Bridget breathed a sigh as she looked to Marjorie, still seeking stardom after how many decades? Or was she simply content with this role on the periphery? Happy to be a small, token part of it all? Bridget glanced around at the other eager hopefuls. How had it come to this? Were these really her people? Was she just another one of the hordes who flocked to Hollywood with nothing but a dream? She knew she could act. She’d acted all of her life, but in the months that she’d been in Los Angeles her career had managed to go absolutely nowhere. She understood that it took a lot more than talent. It took drive and determination, and most of all luck. Lately she seemed to be in short supply of all three. With each passing day she grew more and more morose, and a desperate feeling of homesickness began taking hold. She wondered how much longer she could hang on. When she’d left St. Louis she could hardly wait to get out but now she found herself longing for the comfort and familiarity of home. At least there she had the support of her friends and her family. Going back as a failure would be hard for her to swallow too, though she considered it more each day.
A young man in cargo shorts and a white T-shirt, with a carefully trimmed goatee, walked up to the crowd of extras holding a clipboard. “Let’s go everybody! Time to work!” he yelled. “We need everyone for this shot!”
“Here we go!” said Justin excitedly. “I hope I get a good spot. I hope they see me back home. Then they’ll know. Then they’ll know I made it. They’ll know they were wrong!”
Bridget stood up and tucked her book into the pocket of her large brown overcoat. She pulled the black beanie over her head and followed the others through two giant black doors and into the soundstage. Back when she’d first arrived in LA, walking on set like this made her heart race. It was exciting. Now it was just another day, scraping by on minimum wage.
Chapter Three
As he moved down the sidewalk on his way to the convenience store, Warren passed a chain-link fence running the entire length of the block. On the other side of this fence was a series of large, windowless buildings side by side. He’d seen them many times before, but this time, right in the middle of it all, two men in white catering outfits unloaded tray upon tray of food onto three long tables. Warren put down his saxophone and clung to the fence with both hands to stare in awe. There was barbecued chicken, fettuccini, cold cuts and cheese. There was bread, salad and two kinds of soup. There was chocolate cake and apple pie. And nobody was eating any of it. Warren’s mouth watered. His stomach churned. He had to have that food.
A uniformed security guard ambled over arrogantly to face him from the other side of the fence. “Private property,” said the guard. “Move along.”
“Can’t a man stand on the sidewalk?” Warren replied with spite in his voice.
“Not with your fingers through the fence.”
Warren glared at the guard before he let go. He picked up his sax and headed back in the direction he had come. When he got to the intersection he turned right and followed a cement wall down an alley. Who were they to be so rude? Since when was it a crime to stand on a public sidewalk?
Warren searched the alley for a safe place to stash his saxophone. At the base of an old apartment building he found a small square door, two-feet high. He swung it open to reveal a dark crawlspace with cables, pipes and wires running the length of the building. It would be safe here for a while. He looked both ways up and down the alley to make sure nobody was looking before he tucked his sax inside and closed the door.
On the other side of the alley, the cement wall separated these apartment blocks from the complex of buildings he’d seen through the fence. It was the only thing between Warren and all of that glorious food. At eight-feet high, the wall was roughly two feet taller than he was. Warren found an empty plastic trash bin and turned it upside down beside the wall. When he climbed up, the bin strained to support his weight, but from this perch he peered over the top of the wall. On the other side was the back of one of the long tall buildings he had seen before. From this angle there was nobody in sight.
Warren made certain that he wasn’t being watched before he climbed onto the wall and then dropped over the other side, landing first on his feet but then falling to the ground with a thud. “Ow! Damn!” he exclaimed and then hopped up to dust himself off, examining his body parts for anything sprained or broken. He seemed to be in one piece. He picked his fedora up off the ground and put it back on his head before he looked around to see if he had been spotted. He still saw nobody. His heart sang at the excitement of it all. He’d show that guard! Like a spy on a secret mission, Warren ducked around the nearest building, where he found a small crowd of workers on the other side. They hurried back and forth, carrying sand bags, lights, cables and cameras. They were all too busy to give Warren a second look. He moved along amongst them until he spotted the food table and then stopped in an effort to blend in and survey the scene. He ducked behind a white van and watched as two caterers unloaded ice chests full of drinks.
