Livia Mendelssohn was twenty-six, but she told people she was twenty-three. Everyone lied about their age in Tinseltown. Here, youth was king.
Not that it had done her much good—her greatest feat so far was a bit part as Girl Number 4 on that sleazy soap opera for two weeks. Then there was the humiliating role as Whiny Customer on that mattress-store TV commercial, and then the stint as Yente in the summer stock North Hollywood production of Fiddler on the Roof. The theater, she ruefully reminded herself every night, was a half-block from the city’s biggest porn studio.
Cynical about all auditions, she was especially skeptical about this one. Staring at the audition-room door, she felt a drop of sweat course down her spine. For God’s sake, couldn’t they afford air-conditioning? The looks of the actresses around her made her sweat even harder. They had been classically trained, had worked in TV or films since their preteens, and were so drop-dead gorgeous they could have stripped to their lingerie and posed for an impromptu Victoria’s Secret catalog photo shoot.
Hearing another girl’s audition through the thin wall, Livia robotically recited the lines herself. At this point she knew them so well she could have done them standing on her head, underwater, on sodium pentothal. She’d done so many auditions she could sleepwalk through them.
Her cynicism notwithstanding, she recognized her presence here as a major coup. Variety, People Magazine, Entertainment Weekly, showbiz gossip columns, Internet blogs, and conversations over crab cakes and Cobb salads at the Ivy blathered about nothing else. The big-budget studio production of Cleopatra she was trying out for silenced all other gossip. The project had all the right elements—a giga-buck producer, a violence-crazed, prima-donna director, and a coke-snorting, tequila-chugging, woman-abusing mega-star actor. Ah, Hollywood.
The extravaganza had everything except Cleopatra—an omission the studio had described as “deliberate.” They wanted to cast far and wide for the hottest, most jaw-dropping, most ravishing unknown actress on earth—“a vixen with enough vavavoom to launch a thousand ships.” Someone at the studio had neglected to tell the hopeless hack who’d hammered out that shamelessly pilfered Marlowe quote that it referred to Helen of Troy, not the Queen of the Nile.
Livia had no doubt that after scamming—and no doubt bedding—half the starlets in Hollywood, the principal players would hand Cleo’s diadem to Angelina Jolie, saying no one could top her for intellect, talent, integrity, acting skill, commitment, social conscience, political passion, work ethic, dedication, and love of indigent African children, to say nothing of lewd, lascivious lust. Who could top that?
The door opened, and Livia was hit with a blast of air-conditioning cold enough to freeze meat—hell, live steers. She was almost hit as well by the stunningly voluptuous, auburn-haired actress who spilled out of the room in a painted-on red dress. All the actresses had worn the same basic ensemble at the insistence of the audition manager, but this girl’s outfit was so sensationally skintight, with a sky-high hem and a plunging neckline, that it made Livia’s look like a cherry-red paper sack. Livia couldn’t picture the Queen of the Nile in such a getup, but what did she know? Pausing only to toss her long Titian-hued hair extensions back over her shoulders and out of her eyes, the girl shot Livia a pitying smile, as if apologizing that she had to pass through that door. Livia grimaced and stared at the floor as the girl hightailed it away.
“They’re ready for you,” a high-pitched voice shouted to her from within.
The voice’s owner, a petite, immaculately groomed boy in a perfectly tailored suit, let her in. He looked her up and down with a staunchly disapproving glance. Typical pompous Hollywood assistant.
The assistant shut the door, then led her into a meeting room. The terrifying triumvirate sat at a mahogany conference table that was surrounded by matching leather-padded armchairs. The table was littered with bottles of Jack Daniels, Chivas Regal, and Dom Perignon icing in a bucket, three black thermal coffee carafes, and an assortment of glasses, more ice buckets, bottled waters, and sodas. Jars of pâté, beluga caviar, and a wheel of brie along with various crackers and breads were also spread out.
There were other dishes as well. One of the sugar bowls was either filled with powdered confectioner’s sugar or Bolivian marching powder. Another held a stack of brown folding papers, and a third was filled with Purple Haze.
Livia averted her eyes in horror. She felt like Goldilocks facing the Three Wicked Werewolves the day they forgot to bring their bear suits.
