“Great,” Thomas says. “You’ll be auditioning for Ophelia.”
“Awesome.” Ophelia is a lead—hardly a character part. In your face, Theresa!
“It’s a group audition, so there’ll be a couple of other Ophelias there as well. Meet me tomorrow at three at the Hollywood and Vine Metro station. I’ll be wearing a brown derby, just like the famous old Hollywood club. I’ll be providing you with sides then.”
“Perfect.” I’ve learned that sides are a few pages of a script that are used in an audition. We say our good-byes just as I reach the restaurant. I stand outside the frosted-glass door and glance at my watch. I’m already one minute late, but I don’t care because I have my first LA audition. An old lady passes me, wheeling a personal shopping cart. She smiles at me, craning her neck to maintain eye contact, and I realize that she’s reflecting my own expression—I’m emanating happiness.
I take a minute to enjoy the moment before I enter restaurant hell. I text Marisol.
Me: I have an audition for an indie film!
Marisol: Yaaaaaaay!
A crisp breeze wraps around me. People say that there are no seasons in LA, but that’s not true. The trees are turning red and gold. The sky appears to have been swept of all atmospheric dust; it’s the cleanest shade of blue. The city seems like it’s getting its act together, almost like a secretary is organizing it. Fewer people are wearing flip-flops. Even the homeless man who hangs out on the corner of Vermont and Franklin is more motivated. He usually mutters nonsense in circles, but now he’s walking back and forth in front of the library with a mantra: “I’ve got to get back to Dallas. I’ve got to get back to Dallas.”
I take a deep breath and open the glass door, fully prepared for Gloria to bitch me out. Instead, I enter some alternate version of the restaurant. The energy of the place actually matches the decor. The music is twice as loud as it usually is. Chantal is dancing near one of the jukeboxes with a can of whipped cream in her hand. Marvin is lip-synching into a broom. An open beer sits on the cash register.
“Guess who’s not coming in tonight,” Chantal says, and dances over to me.
“No! No? Really?” I start jumping up and down. Chantal nods. “Where is she?”
“She called in sick.” I join Chantal in her dance of joy.
“Oh, this is a good day,” I say. “This is a great day.”
“Tell me about it,” she says. “My boyfriend and I had sex twice this morning, and I got off both times.” Then she sprays whipped cream from the can into her mouth. She points the nozzle at my face. “Want some?”
“Oh, no thanks.”
“Yes, you do,” Chantal taunts me, grabbing my T-shirt.
“No, no, Chantal! Stop!” I try to squirm away, but she’s a lot stronger.
Peanut emerges from the swinging kitchen doors chanting, “Girl fight! Girl fight! Girl fight!” This would usually gross me out, but I can’t stop laughing long enough to be disgusted or mad or to fight off Chantal as she backs me into a booth. Her face shows both a wild glee and seriousness of purpose as she points the nozzle at my mouth and says, “Open up, white girl!”
“SWEET PARKING SPOT!” I say when I see Raj’s Corolla parked right outside the door of our apartment building. He’s offered to give me a ride to my audition. I told him there was no need to, but he insisted, saying that he’s totally invested in my career at this point. “The idea that you might be late to an audition because of public transportation gives me too much anxiety,” Raj told me. “And besides, I need to get out of the apartment and clear my mind. I’m totally stuck with my screenplay.”
Now, Raj rushes forward to open the door for me.
“This is the first time since I’ve lived here that I’ve actually gotten this spot. I almost don’t want to leave it,” he says.
I climb inside, and he shuts the door. As he walks to the other side of the car, Oh Fucky emerges from the Chateau in workout gear. I immediately slump down in the seat. After the rose panties, I’m dreading seeing him more than ever, but it’s too late. He catches my eye and waves enthusiastically. I nod a curt hello, hoping he’ll pick up on my icy vibe. As soon as Raj gets in the car, Oh Fucky’s face falls. I realize he must think we’re together, and I hope that this cools his interest in me. But as he drops to the sidewalk and starts doing push-ups, clapping between each one, I wonder if instead it’s activated his competitive streak.
“Tell me about your screenplay,” I say, turning and focusing on Raj. It’s hard to ignore Oh Fucky’s loud grunts as he does his push-ups, but I do my best.
