Girl Act (3 page)

Someone once asked me what I did while they were drawing or painting me. I remember liking the question, because it made me think, “If I’m posing, looking at the ground, after a while I begin to see images; a shape, a face, or a creature. Of course, this is only possible if the floor has texture.”

Modeling is the quietest I’ve ever gotten, and the closest to meditation that I’ll ever get. Being so wrapped up in the stillness, without forcing myself to not think and to just stare is how it happens for me. Sometimes I daydream, but not a sexual daydream, because then naturally my hips and lips would move.

Also, art modeling is the way I got over the ‘drilled in’ idea that it’s necessary to have super-skinny thighs and the ‘perfect’ actress body. Once you have artists tell you how exquisite, beautiful and unique you are—you’re free.

Every time I’ve met one of those “Help I’m trying to become a skinny twit” actresses at an audition, I’ve told them to art model at least once. I’ll say, “It’s the quickest way to body self acceptance and you’ll be comfortable if you ever have to shoot a nude scene in front of a film crew.” Hey, I’m not a shrink, and taking care of myself is enough of a task, why add to it?

There I was, facing the window that funneled in the bright California sunlight, when I thought about the “yes” and decided to imagine polished silver metal 24” x 24” letters spelling out “YES” dangling above my head. Moving like wind chimes by the small hands of three elves dressed in off-white painter pants, matching shirts, and white baseball hats, barefoot and sitting on the high ceiling rafters of Kenneth’s studio. The “yes” letters attached to fishing rod lines. I felt this sudden sense that an answer was coming to me in the next day: a map, or a written outline of where I should go.

Later that night, he showed up, the Tennis Actor with his dirty blond hair slicked back, and for the first time I said, “You know what? I can’t hang out tonight; I need some alone time, some me time, some un-male time.”

In a bitter tone he replied, “I got a callback, thought we could celebrate, but if you’re not in the mood, then so what!”

I could have been soft and explained that I needed to be alone only for a few hours, so I could hear my own thoughts and figure out where my life needed to go and where the “yes” was going to come from, but I didn’t.

“Congrats on the CB (callback). Talk to you tomorrow,” I said and took Shadow and went inside. I used to be the most dumped girl there ever was, til I turned twenty-six (I’m twenty-seven now) and decided to stop waiting by the phone, to stop trying to cross paths with a guy, to stop begging for some guy to let me stay over night, for the whole night, including breakfast, when he really wanted me to leave his place after the sex. To stop screwing him to just fill in the gap between me—and nothingness.

I watched the Tennis Actor amble away, half wanting to run after him and jump on his back and hump his left leg just to prove that I had him, that I could keep him, but I forced myself to close the downstairs screen door and let go. I had never done that, I had always been the one walking away after a guy had asked to me leave or even hinted that I should. I had listened to guys telling me that they “needed their own space for a while” or that they’d “be back in touch, real soon.” I walked up the stairs and into my apartment. Shadow raced to his water bowl. I locked the door and sighed. I felt strangely different.

Ugh, I have no plans ever to be a woman without a man, and yet I wasn’t lonely. Okay, so I also knew one night was one night and not a thousand. TG (Thank God). I opened my fridge and then made a delicious vegetarian plate of sesame pasta, with huge chunks of tofu and heaps of spinach. Good food calms me down. And tofu rocks! I gave Shadow his Science Diet dinner, and spread my turquoise bed sheet onto the hardwood floor. I took off all my clothes and there I lay naked, just waiting for the sign, the life-size moment of change to appear—the “YES”.

Waking up and looking for the sign of “yes” was no picnic. First, I had slept on the wood floor with just a sheet under me—which was fine for Shadow, asleep at my left hip, but my body was stiff in all the wrong places. And from the floor, I saw the used condoms the Tennis Actor had flung nonchalantly when he was ready to ejaculate on top of my belly, face, or against the wall in my little alcove bedroom.

So much for my trying to act ‘as if’ I could attain Elizabeth Bennet’s love success in Jane Austen’s
Pride and Prejudice
—which, incidentally Keira Knightley had done a great acting job in the movie version of, and the Mr. Darcy actor (Matthew Macfadyen) was beyond vulnerably perfect for what I had imagined. I read the book in high school and had had the twisted naive thought that I, too, was going to grow up and fall in love with a modern day Mr. Darcy—one who wouldn’t toss his used condoms on the floor and who would be in love with me, body and soul. What was I doing? And for how long had I just been doing nothing with my love life? Not that the Tennis Actor wasn’t exciting, good looking, and well-built in the area between his legs. But was there really a future?

