by Lisa Ferrari
AFTER OUR SHOWER, I’m getting dressed when Kellan says, “I got you something.” He hands me a black handle-bag. Inside is a pair of black boots, black pants that feel like they’re made of some weird polyester hybrid but look shiny like leather. And a black vest. “I texted Denise to help me with your size. Hope you don’t mind.”
“No, of course not.” I quickly put everything on. Everything fits perfectly. The stiletto boots make me about three inches taller. The black pants hug my thighs and hips and butt like they’re sprayed on. And the black vest is fitted and tight around the middle. It shows off my midriff, much like the Jane’s Addiction tee shirt did. It’s also very low-cut, revealing a lot of cleavage. It seems oddly utilitarian and a touch military. And… pirate? “I look like…”
“Like a bad-ass chick from a science fiction movie?”
“Yeah. Exactly.”
“That’s what I was going for.”
I flex my arms in the mirror. “Wow.”
“Oh wait, the bracelets.” Kellan reaches into the bag and pulls out two leather bracelets I hadn’t seen. He puts them on me, two thick black leather bracelets, almost like gauntlets, one for each forearm. Each one has some gold and silver metalwork. They look expensive. They match the gold chains draped under the tall, pointed heels of the boots, which scream sexy space cowgirl. I immediately contemplate making love to Kellan wearing these boots and nothing else. I also wonder why I’ve never owned a pair of these before. I love them.
“Oh wait!” I go into the bathroom and tease out my hair kinda 80’s like, and do my make-up. I focus on eyeliner and lashes, trying to give myself smoky eyes. I apply a lot of gold eye shadow, which I’m pretty sure I’ve never worn. A little rouge on my cheeks, which I mix with the gold because why not, a lot of maroon lipstick, my big gold hoop earrings, and I’m done.
I don’t recognize the girl in the mirror.
But she’s definitely hot.
I think.
I’ve lost my objectivity.
I hop out of the bathroom to get Kellan’s opinion.
“How do I look?”
He looks me up and down. And then he does so again. “Whoa.”
I wait to hear if it’s a good whoa or a bad whoa. Did I overdo the make-up? Is the gold too much? The maroon lips?
“Kellan!”
He’s staring at me, at my chest, with his mouth open.
“Huh?”
“How do I look?”
“Hot. Like six hundred million dollars.”
Kellan adjusts the front of his shorts. He has an erection. It’s nice to know he got it because of me.
He puts on a similar outfit: boots, grayish-black pants with a whole bunch of pockets, and a weird shirt with epaulettes like an airline pilot might wear. It’s definitely a size too small and he leaves it mostly unbuttoned, revealing the perfect pectorals underneath. He puts a raggedy vest over the top of it. “How do I look?”
“Like… if they cast Schwarzenegger as a sexy Indiana Jones lost in the Star Wars universe and ready to kick some ass. Kind of like a space pirate or a mercenary or something.”
“Like a character the Rock would play?”
“Yes!”
“Good. That’s exactly what I had in mind for us.”
Kellan grabs his phone and takes several pics of us in the mirror. I have to admit we look amazing. He calls Ray, who is waiting downstairs.
When we get to the lobby, everyone stops to look. Everyone.
Ray takes a long look at us as we approach the black Escalade. “Holy cow. You guys look awesome. Claire… you’re so… so… fit. And… hot.” He looks at Kellan. “Sorry.”
“No, it’s cool,” says Kellan. “She’s hot all right. Smokin.”
Ray drives us to Paramount Pictures.
During the ride, Kellan says, “Open your mouth.”
I do as requested and he squirts a bunch of honey into my mouth from a plastic bottle. He squirts a bunch into his own mouth and puts the honey back into his bag.
“What’s that for?”
“Insulin. It’ll give you a quick pump in the next thirty to forty minutes.”
I glance up at the Hollywood sign. The big white letters. So much history. So much hope. So much promise. So much heartache. So much tragedy. But so much promise for those brave enough to chase their dreams. A Marquez quote pops into my head (one not pertaining to urine):
It is not true
that people stop pursuing dreams
because they grow old,
they grow old
because they stop pursuing dreams.
