“Wonderful choice, Monsignor. Mad dogs all around,” said Warren.
“Whatever you’re buyin’ man,” said Slim. “Whatever you’re buyin’.”
“Wouldn’t mind a bottle of Jack myself. If you’re still good for it and all,” said Duke.
“Three Mad Dogs and a fifth of Jack Roberts,” said Warren.
“What about this?” said Slim, holding up a candy bar.
“You bet,” said Warren.
“I want one’a them, too!” said Smiley, grabbing his own. He eyed the cashier, a buxom blonde in a pink and white dress. “How you doin’, sugar?” he said, leering hungrily with his one good eye.
“Is that all?” asked the cashier, with an oddly guttural voice.
“Yeah, that’s all,” said Warren.
The cashier wrapped the bottles in brown paper bags and rang everything up. Warren paid and each man picked up his own bottle and candy. Smiley kept his gaze on the cashier as the rest of the men walked out the door.
“You take care of yourself, little lady,” said Smiley.
“Come on, let’s go,” said Warren.
Smiley smiled and bowed. “You are one fine piece’a woman, you certainly are. Good evening to you.” He swung one arm in a flourish before he followed his friends out into the night.
Chapter Ten
Bridget walked down the sidewalk, trying to ignore the vacuous stares from a pack of teenage runaways loitering in a doorway. She never felt comfortable in these surroundings, and she knew that she never would. Not even if she’d made it. Not even if she lived in a big fancy mansion in the hills. On some level Bridget was determined to make a life for herself here, if for no other reason than to prove that she could, though she knew she was out of her element in this city whose values she could never really understand. She was also somewhat of a rarity. While hundreds of hopefuls arrived in this town every day with stars in their eyes, she was here not so much for the fame, but because she truly loved to act. It was her passion, though she asked herself daily how long she would last. Home called out to her, pulling her back to the familiarity of life in Missouri. On nights like this, she longed for just a little respite from the cold reality that was her lonely life in Los Angeles.
“Hey baby! Hey baby! You got something for me? ‘Cause I got something for you!” the voice of a man called out to her from the darkened cab of a beat up Chevrolet as it rumbled along beside her. Bridget cringed and quickly ducked into a liquor store to escape as the car continued down the block, looking for action on the dirty boulevard. Inside the store, Bridget moved to a magazine rack near the front. On the cover of a woman’s magazine she saw the seductive smile of Jessica Turnbull staring back at her. The starlet was hanging out of a shiny blue dress that was two-sizes too small. “Jessica on Men, Movies and Money,” read the headline. Bridget picked up the magazine and opened it to the article.
“What a no-talent bimbo,” she said to herself as she read Jessica’s top ten tips for scoring the man of your dreams.
“Hey, no reading the magazines!” came a voice from the front of the store. “You want it, you buy it.”
A startled Bridget looked toward the cashier; a buxom blonde with bright red lipstick, wearing a pink and white dress. Only there was something peculiar about her. Bridget looked at the woman more carefully. The creases in the heavy makeup on her face. The hairy forearms. This was no woman. It was a man. Bridget put down the magazine and walked to the counter where she picked up one small bag of M&M’s. On her extra’s wages it was the only indulgence she felt she could afford. “Just these,” she said, and the cashier rang her up. When she’d paid, Bridget walked back out of the store and headed to her apartment; her sanctuary from the madness all around her. It was only five blocks away, on a quiet residential street south of Sunset. The building itself was refuge to a mix of mostly young professionals. They were accountants and lawyers, businessmen and a few “industry” types. All of them were friendly to Bridget, for the most part, but not friends. One look at the BMW’s and Porsche’s parked out back told her that she didn’t quite fit in with this crowd. Not considering the tiny, ground floor studio she lived in and could barely afford. Everyone else was entirely pleasant, though Bridget didn’t socialize much.