I sat up as Shadow started licking my thigh. “Is there a Mr. Darcy in LA?” I asked. Shadow barked as if I had said, “Park” and I got up, feeling achy and cramped, turning on the shower in my tiny bathroom covered in pretty blue tiles from wall-to-wall. It was the best feature in the place besides the roof top patio. I stood under the hot shower, thinking over and over about finding out if he (Mr. Darcy) was in Los Angeles, and if I had just been looking in the wrong places.

Then I took Shadow to the Laurel Canyon Dog Park—not just as a bonus for him, but as a way of searching for the hippest, coolest, most real Mr. Darcy. Out of all the dog parks in LA, Laurel Canyon has to have the hottest dudes around. Okay, at least in my limited opinion. I had never thought of myself as a love addict, only because ‘addict’ has such a negative ring to it. But there I was, at eight in the morning, looking for Mr. Right, Mr. Love, or Mr. Darcy, whoever would be authentic. Meeting ‘attached’ guys or married guys is no fun (in fact, it’s a waste of time and energy).

Anyway I saw a lot of fine looking men in the park as Shadow raced around, barking like the hippest dog ever. I stared at every guy, trying to see what reaction I’d get. Nothing! Ha, ha. I should have grabbed a cardboard box and my red permanent pen and written, “Seeking LOVE, please apply,” and put it around my neck. But if my acting coach had seen me, he would have said I ‘lacked the balls to command the stage’ and he’d have been totally right.

Around that time, because timing at times can be perfectly rotten, the Tennis Actor texted me saying quote unquote, “
24b-up. I’ll be in touch soon.
” Ugh! A 24b-up equals a 24-hour break-up, it’s not an official ending, it’s more like not meeting for breakfast, lunch, or dinner for one whole day until you figure yourself out or screw someone else. I just texted back,
U got it
. And I did. Hey, it’s not like I could get snotty or bitchy or throw a hissy-fit. After all I had asked the Tennis Actor to give me last night off and I was in the dog park hunting for a modern day Mr. Darcy-not just any man, of course, but still, facts are facts. So there I was, a few feet from a colossal pile of dog shit, a 24b-up text in my cell phone, and no available men anywhere in the park. “Shadow,” I hollered, after cleaning up the poop which, like recycling, I can do with my eyes shut. So much for finding a handsome yes!

I got in my car and drove us down to Sunset Boulevard, with the urge to race up to Zuma Beach in Malibu and watch the surfer dudes. Being afraid of water made it extra exciting to sit and gawk, not to mention that surfer dudes have detailed, killer bodies. But, my cell phone rang. It was Beth asking if I would race over to the Woman’s Club of Hollywood to pick up a stack of 8x10’s to phone actors for tonight’s casting director’s workshop. Having a talent agent is great, but it doesn’t mean they do everything, especially if they are not ‘A-list’ agents, and if you’re not an ‘A-list’ actress or actor, yet or ever.

“Sure, give me two minutes,” I said putting Malibu on my ‘another day’ list (along with finding Mr. Darcy/Mr. Right).

I had started attending the workshops as a way to get seen by new casting directors who Ray, my agent, couldn’t get me in front of. Yeah, it cost money to be seen, but because I did the phone calls, and solicited other actors to come, I got to do them for free. Okay, so maybe this was a sign that I wasn’t yet done with Hollywood, that maybe a really big, amazing stardom break was going to come my way tonight.

Beth was originally from Alabama; she and her actor son had come out West to try their luck, and they’d had some small successes here and there. She was filled with Southern ‘gun powder,’ and never gave up. I walked into the modest room in the back of a classroom once used for the likes of Myrna Loy, and where actor Charles Laughton taught. Wow, what a Hollywood they had back then! I often think I was meant to be a 1940s or 1950s actress, but still, I can’t turn the clock back. Too bad!

Beth was standing by a dark vintage desk with a huge stack of 8x10’s and a one sheet pitch ‘speech’ about the guest casting director. It read blankety-blankety is now casting this year’s hottest ‘reality show’. Reality TV? I tried not to show my disappointment. Beth was very excited; she wanted a packed house to impress him. The rickety fold-up chairs were already arranged. At night, the parking lot would be used as everyone’s rehearsal spot, though I couldn’t image what lines anyone would need to rehearse for.

“Mini interviews, just tell them that’s all. And they should be themselves,” Beth chirped in her sweet, southern voice.

I nodded and scooped up the stack and headed out the door.

“Let’s get it full, all right?” Beth called from the doorway.

