“I sense trouble,” Woody says. “What’s going on over here?”
“I’m about to do the best version of ‘The Humpty Dance’ that you’ve ever seen is all,” I say.
“Right on,” Woody says, his curls falling across his forehead.
“Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have a song to sing, even though I can’t really sing.” Dave is not amused. “Don’t worry, Dave. I may not be musical,” I say, patting his shoulder, “but I’m very, very dancical.”
“Who is this funny little person?” Woody asks, gesturing to me with his drink.
“I’m a girl with a dream—an actress. I arrived three months ago—”
“Oh, shit,” Dave says, wiping his face with his hand.
“Lighten up,” Marisol chides.
“Yeah, I want to see this,” Woody says.
I stand up, straighten my dress, put in my request with the karaoke master, and approach the stage. I tap the microphone.
“Testing, testing. One, two.” I look out at the crowd of well-dressed professionals just waiting to be entertained. I know what Suzi Simpson would say: “You gotta own it to sell it, kiddo.” The music starts and I move to the beat, owning every footfall, every turn of the head and every snap of the finger. When I sing the words I know by heart, I own every syllable. I invent a catchy sequence: it’s a closed-fist arm extension, followed by a sharp head turn, then side step / arm retraction, and a pelvic shimmy. I disappear into the performance until I feel like I’m flying, until I feel like it would be impossible to make a false move. In the space I’m in, there are no false moves.
“You’re welcome,” I say into the microphone when the song is over. I’m met with rapturous applause. Shaking with exhilarated delight, I take three dramatic bows, one for each section of the room, gingerly place the microphone on the stand, and skip back to my seat, high-fiving my new fans along the way.
“Dude, that was awesome,” Woody says, standing. “You really are dancical.”
The freckled executive in the day-to-evening wear puts her hands on my shoulders. “Weird Dancing Girl.”
“YES!” Woody says, pointing at me. “She’s totally it!”
“What do you mean?” I ask, sensing good news.
“Do you have an agent?” Woody asks me.
“No,” I say, wilting with disappointment.
“Perfect. I have to clear it with a few of our peeps, but if I have any say, we’re casting you.”
What? These have to be the three best words in the English language! I can’t stop myself from jumping up and down. “Yay!” I cheer, then ask, “In what?”
“Our Volkswagen campaign. One of our spots is Weird Dancing Girl, the spirit of the new Volkswagen yet-to-be-named subcompact car.”
I’m delirious, both from my performance and the Sea Breezes. “I told you she’s a genius, Dave!” Marisol says, and then spins me in her direction. “You’re going to be in a commercial. And this campaign is huge. Dave’s been talking about it nonstop. It’s going to be everywhere! And this is totally going to help you get an agent!”
The next morning, still bleary, I update my list.
THE NEXT DAY Marisol and I go to the Ramada Inn pool, aka our pool, which really is—as I know all too well—way too easy to sneak into. We don’t even have to walk through the lobby, where the hotel staff might start to get wise to us. We just amble through the parking lot and open a back gate, and voilà, we’re in our own little paradise. We’re usually the only ones here, but today a pasty, middle-aged couple who look like tourists from the Midwest have crashed our party, sitting in lounge chairs and looking at those maps that show where movie stars live.
“I can’t believe you broke up with him,” I say.
“I can’t believe that I didn’t see his uptightness sooner,” Marisol replies. “Usually I can sniff out an uptight person like that,” she says, snapping her fingers. “My radar must be way off.”
The couple turns around, startled by her volume. They continue to watch her, captivated, no doubt, by her vintage bathing suit and sunglasses, and all-around self-possession. She looks like a 1940s movie star as she takes off her sunglasses and says, “Besides, how could I be with a man who tried to silence you?”
The couple gathers their things and heads inside.
I laugh and she does, too. I’m glad to see her looking so happy and free. Marisol booked that cereal commercial and then quit her job. However, she hasn’t booked another one since.
“We need to celebrate my new single status and your career advancement. Let’s go out again tonight!” She claps her hands and rubs them together.