When she arrived, Bridget walked under the front archway. “Hollywood Sunset Apartments” read the sign. That was one of the reasons she’d taken the place. Even if it was more than she could afford, she liked the sound of it. The building itself was faded pink stucco and two stories high, with a wing coming out on either side and a courtyard in the middle. Bridget continued into the garden, past a burbling fountain and on around to the back. When she turned the key in her lock and opened the door, she was home. Not home in the Missouri sense of the word, but home for now. The furniture she’d scrounged from yard sales and thrift stores. In one corner was a round wicker chair with a big orange cushion. In another was a bed and nightstand, littered with books and a few magazines she’d picked up second-hand at the library. On top of a dresser were a few knick knacks she’d brought to help remind her of home and a carved wooden box she used to store her jewelry. Along the back wall was a small kitchenette, with a mini-refrigerator, electric stove-top and microwave oven. A small counter with two tall stools was where she ate her meals, always alone.
Bridget bolted the door behind her and sat down in the wicker chair. She pulled her legs up underneath her, picked up her phone and dialed, expecting only voicemail on the other end. She was surprised to hear a man actually answer.
“Well, I’ll be. If it’s not the beautiful Bridget! How are you, dear?” said her friend Ariel, melodically.
“Terrific, now that I’m talking to you,” she said.
“Oh, don’t tell me things aren’t going well. Not for a talented girl like you!” said Ariel.
“Things are ok. I’m working at least. As an extra.”
“Oh, girl, those dimwits in Hollywood don’t know what they have in front of them! That is a damned shame.”
“I guess I’m paying my dues.”
“You know, I’m casting for
Merchant of Venice
on the Center City Stage right now. Why don’t you come back? I’ll hold the role of Portia for you!”
“No, but thanks anyway. I’m not ready to give it up yet. Close, but not quite.”
“At least tell me you’ve met some charming man!”
“Ariel, stop with these depressing questions already. I call so you can cheer me up, not rub my nose in my own pathetic life!”
“Oh, my poor Bridget. What are we going to do with you?”
“Can’t you just give me some positive reinforcement?” she asked plaintively.
“You’re fabulous and everybody loves you.”
“Thanks. I can always count on you.”
“And now I have to be rude and get back to my own date. He’s scowling at me as we speak. But call me back if you change your mind about the part, ok? I mean it!”
“All right, I’ll keep it in mind. Thanks. Bye, Ariel.”
She hated to hang up the phone, to sever that connection to a friendly voice. She thought about who else she could call. There was Alice, her best friend from high school, probably asleep already after a day caring for her two precocious children. There were her parents, but she couldn’t call them. Not if it meant admitting how hard things really were. Instead she put down the phone and picked up one of her magazines. She opened it at random and started to read, trying to lose herself in the story of someone else’s life. A life more exciting and successful than her own.
Chapter Eleven
Warren walked down an alley, swaying gently back and forth in the moonlight. In one hand he held his saxophone, in the other, a bottle of wine in a brown paper bag. A worn blanket was draped across his shoulders. Warren stopped to take a drink, then put down his bottle and brought the saxophone to his lips. When he blew into his instrument, the music drifted up through the alley, above the garages and past the four-story apartment buildings. Slowly, people came to their windows to watch and listen. Somewhere up above a window flew open.
“Hey, shut the hell up down there!” yelled a voice. The window slammed closed. Warren put down his sax and arranged his blanket on the ground along a wall. He lay down and pulled the blanket over himself, then rolled around and tried to get comfortable, with one arm under his head as a pillow. He felt a sense of well-being that he wasn’t used to. Instinct told him not to trust it. Nothing good would last, he knew. He’d learned that lesson the hard way. Hardly a day went by that he didn’t think back to Ophelia and those heady good times. Back before it all went south. Yet still, his mood these past few days was a nice change from the melancholy that often stalked him. And so what if it ended tomorrow? As long as he saw it coming, he’d be ok. As long as he didn’t get too used to it. Warren knew he had no real chance with Bridget. If she knew what his life was really like…he shuddered at the thought. But just her presence in his life was enough to lift his spirits. For years he’d been haunted by bouts of depression and anxiety, but for the moment it felt as if those clouds were parting. He remembered once again what it was like to be happy. Warren closed his eyes and settled in to fall asleep to the sounds of the city.
Chapter Twelve
Back on the set for another day, Warren sat at a table watching Justin fidget with his cards. Even a low-stakes game like this one was enough to send the younger man into fits of torment. His body twitched and his eyelids fluttered. Warren felt badly for the boy, but what was he to do? Justin was a lost cause, whether he knew it yet himself or not. Warren sighed deeply and looked at his own cards before laying them face down on the table. “I’m out,” he said.
