Celluloid Memories

by Sandra Kitt

  “Yep. And full of himself.”

  “Isn’t that true of most of Hollywood?” Savannah asked dryly.

  “Not really. A lot of folks in this town are really nice and work hard. Everybody’s just trying to make it, and a lot of them aren’t going to. You can’t blame people for dreaming big. What else did you buy?”

  Savannah proceeded to tell Donna about the show, and enthusiastically described the shawl she’d left a down payment for with the artist, Domino.

  “And you won’t believe what happened to me on the way back to my father’s house.”

  “You met someone?”

  Savannah laughed. “Yeah, I did, but you won’t believe how. I had an accident.”

  “Get out! You okay?”

  “Yeah, fine. Just ticked off by the driver’s attitude.”

  “What do you mean?”

  Savannah went over the details, including the comment of the driver as he was leaving the scene.

  “Can you believe his nerve? Acting like the problem was me ’cause I’m not from here. Then he just left me on the highway while he hurried off to some event. Probably a movie premier.”

  “Vann, you are very down on L.A. You’re always making fun of actors and actresses because they’re willing to do anything to get noticed.”

  “It’s not like becoming an actor is this great contribution to society.”

  “Maybe it’s not. But it is about having talent and dreams and wanting them to come true. I admire people who risk everything to follow their own hearts. I wanted to perform with the Dance Theater of Harlem, but never made it out of the repertory company and the chorus line of a few Broadway shows. Kay always wanted to be a designer, but she admits she was only really interested in dressing herself, not other women. At least she gave it a shot.”

  Savannah knew there was no intended criticism of her in Donna’s observations, but the barb had struck home, sharply and deeply.

  “You said you’d always wanted to be a writer, and that’s exactly what you became, right? For a women’s magazine back in New York? So, how is what you wanted to do any different?”

  “I just feel like he was making fun of me.”

  “Oh, you mean like—Why don’t you lighten up?”

  “I think so.”

  “Look, I know this past year has been rough, taking care of your father and knowing he was going to die and then having him die, and staying in his house. But maybe you do take things too seriously. You need to take up surfing, or riding in cars with boys, or start going to acting class.”

  Savannah began to laugh.

  “Maybe you need to get a tattoo, or get more hair like Diana Ross, or become really eccentric and start walking around with a pet in your purse. It works for Paris Hilton and Beyoncé.”

  When she’d finished laughing, Savannah felt relief flow through her at the dissipation of her tension and thoughts. “Maybe I’m not the L.A. type. Maybe I really do belong in New York.”

  “You can belong anywhere you choose to. It’s not like you get to pick only one from column A or one from column B. Take them both.”

  Savannah grew pensive, listening to Donna’s pearls of wisdom. It had been a hard year.

  In that moment, with the accident and the image of a well-dressed, slightly arrogant man fresh on her mind, she made a decision. But it was about much more than wanting to prove to a perfect stranger that he’d gotten it wrong. She could still see her father sitting in his living room slowly looking through his albums with a slight smile and a glow in his eyes for his memories. Earlier that very evening she’d met many artisans at the crafts fair who believed in themselves enough not to give up, who could even make light of their struggles.

  When she finished the call from Donna, Savannah took another look around the living room. Then she went down to the basement in search of boxes or any empty containers. She found enough to get started. She was going to pack her father’s albums and books and scripts and history, and store them in the garage for now. She was going to take some of her own belongings, which had been in storage for a year, and set them about the house. She lived here now. This was her home.

  Savannah made the decision that she did belong in L.A.

  No one was going to tell her otherwise.

  As Savannah trailed behind Taj, his babbling knowledge of the history of the popular TV series ER was lost on her as she indulged in her own thoughts. In the year that she’d been working as a reader for the small independent studio, she’d never been particularly interested in doing a studio back-lot tour. Of course, it could be fairly said that she’d had a lot on her mind during that time.

  If she’d been asked beforehand, Savannah knew she would have quipped that everything was done with smoke and mirrors. She would probably have believed that the sets were simple facades, cardboard with surface dressing. She was speechless at how profoundly wrong she was. From the moment she and Taj had passed security, through the good graces of his labyrinthine network of contacts and inside friends, Savannah found herself swept up in the make-believe hospital. Everything possible had been done to make the complex set look like a real emergency room. It was even painted two shades of institutional green. Walking the set and seeing the attention given to the smallest detail, there was no reason for her to believe it wasn’t real, but for the minor fact that it wasn’t.

  “Look at this,” Taj said, walking over to a gurney in one of the many authentic-looking triage rooms. “They even have used bloody gauze pads on the floor,” he pointed out excitedly.

  “Awesome,” Savannah murmured, queasy at the idea that the dried stains might be the real deal.

  “This is one of the best TV sets I’ve ever seen, and I’ve seen a lot. You know what’s another good one? The set for The West Wing. I love when the characters are rushing through the halls and turning corners, and passing through rooms. Man, it’s like…where do they put all the cameras?”

  Eventually they came to the end of the set and, suddenly, just like that, it ended. It was as if a chain saw had been used to disconnect it and remove it from the rest of the hospital.