Rounding the conference table, she stood before them as if facing a firing squad. On the far left was the Papa Werewolf-Bear, producer Alan Hakim. Sixtyish, with thick, black-dyed, blow-dried hair and a fashionable deep-sea tan burned permanently into his skin by an overpriced Rodeo Drive tanning salon, turning it parchment-dry and brown as an old hide. He sported a custom-tailored jet-black Brioni power suit—the exact model James Bond wore in Casino Royale. The tabloids often photographed him roaring around town in his vintage James Bond Bentley convertible, his bevy of D-cup Bond-style bombshells in hot librarian eyeglasses, brandishing pens and notepads at port arms, their low-cut dresses showing off their spillage to maximum advantage.
His past life was a matter of some dispute. Left-wing blogs claimed his first name was Ali and that he was a Saudi prince in exile—hinting at more than one or two al Qaeda connections—and that he’d made his fortune as a black-market arms dealer. Thirty years after receiving his first Best Picture Oscar, Hakim remained a Hollywood institution. He was the kind of person who brought his stars fame and notoriety, but whose wake was strewn with the wrecked hopes and trashed lives of almost everyone else.
In the triad’s center, the thirty-eight-year-old director—famous for transmuting misogyny and mayhem into preposterously profitable blockbusters—leaned back in his reclining leather office armchair. Staring vacantly into space, Malachi Chung had hard, sharply chiseled features, eyes black as anthracite and a thick ebony ponytail that fell past his narrow, scrunched shoulders.
After breaking into Hollywood with the critically acclaimed Korean film Engorged, he had dominated the box office with his last five movies. According to Entertainment Tonight, he planned to infuse Shakespeare’s Antony and Cleopatra with the shocking tableaux of his signature sado-eroticism.
Though now purportedly clean, Malachi had in the past suffered a notorious affinity for heroin, which had landed him in rehab no fewer than five times. His eyes were so stupefyingly empty, Livia wondered if he was high now.
He was the trio’s Middle Werewolf-Bear.
Finally, on the right was Lucas Bright, the group’s dazzlingly handsome but painfully stupid Werewolf-Bear Cub. One would be hard-pressed to find an American teenage girl (or gender-bending boy) who hadn’t fantasized about him. With his photogenically muscular physique, he was dashing enough to look at home in a tuxedo but a good ole Southern boy at heart, with a hint of Dixie skulking somewhere in his voice. The hottest young star in Hollywood, he would play Julius Caesar.
Stunned by their presence, Livia stood frozen as a popsicle in front of the three moguls. At first, they didn’t seem to notice. Lucas squinted moronically into his BlackBerry. Alan stared so intently into the notebook computer perched on his lap that Livia assumed he must be watching Internet porn. Finally, Malachi woke from his stupor and broke the silence.
“What are you doing here!” he thundered, jumping to his feet.
His outburst brought everyone else to attention.
“She’s come to clean the office,” Alan said without looking up, his eyes glued to his computer.
“Then where’s her broom?” Malachi asked, still confused.
“She flew in on it,” Lucas said, putting down his BlackBerry.
“Look at that nose,” Malachi said, pointing and cackling.
“Looks like a badly busted knuckle,” said Alan.
“She’s got the eyes of a sheep-killing dog,” Lucas said.
“A wolverine,” Alan said.
“Definitely the mouth of a wolverine,” Lucas said.
“Look at those teeth,” Malachi said, staring at her mouth intently.
“She could gnaw the chrome off a trailer hitch,” Lucas said.
More lurid laughter.
“Who sent us this wolverine anyway?” Lucas said
“The L.A. Zoo,” Malachi said.
“Put the animal back in its cage,” Alan said, returning to his computer porn.
More hysterical hilarity.
“Come on, guys,” the undersized, suit-clad gofer said timidly. “She came all this way to read for the part. Even if she’s not right for Cleopatra, she might be right for another role.”
“Not unless we’re shooting Return of Bigfoot,” Alan cracked.
“Bigfoot on a bad hair day,” Lucas said.
“Revenge of the Abominable Snowman,” Malachi said.
“Come on, her agent sent her,” the gofer said.
“Oh, an agent sent you!” Alan shouted at Livia, feigning wonder. “Excusez moi!”