“It’s a psychological thriller,” Raj says, as he pulls away, thankfully leaving Oh Fucky and his strenuous push-ups behind us. “It takes place in an old hotel that used to be a sanatorium.”
“Great idea,” I say.
“Thanks. I’ve been thinking about it for a while. So this young couple checks in, but they can’t seem to leave. Every time they escape, the scene resets itself. They’re stuck inside the hotel until they figure out why it’s holding them there.”
“It sounds like you got this,” I say as we cruise down Hollywood Boulevard. No traffic so far. “That’s totally creepy.”
“But how is this not going to be repetitive?” Raj asks, turning to me with panic at our first stoplight. “I’m starting to think it’s a shitty idea.”
“No!” I practically scream. “No, no, no!”
“Is that just your natural enthusiasm talking, or do you really mean it?”
“I mean it. It’s meant to be repetitive. That’s the whole concept.”
“But how do I keep it from being boring?” Raj asks. The light turns green, and he steps on the gas, navigating around a minivan.
“Hmmm. Tell me more about the story,” I say. We slow down as we hit our first bump of traffic.
“This couple has to try all kinds of different tactics, of course, but it still feels like there’s not enough tension.”
“What if one character knows the scene is resetting itself, but the other character doesn’t, and the girl keeps trying to explain it to him, but the guy just thinks she’s acting crazy.”
“That’s interesting,” Raj says, his eyes lighting up. “So she has to convince him of this weird reality before the scene resets itself.”
“Exactly,” I say.
“I like it,” Raj says. He smiles at me; all signs of panic are gone.
“Sometimes you have to lead with enthusiasm,” I say. “And let the answers follow.”
“Wise human-animal,” he says, and tosses me his iPhone. “Pick out a tune. Something fun.”
“You got it,” I say, and select an old favorite of Mom’s. Stevie Wonder’s “Signed, Sealed, Delivered I’m Yours.” He cranks it up, and we both sing along. I can honestly say that there’s nowhere else I’d rather be.
The Hollywood and Vine station is packed. I make my way to the man I’ve identified as Thomas—an attractive, sturdy-looking guy who, as promised, is wearing a brown derby. He’s also donned a vest that evokes the Romantic era, and a pocket watch actually peeks out of one his pockets. His old-fashioned getup makes him seem like he isn’t a serious person, but I try not to be disappointed. At least he’s neat and well groomed, and when he shakes my hand, he smells like soap. He winks at me as he speaks into his cell phone in Russian. “Dah, dah, dah.”
I read that I’m supposed to dress appropriately and neutrally for auditions. So I chose jeans, a white T-shirt, my ballet-style sweater, and zebra flats.
There are two other girls in Thomas’s orbit who I assume are the other Ophelias. One of them looks like she’s still in high school. I shouldn’t talk because Theresa said I looked like I could be eleven. This girl is wearing a shirt with a plunging neckline and a miniskirt. She has blond ringlets, big blue eyes, and a look of constant, unprovoked amazement.
Another woman is in her late thirties. In her pilling sweater and faded black pants, she looks like an office worker who’s been slowly deteriorating under fluor
escent lights. I feel a pang of tenderness for her as I notice that her under-eye concealer has gathered unfortunately in her crow’s-feet. She’s holding her résumé in her hand. I see that she went to Juilliard. My Juilliard! As she sighs and shifts position, she flips it over, allowing me to study her headshot. She looks ten years younger in her picture than she does in real life.
Your headshot needs to look like you, I want to say. Didn’t they teach you that at Juilliard? Theresa certainly made that clear to me, and Suzi Simpson mentions that on, like, page twelve. Thomas ends his call and gives us his full attention, which is as intense as floodlights. It physically hurts to meet his gaze.
“Okay!” He rubs his hands together and motions for us to gather closer. “You’ll have to excuse me. That was the Moscow Art Theatre. I have a gig there this spring.” Pocket watch or no, the Moscow Art Theatre is a big deal. “Who knows, maybe we’ll take this film to Moscow.” He claps my arm as if he can read my thoughts. I would love to go to Moscow.
“Let’s get started, shall we?”
