Hollywood Strip

by Shamron Moore

  She swiped a compact from her purse and examined her heart-shaped face: the high cheekbones and round eyes suggested Eastern European blood. She was fortunate to have naturally full lips and straight teeth. Her nose was small but imperfect; she rubbed the tiny bump on her bridge and wondered what she’d look like with it streamlined. This imperfection had always bothered her; was Coquette bothered by it, too? She needed someone else’s opinion and immediately thought of her friend Tyler. He possessed the subtlety of a nuclear bomb and always gave it to her straight. He answered her call on the first ring.

  “What up, skank?” His favorite moniker—“skank”—was reserved only for those he held dearest. She informed him of the rejection letter. “That sucks. But you know that rag goes for bigger girls. You’re small-boned, and that’s not a bad thing.”

  “I know, but Candice was sure I’d get it and I figured she’d know since she was their girl in May—”

  “Candice has a rump to rival Mama Cass, which is exactly what that Rousseau creep likes. I don’t get it, but, then, I have a better shot at figuring out the thought process of an alien versus a straight male. You remember Tracy, the model I introduced you to at my birthday? Sweet as pie and a fabulous body, but in person, her face looks like what I dropped off in my toilet this morning. Their logic is lost on me.” In the four years they had known one another—it felt closer to a lifetime due to their similar naughty senses of humor, plucky drive, and single-mother, Midwestern upbringing—he never held his feelings back, regardless of whom he spoke to.

  “I don’t understand it. I really thought I nailed it, but I guess not.”

  “You can’t predict what the decision-makers are looking for. Half the time, they don’t even know. I found that out when I first moved here to be an actor. Thank God I fell into makeup instead.” Having been an Angeleno for two years, Tyler was quickly becoming a much-sought-after makeup artist after abandoning his short-lived acting aspirations. He figured if he couldn’t rise to be the next Brad Pitt in record time, there was zero point in playing the game. “Just remember, Cal, it doesn’t mean there’s something wrong with you or you’re not gorgeous.”

  “What does it mean, then?”

  “It means if you want to be in their magazine, you need to gorge on Popeye’s and Big Macs. Other than that, there’s nothing you can do about it. Most girls would die to be pin-thin, so try to look on the bright side.”

  Tyler’s point was valid. “So, what’s new with you?” she asked.

  “A soap actress has been keeping me super busy—Barbara Hickey, ever heard of her?”

  “No, I don’t watch soaps.”

  “She’s been booking me for lots of events and I’m thinking of charging her extra. That old bag’s all shades of crazy. I’m ready to say, ‘Look, honey, I’m here to put your face on, I’m not your shrink.’ Just wait till you book a role—you’ll see what I mean. And you better not turn into a neurotic mess, either, or I’ll ship you off to the loony bin. Actresses, they’re all nuts. Barbara told me she spends four hundred dollars an hour on her doctor. Heavens to Betsy, for that price, a blow job better be included.”

  “And how. I’ll call you later, Ty; I have to comb through the casting breakdowns. Hopefully I’ll find a movie I can submit myself on.”

  “Sounds good. And cheer up, girl; it’s not the end of the world. You’ve only been in L.A. a few months. Your time will come.”

  Tyler was probably right. Something was bound to come along.

  4

  The balmy temperature at eleven o’clock at night melted the cubes in Callie’s Cape Cod. She watched the assortment of women and men with displeasure. Candice had pleaded with her to come, but Callie’s mood was foul—thank you, Coquette. The last thing she felt like doing was mingling and pretending to care about arbitrary conversation. Despite her lack of enthusiasm, however, it was impossible not to appreciate the stunning view the establishment offered. Los Angeles stretched for miles below her, twinkling as if it were made up of the gems in Louis XIV’s crown. Michigan never provided a view so grand.

  Candice tapped her arm. “Look at Lars over there. How disgusting!” Lars Lindquist was surrounded by a group of women at the edge of the pool, his muscular body sprawled on a patio bed. A red-haired woman with a compact frame straddled him. Lars caught their glare and squeezed her buttocks. “That cocksucker. How dare he! That’s the whore he’s been cheating with. All two feet of her.”