  “Wow. I’m impressed,” Savannah said. And she meant it.

  “See, I told you you’d be blown away,” Taj boasted.

  He finished his guided tour and commentary, and they walked through a large hangar-type space.

  “Now, I want to show you another set, but this one is different. It’s for a movie with Martin Lawrence.”

  The next building they entered was more open, and designed to look like someone’s contemporary living room with sliding doors leading out to a backyard patio.

  “What do you think?” Taj asked.

  Savannah stood in one spot and slowly turned around. She shook her head. “This set doesn’t look all that real to me.”

  “Exactly. That’s ’cause it’s not the set that’s important, but just a place where not much happens between the actors.”

  After briefly touring that set, and one other for another movie in the making, they left the building and headed off the lot.

  “Change your mind?” Taj asked Savannah.

  She smiled at her enthusiastic coworker and nodded. “Yeah, I have. I’ll probably never look at a TV program or movie the same way again,” she said as they got into Taj’s car for the short ride back to their office. “Just how did you become so interested in all of this?”

  Taj shrugged, driving with the reckless abandon of many twentysomething males. “I didn’t much like the real world I was growing up in. I lived in a really bad part of Newark, New Jersey. I loved going to the movies ’cause it helped me forget about sharing a bedroom with my two brothers. We used to listen to gunshots from outside our apartment window at night. The mother of one of my friends was killed walking home from the supermarket. How messed up is that?

  “I had no space of my own, man. I always wished I could be someplace else but home. My mom really tried hard and everything, but I wanted out. I knew when I was little I wanted t
o live and work in Hollywood.”

  “But why Hollywood? Why not New York, or Philadelphia?”

  “Different city, same problems. I felt like I could breathe in California.” He glanced briefly at Savannah. “People come here because of the weather or to get into the movies. I came to get as far away from Newark as I could. I came to save my life.”

  Savannah didn’t have much to say after that. She couldn’t relate to the environment Taj had been raised in, and she had never really felt the need to escape, as he had. But she suddenly found herself applying some of his motivation for coming to L.A., of all places, to her father. She suddenly wondered if that’s what it had been like for him? Maybe he wasn’t escaping from a circumstance, so much as running to one that he wanted for himself. But still, there was that nagging question: how could he just up and leave his family to risk everything on a career in Hollywood?

  “Thanks for the field trip,” Savannah said to Taj, once they’d returned to their own studio.

  “Anytime, Baby Girl. Next time, we’ll go people watching. I know where all the celebrities hang.”

  Savannah gave Taj a slightly exasperated look. They were walking down narrow mazelike corridors to their cubicles. “Why do you insist on calling me that?”

  “What? Baby Girl? Hey, that’s a compliment. You don’t even know some of the names I got for folks around here. It’s laid-back and all that in L.A., but not everybody is nice. Sorry to say it, but there are lots of brothers and sistahs who get an attitude, know what I’m saying? Jealousy and backstabbing and liars, but you’re not like that. You have this sweet innocence….”

  Savannah rolled her eyes in amusement. “Oh, please…”

  “Like you don’t really know what’s going on. You’re like Alice in Wonderland. Only brown skinned.”

  His observation made Savannah laugh as she reached her office and turned to thank Taj once again. “I had a really good time. Now I really do owe you a drink sometime.”

  “Don’t worry about it. But it looks like I got big-time competition,” he said, walking away.

  She frowned. “What are you talking about?”

  Taj didn’t stop walking and he didn’t turn around. “In your office. On your desk.”

  Savannah did as she was told. On her desk was a bouquet of mixed exotic flowers. The arrangement was so large that it seemed to fill her small space. The rounded glass vase was wrapped in pale mauve cellophane, with streams of pink, blue and purple ribbon tying it in place. She stared in disbelief at the magnificent grouping, certain that a mistake had been made in delivery.

  She tried searching for a card enclosure but found none. Sitting down she called the receptionist.

  “Kim, there’s a giant arrangement of flowers on my desk. I think it was meant for someone else. Could you check and find out where it was supposed to be delivered? Probably the director’s office.”

  “There’s no mistake. I have the delivery notice right here. It has your name on it, and I signed for it.”

  “But I don’t know anyone who would send me something like this,” Savannah frowned. “Is there a name on the notice?” With one hand Savannah turned the vase so she could see all the different flowers that had been selected. Some of her favorites were included, and not an ordinary rose in the bunch.

  “Just the name of the florist. Want me to call them?”

  “Oh, wait a minute. I think I see a card inside the wrapping. Thanks, Kim.”

  She hung up and wiggled her fingers inside the folds of the cellophane, not wanting to disturb the arrangement too much for when the flowers were passed along to the true recipient. But what Savannah found was a white pack of plant food, and instructions on how to use it to keep the flowers fresh for a week.

  Savannah called Kim back.

  “When was this delivered?”

  “Actually, this morning, but you know how security is. They probably had it sitting in their booth all morning. It wasn’t brought here until just after you’d left for lunch.”

  “Oh. Thanks.” Savannah said, disappointed when nothing new was revealed.

