Flavor of the Month (37 page)

Oh, please, dear Jesus. Show me the way. She reached for her mother’s Bible, which she kept in the medicine chest, then sat back on the toilet with the book on her lap. I’ll open it and it will tell me what to do, she told herself. She wiped her face with the back of her hand, wiped her nose, too, then sniffed and took a deep breath.

With a swift motion, she inserted a fingernail into the Good Book and opened the binding. It flipped open to the New Testament, first page of the book of Acts.

She stared at the large-print heading on the page. Acts. Acting. She looked up to the flaking thin ceiling of the bathroom.

What had that guy Milton said last week? I could get a job on TV and make a lot of money? But it couldn’t be for real. She stood up and quietly made her way out to the dresser in the bedroom, picked up her straw bag, and crept back into the john. Rummaging around, she found the little bit of paper she was looking for. “Milton Glick, Weinberg and Glick Casting, 25550 La Cienega Boulevard, Hollywood, California.”

“The Lord works in mysterious ways,” she murmured.

It wasn’t a comfortable drive from Bakersfield to L.A. for Sharleen. The Datsun’s air conditioning wasn’t working right, and she and Dean got lost twice. When she’d called, Mr. Glick had given her directions, but they didn’t make sense, and she’d never been a good map reader. Plus, Los Angeles was so much busier and bigger than Bakersfield.

They got lost in a section of town that looked pretty rough. When they finally got on La Cienega, she sighed with relief. She had gotten all dressed up—a nice skirt from J C Penney, with a new blue blouse that had white lace with silver spangles on the cuffs and neckline. She had her old white pumps, but she’d covered the scuffs with the shoe polish she had used on her waitress shoes at Jake’s. She thought she looked nice, but when she got out of the car she nearly cried. The skirt was all rucked up, and the wrinkles wouldn’t smooth, while the blouse was wet up her back and under her arms. Her face was flushed with the heat, and her hair was lank from the humidity.

“Dean, you wait here, now, okay?”

“Sure, Sharleen. You gonna get another job?”

What if this guy was a crook? What if he was lying, and he tried to rape her? What if they were Mafia or worse? Her hands shook as she closed the car door and looked in at Dean. “I hope so, honey.”

She walked toward the office-building door. It looked big, and new, with marble floors and glittery metal edges on everything that wasn’t glass or mirror. The chilled air hit her with a blast as she moved through the revolving doors. She felt goose pimples raise on her flesh. Well, she was nervous. What would they do if she didn’t get this job? She clutched her patent-leather purse. She had only seventy-six dollars and some change from tips left.

What if Mr. Glick was like them other men? Just makin’ come-ons to her, lookin’ for trouble? She remembered Dobe’s words of warning. As she stepped onto the elevator, punching the button for the twelfth floor, she prayed that she’d get some honest work.

“Do I have to pray to Yahweh to get some honest work out of you?” Sy Ortis was asking Milton Glick.

“Sy, I know you’re going to like this girl.”

“I better. And Marty better. Because otherwise he’s casting that nasty New York twat, and you are shit out of luck.” Sy was furious about Bethanie Lake, a nobody from the East Coast that Marty was considering. She was already represented by Judy Priestly, so Sy would be cut out. And if
he
was cut out, Milton would be, too. He could guarantee that.

Sometimes desperation can alter perception. Even if Sharleen Smith had not been one of the most beautiful young women on the face of the planet, she might have been perceived as such by these two desperate men. But as she was ushered into the conference room, she had never looked lovelier. The cheap clothes, the messy hair, the flush all contributed to an air of irresistible youth and sensuality.

“Mr. Glick?” she asked. “Remember me? Sharleen, from Bakersfield.”

“Not originally from Bakersfield,” Sy Ortis replied. “Unless that’s a fake accent.”

“Do I have an accent?” The men laughed.

Sy Ortis stood up and walked over to her. No one had offered Sharleen a seat, so she stood there. Sy walked around the girl, then looked over at Milton.

“Almost white-blond. And no roots. Monica Flanders will like this one. Well, this is at least a possibility,” he said to Milton. “The hair. It’s your hair, Sharleen from Bakersfield?”

“Well, of course it’s my hair.” Except she pronounced it “hay-er.”