  “She’s not a complete troll but she’s in dire need of a deep conditioning treatment,” Callie noted.

  “You should see the nude pictures she sent him. Ha! She’s got more roast beef than Arby’s. Rule number one, sweetheart: if you’re going to show off your snatch, make sure it doesn’t look like a goddamned grenade went off in your Frankie B’s.”

  Callie scowled. “And why does he like her again?”

  “Who knows. Unless her pussy drips Colombian emeralds, I don’t see what’s so special. Ewww, and look at that tramp stamp! That flower is bigger than my entire head,” Candice sputtered.

  “He’s just trying to make you jealous. You should play ball with him, Candy, and give him a dose of his own medicine.”

  A tall man with well-defined features sauntered past. Candice eyed him and licked her lips. “Great minds think alike. Excuse me, Cal; I think I just found a late-night snack.” She followed her prey across the deck and down the stairs.

  The girls had officially been roommates for five hours. Following a bitter argument that began the previous night, Candice moved her possessions—which amounted to little more than clothes, shoes, and a collection of Chanel sunglasses—out of Lars’s Beverly Hills condo and into Callie’s Hollywood apartment. Lars begged her to stay with him—it was all a big misunderstanding, he said the dirty pictures meant nothing—but she refused to reconsider. When Candice’s mind was made up, nothing or no one could waver her opinion. “Congrats, Lars, you are now free to fuck every Tom, Dick, and Jane you see with a clear conscience. Hell, fuck all of ’em at the same time. It’s L.A., after all, so that’s not too difficult, you asshole!” she had screeched amid a sea of flying shoes (Lars’s shoes, certainly not her own).

  “Hey, hot stuff. Can I buy you a drink?” A fortyish man with a mop of curly hair hovered next to her. A skull-embellished T-shirt stretched across his expansive chest and silver rings adorned each of his overly bronzed fingers.

  “Sure, vodka cranberry.” She wondered how he could get through airport security with all the hardware he sported. Tool.

  “You got it.” He turned to a nearby cocktail waitress. “Sweetheart, can I get a vodka cran and a vodka Red Bull? Thanks. So, let me guess what you do and don’t tell me I’m wrong. You must be a model. What have you been in?”

  “A few gigs in the Midwest where I’m from. I haven’t been in L.A. that long.”

  “I can tell. You got an agent yet? If not, I can recommend a shitload. My list of contacts is longer than your legs.” His smile revealed Chiclet-style teeth.

  “I’m with Starr Talent but they mostly only handle print and commercials. I haven’t found a theatrical agent yet so I submit myself on film and TV projects.”

  “Is that right?”

  “Yeah. A friend e-mails me the casting breakdowns every day.”

  “I like your style; you’re a hustler. You got a name?”

  “Callie.”

  “Cool, an Italian girl. I’m a dago, too. Amir, nice to meet you.”

  “Actually, Callie is Greek for ‘most beautiful,’ but I’m also Czech.” Why did Middle Eastern men in L.A. refer to themselves as Italian? Her landlord had an Israeli accent thicker than a sumo wrestler yet he insisted he hailed from Palermo. More important, how much longer until her cocktail arrived? She hated shallow banter but on a waitress’s salary with drinks priced at fifteen bucks a pop, it was wise to stay put.

  “Want a bump?” he said.

  She had tried cocaine twice in her life—both times with Candice—and enjoyed the
euphoric sensation, the inflated self-confidence. That Friday night, exhausted and depressed, she sampled it for a third.

  Amir reached in his pocket and took out a set of car keys and a plastic bag. He dredged his key through the powder and held it in front of her nose.

  “Thanks. Honestly, it’s been one of those days,” she said, and wiped her nostril.

  “Why? Tell me about it.” He took a sniff and hid the stash in his jeans as the waitress returned.

  Callie recounted the Coquette debacle but glossed over how rejected she felt by concluding, “It’s just the nature of the business. Besides, I’m an actress first and foremost. I got my SAG card a few months ago.” A clump of coke passed through her sinuses and settled in the back of her throat. She had forgotten how much she enjoyed the drip, when her tongue and gums—every nerve in her body from the neck up—shimmied with numbness. Elation surged through her loins like a lightning bolt.