He filled his glass with Chivas and passed the bottle to Malachi. “And pray tell, who the hell is this zookeeper and where does he keep his beasts?”
Livia took a deep breath. “Scott Temple at Timeline Artists.”
Alan threw up his hands. “Temple? Temple is where my lawyer does Rosh Hashanah. Temple is not a man who wastes my time with a wolverine in my audition room.”
The assistant looked sheepish. “Look, Alan . . . I owed the guy a favor.” He darted over and whispered to Alan, who looked like he might explode. He drained his scotch and poured another tumbler-full.
“Sorry, man. The guy said she was hot,” the assistant said.
With an unexpected surge of defiance, Livia decided they wouldn’t dismiss her—not so insultingly, and not without a fight.
“I prepared!” she insisted. She fought to control her cracking voice. She wouldn’t, couldn’t let them see her cry. “Give me five minutes. Just a few lines.”
The Three Werewolf-Bears stared at her.
“Fine,” Alan finally barked. “Blow me away.”
And there it was: her main chance, her opportunity to shine. Livia closed her eyes and felt the old energy surge—that performance-induced adrenaline rush. In spite of the hellish beginning, she could still wow them. Miracles did happen.
“My desolation does begin to make a better life,” she began. Pausing, she steadied her voice.
“ ’Tis paltry to be Caesar;
Not being Fortune, he’s but Fortune’s knave.
A minister of her will; and it is great
To do that thing that ends all other deeds,
Which shackles accidents, and bolts up change,
Which sleeps, and never palates more the dung—”
“Unbelievable!” Alan yelled. He turned to his cruel cohorts. “Bigfoot thinks she can act. Will wonders never cease?”
“Let me tell you something that most girls like you never get to hear,” Malachi said, his eyes cold and steely. “You have no talent.”
She fought tears, holding them back as long as she could.
“Now hear me out,” Malachi said. “You deserve to hear this. Every minute you spend in pursuit of this career is a tragic waste of everyone’s time. You will never be a star.”
“Don’t take it so hard,” Lucas said. “I hear they’re hiring at the Light o’ Love Pleasure Palace.”
“Can wolverines dance?” Alan asked.
“Good question,” Malachi said.
Livia’s chest heaved, and an agonizing sob tore out of her.
“I didn’t know wolverines cried,” Lucas said with mock incredulity.
And Goldilocks fled the room as fast as her legs could carry her.
At times like these Livia couldn’t imagine life without Jenny.
Loyal, trustworthy Jenny was the best, most sensible friend a girl could hope for. With sensible hair, sensible eyeglasses, a plain sensible nose, a sensible brown blouse and plaid skirt, Jenny was unfailingly sensible where Livia was foolish, solid where the actress was flighty. She was Livia’s loving, sensible alter ego.
“Screw ’em all,” Jenny said, toasting Livia with a glass of Chardonnay.
Not for the first time, Livia was grateful for the dim lights in The Low Down, their favorite dive; her eyes were still red and puffy from the afternoon’s crying jag.
“ ‘Screw ’em’? If I could screw ’em, I would. That’s the only way to make it in this town. You’ve got to sleep your way to the top.”
“The feminist in me is having an aneurysm right now,” Jenny said.
“I’m serious! Look at Marilyn Monroe. She seduced her way from obscurity to stardom.”
“She had three failed marriages and died young, alone, and depressed!”
“But she died famous. Marilyn was a great actress and an icon.” Livia pointed to a framed photo print on the wall. The screen queen’s dazzling smile outshone all the surrounding celebrity pictures.
“Granted, Marilyn was the real thing,” Jenny conceded.
“She’s one of history’s great beauties! Up there with Helen of Troy.”
Jenny snorted. “Let me guess—you want to be ‘the face that launched a thousand ships.’ ”
“Some illiterate publicist thought that was Cleopatra.” Livia laughed.
“Cheers to Helen of Troy!” Jenny hooted, raising her glass. “Loving her was more like a thousand deaths—she caused the Trojan War—but it was fun while it lasted, right?”