When the caterers were finished they hopped in the van and started the engine. Warren froze in a panic, not sure where to go or what to do, but when the van pulled away he found himself standing alone faced with all of that food. He hurried to the table to survey his spoils, hardly knowing where to begin. He chuckled out loud before lifting a piece of chocolate cake to his lips. The dark frosting melted on his tongue. Next he grabbed a chicken leg and quickly gnawed it to the bone. He stuck a second leg in his pocket and then grabbed at a bunch of grapes and shoved them in his mouth, sending juice streaming down his chin as he laughed in delight. He was reaching for a beautiful slice of apple pie when he heard a furious shout from somewhere behind him.
“Hey, get the hell away from there!!!”
Warren turned around to see the angry, red-faced security guard rushing his way. Warren ducked under the table to avoid the guard and came up on the other side, still searching for something good to eat. He grabbed a few round pieces of melon and popped them in his mouth before the guard scurried around the table, arms flailing. Warren quickly ducked under and then hopped back up, face to face across the table from the guard. When the guard moved one way, Warren moved the other.
“You’ve had your fun. The game’s over!” said the panting guard. “Give it up and come with me!”
“I’m not going anywhere,” Warren replied. “Not with you, that’s for sure.”
The guard bolted clockwise and chased Warren around the table in a circle before they both stopped again. This time the guard took a walkie-talkie off of his belt and held it to his mouth.
“I need backup on stage fifteen. I’ve got an intruder at catering,” he said breathlessly, apparently not used to this much exercise.
“Roger that, be right there!” came the excited reply.
“You’re just making this harder on yourself,” said the guard.
Warren looked over the table and picked up his piece of pie. “I don’t mind,” he said before taking a bite. He had nothing to lose. What could they do but throw him out? At least he’d have eaten something first, he thought, gleefully shoving more pie in his mouth. Two more guards appeared, hoofing across the lot behind him. This time Warren simply stood and waited. All three guards converged on him at once. There was no escaping and he knew it. The two new guards grabbed him, each by one arm. They pulled him off of his feet and began to drag him away, the heels of his worn-out boots sliding along the ground.
From behind a giant black sliding door, Warren saw a man appear with a megaphone in one hand. He wore jeans and tight black cotton shirt, with glasses on an angular face. His short dark hair was flecked with hints of gray. After watching the commotion for a moment, his expression turned from confusion to annoyance. He held up his megaphone and spoke into it with an air of authority.
“What the hell is going on over there?” he demanded.
“We caught this man raiding the food table, Mr. Kaplan, sir,” yelled the first guard.
“Is this true?” Stewart Kaplan snapped as he approached Warren.
“I’m afraid so,” replied Warren with a wry smile as the guards lifted him back to his feet.
“You know extras don’t eat until noon! What are you doing out here?!” continued Kaplan.
“But sir!” said the guard.
“Quiet! I asked this man a question!” said Kaplan. “I won’t put up with this kind of behavior on my set! You’re damned lucky I don’t fire you right here. Get back in there and take your place!”
“My place?” answered Warren quizzically.
“But, Mr. Kaplan,” protested the guard. “I don’t think…
“Come on, party’s over! We’ve got work to do!” Kaplan interrupted the guard again before hurrying back in the direction from which he had come.
The first guard struck a manly pose and adjusted his pants while he considered his next move. He realized he was beaten. There was nothing left for them to do but retreat. Warren managed a quirky half smile.
“Well?” Kaplan said to him, turning back around.
“Right,” said Warren, “Back inside. Take my place.” He followed Kaplan through the giant doors. Inside, the cavernous building was a hive of activity. People in loose jeans and T-shirts, some with backward baseball caps, hustled around trailing long cables and carrying sandbags and metal stands. Giant lights, movie cameras and equipment were set up everywhere. Behind it all was a city scene, with storefronts, three-story apartment buildings, blue sky and white clouds. The set was lit by what seemed like a thousand floodlights, some hanging from the ceiling and others set up on floor stands. A group of men and women dressed in grubby attire gathered to one side; the women in plain wool dresses, the men in loose suits or worn overcoats. All of the men wore fedoras on their heads. Warren knew his kind of people when he saw them. He headed for this group and moved into the middle of the pack, trying to blend in.