He hands us our sides and gives us a few minutes to look through them. The three Ophelias scatter to various benches and read over the material. It’s the famous “get thee to a nunnery scene,” in which her father, Polonius, and Hamlet’s uncle and stepfather, Claudius, hide behind a curtain to eavesdrop on Hamlet and Ophelia. Everyone, including Ophelia, thinks that Hamlet is in love with her. Hamlet denies ever having loved her with very simple language. His line is, “I loved you not.” It doesn’t feel so different from Alex hopping in his car and driving off. I know that there’s a difference—Hamlet’s being ruthless, and Alex was just failing to be kind. But either way, it sucks to be told you’re not loved. I can feel Ophelia’s reply, “I was the more deceived,” in my gut.
Stupid, stupid Alex. I take a deep breath and try to cleanse my thoughts of him. He will be so sorry when he reads about this film.
A casual observer might think that we actresses are crazy as we prepare to audition. Juilliard is pleading to a Metro map, and the blond chick is gesturing wildly, weeping real tears. I’m sure I look no saner as I continue to take deep, relaxing yoga breaths, occasionally opening one eye to make sure they haven’t left without me.
“Come on, Ophelias. Let’s make art!” Thomas cups his hands around his mouth, projecting his voice over the sound of a train grinding to a halt. The other actresses and I exchange nervous glances as we step aboard.
“Folks, the bard said that all the world’s a stage, and I’m going to take him at his word. Welcome to the theater—or should I say the soundstage.”
Thomas’s voice is booming and tinged with that faint British accent. With the exception of four teenaged boys in school uniform and a half dozen people in matching “I Love Jesus” T-shirts, our spectators are a tired, downtrodden-looking crowd. Talk about a captive audience. A homeless woman cries, “Bravo! Bravo!” and bangs her heels against the bench. She’s eating a jar of chunky applesauce with a stainless steel spoon.
“This is the last thing I need,” mutters a tired medical professional in Betty Boop scrubs.
“I hope we don’t piss them off,” the blonde says as her eyes flit to an angry-looking dude in a bandanna.
Thomas explains to our audience that they’re witnessing a different kind of filmmaking. If they feel moved to participate, they should. I have to bite back a smile as I imagine Marisol sitting next to me. Thomas gives a brief, entertaining lecture on the history of revolutionary theater that, to my surprise, garners applause. He explains to us, and to everyone riding in our car, that the actors will freeze when the train stops in the stations. We’ll unfreeze and resume acting as soon as the train starts to move again.
We each take a turn performing the scene with Thomas as Hamlet. The crowd shifts at every stop, but people accept us as a group of actors within seconds of entering our car, and in general seem happy to be part of an audience. The Jesus Lovers are watching us with open, beaming faces, giving rounds of applause after each audition. I can hear them whispering to one another, “Oh, she’s really good,” or “That one’s going to be famous,” or “I think the guy’s the best.”
I’m the last one to perform the scene, and thankfully I only have to freeze once. Thomas is responsive and fun to act with. When we complete the scene, I feel exhilarated, my nervousness transformed to a simpler form of energy—happiness.
“That. Was. Great,” Thomas says, looking me in the eye.
“Thanks.” People do seem engrossed.
“Okay, so we’ll have callbacks right now. I’m going to call back Becca and Sandra.”
“Everyone except me?” Juilliard asks. Thomas nods.
“Thanks a lot.” Juilliard stands by the door radiating annoyance until we reach the next stop, where she exits with a huff.
“This next scene is Ophelia’s final scene, where she comes on singing and she’s gone mad.” He turns to the crowd. “Or in today’s parlance, cray cray.” They laugh. He hands us sides and continues. “I’d really like you to go first this time, Becca. And I think you should try it in the nude.”
The audience engages. Torsos lean in. Legs cross. Necks crane. Eyes widen. The woman in Betty Boop scrubs covers her mouth.
“Excuse me?” I ask. This has to be a joke.
“I said I’d like this scene performed nude.”
“Take it off, baby!” says the homeless woman.
“Um, is this legal?” I ask.
“Art isn’t supposed to be legal. It’s meant to push the envelope,” Thomas says. “Actors in Myanmar risk their lives for their art, you know. I’m hardly asking for that.”
