by Eliza Gordon
“Well, the winners of each of the four age divisions win a walk-on role, possibly with lines, to a major motion picture being filmed here this fall.”
“And?” While I did a lot of feature-film auditions in LA, the Portland scene is a bit thin on major films. But why would I want to compete in a physical contest for a walk-on role where I’m on and then off the screen in the amount of time it takes you to shovel a handful of popcorn into your face?
“Danielle . . . your Moon and Stars, the man who makes your heart go pitter-pat—Dwayne ‘The Rock’ Johnson—is sponsoring the contest, and he’s starring in the film.”
“Wait. What?”
“The Rock is sponsoring this event—called Rock the Tots—and you’d get to spend a day on set with Mr. Dreamy Muscle Pants, and you guys could hang out and do push-ups and eat protein bars or whatever.”
My brain buzzes. Not sure if it’s sugar or excitement or sugar-fueled excitement, but Oh happy day The Rock is coming to Portland to make a movie and I could be in that movie and maybe he’ll want to be BFFs and then he’d put me in all his future movies as that hip, cool, undercover cop/spy/sex goddess and we could make funny Instagram videos together about all the fun we’re having on set and . . .
I might pass out.
“Dani? You there?”
“Yeah. Yes. I’m—shit, this is amazing. Wait—how come you can’t just submit me for a role? Why do I have to compete to get one?”
“They’re not casting locally, or I totally would try.”
“Not even on tape?”
“Nope. Everyone’s being cast out of LA,” she says.
Of course they are. “Couldn’t you get me in as an extra?”
“Maybe—but we won’t know that until they get closer to filming, and even then, you know the chances of actually meeting the stars is little to none.” She’s right. They call background performers “props that eat.” Plus, we’re not supposed to talk to the talent. And although Dwayne Johnson has been known to take selfies with extras and crew working on his films, there’s no guarantee, especially if the extras’ wrangler takes his or her job a little too seriously.
“Okay, so what’s this competition?” I ask, hoping there is some way to do this that doesn’t involve sweat. Or sore muscles. Or pain. Or exercise, basically.
“The whole gig sounds more like a souped-up obstacle course/road race/endurance thing, but only for amateur athletes—no professionals allowed. Whatever that means,” she says.
It means I could have a fighting chance if there are other fluffy pastry-loving competitors on the course with me.
“Participants are split into four qualifying divisions: two youth classes for the under eighteens, adult, and senior, which is fifty-five-plus. Too bad you aren’t older. You could take that division easily.”
“Gee, thanks.”
“You know what I mean. People get slower when they get older.” The Rock is in his forties. He definitely has not gotten slower.
“Any idea how many people will be competing?”
“It’s open to whoever wants to do it, because it’s a fund-raising thing, but seriously, Dani, The Rock. How long have you been pining over this man?” Nineteen-ish years? I don’t tell her that part. “Tonight, you leave that pit of damnation where you work and you go to the mall and get some shoes, and then proceed to the nearest gym and pay your fifty bucks to join.”
Shit.
“You are not allowed to doubt yourself. This minute—commit to your dream, Danielle. You can do this. From this moment on, you are a living, breathing Nike advertisement. Got it?”
Athletic prowess? Gulp.
The fund-raising part will be easy. I work with seventy-five other women who love charities and causes, especially if cats or children are involved.
And The Rock. I could actually meet him in real life, in all his glorious flesh and blood. The man I’ve been pouring my heart out to since forever—he wouldn’t be just the Perfect Man Creature of my dreams. He’d be a real human, standing right there in front of me and what will I wear and what are we gonna talk about and what if I fart in front of him because I’m so nervous—
“Dani?”
“Okay. Okay. I’ll do it.”
She cheers and I jump up and down until another hen sitting at the desk ten feet away flashes me the some-people-are-working look.
“I will email you everything you need. Go to the website to register. Make sure you tell them who sent you—”
“Danielle.” Joan the Crone’s voice behind me makes me jump for a wholly different reason.
