Extreme Bachelor (4 page)

She was wholly unprepared to make her own
way, but nevertheless, Leah stepped off the money train and headed
to NYU to study acting. She started doing community theater around
New York, then landed a couple of minor roles in Broadway
productions, and then began to get good, decent roles. And finally
lead roles. Her agent and the critics started talking Hollywood.
They said she was fresh and original, that she glittered on
stage.

But then Michael Raney, former love of her
life and sorry-ass bastard, dumped her out of the clear blue sky.
Just when she was riding the huge crest of love and success, he
pushed her off the ride, and she’d plummeted to earth. For months
afterward, she walked through a very thick and emotional fog. She
suddenly hated acting. She suddenly hated New York, because
everything there reminded her of him. She hated leaving her
apartment at all because she couldn’t face the “Where’s Michael?”
question she would invariably hear. She stopped getting calls from
her agent. She stopped getting auditions. Everyone worried about
her.

And then one day, several months after he’d
crushed her, Leah had had enough. She didn’t tell her parents she’d
cashed out her retirement, bought a used Ford Escort, and left to
find fame and fortune in L.A. until she was already in L.A. To this
day, they were still a little prickly about it, especially since
fame and fortune had eluded her completely since her fantastic fall
from grace. Fast forward five years, and the best acting she’d done
had been in a beer commercial. Granted, it was a Budweiser beer
commercial, the cream of the beer commercial crop, but still . .
.

Now, here she was, doing Fluffy Tissue
commercials.

Her stupid car took several pumps on the gas
and turnovers before it actually started. She crossed her fingers
that it would make it all the way to the rundown bungalow in Venice
she shared with another struggling actor, because at least there,
she could bum a ride to her job waiting tables at a low-rent
Italian restaurant.

“How great is this scene?” she asked herself
as she gingerly put the car into reverse. “Education at NYU:
$50,000. Current Job: $6 an hour plus tips. Acting Career: So bad,
it’s priceless,” she said, and laughed at her own sick humor.

Unfortunately, it was
true. She was almost thirty-four years old. Her chances for stardom
were eroding away each day. A few weeks ago, her new agent told her
that she needed to start thinking character roles at the same time
she told her about a chance she had to land a role in
War of the Soccer Moms
,
a studio film about a war between two groups of suburban
moms.

“Women reach a certain age, and a good meaty
character role is about all they can hope for,” Frances had said as
they sat in her tiny little beige office and popped chocolate-
covered cherries, one after the other.

“A certain age?” Leah had echoed, mildly
confused.

“Late thirties.”

“Except that I’m not in my late thirties,”
Leah pointed out, reaching for another chocolate-covered
cherry.

Frances adjusted her black, thick-framed
glasses and leaned across her desk, her eyes reminiscent of a
mutant fly. “Don’t fool yourself, Leah. You’re getting close to
late thirties, and frankly, thirty-four is not that far from forty
in the greater scheme of things.” She leaned back. “When you hit
forty, forget it,” she said, making such a grand sweeping gesture
that the fleshy part of her arm created a breeze, “The well dries
up, and you are lucky if you can even get an audition anywhere,
unless you make a name for yourself doing character roles. You
really need to do this film.” And with that, Frances shoved the
casting information at her, stuck a pencil behind her ear, and
closed the box of chocolate-covered cherries before Leah could
snatch another one.

“Get something soccer
mom-ish to wear to the audition,” she’d said, waving her heavily
jeweled hand at Leah’s outfit. “You know, Keds, or something like
that. Maybe one of those shirts with flowerpots or kittens on it.
Do
not
go looking
like a hottie. Soccer moms aren’t hotties.”

“Okay,” Leah said uncertainly.

“Great. Now go be a soccer mom,” Frances
said cheerfully, then swiveled around in her seat to her computer.
The meeting was, apparently, over.

Leah opened the box and took one more
chocolate cherry before she went to pursue a career in character
roles.

AT the time, she hadn’t been too crazy about
the film, but now, as her car hissed and shuddered its way onto
Sunset Boulevard, she prayed she got the damn part. She made it all
the way home, her car gasping its way into the driveway of the
house she shared with Roddick Anthony—or as she’d known him since
she met him in an acting class four years ago, Brad.