“I can’t jinx it. My official audition is tomorrow at eight. But tell me everything you know about commercials.”
She pulls out two iced teas from her purse and tells me that a national commercial on this scale would earn an actor between twenty and sixty thousand dollars. The actor gets paid a flat fee for the day of work. That fee varies depending on the actor, the part, the product, and if the commercial will run on cable or on the networks. It’s usually about five hundred bucks. If an actor’s in the Screen Actors Guild, he or she earns a small amount of money every time the commercial plays. This money is called residuals, and it’s where the twenty to sixty grand comes in. Because I’m not in SAG, I won’t get residuals. The payment for the day will be my only payment.
“Without an agent, you’re really going to have to fight for yourself.” Marisol dives into the pool, swimming to the end underwater before coming up for air. “But you need to negotiate hard.”
I put my head in my hands. “The last thing I negotiated for was twelve dollars an hour for a babysitting job. Working up the guts to do that gave me a stomachache for a week.” I slide into the pool. “How will I know how much to ask for? How will I know I’m not being ridiculous?”
“Well, they want your dance moves. They made that very clear.” She floats on her back. “You have special skills. I know one girl who got six grand for a day of work because of her special skills.”
“Jesus. What could she do?”
“Speak Japanese and juggle fire. But you’re a really good dancer. Play hardball and see what happens.”
This conversation is running through my mind as I sit on a red leather sofa in the slick Santa Monica offices of the advertising agency. I had a brief audition for Woody and some Volkswagen executive earlier in the morning. I danced and lip-synched to Michael Jackson’s “The Way You Make Me Feel” in a large conference room. I wasn’t trying to be funny, but they laughed when I said the one line of copy, “I love the way you make me feel, Volkswagen,” and offered me the part on the spot.
Marisol insisted that I wear a short skirt and heels, so now the backs of my knees are sticking to the red sofa. I take a deep breath as I get to the page in the contract that specifies the amount paid for services rendered. “I’d love to do this for a thousand dollars. However—”
“That’s more than they usually pay for a day of work,” Woody says.
“But because I’m not in the union and this isn’t a SAG shoot, I won’t be getting residuals….”
“I don’t mean to be a jerk, but that’s part of the reason we went non-union. Dealing with agents is just…ugh. It’s a nightmare.”
I think of Suzi Simpson. I need to be my own agent. Suzi Simpson says you can always walk away.
“I’m not sure this is going to work out,” I say. “I realize I don’t have an agent, but that means I have to really look after my own interests here.”
“What would you consider fair?” Woody asks, jingling change in his pocket.
“I was thinking…five,” I say, feeling the color rise in my cheeks.
“Five thousand dollars?” The change stops jingling.
“Most actors would make at least thirty thousand with residuals. So, like I said, I won’t see a dime of that because this isn’t a SAG gig. I understand if there’s another actress you’d like to go with, but personally, I need to pay my rent and put some fo
od on the table. I mean, what would you do?”
He smiles. “Let me see if I can get you two.”
“Five,” I say, holding five fingers in the air.
“I’ll be right back.” He opens the glass door of his office, then sticks his head back inside and smiles. “Balls of steel, by the way. Love it.”
The second he’s gone I peel my legs off the sofa and start panting with anxiety. I fan my shirt away from my perspiring body and gulp the Diet Coke Woody gave me from his personal mini-fridge.
Woody bursts back into the office so suddenly I almost spit the soda all over him. He grins and opens his arms. “Tell you what, Becca. You have us over a barrel. Five thousand it is.”
All I can think is that Suzi Simpson would be so proud. I should have asked for ten.
Me: Mom, I’m going to be in a commercial!
Mom: What? That’s amazing! What for?
Me: Volkswagen. Can you believe it?
Mom: How did this happen?
Me: Karaoke! I was picked out of the crowd at a bar.
Mom: Amazing! Wait, how did you get into a bar?
Me: Mom, that’s not the point!
