”? Hazard pay?

  She’s a slow texter and opts to call me instead.

  “Hi,” Janine says when I pick up. “Top of show means each episode has a casting budget—created by yours truly—that cannot be exceeded. So once the series regulars and recurring roles are accounted for, if there’s a guest star like Stupid Stupid . . .”

  “Congrats on that, by the way.”

  “Who sucks up all the guest-star money, the costars, under-fives, and background actors have to make do with scale.”

  “Ah.”

  I already know that “under-five” means the role has fewer than five lines.

  It boggles the bean, as my dad would say, to realize that while Duncan, Lucinda, and Jeff hang out fully frocked for half a million dollars each, the naked people will be paid nothing more than SAG daily rate (plus 10 percent) for eight hours of bare-assed work, their uncloaked visages living on for eternity, to be paused, scrutinized, and meme’d for years to come, pun intended.

  * * *

  Even before today, I pitied actors. Not the A-, B-, or C-listers; everyone else. The 98 percent striving to prove themselves for scraps, with scraps being a best-case scenario.

  Screenwriters might be lower on the totem pole in terms of visibility and outside respect, but at least they’re not rejected for a job they’re otherwise qualified for because someone didn’t like their face.

  Their height. Their weight.

  Or their teeth.

  For example.

  A year ago, long before Janine hired me, I was briefly one of the 98 percent. Having borrowed money from Matty to keep the lights on, and desperate to pay him back, I swan dived into the murky waters of T4P jobs on Craigslist, the same platform Nina used for roommate hunting. T4P (Time for Prints) means photographers, makeup artists, hair stylists, or anyone else trying to build a portfolio will pay you in photos if you model for them.

  I got free headshots that way, with my stats printed below like a prize fighter (or, less ruggedly, a prize poodle): 6’0” height, 32-inch waist, 40-inch chest. Ridiculously, those stats meant I fell within the parameters for a male model. When I went out on go-sees, most companies liked what I had to offer.

  Until I smiled.

  At which point the model wrangler would approach, way too close for comfort, and tell me to show my bottom teeth. Then he or she would tell me to come back after having my canines “dealt with.” I’m ashamed to admit I considered it before Matty shook some sense back into me.

  “Repeat after me: Hollywood is not reality. If your teeth were any straighter, it’d be creepy as hell. Don’t do that to me.”

  “Oh, so it’s all about you, huh?”

  I guess he was right, because I managed to secure a job as a fit model for Vachère, a start-up clothing brand in the garment district compiling a lookbo
ok for investors.

  The vast majority of the time I was a human mannequin, my body the quality control that ensured the “fit” remained consistent. If I gained 1/16th of an inch anywhere on my body, they’d know. My diet was strict, my gym regimen nonnegotiable. I was hungry all the time. Not only for food but mental nourishment. Laughter. Human connection.

  I was frequently told how lucky I was to pose in the catalog; it’s rare for the fit model to double as the print model. They were the lucky ones, actually; my fees were a pittance compared to a print model’s rate, but I didn’t know that at the time.

  Vachère means “cowboy” in French, and their signature outfit was a pair of dark-wash jeans with a bandana sewn into the back pocket. I was shirtless for every image—they didn’t even make a line of shirts—and the denim was so tight around my crotch it left little to the imagination. (“How you say, ‘Packing heat, yes?’” according to the designer.) I didn’t recognize myself in the photos. Who was this oiled-up sex machine, Stetson cocked, muscles glistening, thumbs tucked into his waistband, fingers grazing his thigh, as though about to peel off his clothes any second?

  “Smolder. Smolllllllder,” the photographer ordered me while Kid Rock’s “Cowboy” played relentlessly in the background for inspiration. Heady days.

  My female counterpart and I decided to hook up.

  Picture two paper dolls joylessly inserting tab A into slot B. Or don’t, actually. The whole time I’d be thinking to myself, “You are sleeping with a model.”

  It didn’t occur to me to think, So is she.

  We lasted three Instagrams and two side-by-side waxing sessions before she moved to Japan to pursue modeling there instead. Prior to her red-eye flight, I tried to wholesome-ize our narcissistic coupling by cooking for her. London broil, English peas, crisp fingerling potatoes, and bread pudding with caramel sea-salt sauce.

  She looked at the food. She looked at me. “I can’t eat any of that,” she said.

  “. . . Right.”

  We abandoned the bulbous feast and chain-smoked on the balcony until it was time to leave for the airport. I’d banked enough money for two years’ worth of rent, but I’d never felt more empty.

  The next week, I called Vachère and told them I’d be moseying on to greener pastures. My agent tore me a new one but stopped short of terminating our contract, advising me to reach out once I came to my senses. He may as well be waiting for the earth’s rotation to reverse.

  Quitting modeling was me coming to my senses. Reviving my senses. Honoring my senses. Luxuriating in them. Good food is the JOY OF LIFE. When a perfect combination of flavors opens your taste buds and melts your eyes shut with pleasure, all is right in the world. And if you can share that experience with friends or family? Bliss.

  After a few days of lazing around, I returned to the apartment gym voluntarily but less obsessively. The mood-boosting morning regimen was the only element worth retaining from that time in my life.

  * * *

  For today’s crash course in TV production, I’ll be participating in a casting call from the other side of the power structure. While the casting assistant sets up the video camera and doles out water bottles in a nondescript, white-walled room off Maple Drive, I reread Nina’s text from last night: If the offer still stands to crash at your place for the next two weeks, I’d like to take you up on it.