Ray drives us through the gate and we pull up to the production offices. It’s only been three months since we were last here but it seems like a long time ago, as if a lot has changed. I certainly have.
Let the pursuit begin.
WE WALK INTO the office.
Sheila is the first to see us. “Oh my God.” Sheila turns and puts her hands on either side of her mouth and shouts, “YOU GUYS! CLAIRE AND KELLAN ARE HERE!”
Everyone pretty much comes running.
They get to the reception area where we’re standing with Sheila. They stop in their tracks. They all stand there with their mouths open.
“Holy fuck,” says Heather.
Just then, Calista walks in behind us. She’s dressed to kill. She’s wearing little denim shorts, beige strappy heels that have got to be six inches and make her legendary legs look even better than they usually do. She’s wearing a white sleeveless blouse tied in the front to show off her belly button and her cleavage; I knew she was clever. Calista is also wearing gold aviators and a cowboy hat. I can tell she’s had a spray-on tan as well, and it looks good. Maybe a bit uneven around her knees and ankles, which Kellan says is always the hardest part, but the overall package is stunning. Sexy All-American country girl. Smart.
Heather looks Calista up and down and says, “Holy fuck” again.
Rami steps forward. “Man, you guys aren’t messing around.”
“No,” says Kellan, “we’re not.”
“Okay,” says Sheila, “let’s all stop eye-fucking the ladies. And the gentleman. Everyone come in and have a seat. Claire, I made some iced tea for you. I hope you’re thirsty.”
She has no idea. I feel like I could drink an ice berg. That makes no sense. “Thank you,” I say, hoping I sound casual. “Iced tea would be wonderful.” As I walk to the sofa, my muscles feel funny. Tight. Full. Like I’m getting a pump even though I haven’t done anything. The light seems too bright. My ears are ringing.
We all sit down.
Calista winds up sitting opposite me. She catches my eye, looks me up and down, gives me a sly thumbs-up, winks, and grins. I do the same for her because she looks awesome. I would cast her in a second. She’s showing a lot of skin. Not as much as in the bacon bikini cheeseburger commercial, but a lot. She’s nothing but legs. And heels. And toes painted pink. And her stomach is brown, and so are her breasts and her arms. She doesn’t look like a character in a big-budget sci-fi movie, but she looks good. Really good. When Kellan and I left our hotel room, after seeing myself in the mirror in the gym and then seeing myself dressed in this sexy getup Kellan bought for me, I felt positive that we had this in the bag. But sitting opposite Calista, I’m no longer so certain.
Sheila gives Calista, Kellan, and myself a glass of iced tea loaded with raspberries and mint leaves. I drink half of it in two gulps.
“So,” Sheila says, “you three look hot as shit. Like, supermodel-runway-playmate-blockbuster-movie-star hot. All three of you.”
Sheila introduces a bunch of people in suits who weren’t here during our last meeting. I immediately forget every single name. After that, Sheila says, “So. We all know why we’re here. So I’ll skip the small talk and get right to it. All three of you are going to be in the movie. Claire gets the lead role of Nisa, Kellan gets the lead role of her husband, and Calista gets the role of the alien
queen. She and Claire will do battle in the final scene. We took your advice, Claire, and went for a female protagonist. Is that all right with you, Claire?”
Everyone in the room looks at me.
Holy cannoli.
I try to act cool.
“I’m a little lost for words at the moment, but yes, it’s all right with me.”
Sheila says, “Is that all right with you, Kellan?”
Kellan is the very definition of cool, sitting there looking sci-fi sexy. “Absolutely.”
Sheila says, “Is that all right with you, Calista? You’re okay with playing the villain instead of the lead?”
Calista says, “Of course. I don’t give a shit. I just want to be in the movie. Claire is perfect for this. I actually was going to suggest you give her the part anyway. Besides, I actually want to play the alien queen bitch. It’ll be something new for me. I have some ideas. I think all the little teen fanboys will really get off on it.”
