by Ruth Kaufman
He says this without looking at me, though I’m eager to offer a grateful smile. Unless my teeth are yellow against the green makeup.
Scott crosses the street to the AFMA representative.
Did she wear that celadon pants suit on purpose? With her floofy hair and lanky frame, she resembles a celery stalk. As Scott talks, she nods and tosses her head. After quickly checking something on her laptop, she nods some more. I’m not religious, but I pray he can convince her to let us finish.
Scott smiles. Even from a distance, the impact pierces like Cupid’s arrow. It must be very hard for a woman to say no to him. He’s just that gorgeous, that well-built. What nice thighs. I’ll bet every month there’s a different flat-stomached, halter-top-wearing, artificial boob-sporting starlet hanging on his arm. Maybe every week.
“All’s well. Back to work, everyone,” Scott calls. “People and produce.”
Exactly two hours later, we’re wrapped. I’m enervated from numerous retakes in the pressure cooker heat of Chicago in August, limp as over-microwaved, well, zucchini. If I never hear “A tisket, a tasket” again it’ll be too soon.
I’m hoping Scott will come up to me and say something personal about the shoot, my saving the day, his upcoming movie…anything. If he doesn’t, am I brave enough to go to him?
Despite the uncomfortable costume and my exhaustion, I make myself available until/if I drum up some nerve. I down bottled water as thirstily as the stranded passengers on LOST after they found the waterfall. But Scott doesn’t glance in my direction. He does seem engrossed in celery-woman, though.
Suddenly, as if I were a star, I’m surrounded by my WZRJ pals and Linda as the crew piles equipment and silver boxes on low, wheeled carts and hauls away spotlights. I wish I’d changed out of my costume.
“Can I have your autograph?” my trusted friend Catherine asks. “Thank God I found a babysitter. I wouldn’t have missed this for the world.”
“So this is showbiz,” Linda says. Meaning: “I’m here to support you because I’m your sister and love you and believe in following your dreams, but after watching you spend hours slaving in this heat in that horrid zucchini costume knowing this is the only part you’ve had all month I can see why Mom and Dad want you to find a real job like Larry and I have so you’ll build up your 401(k) and get benefits like health insurance.”
“If this is showbiz, it’s pretty BO-ring. I thought I’d scream if you guys did that circle thing one more time,” says Liz Burnside, a WZRJ account executive. “And all the waiting between takes…how do you stand it?”
“How much are you getting paid?” asks John Jacobs, another WZRJ AE. “Is this acting?”
“Don’t fucking think so. Unless running around dressed as a green penis is acting.” This from Pee Wee Herman sound-alike Stan Tackaberry, who quit WZRJ the same day I did. I’ve heard he’s still unemployed, but not by choice. Maybe he could get a job if every other sentence didn’t contain a swear word.
“I’m sure it’s harder than it looks,” Catherine says. “Just like being a stay-at-home mom. And I’ll bet Ryan Gosling and Brad Pitt suffer for their art, too.”
The mild roasting is a bit annoying because they all know how long and hard (no zucchini or penile puns intended) I’ve worked to get this far.
This could be good, I think as they babble on. I look popular for once. Don’t get me started on the vicissitudes of high school and how being a short, frizzly, flat-chested-braces-and-glasses-wearing dateless nerd makes one desperate to know the secrets of the “in” crowd and go to even one dance.
Maybe Scott will be intrigued by the throng around me. Though he probably sees real stars mobbed all the time. He probably gets mobbed.
“Thanks for coming.” It means a lot that they showed up, though none of them understand my love of this business even when I’m wearing strange costumes and drowning in sweat, repetition, annoying theme songs and fatigue.
Even if some are laughing at me, not with me.
As my fans leave, Scott is talking with Sam by the food table, still piled with all kinds of yummy snacks ranging from healthy to decadent. Sam shoves Cheetos in his mouth by the handful as the craft service workers pack up. Scott doesn’t even know I exist.
Why do I want more than there is? Sometimes I feel like I’m the only person who envisions how amazing things could and should be…and the only one who cares enough to want them.