  “If Coquette isn’t interested, there’s something wrong with them, not you,” Amir said. He gave her another generous snort and took one himself. “An ex-girlfriend of mine tried out for them, too. Gorgeous girl, sexy as hell, but she was too thin for their taste. Man, they’re behind the times. Give me an anorexic over a beached whale any day. Besides, you say you’re an actress. My buddy directs music videos, union. I’m pretty sure he’s got one cooking this week, matter of fact. Why don’t you give me your digits and I’ll hook you up with all the details?”

  “Sure, why not.” She scribbled her number on a cocktail napkin.

  “Cool beans. Here, take my business card. Call me and I’ll show you around town.” He flashed a blindingly white smile before abruptly darting off.

  AMIR YAVARI

  Actor/Producer

  Hollywood Extraordinaire

  Callie rolled her eyes; he probably only wanted up her skirt and didn’t have a music video connection, but what the hey—it was La La Land. Stranger things happened every day. She tucked the card in her purse and set off to locate Candice. Maybe her friend was having a better time of it.

  5

  The sun poured through the windows onto the sleeper-sofa where Callie and Candice slept. Callie groaned and pulled the covers over her face. Her head felt as if it would split in half like the Titanic. How much did she drink last night, anyway? She remembered downing four vodka cranberries—or was it five? There was the nose candy Mr. Tan Man had given her, too. Damn him. What was his name? Armand? Her brain was foggy.… She looked at the stove’s digital clock. Ten past two. She flipped on the TV and a Britney Spears video blared, jarring her memory. That’s right—the “Hollywood Extraordinaire” supposedly had a link to a director. Please. She regretted giving him her number. Oh, well. Candice stirred next to her but remained in a deep slumber. Canoodling with the genetically blessed specimen she found had failed to spark Lars’s jealousy, to her immense disappointment. After downing a bottle of champagne and engaging in an hour-long make-out session, she tired of the charade and, to the relief of Callie, called it a night. “The one time I want his panties in a bunch and it doesn’t happen. Humph. Go figure,” she fumed during the cab ride home.

  The high-pitched ring of her cell phone made her jump and, wearily, she answered it. It was her grandmother, Esme.

  “Hi, honey, what’s going on?” asked the elderly woman.

  “I’m great, Grandma, how are you?” She wanted to gripe about how lousy she felt from the booze and blow. Grandma Esme was cool, but that would be pushing it.

  Thirty minutes ticked by as she listened to details of her grandmother’s week—gardening, the Michigan weather report, and how wonderful the employees were at her local post office. “There aren’t enough hours in the day, I’m telling you. It’s just a rat race,” said Esme with a dramatic sigh.

  Esme, her paternal grandmother, enjoyed a warm rapport with her granddaughter and was the only relative Callie spoke to on a weekly basis. Not that she had many family members to talk to, anyway. Her father had died of a brain aneurysm when she was just five and she didn’t get on well with her mother. Mother and daughter were opposite in every way; Callie was off-the-cuff and affectionate, Virginia rigid and reserved. If Virginia wanted pancakes for breakfast, Callie wanted scrambled eggs; if Callie viewed a shade of gray as charcoal, Virginia argued that it was, in fact, pewter. With the exception of their dark eyes and high foreheads, the two had little in common. Their squabbling increased during her teenage years when Virginia married Tony, a supervisor at the General Motors plant. His reasoning (“Why go to a restaurant and pay twenty bucks for a piece of fish when I can go Up North and catch my own?”) and crude babble (“That Candice sure does have a sweet set of knockers!”) exasperated her. How could her mother go from choosing a sensitive, refined man such as her father to a loudmouthed, vulgar hillbilly?

  “Have you met any nice men yet?” asked Esme. Ever since Callie moved to L.A. three months ago, her grandma asked if she had snagged a man whenever they spoke. “You need a stable partner, someone to settle down with who worships the ground you walk on. Like how Grandpa was with me.”

  “Grandma, I don’t want to be tied down. I moved for the weather and my career, not to find a man,” Callie insisted.