Brad was home, lounging as he often did. His
skinny, lanky frame was barely enough to hold up his boxers, his
loungewear of choice. He was sprawled across a plaid rent-to-own
couch, eating Doritos, drinking cheap beer, and flipping channels.
“Hey, how’d it go?” he asked as Leah dropped her bag in a chair
next to the enormous, lopsided, half-finished peacock, her latest
work of origami she refused to part with. She was going to finish
it. Really.

“Apparently, I do not possess the acting
skills necessary to portray a sick housewife,” Leah said solemnly
before heading for the kitchen.

“Bummer. By the way, your agent called,”
Brad said, looking away from the boob tube for a split second.
“Something about soccer moms.”

Leah stopped midstride and jerked around.
“Soccer moms? What? What did she say?” she cried, suddenly hurtling
toward the couch and Brad, who instantly fell back and raised the
remote between them as if he was afraid she was going to hit
him.

“She said to call her, she had good
news.”

“Aaaiieee
!” Leah shrieked and
twirled around, lunging for the phone. “
War of the Soccer Moms
is a huge
studio film that Harold Bristol is directing!” she said
breathlessly as she punched in Frances’s number. “You know Harold
Bristol, right?”

“Yeah,” Brad said,
twisting around on the couch. “He got the Academy nomination
for
Red Devil
,
right? So what’s the war?”

“It’s this, like, war that happens in a
suburban neighborhood between these soccer moms. It starts over
something like a cheating husband and then escalates into
full-scale war. They form armies and wage guerrilla warfare against
each other until the government calls out the National Guard to end
it. I had three callbacks for the role of one of the soccer moms,
but then I didn’t hear anything, and I figured I was too fat for
the role, and—Hello? Hi Verna, it’s Leah! May I speak with Frances,
please?”

She twirled around and beamed at Brad. “They
have sixteen parts for women!”

Whatever Brad might have responded, Leah
didn’t hear, because Frances was suddenly singing into the phone,
“It’s great news, sweetie! They’ve offered you the role of one of
the soccer moms. They don’t know which yet, but it will almost
certainly have lines. It’s two months of filming, three weeks of
which are on location in Bellingham, Washington. Now the money
is—”

“Yes!” Leah shouted. “YES
YES
YES
!” she
shrieked, thrusting both arms into the air, phone included, before
whirling around to face Brad. “I got the part!
I got a part in a studio film
! And
it’s a speaking part!” She quickly returned the phone to her ear.
“When does it start?”

“Production starts in four weeks, but
listen, I want to talk money with you.”

“Okay,” Leah gasped, but she didn’t hear a
word Frances was saying, because she was doing a little happy dance
around the living room.

Her troubles were over.
She had a part in a studio film. She was back. Leah Klein, once the
toast of Broadway was
back
. Who knew where it could
lead?

Subject: Soccer Moms!!

From: Leah Kleinschmidt

To: Lucy Frederick

Time: 1:32 am

I GOT SOCCER MOM #5!!!
Isn’t that fantastic?? I’m in four huge scenes with Nicole Redding,
and two with Charlene Ribisi. Or maybe with their stunt doubles—I’m
not sure how the battle stuff is going to work out, altho we start
boot camp tomorrow. Isn’t that a stitch? A three week boot camp to
make us into soldiers! Oh, Lucy, this has been so much FUN!! The
only downside has been the costumes. I mean, they are sexier than
what you’d probably see on a real soccer mom like in Torrance or
someplace like that, but they’re still pretty frumpy. And the
camouflage uniforms we have to wear for the last two battle scenes
are HORRIBLE.
No one
is happy. Those pants make our butts look enormous. It’s like
my friend Trudy said, “We’re an army of asses.”