  After responding ABSOLUTELY!, I restrained myself from hitting send and stabbed the delete button over and over. Then I typed sure. Aura of ambivalence in place, I called down to the garage for Janine’s Jaguar and raced over to my own apartment to vacuum and scrub the place down, spending extra time sprucing up the sole bathroom. I also instructed Sam to roll out the red carpet for Nina whenever she arrived.

  “I don’t know exactly when she’ll get here, probably after work, but could you buzz her in and give her my key and the garage clicker?”

  “Anything for my favorite ex,” Sam said, and arched an eyebrow.

  I may have imagined shaving that eyebrow clean off.

  This morning, five minutes before the first audition starts, my head’s still buzzing with the knowledge that Nina will be moving into my place.

  It’s good I won’t be there with her, I tell myself for the millionth time. She deserves peace and quiet after her looney-tunes roommate.

  A text from Sam arrives: Should I tell her you’re single and ready to mingle? He’s attached a photo of himself in my kitchen standing next to a spread of food on the island, looking like a perfect host.

  My spine straightens. Is she there already? I text back. And what’s with the buffet?

  No, I’m meeting that rep from Audio-kinetic, remember?

  Sam’s small, messy apartment contains wall-to-wall sound equipment, monitors and microphones, so he uses my place to conduct business. Audio-kinetic is a big podcast network he’s hoping will add his show to their slate. At the thought of his podcast, a burst of stress detonates behind my eye; I’m eleven episodes behind, with little hope of catching up because new, ninety-minute episodes drop every single day. I tried listening at 1.5 speed once and it gave me a headache. When I refreshed the page, he’d already uploaded a bonus episode!

  After that I’ll be rolling out the red carpet for Nina, per your request . . . mwahahaha

  I can’t explore that ominous statement any further, because the first actress has entered the casting room. I silence my phone and focus on work.

  Janine’s on my laptop screen, chiming in from the Minnesotan arctic, and the casting director, casting associate, and casting assistant are all female, so I’m commissioned to portray Brothel Owner and feed lines to the actresses.

  My line: “Go on and join them, then.”

  Sex Worker: “This wasn’t part of the deal.”

  My line: “You need to do as you’re told.”

  Sex Worker: “Triple my fee or I walk next door.” (I know from previous seasons’ sexposition that there are competing brothels on this particular street.)

  After thirty read-throughs with thirty different women, a lunch break, and a bathroom break, I pass through the waiting room in a daze. As far as I can tell, there are no front-runners for the role, just an endless stream of pretty faces and dubious British accents. My trance is broken by the appearance of a specific pretty face.

  Her bobbed, honey blond hair looks different—frothier—and she’s wearing a skirt with heels, which I rarely saw during our relationship, but it’s definitely her. I let her finish mouthing her lines before I approach with a wave.

  “Hey, Heather, it’s me, Sebastian.”

  “Oh my God! What are you doing here?” She hugs me and as my hands press lightly into her back, I fall into memories of summer nights in Upstate New York: crickets chirping outside, our calves sore from hiking Buttermilk Falls or kayaking in Cayuga Lake, her head on my shoulder as she dozed off in front of a movie.

  Heather always intended to move west at some point, but the fact that she and Nina have reappeared in my life at almost the same time is jarring.

  “Are you auditioning too?” Heather’s eyes are bright and curious. “I thought you quit that scene.”

  After my liberation from Vachère, I’d posted a video of Matty and me singing “La Marseillaise” on a private Ithaca College alumni group, and she must have seen it.

  “No, I’m a PA for the show and my boss wants me to experience every part of production. I swear I’m not trying to casting couch you,” I joke.

  “You hate couches. I remember,” she jokes back.

  I don’t “hate” any pieces of furniture, it’s just that we had an opportunity to do it on the couch in the Emerson Hall TV lounge once and even though Nina had made it clear how she felt about me by then, there was no way I could have had sex in such a sacred place. I made up a story about my back hurting, with the unintended, karmic consequence of Heather insisting on giving me a massage. This meant she hammered my spine and pinched me at random while I suppressed groans of pain.

>   Heather may not be good at backrubs, but she’s terrific at playing a defiant lady of the night, complete with authentic-sounding accent. The powers that be agree with me, because following our read-through, the casting director asks Heather if she’s available all day Monday. We both know what that means!

  I give Heather a thumbs-up before she leaves, her back straight, her head held high, her blond hair like golden wheat swaying in the sun. I’m glad we exchanged numbers in the waiting room so I can send her a congratulatory text later.

  Twelve Brothel Owner readings later and time is running out. “I didn’t care for any of those guys.” The casting director yawns and stretches. “And it’s almost five o’clock.”

  “Why don’t we have Sebastian do it?” Janine suggests from my laptop screen. “He’s got the lines down.”

  I gasp. “Really?”

  “Do you have a SAG card?”

  “No.” My stomach drops.

  “We’ll Taft-Hartley you. That’s a waiver so you can take the job. We’ll say nobody but you had an authentic accent, given our limited time to fill the role.”

  “Okay! Great!” I don’t entirely understand the words she just said, but I figure it’s best to nod vigorously.

  “It shoots Monday at Vasquez, so it’s perfect,” Janine replies. “You’ll be there anyway for the briefcase.”

  I should accept this amazing turn of events and shut my gob, but I can’t help remembering the description of the brothel owner. “‘Fifties, portly, balding,’” I quote from the casting sheet. “Is it okay to disregard all that?”