  “But you’re all alone out there, honey, and I worry about you. Are you eating properly? Do you need any money?”

  Callie assured her she had her own cash. Waiting tables produced meager but steady income and she had two thousand dollars in savings. The last thing she wanted was to be financially dependent on someone, especially a person as generous as her grandmother. Callie was determined to pay her own way.

  The beep on her phone indicated call waiting. “I’ll call you back, Grandma,” she said, and switched to the second line.

  “Is this Callie?” a man asked. His voice was baritone and unfamiliar.

  “Speaking. Who is this?”

  “I’m Jeremy Granger. I just got a call from my friend Amir. Says he met you last night and you’re very cool, but more importantly, you’re brunette and hot. I’m directing a music video tomorrow in Burbank and my lead girl got into a nasty car wreck last night. She can’t make it to the set and I need a replacement. I saw your pictures on IMDb and you two could be twins. Are you interested?”

  “Absolutely!” She couldn’t believe it was even a question.

  “Excellent. You’ve made my job a lot easier. Harold, the production assistant, will call you tonight with location details. See you tomorrow morning.”

  6

  Harold rapped on the trailer door, startling Callie. She spilled the Styrofoam cup of coffee on her lap and cursed.

  “They’re ready for you, Miss Lambert!” he shouted.

  “Got it!” she hollered back, dabbing herself with a paper towel. Finally! After four false alarms, she was antsy. She had checked in with Harold at 6 A.M., chipper and eager to work. They needed her as soon as possible, she was informed, and she was whisked into the hair and makeup trailer. An hour later she emerged, coiffed, glossed, and ready for her close-up. Jeremy was amazed how closely she resembled the girl originally cast in the video, the unlucky car crash victim. “I just can’t believe it,” he marveled, his bloated but friendly face cocked to one side. “You and Stephanie could be twins. What luck! Pure, unadulterated luck. By the way, minor change in plans—it’s going be an hour, at most, before we need you.” An hour passed, then came an update—at least another hour, technical difficulties. Another delay, the lead singer hadn’t arrived yet. And then another …

  Callie reclined in her trailer, napped, read a few magazines, and dozed off again. Hardly strenuous activity and not too shabby for a first-time real acting gig. CALLIE LAMBERT was displayed in bold print on the door and she felt proud. Her trailer, with its chipped paint and discolored flooring, contained little more than an oversized chair, a sink, and a toilet, but that was fine. It was air-conditioned and quiet and sitting here certainly beat waitressing. What was more, she didn’t have to audition for the part. How fab
ulous was that? And the crew was welcoming, too.

  Callie exited the trailer and walked alongside Harold as he chatted away. “The set isn’t far off, just over this little hill here,” he said. “Boy, one delay after another on this one. Hope you weren’t too bored. You never can predict how long some of these shots will take. Thirty-three years in this business and I still get surprised. We just finished up Evan’s first scene.”

  “Who’s Evan?” she asked. With all of the hustle and bustle, she hadn’t heard—or inquired—who the artist was.

  Harold chuckled. “Evan Marquardt, the singer. You never heard of him?”

  “Never.”

  “He’s made a pretty big name for himself overseas. Good-lookin’ fella. All the girls go ga-ga for him.”

  “Is he nice?”

  “Very. Real easygoing and smooth. Talented, too, he sure can hit some notes, let me tell ya.”

  They walked up to the director’s chair where Jeremy sat, his hands resting on top of his belly. “Thanks for hanging in there, Callie. Your scene isn’t very long, but it’s an important part. This is the dream sequence Evan sings about halfway through the song. What I’m going to have you do—” Jeremy threw his bulky body on the ground to demonstrate. “—is lay like this while I shoot you from a few different angles. Just look off in the distance, like you’re daydreaming. No eye contact with the camera. Think you can handle that?”

  “I definitely can,” she said.

  “Excellent.” Jeremy turned to his crew. “Can I get a rehearsal up, please?”

  Callie, barefoot, trotted to the designated filming spot and lay in the grass, her hair splayed around her head in a halo. Her chiffon gown billowed across her legs in wispy layers.