If anger is fuel, then I’ve got plenty of gas in the tank. I walk home so fast that I feel like I’m on the verge of flying. The nights have started to get legitimately chilly, and I wrap my thin sweater around my body, wishing that I’d brought a winter coat. Marisol says it’s not safe for me to walk from Los Feliz to the Chateau this late by myself, but I feel pissed off and invincible. I can’t imagine that anyone in my high school class has had to deal with what I did tonight—that woman’s tone of voice, the utter disrespect in her eyes when she looked at me like I was dirt. If I were in college, inside the gates of some great institution, I would be held in some esteem. People would know that I had a place in the world. Actresses and waitresses don’t exactly get a lot of respect—even if we are doing something braver.
As I cross Western Avenue, I see a stray dog on the other side of the street, heading toward me. He’s lean and so light on his feet that he’s practically dancing. For some reason, I’m not afraid of him. It’s not until we actually pass one another that I realize that’s no dog—it’s a coyote who has probably come down from the dry hills in search of food and water. Once I’m at a safe distance, I turn and watch his silhouette, my heart pounding hot and fast. He’s ragged, proud, and oddly elegant.
When I get back to the Chateau Bronson, I don’t want to be alone. Marisol is dogsitting for her boss tonight, so after I shower off the smell of hamburgers and rage, I visit Raj. He’s been working on his screenplay for the last few hours and is ready for a break when I show up.
“I saw a coyote,” I tell him.
“Really? Where?”
“On Western. Just walking past the gas station like it’s no big thing.”
“Cool,” Raj says, though I can tell he’s distracted.
“So did you write the essay or make a collage for California Film School?” I ask, sitting on his bed.
“Essay,” Raj says. “And I submitted a short film I made in high school. Why? Are you thinking of applying?”
I nod.
“That’s awesome,” he says, his voice rising. “You would love it, and all actors these days have to create their own work.”
“Really?” I say, considering this.
“Hell, yeah. And you have to come with me to the awards banquet in January now. I’ll introduce you to everyone.”
“Thanks,” I say. “That would be great networking.”
Wait a second. Is he asking me out?
“I could use your creative talents, actually. I’m stuck again,” he says, rubbing his eyes. “Want some tea?”
“I’d love some,” I say, and kick off my shoes. “So, give me the update. What’s going on with the script now?”
“Okay, well, there’s a lot more tension in the scenes now, but there’s something I keep bumping up against.”
“Hit me with it!” I say, taking a seat on his neatly made bed.
“I don’t know why they can’t leave the hotel. Like, what is it that’s actually holding them back and keeping them there?”
“That seems important,” I say.
“Um, yeah. It’s the key that’s going to unlock this whole thing, and I have no idea what it is.”
“Huh.”
“Oh no. Where’s your enthusiasm? You think it’s a terrible idea now, don’t you? It’s never going to work, is it?”
“Relax. Of course it’s going to work! I’m just thinking.”
“Sorry, I’m just freaked-out. I’ll get your tea. Mint okay?”
I nod as he disappears into his kitchen nook. Then I lie back, close my eyes, and think.
“So, my drama teacher used to tell us that if we got blocked, we should get personal.”
“What do you mean?” Raj asks, returning with my tea. He smiles ever so slightly at the sight of me lying on his bed. He places the tea on his nightstand. I sit up to take a sip. He sits next to me, and I’m aware there’s only an inch separating us.
“I think what he meant was that if you invest something truly, deeply personal into your work—the uglier and more embarrassing the better—that you’ll get unstuck. So I guess the same applies to writing, right?”
He massages his temples.
“Am I hurting more than I’m helping?”
“No, it’s just a lot to think about. A screenplay has to be so carefully planned and perfectly constructed, and I can’t believe I’m halfway through this thing without knowing the ending.”
“Maybe you have to let go a little and just see where the writing process leads you.”
“Do you have any idea how uncomfortable that makes me?” he asks.
“Sounds like you’re onto something then,” I say.