I wonder for a split second if I’m uptight. Marisol said something the other day about me being “so East Coast.” And then there’s the wall I had up when Raj was taking my headshot. And it’s not as if this guy doesn’t have a proven track record. Am I really more in line with the conservative Christians than with the Moscow Art Theatre?
“Is it that you’re feeling shy? About your body?” Thomas asks.
“Uh…”
“That’s exactly how Ophelia feels.”
I grip the subway pole.
“You’re a feminist, right?”
I nod with narrowed eyes, so suspicious of where this is going.
“As a feminist, I’m sure you know that people have a completely messed-up view of the female form. They think it’s meant to be perfect, but that’s a lie. We need to expose that lie.”
I look at the boys in their school uniforms, grinning in their braces. One of them lifts his eyebrows at me.
“No way,” I say. “This is bullshit.”
“What a wimp,” says a random lady in a business suit.
“You go, girl,” shouts the lady in Betty Boop scrubs.
“I don’t see how exposing myself has anything to do with Hamlet.”
“Amen,” says the leader of the Jesus Lovers. I can’t help but notice that a few of his flock look disappointed.
Thomas shakes his head. “I don’t know how you expect to be an actress if you’re not willing to take risks and reveal yourself.”
“Sellout!” The homeless woman flings applesauce at me. It hits the pole and then slides in clumps toward my fingers. She laughs. I let go just as the train lurches to a halt. I jump out as soon as the doors open and stumble onto the platform, barely believing what just happened.
“Excuse me,” I say to a hipster in stonewashed jeans waiting for a train headed in the opposite direction. “Where am I? What part of town is this?”
“You’re downtown,” he says. “Um, are you okay?”
“Yeah,” I say. “Kind of. I just had a really weird experience.”
“Right on,” the guy says, nodding with understanding. I’m dying to tell Marisol and Raj about what just happened.
“Do you know where Hotel Uno is?” I ask the hipster. “Is it close?”
“Totally,” he says, and gives me some simple directions. “That place is rad.”
> Downtown feels like another country, or at least a different city. In my neighborhood, opulent sunshine, tall palm trees, pink bougainvillea, and yellow hibiscus plants distract from the tree roots splitting the sidewalks, the furniture left out with the trash, the thump of the bass from the banged-up SUVs headed for the freeway. But here the grit isn’t mitigated. The tall buildings keep the bright sky at a hazy distance. Design spaces, wine bars, yoga studios, and upscale lofts alternate with run-down movie theaters, churches, and five-dollar clothing stores. A blank-eyed homeless man who seems beyond despair, beyond life, passes me with a zombie’s stagger at the same time as a young dude with a yoga mat under one arm and a green juice in his other hand glides across the street. His beauty is so thorough and pure that he seems like a form of genetic perfection that could will itself into another—a prized racehorse, for example. A woman rides past me on an old-fashioned bicycle wearing a dress, flip-flops, and no helmet.
I don’t know who I thought would stop me, but I feel like I’ve gotten away with something when I get to the top of the Hotel Uno. As I step out to the rooftop bar, the city seems to stretch before me like a languorous sunbather, ending at the barely visible distant smudge of ocean. Up here, above the fray, the sun is closer. A hazy, golden warmth reflects off every surface: the pool; the curved white chairs; the winglike stretches of canvas providing shade; the blackish sunglass lenses on the still, collected faces of customers. Raj wasn’t kidding when he said this place was cool.
Even though it’s 1 p.m. in the middle of the workweek, there are plenty of people. Everyone looks what Marisol would call “fashion forward” in angular dresses and high-rise jeans. The men are in fedoras. The swimmers wear tiny bikinis or one-pieces with daring cutouts. A woman lounging by the pool and sipping a cocktail is topless, and no one seems to think anything of it. To my left is a yoga class with six lean students, led by a shirtless man with a tight, muscular torso and very baggy pants. They silently lean into Warrior II. Remixed old-school R&B permeates the mellow scene, playing from invisible speakers somewhere above me. Or are they below me? I can’t tell. The music is just in the air.
Hello, Sunshine Page 10