  And try as hard as she might, she could think of no one who would have made such an elaborate or expensive gesture. She finally moved the flowers to the window ledge. They blocked out a lot of daylight, but her office was filled with delicious fragrances that made her feel it had been converted into a garden. She inhaled with pleasure.

  Savannah was typing up her comments and recommendations on a proposal when her phone rang an hour later.

  “Hi, this is Savannah,” she said absently, cradling the phone between ear and shoulder as she continued to work on her computer.

  “Hello. I’m calling to see if you got the flowers.”

  She came to attention and focused on the rich tenor voice on the other end. “Who is this?”

  “Didn’t you read the card?” the voice asked.

  “There was no card. And I don’t know anyone who would send me something so extravagant.”

  “That’s too bad,” the voice drawled.

  “Who are you? What do you want?” Savannah asked again, not so much annoyed as nervous.

  “We met last night on the 405. Does that ring a bell?”

  The car accident with a tall handsomely dressed stranger in a hurry. Imperial. Impervious. Impatient. Impossible!

  “Oh, it’s you. Well, don’t think that I forgive you. I could have been injured. Or killed.”

  “When I asked, you said you were fine,” McCoy Sutton responded in a voice of reason.

  “That doesn’t mean I was. I mean…it was a terrible experience. You drove away leaving me standing in the middle of the highway, and never once considered that I might get hit.”

  “That’s why I sent the flowers,” he said.

  “Too late,” Savannah said grandly. She hung up.

  Her satisfaction instantly evaporated. Her hands were trembling. Blood felt as though it was pounding in her temples. She was overly warm, still angry and still aware that things could have gone a whole lot worse. And now, having worked herself up into royal indignation, she was embarrassed.

  The line went dead, and McCoy stared at his cell phone in disbelief. “I’ll be damned,” he muttered.

  A car horn blew behind him, bringing him back to the moment. The previous night’s highway incident flashed through his mind. His car was blocking the exit of the parking lot of an upscale restaurant just off Santa Monica Boulevard. He shifted gears and pulled out into traffic, headed back to his office.

  His cell phone rang. For a brief second McCoy wondered if it could be Savannah Shelton, calling back to apologize…or to give him a piece of her mind. Steeling himself for a confrontation he answered on speakerphone, so he could drive safely.

  “McCoy,” he announced firmly.

  “Hi, it’s Cherise,” came the silky, very feminine voice.

  The corners of his mouth lifted in a tight little smile. “Cherise. How’s it going?”

  “Really good. I just wanted to thank you for calling Bob Sinclair and mentioning my work to him. I have an appointment to see him tomorrow,” she said, excitement evident in her voice.

  “That’s great,” McCoy responded automatically, but he checked the time to see how close it was to his own next appointment. “I hope it leads to something.”

  “Oh, I’m sure it will. I told Mr. Sinclair that I’ve known you for years. He thinks you’re my attorney.”

  A small frown began to gather between McCoy’s brows while he considered his response. “Bob Sinclair knows I’m not in the business, Cherise. Be careful what you tell people. This is a very small town and word gets around. You don’t have to lie.”

  “Well, it was a little white lie,” she giggled. “I just wanted him to understand that I have someone looking out for me.”

  A muscle worked in McCoy’s jaw. “I think it’s a good idea that he knows that. I have a couple of names of entertainment lawyers I can recommend to you. You’ll need one sooner or later,”
he said, to soften his intent.

  “But, you’ll still help me if I need it, right?”

  “I’ll do the best I can, but I’m not the right kind of lawyer for what you’ll need,” McCoy said carefully. “I think you should also be prepared for some, er, setbacks now and then. This is a tough town. We eat our young.”

  There was silence for a brief moment.

  “What?”

  McCoy tried again. “I know you’ll probably succeed, but keep in mind that not everyone is going to think you’re wonderful and gorgeous.”

  “You think I’m wonderful and gorgeous? That’s so sweet,” Cherise responded.

  As if she didn’t know. McCoy silently shook his head. “But a director or producer might not see you as anyone out of the ordinary here in L.A.”

  “Then I guess it’s up to me to convince them how unique I am.”

  McCoy’s brows rose. He heard the ironclad confidence in the coy tone. Also, there was a ring of steel determination. Many a young black starlet came to L.A. with dreams of fame and wealth clouding her judgment. Most of them never got to first base. His guess, however, was that Cherise had quickly figured out how the game was played. He’d be a fool not to bet on her. But she’d be a fool to try and play him for her own ends.

  Once again McCoy heard an impatient driver behind, reminding him that the light had changed. He glanced in his rearview mirror at a prototypical California blonde behind huge dark glasses, riding with a buff black man in equally dark shades at the wheel of a Mercedes coupe.

  Welcome to the land of make-believe, he thought.

  Well, why not? Los Angeles was a town of outsized egos, and even bigger dreams. He knew that a lot of people, black and white, came here because almost anything was possible. L.A. was a place where it was definitely okay to be yourself. Or, someone else. It could be a forgiving place. Short-term memory of past transgressions failed if there was an opportunity to make money.

  Off the top of his head McCoy could remember the names and faces of a lot of talented black folks who’d tried to make it here and had failed. He knew from experience that L.A. could break a person’s heart.