“I see what you did there.” His eyes light up. “Get out of here, I have to write. Go, before you uncover any more of my issues.”
“Okay,” I say, feeling so much better, so much more human, than when I left the restaurant. “Can I take my tea?”
“BUT I DON’T want to hibernate! I can’t BEAR it! I want to stay up and celebrate Hanukkah with Goldie Lox.” I sit on a chair, taking a dramatic pause, and continue. “Tell us, Goldie, what is Hanukkah?”
I’m at a small theater on Santa Monica Boulevard in Hollywood. It’s situated across from a gas station and between a Delish Donuts and a medical marijuana shop. I’m auditioning for my first paid acting gig, which I found listed in Backstage just this morning. Since my suspension, I’ve been more determined than ever to audition for anything and everything: “Seeking all types for series of children’s holiday play Baby Bear’s First Hanukkah. Auditions from 12 p.m.–5 p.m. Come dressed to move. Pay is $350/wk.”
Three fifty a week sounded really good to me. Three fifty a week would mean I could cut way back on waitressing. I knocked on Marisol’s door and brought her along with me. We had to wait in line for almost two hours to audition, and Marisol didn’t make it past the first round, but the director, Dawn, has asked me twice now to stick around. Marisol, who apparently just isn’t bear material, is waiting for me in the back of the theater. I’m surprised to have made it this far, hopeful that they want me to stay, and excited by the prospect of being chosen.
“Cut!” Dawn says now, using one hand to pull back her long, wavy hair, which hangs past her waist. Before I went on, the stage manager warned me that Dawn was in a bad mood after a long day of auditioning. “Don’t take it personal,” she said.
Papa Bear bulldozes past the command to cut. “Don’t be silly, Baby,” he booms as a fine spritz of his spit settles on my forehead and nose. His odor is 80 percent cigarettes, 10 percent booze, and 10 percent everything bagel.
“Time out! Time out!” Dawn makes the T-sign with her hands. Papa Bear, immersed in the scene, pushes me back in the chair and continues.
“We BEARLY know anything about Hanukkah,” he bellows with both hands on my shoulders.
Dawn waves her hands in the air. “Hello, Jeff. Earth to Jeff. Stop. Jeffrey Peter Plotkin. Stop.” Papa Bear is silenced. She shoots him a frustrated look, exhales through her nostrils, and turns to me. “Please stand up,” she says. I do. “Don’t ever, ever, ever”—she bobs her head for emphasis, holding her hands in a prayer position—“ever use a prop that isn’t yours. It’s like someone is touching your body without permission.”
“Oh.”
“How would you like it if someone just walked up to you and touched your body, just touched you all over your body without your permission?”
“I wouldn’t like that. But, um, what prop was I touching?”
Her eyes widen with amazement. She holds her arms out in a questioning position, stomps a foot, and leans forward, the choreography of someone asking a question. “Where were you sitting?”
“On a chair?”
“AHA!” She says, pointing a dramatic finger. “A chair is a prop.”
“Oh.”
“That chair doesn’t belong to us. That chair belongs to Eat Me, the incredibly hot show who’s very generously letting us use this space for auditions. For
all we know, that chair could be designed to break the moment someone sits on it.”
“Okay.” That seems unlikely. I can see Marisol in the back, struggling to keep a straight face.
“Okay. Enough for Stagecraft 101,” says Dawn. “Let’s take it again from page fifteen, ‘Papa Bear! Papa Bear!’”
We go through the scene again. At the end of it Dawn whispers with the stage manager and an assistant, consulting on my performance.
“Jeffrey, get down here,” she says to Papa Bear. She announces to the room that she can talk to him like that because he’s her husband. Papa Bear hustles off the stage and joins the huddle. I’m left alone to contemplate the set of Eat Me. Forgetting my lesson in Stagecraft 101, I sit down on a sofa but stand up before anyone sees me except Marisol, who laughs at how quickly I’ve hopped to my feet.
“How tall are you?” Dawn asks me.
“Five feet.”