I’ve worked at being in the moment instead of constantly worrying about, planning or hoping for what’s next, but obviously I still have a way to go no matter how many times I read Eckhart Tolle’s The Power of Now. In my imagination, Scott has bought me a craft cocktail at some hip new bar and, as we cozily sip, asks me to audition for a line in his movie.
I’m not greedy. I don’t expect him to hand me a part, much less have me read for the lead, nor do I dream he’ll fall in love with me or want mad, passionate sex, as nice as all those things would be. I just want a chance to prove I’m good enough to have a line in a major motion picture.
But the possible pain of rejection crushes hope. I’m just not gutsy enough to ask.
I waddle to the makeshift dressing room of yards of black cloth taped onto metal poles. A wardrobe person helps me out of the ghastly zucchini and leaves. It’s quiet now; almost everyone is gone. I stretch my aching muscles, glad for the freedom to move again. So sweat-soaked am I the humid air feels cool on my skin. My hair is plastered to my head. In the small mirror, I look like an alien.
Minutes later, I’m in shorts and a tank top, sweat-slick hair pulled back into a ponytail, aforementioned cute sandals on my feet, backpack in hand and only one thought in my head: shower. I’m ready to catch the bus.
Until I hear Great Scott’s voice through the fabric walls.
“One down, one to go. The movie is the last favor I do for you, Sam. Our slate will be clean.”
I freeze, afraid to make a move lest I be discovered.
“Maybe, maybe not,” Sam replies as he munches on something crunchy. “Depends on whether you get yourself into another scrape and need me to cover your ass. Again.”
“I won’t. Not this time.”
“Yeah? That’s what you said the last time. But you couldn’t stop yourself.”
“Sam. Enough. We don’t need to rehash ancient days of yore.”
Yes, yes we do. I’m awash in a strange mixture of yearning to learn Scott’s secrets and eavesdropping guilt.
“Maybe we do,” Sam says.
Scott continues, “I will not make that mistake again. I’ll bet my share of Mistress profits that you’ll never see me—”
A crew member rips down my fabric hiding place.
As one, Scott and Sam turn and gape at me.
“Who the hell are you? How did you get in here?” Scott demands.
He doesn’t recognize me without my zucchini. Now I miss its protection.
“Damn. Another desperate, sneaky GSG,” Sam says. “You see, Scott? You see how easily the trap gets set?” He waves. “Security! Another Great Scott Groupie for you to escort away.”
One of the burly men wearing a SECURITY shirt storms over and grabs my arm. He smells awful. The hot weather must’ve taken its toll.
“Wait,” I protest. “I’m not a groupie.”
Scott sighs. Sam rolls his eyes and crosses his arms over his significant gut. “Yeah, that’s what they all say.”
The guard, Mack according to his nametag, shakes his head and tries to haul me away, but I stand my ground.
“I’m special, like, you know?” Mack says, perfectly imitating a typical teen. “We’ve chatted on Twitter. You follow me on Instagram.”
Might be amusing if he weren’t pulling me.
“Not bad,” Scott says with an adorable right-corner-of-his-mouth-only smile. “But my next film only has a couple of roles for twenty-somethings and they’re already cast.”
Sam laughs.
Obviously playing to his high-falutin’ audience, Mack co
ntinues, “‘Like, Scott asked me to stop by,’ they’ll say. ‘Where’s your pass?’ I’ll say. They’ll say, ‘I don’t need one. He’ll want to see me.’”
“He will. I’m Marla!” Unfortunately, that came out with all the enthusiasm and high pitch of a Mouseketeer. I try my erstwhile classical radio announcer voice. “Hello, I’m Marla Goldberg.” Much better.
Still no response from Scott or Sam. Mack is strong. I can’t hold out much longer…my feet are sliding across the cement, taking me away from Scott.
“I’m Zucchini. I mean, I was. In the AFMA commercial.”
Sam frowns. There are orange crumbs on his chin. “You don’t look like Zucchini.”
With my free hand, I dig into my bag for proof. “Of course not, I’m not wearing the costume. I’m the actress (how I love saying that) who played Zucchini.”