“All right, places people, let’s get this thing going already!” Kaplan shouted into his bullhorn.
The film crew quickly moved to their places behind the cameras. Actors hurried onto the set. A man in cargo shorts with a goatee gave Warren a quick look up and down. “Wardrobe! I need a check here!” shouted Kevin, the first assistant director.
A girl with long dark hair and horn-rimmed glasses, dressed in thrift-shop chic with red corduroy pants and a tightly buttoned gray cardigan sweater appeared at Warren’s side. Strapped over one shoulder was brown cloth bag with a big flap on top.
“Can you make him a bit rougher?” Kevin asked her.
“We can dirty up that coat some more,” said the girl, who opened the flap on her bag and pulled out a large black marking pen. She pulled off the cap and started putting long, black streaks down Warren’s coat.
“Hey!” Warren yelled, jumping back. “That’s my coat!”
Another, larger girl appeared by his side, this one all in black, with purple streaks in her long black hair and a dress that bunched tight around her cleavage. In one hand was an open jar. She stuck two fingers inside and scooped out some dark grime which she then rubbed on his face. It was all quite peculiar, Warren thought, but he might as well go along for the ride.
“Ok, places people!” yelled Kaplan from behind a camera.
“Come with me,” said Kevin, leading Warren across the set. A petite girl in a long grey coat and a black beanie stood on a sidewalk next to a steel drum garbage can. “Stand right here. Pretend you’re warming your hands,” Kevin said to Warren before moving off.
Warren stood in the middle of the set, staring around at all the lights and cameras seemingly pointing directly at him. He couldn’t help but smile as he turned to the girl standing beside him. Her head was half-cocked to one side and a few wayward strands of auburn hair stuck out from under her stocking cap. Underneath her own layer of phony grime she had a wholesome, pretty face.
“Where’d you come from?” Bridget asked suspiciously.
“Where am I?” Warren answered with a light laugh.
“I haven’t seen you before, have I?” she added.
“Shhh…” Warren said, lifting a finger to his lips.
Bridget crinkled her nose as she caught a whiff of the stale odor that followed Warren wherever he went. She shuddered as she realized that the dirt and grime in his clothes was not the stuff of Hollywood. Not the Hollywood of make-believe in any case.
“Positions please!” Kaplan shouted. “We’ll run through a rehearsal. Does everyone know what to do?”
Bridget kept an eye on Warren, trying to decide whether she should move away from him somehow. One of the film crew rushed onto the set and handed him a half-full whiskey bottle. “Thanks!” Warren said brightly before the man hurried off without a word. Warren uncapped the bottle and took a deep drink before spitting it out onto the floor. “Hey, that’s not whiskey!” he said disappointedly, mostly to himself.
“Quiet!” yelled Kaplan. “Can I have some fire please?”
In an instant, flames leapt up out of the trash can, singeing the hairs on Warren’s right arm as he leapt back in fright.
“Down a little!” shouted Kaplan. The fire receded slightly. Bridget resigned herself to staying put. It was too late to move now. “Ok, quiet on the set!” the director announced. “On my mark! And, background! Action!” Suddenly the street scene came to life, with the characters moving to and fro. Warren stared at them in awe, unsure what to do or where to go. Bridget gave him a quick kick in the shin.
“Ow!” he gave a low growl and glared at her with momentary contempt.
“Shhhh!!!” she shushed him sternly with a finger in front of her lips and then scowled, nodded at her hands as she warmed them by the fire. Warren followed her lead. A street urchin in a newsboy’s cap ran onto the set.
“Sound the alarm, it’s the fuzz! It’s the fuzz!” yelled the boy.
People on the street gasped and ran for cover. Warren looked back and forth in alarm. What was he supposed to do? He had no idea, so he simply stayed put. A police captain and two other officers walked onto the set and headed directly toward him. When they’d closed to within a few feet, the police captain stopped and looked at Warren with revulsion. He grabbed the whisky bottle out of Warren’s hand and smashed it to the ground.