“Janice, I’ll call you later.” I hang up before Lady Macbeth is done talking and turn to face my boss. “Hi, Joan. How are you? I love your blouse. Is that new?”
“I thought you were to be in your ‘book-club meeting.’” She air-quotes with her long, bony, witchy fingers.
“Oh, I was. I just had a call. An important call so I—”
“You’re disrupting the employees of this building. Either finish your book-club meeting or return to your own building.”
“Right. Sorry about that. I got some good news and I—” She stops me with her veined hand flattened in the air between us.
“Also, another fax arrived for you. From your mother. Please tell her to stop using the company fax machine.”
“I am so sorry about that. She really just does not like email—”
“I’ll leave it to you to handle before I have to send her an official notice from Imperial Health and Wellness along with an invoice for paper and toner.”
“Right. Okay.” Joan doesn’t linger for my response. I’d tell you that she jumped atop her broomstick and flew away, but that would be insulting to those among us who are really good on broomsticks.
Every time I have an encounter with this woman, I expect someone to call “Cut!” and a makeup artist to come over and peel off the scary mask that doubles as Joan’s face, thereby revealing something more human underneath.
My insides crackle like an Independence Day sparkler. I could go back into the meeting, but we’ve only got fifteen minutes left, and I’ve already finished my cupcakes.
I skitter back to my desk—sure enough, a fax from Mommy. It can wait.
I double-check my surroundings to be sure no spies are on the prowl, then open my browser and log in.
March 21, 2016
Dear Dwayne Johnson,
Oh man.
You’re coming to Portland. To make a movie.
And I am going to be in it. I AM.
When I win this competition, you’d better be ready for the hug to end all hugs. In fact, we should probably record it for your YouTube channel so the whole world meets the other Danielle Steele, not the one who writes romance novels, but the one who ran faster and jumped higher because she’s YOUR BIGGEST FAN and she wanted to make you proud.
And then when that’s done, we should probably have pizza and brownies, because that’s what champions do.
Love,
Danielle The Champ Steele
*SAVE*
*CLOSE*
SEVEN
FAX
From: PENELOPE “MOMMY” STEELE
To: Danielle E. Steele, Building 4
Danielle,
Hi. It’s your mother. I need you to do me a favor because Jacqueline is in surgery all week, and then she’s babysitting residents over at OHSU, and Georgette, well, she’s just so busy with the kids, and little William Morris has developed some pesky rash from the soy milk and your sister is freaking out that he has polio. You’re the only one who works normal hours with free evenings (although that could change if you’d go back to school to finish your degree and maybe consider a graduate program—I can’t emphasize enough the dire straits you could be left in if you lose your job, especially if you marry Travis and he impregnates you. Remember, I was a single mother for years after Gerald Robert Steele left. It is a very difficult way to live one’s life, Danielle!).
I’m trying to get
my hands on a signed first edition of Georgette Heyer’s Cousin Kate, and Niles over at Longfellows (on SE Division) said he has one and will hold it for me until the weekend. Also, Vintage Books across the river in Vancouver has a signed first-edition of 44 Charles Street by Danielle Steel (aren’t I a great mother for giving you such a prestigious name?), and Candace said she will keep it until Sunday at close.
You can pop over to Washington this weekend, right? I know your job doesn’t require you to work weekends. I would go, but my astrologer told me I shouldn’t operate a motor vehicle until Uranus is out of retrograde because chaos, chaos, chaos. Plus, I know you still want to pay me back for allowing you to live here rent-free after that little Los Angeles situation.
Also, if you bring Timothy to my 60th birthday, I’m not making anything with meat. I recall he likes a lot of meat, but you know how I feel about that. I’ll sage the house before you arrive to make sure our energy fields have a level playing field from which to interact.
Love and light,
Mommy
P.S. Dante changed the font on my computer. He says all grandmothers love this font. I think it says FUN, don’t you?
EIGHT
You’d think the Crone would take pity on me—all she has to do is read my mother’s dispatches. Shouldn’t I get a pass on compassionate grounds? Or at least a hug?