“Me, too,” said Charles. “Again.”
Justin continued to ponder his move. As usual, Marjorie had the largest pile of change on the table. “Are you in or not?!” she snapped. “We haven’t got all day!”
Justin shook his head and folded as well. Marjorie smiled and scooped up the pot.
“At least tell us what you had,” said Charles.
“You don’t want to know, honey,” said Marjorie.
“Yes I do,” said Charles. He flipped over her cards to have a look.
“Not a thing,” Marjorie said.
“Where’d you learn to play cards, anyway?” asked Charles.
“Honey, I been around a long time,” said Marjorie with a maniacal gleam in her eye. “Been taking saps like you since before you were born.”
“But I had a pair of twos!” said Justin.
“Sorry, honey. Too late,” said Marjorie.
“Oh, come on,” said Bridget, who stood watching over the game. “It’s like you’re taking money from a baby!”
“There’s room at the table,” said Marjorie.
“Fine, count me in.” Defiantly, Bridget sat down beside Warren. Her proximity sent a spark clear through him and he squirmed in his seat as she collected the cards, shuffled them expertly, and dealt a new hand to each player. Warren wondered why it was that he felt this way about her. She wasn’t even his type. She was smart, and kind and honest. Not at all the kind of girl he usually went for. He tried to push these thoughts out of his mind and think of something else. When he looked toward the soundstage he saw Kevin walk out and glance around at the crowd of extras. When the First AD spotted Warren, he came right over.
“Hey, you, what’s your name again?” Kevin said as he approached the table.
“Me?” Warren answered.
“Yeah,” said Kevin. “You.”
“Warren.”
“Come on, Warren. We need you on set.”
Warren raised his eyebrows in surprise. “Just me?” he said.
“Just you,” Kevin confirmed.
When Warren looked at the others he felt a wave of guilt. He knew how much they wanted it. He, on the other hand, was just here on a lark. But what was he supposed to do? It wasn’t like he’d asked for special treatment. Warren nodded to Kevin and then stood, dropping his cards to the table. “I guess I’m out,” he said.
“And here I am, busting my ass to make it in this town…” Charles laughed as he shook his head in disbelief.
Warren scooped up his change and dropped it in his pocket before he hurried after Kevin to a trailer parked along the side of the soundstage. Kevin bounded up the steps and gave a light rap on the door before he opened it and walked on in. Warren followed him inside to find a series of four swiveling chairs set in front of well-lit mirrors. Tables were covered with makeup and all sorts of creams, lotions and accessories, including brushes, combs and scissors. A woman with jet-black hair, bright red lipstick and matching fingernails sat in one of the chairs, reading a magazine. On the other side of the trailer was another woman; pretty, with a round face and curly blonde locks, pouring herself a cup of coffee.
“I’ve got a rush job here,” said Kevin.
“What do you need, more grime?” asked the blonde.
“No, I need to clean him up. Make a clean-cut cop out of him in five minutes,” said Kevin.
“You’re kidding, right?” said the blonde incredulously.
The dark-haired woman hopped up from her chair and looked Warren over. She took off his hat and rubbed some of his hair between her fingers gingerly. “He needs a wash and a shave first off. Sit down over here,” she said, motioning him to a seat with a tub and faucet behind it. Warren did as he was told. “Lean your head back,” she said. She turned on the water, grabbed a bottle of shampoo and started to wash his hair. “You haven’t washed this in a while, have you?” she said.
“No,” said Warren.
“That’s what I call getting into character,” laughed the woman, as the blonde watched the process with a look of horror on her face.
“What size shoes do you wear, Warren?” Kevin asked.
“Twelve.”
“How about your waist?”
“Thirty-six.”
“I’ll be back in couple minutes,” said Kevin before walking out of the trailer.
In the extras holding area, Bridget lost interest in the card game as soon as Warren was gone. As the others concentrated on their hands, she gazed absentmindedly toward the set. Warren intrigued her; she had to admit, if only to herself. “What do you think is going on in there?” she asked.