So get a load of this: You
know my boss, Henri, at the Silver Leaf Restaurant? The guy with
hands everywhere and nowhere appropriate? I told him I needed a
leave of absence for this film. And he was like,
“
What ees theees leave of absence? Theees
eees not a job to have leave of absence! There are many girls to
take your shifts
!” Can you believe him?
After how much I have worked for that asshole the last two years?
So I said to his bald spot, because he’s so short and that’s really
the only thing you can see when the lights are up, “You know, HENRY
(he hates it when we call him Henry instead of ooon-reee), you are
absolutely right. I quit!” HA HA. I walked out just before the
evening shift started. I know what you are going to say, but I
don’t need that stinking job, Lucy. I finally have the break I’ve
been waiting for. I can feel it in my bones. Something fabulous is
going to happen! I’ve got three auditions this week!
THREE!

And guess what? I figured it all out: I will
make enough to pay rent and bills, yada yada yada, AND get a new
car (I really want a new Thunderbird)!

Okay, enough about me . .
. I STILL can’t believe you are actually getting married!! GAWD, it
seems like just yesterday we were clubbing in search of guys. And
then I met Asshole and you met Pete (did he ever move to Atlanta
like he promised?). Never mind. That’s been a long time ago, and
YOU are getting married!!! But I never really thought you
liked
David. Didn’t you
call him a moron?

Subject: Re: Soccer Moms!!

From: Lucy Frederick

To: Leah Kleinschmidt

Time: 8:30 am

Leah. It has been TWO AND ONE-HALF YEARS
since David and I started dating, and that was a full six months
AFTER I said he had moronic tendencies with a streak of idiot. Just
to put things in some sort of time perspective for you since you
are obviously on LaLa time, I will remind you that 2.5 years ago
you were going to come back to New York because you hadn’t gotten
anything but a commercial and had a car that was falling apart and
hated your waitress job. And 2.5 weeks ago, you e-mailed and asked
if you could sleep on my couch because you were definitely coming
back to NY. So let’s see—now you’ve made TWO national commercials,
have a car that is falling apart, and quit your job waiting tables
so you can be a soccer mom. Okay, I will concede that the soccer
mom thing sounds pretty cool, altho I don’t get why a bunch of
soccer moms would have a war, but whatever. You have scenes and
lines and get face time with huge Hollywood stars! AND you get a
new car! But if this doesn’t lead somewhere, you really ought to
come back. We have to shop for bridesmaid dresses.

Subject: Re: Re: Soccer Moms!!

From: Leah Kleinschmidt <
[email protected]
>

To: Lucy Frederick <
[email protected]
>

Time: 10:10 pm

You know I can’t come to NY before we film.
But I will when we wrap, I promise. Did I tell you about Trudy?
She’s hysterical—we worked together a couple of years ago. Trudy
got a speaking role, too, and best of all, she is on my side in the
war!!! You’d like her, Luce—she’s got dark brown hair and brown
eyes and one of the stunt coordinators is already calling us Yin
and Yang, because we’re the same height but, duh, I have blond hair
and blue eyes. The only difference is that Yin got a boob job since
I last saw her, and let’s just sat Yang is fairly jealous of her
perfect breasts. In fact, I was looking around the other day and
decided I am about the only one in all of L.A. who has not gotten a
boob job yet. Do you think I need one? Be honest!

P.S. I loved the new 4 Doors Around CD. Have
you heard it?

Subject: The Mess You Got Us Into

From: Jack <
[email protected]
>

To: Mikey thrillsanonymous.net
>

Time: 10:10 pm

Get your ass back to L.A.
These women are driving us nuts. Jesus, Raney, do you have any idea
what you got us into with this movie? I know, I know, you thought
twenty or so mostly available women was a gift from the gods, but I
don’t think you took into account how much twenty some-odd women
can talk. They talk all the damn time, and I do mean
all
the damn time, and
all at once, too, and it doesn’t matter, because somehow, they can
hear each other through all that chatter. And don’t even get me
started on the cell phones. We put a ban on cell phones but no one
cares. They don’t listen to us. They just take the call like they
aren’t on a job or time isn’t money and then the next thing you
know, they are telling everyone around them whatever the person on
the other end of the line said, and then our whole drill goes down
the tubes. It’s just damn chaos around here, and we’re all
remembering that this film was YOUR brilliant idea, even if you did
have to draw the straw to lead the volcano hike in Costa Rica (how
convenient). So when are you going to be back? I’ve got a little
surprise for you.