Mack nods. “Haven’t heard that one before. Sweet.”
“See, here’s my voucher.” I hold up the form the talent agency has me fill out for each job. “Sam, you signed it.”
“Let her go,” Scott says. “I believe her.”
Great Scott is sticking up for me. Warmth floods me. The good kind.
“Uh, okay, Boss,” Mack says. He releases my arm and puts his hands on his hips, like he’s keeping an eye on me just in case.
“Thanks, Scott. I want to thank you for choosing me for your commercial andIhopetoworkwithyouagainsoon.” Zooming adrenaline made me smunch all my words together. After all, I’m talking to one of the best, most famous and attractive directors in America.
“All of you worked very hard today. Thank you,” he says. He holds out his hand.
I’m stunned. Great Scott wants to shake my hand.
Take it. Take it.
I must make this moment last. Slowly I extend my hand, ready to savor his touch, to imprint in my memory the press of his palm against mine.
Suddenly the ground shakes. Noise fills the air, like hundreds of people cheering. Like a stampede.
As Scott takes my hand, our heads turn toward the sound. A mob of women dashes toward us, as large as the mob of brides chasing Chris O’Donnell in The Bachelor.
“No,” Sam hisses. “More GSGs. Where did they come from?”
The GSGs shriek and scream.
“There he is.”
“Scott, we love you!”
“Run!” Scott yells. He takes off, still holding my hand.
We race up Michigan Avenue toward Nordstrom, weaving amidst the late-afternoon crowd. My heavy backpack bangs against my hip. I almost lose a shoe, but curl my toes to keep it on.
Scott nimbly avoids a businessman blabbing on his cell, another who’s texting, and then careens into a woman carrying a bunch of huge red American Girl shopping bags.
She drops a couple of bags and a box tumbles out. “Hey, asshole! Watch it!”
“Beg pardon,” Scott apologizes.
“Hey! Aren’t you Great Scott? Can I get a selfie?” Her voice fades as we rush past.
I’m running out of breath and my hip hurts. A twinge zips through me, but I’m not sure if it’s joy or terror at this bizarre situation.
My goal is to be a working actress. It took a long time for me to learn I didn’t need to be a star. Fame would be useful only because I’d be considered for more and better parts. But if being chased by a mob every time you leave your house is the price you have to pay….
What must life be like when everyone wants a piece of you?
Glancing over my shoulder, I see Sam losing ground, panting heavily as the determined GSGs swarm past.
“Faster,” Scott urges. “They’re catching up.”
Chapter 3
CHICAGOTODAY.COM
Great Scott is Here!
Word is that Scott Sampson, in town to film I Love My Mistress, will hold an open casting call for several small roles starting at 10:00 am a week from Friday at ChiTown Studios. Visit their website for more info. Let us know if you get cast!
Tomorrow: more ILMM news and where GS stays while in the Windy City.
My mind races faster than our feet pound the pavement. I’m nearly out of steam. My chest is heaving. The louder the GSGs scream, the harder my heart pounds.
“We’ve got to hide,” Scott says.
Or Scott will run on without me. I can’t have that. But where? We can’t cross the street…too much traffic. Into a store? Down steep stairs to take our chances on a quieter street beneath Michigan Avenue?
We’re approaching North Bridge, the store-lined pathway to Nordstrom. I visualize the inside: to the right there’s an escalator up to more stores and food options.
What’s after that? Aha. “I know where we can go,” I gasp. “A bit farther.”
Just when I think my lungs will give out, we’re there. The Marriott Hotel.
“Turn left. Then left after stairs.” I’ve no air to say more.
“Got it.”
As we fly through the sliding door and down the stairs into the crisp air-conditioned lobby, I see a glitch in my hastily developed plan. If there’s no open elevator, the horde of fans will be all over us.
An elevator opens. Those waiting swarm inside, leaving no room for us.
“There he is!” some girl yells.
“Damn,” Scott hisses, punching the UP button as the screaming throng pours down the stairs, arms extended like The Walking Dead walkers on speed.
Another elevator opens. We jump in. I press several high floors. The doors close in the nick of time.