“Give her a script,” Ortis ordered Glick, and Milton rejoiced. He handed the girl a blue-covered binder, showed her where to read.

“We’ll run some lines, okay? You read the part of Clover.”

“Okay,” agreed Sharleen, but it sounded to them like “Oh-ky.” Milton read a line, and Sharleen stumbled through the next one. Then Milton read again.

Sy barely listened. He knew that Marty primarily cared about the way things looked, and this looked good. Was the kid wearing any makeup? It didn’t matter. He could see this one would put lip gloss on her butt to please. He could draw up the Flanders contract and probably get her to sign for less than a hundred thousand dollars. Perhaps he could charge her an equal amount in finder’s fees.

Excited but too experienced to show it, Sy picked up the phone and punched in some numbers. He stared blankly into space as he listened to the car phone at the other end ring, then be picked up. He said “hello,” then punched them onto the speakerphone and put the receiver down.

“Marty?”

“What, Sy?”

“Marty, do you want to say hello to your new Clover?”

“Sure.”

Sy motioned to Sharleen with an uplifted hand. “Say hello to Mr. DiGennaro,” he told her.

“Hello, Mr. DiGennaro.”

Marty snorted, the noise accompanied by crackles of transmission friction. “Where did you get that phony corn pone from?” he asked.

“From the mouth of the most beautiful virgin you’ll ever meet.” Then it hit him. Were they playing with jail-bait here? A greedy parent could fuck up any deal. “
Madre di Dios!
” He turned to Sharleen. “How old are you?”

“Nineteen,” she said, but to all three men it sounded like “Nan teen.” On the speakerphone, Marty laughed again.

“You’re pulling my thing.”

“Get over here and take a look for yourself,” Sy told him. “Let her pull it.” Milton Glick smiled for the first time that month.

“Sy, I’ll personally kill you if I have to get on the freeway at this hour for nothing,” Marty threatened.

“This isn’t nothing,” Sy promised.

They spent the next hour running the lines with her. Sharleen began to worry about Dean, but she was afraid to ask them if she could go. They wanted her address, to know how long she’d lived in Bakersfield, where she was from, if she had representation, and if she was married. Lots more questions, too. Sharleen thought of Lamson and lied. Talked about Arkansas and Oklahoma. She prayed she was saying the right thing. She had been standing in the shabby white high heels now for over an hour. Her calves were aching.

“Please,” she finally asked, “kin I sit down?”

“Certainly,” said Milton Glick.

Sy Ortis realized the girl had been afraid to ask to sit down until now. He took a deep breath. “Milton,” Sy said, “she’s perfect.”

By the time the third man arrived, Sharleen was worn out. She was afraid to ask if she had the job, what it paid, and if it would last for more than a week or two. She read the lines as she had been instructed and tried not to be put off by Mr. DiGennaro, who prowled around her, sometimes close, sometimes farther away, occasionally crouching, once even pulling up a chair, jumping onto it, and staring down at her.

“Incredible,” he said at last. “She doesn’t have a bad angle. You know how easy that will make shooting her?”

Sharleen heard the word “shooting” and took a step backward. Maybe these guys
were
mobsters. After all, “DiGennaro” sounded like a Mafia name. She licked her lips, gathered her courage, and finally asked a question.

“So do I get this job or not?” she asked.

“Oh, I think you do. I truly think you do,” Mr. DiGennaro said.

By now you’ve probably forgotten Neil Morelli. Why not? So did several million people who tuned him in for the brief time that he starred in
All the President’s Chakras.

I—Laura Richie—had interviewed Neil back before the show came out. He was as high on his success and as cocky as any actor I’ve ever met. He talked about how he was “gonna kick Seinfeld’s ass.” He was driving a fancy car. He was dating his costar, a blonde bombshell who needed a reading for every line she had to deliver. It wasn’t a pretty picture
.

It wasn’t that the concept of the show wasn’t funny. It was. It was about a loony astrologer who had the President’s ear and had been named to the newly created Cabinet post of “secretary of astrology.” The show
. All The President’s Chakras,
could be really wacky, if only the writers could write jokes. But they couldn’t. What can you expect from guys whose writing credits included
Charles in Charge?
Neil knew he could do better. In fact, he had, but no one would even read his suggested changes, never mind admit that the lines weren’t working. It was a script from Ortis’ group of hacks, and they were losers, skidders, and bums. But Ortis represented him, too. So what the fuck was up?