“You got it!” I hollered as I jumped back into the car where Shadow was waiting, his tongue hanging out.

He’s the funniest dog sometimes, the way he’ll jump into the passenger seat and act like a human, waiting to be driven somewhere. Without Shadow, I never would have been able to do Hollywood. I would have been too lonely. Because of him and his dog mutt-face, I’d met friends, men, and had somebody to do things with 24/7. In fact, in LA everybody must feel the same way, because there are so many dogs.

I zipped back to my Los Feliz studio apartment and laughed. I had thought “yes” was about moving, not about being suddenly single for 24 hours. I plopped down on my cozy Ikea futon couch. FYI, I always have a spare bed to offer—not that futons are the most comfortable, but when in need, it’s there. I put the photo stack in front of me, all color, glossy; gone were the days of black-and-white 8x10’s (headshots) that I started out with. Every actor puts a cell phone number on the resume, if his agent isn’t ‘A-list’. I mean, we’re all dying to get that one call where Martin Scorsese, or Quentin Tarantino, or Spike Lee, or Kathryn Bigelow, or the next up-and-coming director says, “Hey, I want to cast you in my motion picture.” So, in other words, I was phoning every desperate, wanna-make-it-in-Hollywood actor. I picked up the first photo: cute guy, crew cut, ‘army-type’. Think,
Zero Dark Thirty
. He also had powerful dark brown eyes and yummy lips.

I phoned him. “Yeah?” he asked and I rattled off my super, practiced ‘reality TV’ phone pitch about how this top reality casting director was giving actors the chance to be seen and make money. I added that, after a stint on the hottest reality show on network, he’d be a shoe-in for movie and TV parts. And then I waited, while he cackled loudly.

“So, can you come tonight?” I asked.

“I cum all the time; which picture you got in front of you?” he asked, like only a good-looking, cocky actor can do.

“I don’t. I have your name and cell phone number on a sheet with forty others,” I lied, because technically I didn’t want to say some casting director had dumped his 8x10 along with a thousand others into a reject pile—and that I was recycling it.

“Oh, I’m wearing the grey t-shirt. I can hear it in your voice. Right?” he asked, doubly cocky, probably with a hard-on or with his well-hung cock in his hands.

“Listen, I don’t have your acting photo,” I said, a bit pissed off, but only a little bit.

“You’re East Coast born and raised; you’re an actress, probably the dramatic kind; you think I’m cute, but maybe stuck up, but you’d be open to meeting me,” he said.

“Yes,” I said, because no is for negative, angry, bitter women, which I vowed not to be. Yes, because things like this never happen. I swear I had used a ‘business type’ voice, and still, he had read my flirty, provocative mind. Oh, well!

“Good, I bet you’re something,” he said, in a really commanding voice that made me gulp. Gulp.

“FYI, the grey shirt,” I added.

And that’s how it happened. We agreed to meet on Vermont Avenue at the Figaro Bistro, the French café (it’s been used in several commercials), but just to swap books. He said I had to pick a book he hadn’t read, as if I knew what the hell he read, or if he could read (ha, ha). I remembered that Kenneth, the painter, had given me his copy of John Forte’s
Ask the Dusk
and that it had simply blown me away, and, well, Kenneth knew more than me in so many worldly ways that I figured it was my best bet to impress the actor with.

I decided to play it casual, just regular blue jeans with my patch ‘DREAM UP’ and my classic snug brown tee (suggesting spunky, yet smart, with some class) and for sexy, my black polka dot thong (not that he was going to see it). And my lime green bra; I’m the type that likes my bra and panties not to match and to be oh-so-bright and colorful. After all, sex is serious enough these days. I wore my brown leather slip-on boots with a slight heel. If I had been in New York, I would have worn my black combat boots for the sheer gorilla-girl look, but Los Angeles is about ease and comfort. I walked; I figured why bring my car when the day was nice.

He was wearing a grey shirt, not the one in the headshot, but a shade lighter, and loose, faded Levi blue jeans and running sneakers. Hell, he could have worn a sleeping bag: he was super striking. He was at a table a few feet from the door. He wasn’t hiding. I slid in after feeling his eyes go up and down my body. I think he would have liked a backside view as well, but he’d have to wait. We both smiled and he slid his book over first. Wow—Anais Nin’s
Little Birds,
a collection of erotic stories, a book I hadn’t read since college that I had figured, or hoped, no man had read because it felt so truly personal. I pushed my Forte book over and he gave me a cocky grin. Maybe he was born that way.