Sheila says, “So, everybody’s happy?” Sheila looks at Kellan, at me, at Calista, at me again, and at Calista again.
Calista smiles, showing her beautiful white teeth. “Absolutely.”
Sheila turns to me.
I smile, too, because this is really happening; I’m being cast in a movie. A big one. “Absolutely.” I catch Calista’s eye and wink. Calista winks back.
THE MEETING BREAKS up after that. Everyone gets back to work, scurrying back to their offices and getting on their computers, banging out emails and making phone calls and swiping their tablets, all at the same time.
Sheila re-introduces three attorneys, two women and a man, and I immediately forget their names again when they produce a bunch of file folders from the nicest-looking black leather satchel I’ve ever seen.
One of the women (Katy?) explains the paperwork is a basic good-faith agreement saying that the production company has offered us work for acting services rendered and that we have tentatively accepted. Final paperwork will be signed later. There’s also an NDA, which Sheila says is a non-disclosure agreement, stating that we’re not to talk about the project at all to anyone; not a peep; and that doing so is breach and is actionable; Calista tells me it basically means they can sue us if we open our big mouths and damage is done to the fiduciary viability of the work, a.k.a. the movie, and damages can then be sought; in other words, Calista says, keep my mouth shut; for now; there will be plenty of time for talking about it later on and in fact, when the movie hits theaters, we’ll be doing press non-stop for a couple of months; we’ll be sick and tired of it by the time we walk the red carpet.
An image fills my mind of me walking down the red carpet wearing a designer gown that was loaned to me, adorned in a hundred thousand dollars’ worth of jewelry that was also loaned to me, and standing there being blinded by hundreds of flashbulbs.
Adrenaline fills my body.
Kellan leans close to me. “What’s wrong?”
I try to smile. “Nothing.”
Sheila says, “Claire, you must be a horrible poker player because you’re the worst liar I’ve ever seen. Come on, what’s wrong?”
“Nothing,” I insist.
Sheila takes my hand and leads me to a sofa and we sit down together, just the two of us. She fixes me with a stern look. “Okay. Listen. This is some serious shit. There’s a lot of money in play here. Thousands of people, probably close to ten-thousand people when you factor in the digital artists, are going to be involved. You’re at the top of the pyramid. I need to know that you can handle this. I need to know that you really want to do this.”
Sheila stops talking and fixes me with a look I’ve never seen before. The closest thing I can recall is the first time my dad handed me the keys to his car the day I got my driver’s license when I was 16.
I look over at Kellan. He’s making small talk with Calista and the attorneys, but actually he’s watching me.
Sheila says, “Claire, look at me.”
I look at her.
Sheila says, “It’s very sweet that you and Kellan are together and that you’re doing this picture together. But this absolutely must be your decision. Not his. He wants to do it. He wants you to do it. I want you to do it. Even Calista wants you to do it. But you have to want to do it, too. Otherwise, this isn’t going to work. You know what I’m saying? If you’re half-in, half-out, like you want to do it but you’re scared so you don’t commit one-hundred-and-fifty-fucking-percent, everyone is going to sense it. Eventually, it will show up in your behavior. Your fear will get the best of you, it will manifest as anger because that’s what usually happens, and you’ll start to sabotage everything. You’ll be late to meetings, you won’t want to wake up at four o’clock in the morning to be in hair-and-make-up for a six a.m. call time, you won’t be able to learn your lines better than you know your own social security number, and it will be one giant cluster fuck. Then we’ll have to decide if we’re going to replace you and who with, if we move Calista to your role and recast her or keep her where she is and recast you, which then creates tension with Kellan because his fiancée just got fired so now he’s in a moral quandary because he wants to stay loyal to you but he also made a commitment to us, and then the money people get scared and as we’ve just established fear manifests as anger so then they start asking questions and you know who has to pick up the phone and answer each and every one of those angry, shitty phone calls?”
Sheila stares at me.
“Who?” I ask.
“Me.”
“Oh.”
“Yeah. Not exactly my idea of a good time. So, like I said, I need to know you’re on board. Like, really, really on board.”