The guy I’m seeing—his name is Trevor, Mommy. Not Timothy. I’ve never dated a Timothy or a Travis.
And every time I walk into one of these bookstores to pick up these damn books, as soon as they find out I’m Penelope “Mommy” Steele’s daughter . . . Oh, your mom is so amazing and funny. I’ll bet you just had the greatest childhood.
Sure. The greatest. Should we recap the time my homecoming date stood me up because my mother had interrogated him the night before about why he didn’t believe in the Greys? (From Wikipedia: Grey aliens, also referred to as “Alien Greys,” “Greys,” “Grays,” “Roswell Greys,” and “Zeta Reticulans,” are alleged extraterrestrial beings whose existence is promoted in ufological, paranormal, and New Age communities, and who are named for their unique skin color. Forty-three percent of all reported alien encounters in the United States describe Grey aliens.)
On the following Monday, my locker was covered in Xeroxed pictures of ET.
Fine. Whatever. I’ll pick up Mommy’s books. It’s not like I hate bookstores. The opposite, actually. And I do love romance novels, though in my teenage years I would only read comic books around my mother because it drove her crazy, considering I’d been named after one of the most prolific and popular romance novelists of the twentieth century. Between you and me, though . . . I read all her romance books. But I’m a devotee of Diana Gabaldon. The woman was a professor. She has a PhD in behavioral ecology. Yeah, she writes superheated love scenes, but she is also a historical and botanical genius. I like my romance to have substance. And a kilt.
I suppose I should be happy Mommy doesn’t collect really weird stuff like rhinestone-encrusted dildos or petrified mammoth poop.
But it’s not about that. It’s about my mother reminding me that I don’t have a life, and therefore, I’m available for everyone else, whenever they need me. Jacqueline has her medical practice, Georgie has her kids and husband. These Very Grown-Up Occupations appear to rate higher than my prior commitments to acting classes, my theater group, auditions. Obviously if I can take off work to go audition for a music video, I must be available to pick up another of Mommy’s books. Right?
I fold my mother’s fax and slip it into my bag, returning my attention to the very exciting email that Lady Macbeth has just sent me. Everyone in my building is half-comatose with their postlunch lull, so I quietly read over the info sheet—Rock the Tots sounds like boot camp. We have to run and swim (in a pool)—so far, no mention of mud. Last year we had a bunch of insureds in the Gresham area get sick from E. coli after ingesting poop-laced mud. I don’t do poop or mud.
Apparently, there’s an obstacle course: “a program designed to push you to your limits, the ultimate test of endurance, stamina, strength, and mental fortitude.”
Okay, I have none of those things. Can you buy that stuff at the sports store at the mall? Is there some pill I can take?
And while I’d love to leave immediately and head straight for the store where you buy fitness-y things, I missed the whole morning because of the nonaudition, so I have to at least make it look like I’m being productive. The Crone is likely still occupied with the dick-pic scandal, if the whispers from the cubicle ahead of me are any indication, though I’m wondering if she’s actually punishing Lisa or if she’s sitting in her office really examining the photos, you know, forensically. It’s probably been a while since Joan has seen a real, live penis. Although, what do I know? Maybe Joan’s not even into penises. Which is cool. Whatever. Penises can cause a lot of trouble. Maybe Joan’s a mature adult who doesn’t think about penises at work except when her juvenile underlings send dick pics to the entire company.
Man, I think that cupcake was made with meth. I can’t stop bouncing. Which Viv notices.
But it’s not because of the meth cupcake.
I don’t wanna tell her about the competition, at least not yet. I love Viv, but she wears sensible shoes and cotton cardigans that match her skirts and she never takes sick days and she’s already saving for her not-even-conceived child’s college fund. And while she pats me on the head and says, “Oh, you’re so cute” with regard to my love of all things Rock, she, like many other people in my life, questions my grip on reality. What can I say . . . in the cult of celebrity, I am but a mere disciple.