“Are you willing to wear a bear suit?”
Never did I think I would be asked this question, or that my answer would be an unequivocal yes.
“And you can rehearse and perform during the day?”
“Yes,” I say without hesitation. I’ll have to just work weekends at Rocky’s, the dreaded Sunday brunch, but at least I’ll be making most of my money as an actual actress.
“And you have reliable transportation? Preschoolers will be counting on you. All of my bears must be on time.”
“I’m extremely punctual,” I say, avoiding the transportation question altogether. The bus is reliable, right?
“It’s twenty hours a week of rehearsal, and starting November fifteenth, it’ll be four shows a week. Can you commit to all of these performances?”
“Yes.”
“Looks like you got yourself a part.” She consults my headshot. “Becca Harrington.”
At the back of the theater, Marisol gives me a standing ovation. I’m smiling so wide that it hurts. I know it’s just a children’s play, but I’m so happy that I’ll finally get a chance to do what I’ve come here to do. I have a part. An actual part!
“We have to celebrate,” Marisol says when we head back out onto Melrose. “Where should we go?”
“First stop, Delish Donuts,” I say.
“Good call. Those sprinkles are calling my name,” she says. The doughnut shop is weirdly connected to a liquor store. “You know this is going to help you get an agent.”
“You think so?” I ask, browsing the doughnuts, which are glistening with sugar.
“They have kids, too,” Marisol says, and digs into her purse for quarters.
“I’m buying you yours.”
“I can buy myself a doughnut,” Marisol says, though the fact that she’s counting pennies makes me think she’s really struggling.
“Come on, let me be your sugar daddy,” I say. Marisol bursts into laughter. I turn to the kid behind the counter. “The young lady may have whatever she likes.”
“You slay me,” she says, and puts her change away.
Once we have our wax bags of sprinkled snacks, I throw an arm around her shoulder.
“Now to Hotel Uno!” Like most of the moments I share with Marisol, this one is so much sweeter, bigger, and brighter because she’s here. “But we need to get our bathing suits. The pool there is sick.”
“CHECK THIS PLACE OUT,” says Marisol as we step onto the rooftop.
“Isn’t it amazing?” I ask.
We take in the scene together: the white mid-century modern lounge chairs, the perfectly blue pool, and the view of downtown LA. Somewhere in the distance is the sound of traffic, but it’s so far away it doesn’t pierce the bubble of this cool, freestanding universe. Unlike the last time I was here, it’s overcast and pretty empty. Except for a couple sitting at a table by the pool and a few people at the bar, we’re the only ones here.
I wave to Raj, who is wiping clean glasses.
“Becca,” Raj says. “I love that you’re making this a habit.” He maintains eye contact with me as we weave our way over, smiling the whole time. “What’s up, Marisol?”
“We’re here to celebrate,” Marisol says. “Becca got her first part today. She’s playing Baby Bear in Baby Bear’s First Hanukkah.”
“The title role!” Raj says. “You got it? On the spot? Holy shit!”
His enthusiasm is contagious, and I find myself feeling even more excited about this than I was when it happened.
“How does it feel?” he asks, gripping my shoulders. “What’s it like to be a working actress?”
“It’s great!” I say. He surprises me by kissing my cheek.
“What can I make you? How about a mojito? We had a special on those last week.”
“I’m not a rum girl,” Marisol says. “But I love champagne.”
“Of course. To celebrate.” Raj pours us two glasses of champagne.
“The downside is that I’ll have to wear a bear suit,” I say, the reality sinking in.
“Doesn’t sound like a downside to me,” Raj says. “But then again, bears are my spirit animal.”
“Really?” I ask.
“If I could be any other animal, I’d be a bear. Hands down. No contest. Wouldn’t you?”
“No.”
“Then what would you be?” he asks. I’m about to respond when Raj cuts me off. “You’re going to say dolphin because you’re a girl and all girls love dolphins.”
“I resent that gender stereotyping,” Marisol says. “Even though I do love dolphins. I mean, who doesn’t? Only an asshole doesn’t like dolphins.”