Mom: Okay, okay. I know, but I can’t help it. I’m your mom. When can I see it?
Me: I don’t know. I’ll tell you when I do.
Mom: My baby is famous!
Me: Ha! Not exactly. I gotta go. I have to get my beauty sleep.
Please don’t ask about college applications, I think. Please, please. The only one I’ve made any progress on is the California Film School one.
My favorite thing about the day of the actual shoot is the terminology. I have a call time (time you need to be at the set), a wardrobe fitting (they pick out your costume), and a hair and makeup call (self-explanatory). It’s a rainy December morning, and I treat myself to an Uber to make sure I get to the set on time. It’s in a studio in a weird area near downtown. As instructed, I check in with the AD (assistant director). I stop by craft services (free food!) for breakfast. Later, I’m outfitted in a bright blue dress, and my hair is trimmed and blow-dried while a pretty girl with a super-stylish Afro does my makeup.
“You have great cheekbones,” the makeup girl says.
“I do?” I ask. Even though I’ve heard this before, it feels new and special coming from a real makeup artist.
“And good lips, too,” she says, smiling. “Let’s listen to some music. Do you like Joan Armatrading?”
“I love her,” I say, even though I have no idea who she is. When they’re done, I check myself out in the mirror. I know it’s a total cliché, but I can’t believe I’m getting paid for this.
The director, Doug, wears a sweatshirt and jeans with holes in them. I have to dance to “The Way Make You Make Me Feel,” a bunch of times before I’m in the groove. But then, it seems, I get it right. Five thousand dollars for only five hours of work!
“That was it,” he says on the fifth take. He shakes my hand. “That’s a wrap.”
When I get home I really want to see Raj. I get as far as standing in front of his door, but for some reason, it doesn’t feel…appropriate. I hate the word as I think it. Why isn’t it appropriate for me to share the best news ever with the person who will be the happiest for me?
Because I’ve hurt him, I think. Because even though I like him, I can’t return his feelings. And yet, I miss him so much in this moment, this joyful, over-the-top, victorious moment, I’m on the verge of crying.
I DEBATE QUITTING my waitressing job. It would feel so good to march out of this restaurant. But instead, when the check clears I decide to pay down my credit card. Now that I’m in a commercial, waitressing doesn’t make me feel so crappy. In fact, Gloria has ceased to be scary. I used to fantasize about telling her off and quitting on the spot, but when I watch her counting bills now, she looks tired and small behind that ridiculous old-fashioned cash register, which looks even more ornate in contrast to her plainness.
“Is your commercial on TV yet?” Chantal asks after she drops off food to a table of hipster chicks who are all dressed like nineties schoolteachers for some reason.
“I just shot it,” I say. It’s a slow morning, so I’m drying and sorting silverware until more customers come in. “I don’t know when it’s going to air.”
“I hope you told my cousin about it. I still can’t believe she didn’t take you on like this.” She snaps her fingers. “You’re my people. Therefore, she’s supposed to give you preferential treatment. I think she did it to get back at me for telling her mom about that weekend in Vegas.”
“It was so unbelievably nice of you to get me a meeting, and for her to meet with me. I sent her an e-mail about the commercial, but she didn’t write me back, so I don’t think there’s anything else to do. Besides, she’s not a commercial agent, she’s a legit agent, so it probably doesn’t mean that much to her.”
“She’s going to regret it when you start making serious bank,” Chantal says.
“Becca,” Gloria calls from the front. “You have a visitor.”
It’s Raj! Standing at the counter in his fedora and a wool coat. He looks like a proper gentleman. Chantal actually whistles. A couple with a set of twins walks into the restaurant behind him, and Gloria seats them in my section.
“I’ll get them,” Chantal says. “You go see your visitor man.”
“Hey, Raj,” I say. I motion for him to join me by the twirling stools in the back. “Now it’s my turn to get you something to drink. What will it be? A Coke? A Sprite? A root beer float?”
“Water’s fine,” he says, and takes a seat. I pour some for him and sit on the stool next to his.