For the first few seconds, we catch our breath. Our panting sounds loud in the small space. Makes me think of other reasons to pant. Makes me realize that I, Marla Goldberg, am alone in an elevator with Great Scott, the famous, gorgeous director. I feel the heat of his body, smell his scent—all man plus a hint of some delicious spicy cologne.
“Sorry for dragging you into this,” he says. “Literally.”
“No problem. Besides, you wouldn’t have known where to go if I hadn’t come with you.” Ha. He needs me. That feels good. No one has needed me in a long time.
“I don’t like accepting help. Or being in debt. Never good to owe anyone anything.”
Like he does Sam? “You don’t owe me anything. I was happy to help,” I say.
Is Scott is testing me, waiting to see if I’ll ask for something in return…the way Willy Wonka tests Charlie’s goodness in Charlie and the Chocolate Factory to be sure the boy is worthy of taking over his factory?
What a dilemma. Here I am, alone with Scott. A miracle in itself. All I have to do is tell him what I want, what I need: a line in his movie. But his face is closed and hard. People must ask favors of him all the time. I bet he hates that.
As much as I burn to be in his movie, I don’t want to be like everyone else. I want him to think I’m different, special. Worthy of his friendship. For sure I wouldn’t fawn over him like those star struck GSGs, nor would I hold the fact that I’d helped against him like I’d heard Sam do. I don’t want him to owe me a line. I want him to want to give me one. I want to be worthy on my own.
VIH says, “Don’t be a fool. What difference does it make how or why you get the damn line? All that matters is that you get it. He won’t tell anyone he owed you. Only you’ll know.”
That’s right. Only I’ll know.
My lips press together tight as if sealed with Krazy Glue. I can’t bring myself to ask. We watch the elevator climb floors. It’s getting awkward. My time with Scott will soon end. At least I’ll have a great story to tell my friends. Maybe post on social media. A great memory to hold close.
The silence gnaws at me. “Does this happen a lot?”
“A few times every film. Usually Mack or another security guard gets them. I don’t know how they got wind of today’s small, one-day shoot.”
“I do. I heard on the radio that part of Michigan Avenue near the river would be closed for a Great Scott commercial.”
“Ah. That does it, then. I’ll have to have my staff work on keepin
g a lower profile.”
The doors open and we step out. Maybe we’ll go for that cocktail now? Ha.
“Marla, is it? I can take things from here. Thank you again.” He unclips a cell phone from his waist and presses a button.
My heart sinks. “Yes, I’m Marla. Marla Goldberg, ex-zucchini. Well, then. Nice meeting you.” Nice running with you and holding your hand, even if it wasn’t a romantic handhold. “Have a good day.”
With a silent sigh, resisting the urge to look at him once more, I turn and press the down button.
Ask him for the line. Don’t blow this chance. Life’s all about being at the right place at the right time…and grabbing Opportunity when she knocks.
I can’t. I just can’t.
What a goody two-shoes. It’s a curse.
You’re not a goody two-shoes, you’re a chicken. Braack-braack-braack-braaack!
No. No. I’m doing the right thing. Or am I? Have I lost opportunities because I’ve been too unsure of myself to go for the gusto, or wasn’t willing to do whatever it took to get what I wanted?
The way Linda and Larry would.
Maybe that’s why Mom and Dad like them better.
“Marla, wait a tick,” Scott says. “I owe you, and I repay my debts ASAP. I’m filming I Love My Mistress here next month. There’s a role you might suit. Who’s your agent so the casting director can arrange an audition?”
I want to drool over him the way Scarlett eyes the dessert tray when Rhett takes her to New Orleans, to babble with gratitude, but my guess is he won’t appreciate that.
Then it hits me. He said a role. Not just a line, but an actual part. Can I do a role? I can handle a line. I’ve been rehearsing “Right this way, sir,” and “How can I help you?” for ages. Many TV and major feature film roles that go to Chicago actors are one-liners or under-fives. A role would require a lot more acting. What if I’m not good enough? The biggest part I’ve had is eight lines in a TV commercial for a Midwest grocery store chain’s salad bar.