“I was going to say beaver,” I say. “They’re both industrious and romantic.”
“Really?” asks Marisol, sipping her champagne.
“They mate for life. They mate face-to-face as they swim slowly forward in the spring.” I smile blissfully and pantomime a sidestroke.
“I’ll drink to that,” says Raj, and sneaks a shot of vodka. “How can you not love a woman whose spirit animal is a beaver?” He cocks one eyebrow, which I choose to ignore.
“A woman? I’m not a woman! I’m a girl,” I say.
“You’re a woman,” Marisol says. “I hate to break it to you.”
“I don’t want to be a woman yet. I’m not ready.”
“You’re a girl-woman,” Raj says as a couple standing by the bar signals to him. He goes to take their order. Sierra steps behind the bar and clocks in on the computer.
Marisol nudges me. “When are you just going to give in and let that man love you?”
“Raj is the best,” I say, watching him mix a drink for a customer. The way he maintained eye contact with me did send an unexpected flutter though my system.
“Hi, Sierra,” I say.
“Oh, hey, Becca.” She flashes her million-dollar smile and then pours some chips in a bowl and hands it to us.
“You have beautiful skin,” Marisol says to Sierra. Then she locks arms with me. We’re a team, the two of us. I could face the prettiest girls in LA like this and not feel inferior.
“Oh, thanks,” Sierra says.
“Do you know that you are talking to a working actress?” Raj says, coming back over.
Sierra cocks an eyebrow. “Oh, yeah?”
“Becca just got a part on the spot in a very prestigious children’s theater,” Raj tells her.
“I don’t know how—” I start, but Marisol places a hand on my arm to quiet me.
“She came out here with no agent, no friends, no school, no nothing—bravest person I’ve ever met,” Raj says, looking right at me.
“To LA,” Marisol says, holding her glass up for a toast. We down our champagne. She leans in close. “Let’s never leave this town. Let’s stay here together forever and be true bohemians.”
She holds up her pinky, and we swear on it. “When I finally make it, I’m going to live in a loft down here. With a pool on the roof. And an herb garden.”
“I’m going to live at the beach,” I say, thinking of our sunset a few weeks ago.
&nb
sp; “Yes, Venice.” Her breath is sweet with pink champagne. “I’ll grow arugula and tomatoes!”
“I’ve never been to Venice,” I say.
“It’s perfect for you. And that way we’ll have a town house and a beach house, and all of our artist friends will gather at one or the other every weekend. We’ll have literary salons.”
“And outdoor movie screenings.”
“And go for moonlight swims.”
“It’s going to be a great life,” I say. Suzi Simpson says that actresses have signature drinks. I don’t know much about drinks, but I decide now is a good time to pick one. I take in my surroundings and try to let an idea arise from my subconscious.
“Raj, I’d like a Sea Breeze! It’s my signature drink.”
“Whatever the lady wants, the lady shall have,” he says, and rolls up his sleeves.
“Be right back. I’m going to the loo,” I say, hopping off of my stool.
“Then it’s pool time,” Marisol says. The music has changed to hip-hop. I dance my way to the bathroom. I look in the mirror. This is the best day of my away-from-home life so far, I think to myself.
Me: Mom, I got a part!
Mom: What? Honey, tell me more!
Me: It’s in a children’s play. Baby Bear’s First Hanukkah.
Mom: I’m so proud!
Me: Everyone has to start somewhere, right? And it pays!
Mom: Yay! And now you can write that on your college applications—a paying role!
Me: Yes.
The college applications are due in six weeks. I hold my breath.
Mom: Have you started?
Me: Yes.
Technically this isn’t a lie. I did fill out the basic information for the California Film School, in addition to adding to my collage, which is growing in unexpected ways. I’ve started to add sticky notes with dreams, ideas, and quotes.
Mom: Good going, Becca. I can’t wait to see you in December!
Me: Me either. I’m planning a fun Christmas for us.
Hello, Sunshine Page 12