“I just wanted to come by and say that I heard about the commercial, and I’m so proud of you. I hope that doesn’t sound condescending or anything.”
“No, it doesn’t. Thank you.”
“So tell me about it?”
“It was awesome. It was fun and I felt good at it. And they had these delicious tacos for lunch. They let me keep the dress I wore. It was the best!”
“That’s awesome. I’m really, really happy for you.”
“Me too. Have you heard about your screenplay yet?”
“Not yet. But I should any day now,” he says. “I don’t want to jinx anything, but I have a good feeling.” Chantal is lurking by the soda hoses. She’s pretending to wipe down glasses, but I know she’s eavesdropping. I catch her eye and wave her away. “And I also wanted to tell you that I want to be friends.”
“So do I! I miss you so much—and not just for the rides.”
“I have a plan for New Year’s Eve, if you’re up for it,” he says.
“I’m up for it. Whatever it is. I’m up for it!”
After my shift, I buy an eight-dollar juice and I don’t even finish it. I stop by the fancy boutique with the seventy-five-dollar T-shirts, feeling like I have a right to look, even if I don’t buy anything. My mom is coming in two weeks, and I want to get her the perfect gift. I’m sure a part of it is guilt that I haven’t filled out my college applications.
But there’s another reason. She’s worked so hard for so many years to take care of me, and no one’s really ever taken care of her. Not since she was a kid. I pick up a gauzy cashmere scarf that’s two hundred and fifty dollars. It’s an emerald-green color that would look amazing against her pale, Irish complexion. But it’s not quite what I have in mind for her. I want to, somehow, get her something life changing. I’m folding the scarf and placing it back on the shelf when my phone rings—it’s an LA number that I don’t recognize.
“Hello?”
“I have Carson Smith at the Ace Agency on the line for you,” a young female voice says. “May I put him through?”
“Yes,” I say.
Oh my God! It’s an agent. An actual agent! My legs go numb.
“Becca, hi, it’s Carson.”
The second I hear his voice, it hits me. Carson Smith is the agent who liked me from ECS.
“Hi,” I say, step
ping out onto the street. I immediately turn down a quiet alley to make sure I don’t miss a word.
“A client of mine is in a show at Company One. Do you know it?”
Do I know it? Yes. I sent my headshot to them. It’s the hot theater company run by Kingman Brewster. He’s a theater director, an indie filmmaker, and husband to the blockbuster movie star Amelia Kirk. Kingman is a huge supporter of young artists. He gives the best experimental playwrights a shot at having a real production, and he always casts from Backstage cattle calls, never through agents. I went to audition for them once, but over two hundred actors beat me to it, so I couldn’t get a slot.
“Yes,” I say. “And it’s so nice to hear from you by the way. Do you know I was in a Volkswagen commercial?”
“Listen, Company One opened a new show last week and they need a replacement actress who’s small and can pass as a ten-year-old onstage. I thought of you. Are you available?”
“Oh my God, yes!” I say. Carson gives me the information and tells me that I need to meet the assistant director tonight. “This is going to be a very fast process if you get it. You’ll maybe have one or two rehearsals, then you’re on. Can you do it?”
“Yes. Thank you so much. Um, does this mean you’re my agent?”
“I only work with models, hon,” Carson says, “and you’re—”
“A character, I know. But then why are you doing this for me?”
“Someone did it for me once. Break a leg.” He hangs up before I can thank him again. I float home, warm and buoyant despite the first LA rain I’ve ever seen, felt, or smelled, soaking my jeans and seeping through my sneakers.
A BRIGHT YELLOW flag with a giant “1” hangs outside the door of Company One Theater in a recently revamped part of Hollywood. The lobby is spare and narrow with dark hardwood floors. Artful posters from past productions line the walls. An upright piano stands in the corner. The place is packed with a young, fashionable crowd sipping imported beer from bottles and red wine from plastic cups. They have good haircuts and thoughtful shoes.
Hello, Sunshine Page 17