“How about Cleopatra?” Livia asked. “She brought all of Rome’s and ancient Egypt’s emperors weeping to their knees. Now actresses like me are begging for the chance to haltingly, ineptly portray her. ‘Had Cleopatra’s nose been shorter, the whole world’s face would have been changed.’ ”
“That’s a good one!” Jenny worked in a small bookstore specializing in rare texts, so she spotted the quotation. “Pascal. But the world would have been better off if Cleo had been a little homelier! Her ambition nearly destroyed Egypt. She drove Mark Antony, her one true love, to suicide. Believe it or not, beauty doesn’t solve everything—and sometimes it generates new woes.”
“I don’t care. I’d die young if it meant I could have a legacy like that. I would do anything for great beauty.”
Livia shoved her empty glass across the bar. The dumpy, grizzled old bartender in thinning gray hair, a white shirt, and apron lumbered over and rolled his eyes as he refilled it.
“ ‘Anything for great beauty’?” Big Sam said. “C’mon, Olive—you don’t mean that.”
“Yes I do, Sam,” she insisted. “And don’t call me Olive.”
Jenny leaned forward and set her wineglass on the bar. “ ‘Great beauty is invariably bloodthirsty,’ ” she told Livia gravely.
“And I thought I was dramatic. Where the hell did you get that one?”
“Gary Jennings in The Journeyer. The account of Marco Polo’s travels in the Far East.”
Livia stared at her blankly. “I give up. What does that have to do with anything?”
“It has everything to do with your situation. Look. Marilyn Monroe’s death was ruled a suicide, but that’s a load of crap—she was murdered!”
“You believe that? That’s a total conspiracy theory.”
The bartender, leaning over to wipe down the place next to Livia, interrupted their debate.
“One hundred percent true, m’lady,” Sam rattled in a gravelly voice. “She was whacked.”
“Thank you!” Jenny held up her drink to him. “Sam Giancana’s son exposed it all in Double Cross: Hit men killed Marilyn in an attempt to expose Bobby Kennedy as her lover, drive him out of the Attorney General’s office, and end his crusade against the mob. The author claimed his father—a notorious mob godfather—had a part in it.”
“Same thing today,” Livia said. “Hollywood is a battlefield! Men like Alan Hakim, Malachi Chung, and Lucas Bright are capable of anyt
hing, and we women have to be armed to the teeth. Irresistible beauty is the best weapon of all.”
“So Jennings had it right,” Jen said. “Great beauty is blood-thirsty.”
“It’s the greatest weapon in a woman’s arsenal: brutal, bloodthirsty beauty.”
“Forget about those movie assholes,” Sam recommended. “Who wants to work with psychopaths anyway? Remember what happened to Marilyn.”
“But they control everything in Hollywood!” Livia said.
“Tell you the truth, I’d love to meet Lucas,” Jenny confided, “if he weren’t such a jackass. I swooned all over him when we saw Time Bomb.”
Despite being endlessly sensible, Jenny was a sucker for mancandy, and Lucas Bright was gourmet, Godiva-caliber man-candy.
“He’s sexy,” Livia said, “but his ego isn’t.”
“Why do you want a film career so much?” Sam asked. “Hollywood isn’t the center of the world.”
But Livia ached for it. “A life of anonymity won’t satisfy me,” she said sadly. “And this is the one place where there’s fame for the taking. To me, Hollywood’s not just the world’s center. It is the world.”
Naturally the elevator in her building was broken again, and Livia’s legs grew heavier with each of the six flights of creaky stairs. Yellowed paint peeled from the wall in a patch just before the third-floor landing, and the scent of mold hung in the air. Still, the occasional paychecks from acting gigs and meager supplements from her parents barely covered the rent.
Finally she stumbled into her sad excuse for a one-bedroom apartment and gave it a distressing once-over, taking in the Castro convertible couch with mismatched pillows and her collection of stuffed teddy bears for a back, the busted door she and an old boyfriend had sanded, varnished, and converted into a living room table, the two frayed studio chairs flanking it, the eighteen-inch, twenty-year-old portable TV up against the wall on a former nightstand. She continued into her 5′ × 6′ bedroom and fixed briefly on her grandmother’s cherrywood antique vanity, the only piece of furniture she cared about. She smiled at its exquisite beauty and the fond memories of her grandmother it summoned.
More Stories from the Twilight Zone Page 27