Crap. I have no idea what to say. I decide to be as honest as I know how to be. “Okay, look, Sheila.” My face and body gets tingly and I start to sweat. I have butterflies in my stomach. I have the sense that the part is not at all mine, the way I thought it was. There are still a lot of hoops through which all the show dogs must jump. “Um, where to begin…? Okay, yes, I am terrified.”
“You’d be stupid not to be. But don’t let it control you. Never let anyone or anything control you. Okay? You understand? Not me, not Kellan, not Rami or Aaron, not your parents, not anyone. Stay focused, take it one day at a time, and don’t get high on your own supply.”
“What does that mean?”
“It’s a Scarface reference. It means if you’re a drug dealer, don’t take or use any of the drugs you’re selling. We’re certainly not drug dealers, at least not in the narcotics sense, but it means not to buy into your own hype. Stay humble. Stay grounded. Don’t get carried away. Do the work and move on. Focus on creating the magic, not on any of that I-Want-To-Be-Famous bullshit. A little bit of fear is normal and good. It keeps us motivated. But it’s not real. Fear is completely in your mind. It’s literally not real. Danger is real. But not fear. Focus on courage, which is action in the face of fear. So, what do you think?”
“About what?”
“About everything I just said.”
Sheila is losing patience with me. She’s looked at her watch three times.
“Well,” I begin, “I wish I could give you a solid answer, Sheila, but how can I? Most actors started out as aspiring, struggling actors. They did a bunch of plays, they studied acting in school, and they’ve spent at least a couple of years waiting tables and going on a million auditions and learning how to do it, usually more. But I’m being thrown into the deep end with a bowling ball in each hand and being told not to drown. Good luck. So, am I shitting my pants? Of course. Am I going to need a lot of help and support from you guys, absolutely. But am I excited and ready to do this?”
I pause for a moment, hoping to choose my words correctly, so as to reflect my true thoughts and feelings and to impart to Sheila how I feel.
Finally I say, “Fuck yes, I’m ready. There’s no way in hell I want to go back to carrying trays and schlepping chaffing dishes full of greasy bacon back and forth
from the kitchen to the buffet for a goddamn golf tournament at seven o’clock in the morning. And I sure as shit do not want to be traipsing all around that ballroom carrying heavy-ass trays of half-drunk champagne flutes during a big party on Saturday night. For once in my life, I’d like to actually attend the party. And, maybe, I’ll even feel as though I belong here, that I’m with people who are actually my friends so it isn’t just one big fake bullshit event with everyone pretending to give a shit. Maybe, just maybe, I could enjoy myself. I never enjoy myself. I’m always worried about shit. Too worried to be in the moment.”
“Worried about what?” Sheila studies me.
“Everything! Am I fat? Am I too skinny? Am I too muscular? Are my new veins in my forearms gross? Do my abs look good enough? Are my boobs big enough? Does my voice sound stupid? Do I come off as whiny or stupid when I speak? What does everyone think of me? Are they smiling to my face but talking shit behind my back? I can’t tell you all the evil, ignorant, mean, cruel, fucked-up shit people have said about me online. It’s no wonder people in the public eye turn to drugs and alcohol and wind up drinking themselves to death or jumping off a bridge or hanging themselves in their closet.”
“You can’t think that way, Claire.”
“I know, I know. Kellan said the same thing. We’ve been all through it a million times. I know. I get it. You have to shrug all that stuff off because some people are going to love you and some people are going to hate you no matter what you do. I could donate my entire salary to an orphanage and there would still be people on Facebook or Twitter or Instagram saying what a stupid, fat, ugly, no-talent hooker bimbo tramp slut whore bitch retard asshole I am, and that I should go kill myself and that I can’t act and that the movie sucks and Calista should’ve played the lead and she and Kellan should be a couple and I should fuck off back to whatever Podunk rat hole sister-wiving trailer park I came from.”
Sheila bursts into laughter. Real, genuine laughter.
Sheila hugs me. She takes my face in her hands. “That’s the spirit. You’re going to be fine. Come on.”