My in-box dings with a follow-up email:
P.S. Go to the Hollywood Fitness over on Sandy Blvd. Be there by 7:30 PM. Ask for Trish. She’s the manager, and she’ll introduce you to your new trainer, who you’ll work with after tonight—Trish will give you the tour and then have you do something easy tonight before you go full bore. I got you a discount for the first two months. It’s all about who you know, baby.
Awwww, Lady Macbeth, that was so not murderous of you.
I click through to the website’s registration page. The fee isn’t too bad—seventy-five bucks to participate in Rock the Tots, and you get a T-shirt and water bottle, and the money after costs goes to the charity. The Rock has promised to match the total entry fees from his own pocket.
Of course he did. Because he’s awesome that way.
I enter my info and credit card, telling myself that I can always close the browser if I change my mind in the next forty-five seconds.
Maybe I should just go and cheer for the other competitors. Maybe I should just raise money for this charity. Maybe I should wait and see if they’re hiring extras or if maybe they decide to open up casting for the Portland talent market too—
INT. IMPERIAL HEALTH & WELLNESS - DAY
THE ROCK is wearing his trademark Bull tank top, muscles glistening from a workout, beautiful tribal tattoo a beacon of hope for all. His voice whispers in my ear.
DWAYNE “THE ROCK” JOHNSON
Come on, Dani, you know this isn’t about the charity. This is about winning. This is about being in a movie with me, DWAYNE JOHNSON, your favorite human ever, remember? We could have so much fun . . .
DANIELLE
Right, I hear you, DJ, but have you seen me lately? Like, really looked? I’m short of breath walking up the three stairs that lead to my favorite bakery.
DWAYNE “THE ROCK” JOHNSON
What did your agent say on the phone? “From this moment on, you are a living, breathing Nike advertisement?” Channel that. Do you think I quit when I lost the WWF title to Stone Cold Steve Austin at WrestleMania XV? Hell, no. Or how about when the Stampeders cut me? No, dammit. I had to commit at that moment to becoming The Best. I had to work harder than everyone else in the room. You can too.
I ain’t no candy-ass, and neither are you. Be the Dani you’re meant to be. Join up, and I promise to do the Pec Pop of Love w
hen we’re on set.
My finger hovers over the “Submit” button.
I close my eyes, and click. I’m in.
I’m doing this.
I am a living, breathing Nike advertisement from here on out.
NINE
I cannot believe I’m actually walking into a sporting-goods store. On purpose.
At least now I feel less guilty about lying to Trevor that I had plans tonight. Because I do have plans. Here I am. Enacting my Very Important Plans.
“Welcome to Dick’s. Can I help you find something today?”
My inner fourth grader just giggled. It did. I’m immature and stupid when I’m nervous.
“Yeah.” I clear my throat, smile at the nice-looking young girl standing before me whose name tag I swear reads SUSIE LOVES DICK’S and almost giggle again, “I need some shoes. And some clothes to wear to exercise in. Like pants and maybe a sports bra and some shirts I can sweat in. I actually don’t even know what I need. I just know I can’t wear jeans to do exercising.”
She flashes that I-work-on-commission-follow-me-into-my-lair grin. She can’t be more than eighteen. “So, what kind of ‘exercising’ are you going to be doing?”
She air-quoted. Why did she air-quote?
Do I tell her what I’m really doing? What if she laughs at me?
“Um, well, I’m thinking I might join a gym? You know, running, lifting weights, treadmill, that sort of thing.” I sound like a total moron.
“Awesome, okay, well, maybe we should start with proper footwear.”
Good. Yes. Let’s do that.
I follow her to the Great Wall of Shoes. Dear lord, why do exercising humans need so many different kinds of shoes?
After forty-five awkward minutes and several pointed comments about how I’m actually really lucky because my options are so much greater since “not very many women wear a shoe size 10 or 11,” Susie talks me into two pairs: a zero-drop shoe for the gym (“It will help you keep your balance, like being barefoot, when you’re squatting and deadlifting”—I have no idea what either of those things involve, but I’m guessing one might be for pooping and the other might be for carrying a corpse), and for cardio activities, a higher-profile shoe with good arch and ankle support “because your ankles look a little puffy.”