Neil had gone to the producer over the director’s head and shown him some of his proposed changes to the script. Okay, maybe he hadn’t been diplomatic. Maybe he had tried to push his bantam weight around, but the guy had overreacted
.

“
Get the fuck out of my office,” Lenny Hartley had yelled, throwing the script back at him. “And you’re off the lot for the rest of the day,” he screamed. “I make the decisions around here, not you. You guys are a dime a dozen, so, if you can’t do what you’re told today, don’t come back tomorrow
.”

That was the part that really frightened Neil. He was supposed to be the star of this little piece of shit. So where was the star treatment? He thought he had made it, that he’d finally gotten to a point where he’d get some respect. Some power. Wrong again, bean head. As he drove out through the gates of the lot he shivered, thinking about not being able to come back there. He had finally arrived, finally made it to Hollywood, burned all his bridges. There was no turning back
.

But the script
was
lousy, and the President was an empty suit of an actor, while the other lead, the First Lady, was played by a dumb bitch who had fucked her way into the part. In fact, she’d fucked Neil. If she didn’t make it on this show, she could always arrange to get another shot the way she had gotten this one. But what about him? If it flopped, where could he go? And as it looked now, there was no way that this bird would get picked up for the entire season
.

Neil knew that it was make-it-or-break-it time for him. Maybe he shouldn’t have screamed like a maniac at Sy Ortis’ secretary; maybe he should have spoken again to the guy, the mini-agent in Sy’s office, Brad or Tad or Todd or Ted, who had been assigned to him. But that guy was another know-nothing, do-nothing, a schmuck in Armani who specialized in taking meetings and fucking the dumb broads banging down his door
.

I did a bit in the column about the trouble. But, hey, that’s nothing new. There are over four hundred pilots shot each year. Only about two dozen of them make series. Of those, only one or two go on for more than a year. Not great odds. Neil was just a statistical probability
.

Change is a bitch. Not all change, of course. Let’s face it. it’s not so tough getting used to living in a beach house, driving a BMW, having a cleaning woman who does your laundry and cooks your meals and irons your clothes. It’s not so hard to take, after a lifetime of deprivation. Accepting
those
changes hadn’t been a problem for Neil Morelli. The house in Malibu and the BMW, the pretty girlfriend, the sex in a hot tub—and the cleaning woman—it was like he was born to them. No, they weren’t the changes Neil hadn’t adjusted to
.

It was the new changes he’d had to deal with the last few months, since his series was canceled that were the bitch. Getting used, once again, to a crummy apartment in Encino, dirty laundry that didn’t get washed by itself, and working a day job
.

Fucking
working
again, like a slave, for fucking assholes. For tips! Neil Morelli returned home from his gig exhausted and miserable. When
All the President’s Chakras
was canceled, Neil wasn’t surprised, since he had known almost from the beginning that the scripts were crap, that the writers were fourth-rate. In fact, he had prophesied that it would be a catastrophe, unless major revamping was done.

But knowing the show was going to flop sometime in the future was no preparation for the devastation when it was actually canceled. For the first few weeks after the cancellation, he spent his time on the phone with anyone at Ortis’ office who would listen. Todd, Tad, Brad, et al. After a while, Sy Ortis’ office said the inevitable: “Don’t call us, we’ll call you.” And the great man didn’t talk to him at all. Not once. That was something out of a thirties movie, for chrissakes. Who the fuck was Sy Ortis anyhow?

He tried, as he always did, to joke himself out of it. Remember, he told himself, what the Muslims say: if shit happens, it’s the will of Allah. He also remembered Woody Allen’s line about Hollywood: “It’s worse than dog eat dog: it’s dog doesn’t return other dog’s phone call.” But jokes didn’t help. There was no Mary Jane or anyone else to laugh with him. Then the isolation and inertia set in. He knew he needed to do something. His money was running out, he had no plans, his agent had dropped him, and he couldn’t—wouldn’t—go back to New York with his tail between his legs. So he did the only thing he knew how to do. He continued to work on his routine. He wrote and rewrote. But writing funny when you feel like used cat litter isn’t easy. The routines weren’t coming, and when they did they didn’t work.