Lights! Camera! Dissatisfaction... Read online

  “No, publicity work,” he answered.

  “Paul, I will not be a pork chop ever again. That was the most degrading job ever,” I sternly told him.

  “No, no…nothing like that. It’s for the opening of a play down at The Royal Alex Theatre. Three Men on a Horse?”

  I quickly considered it. Opening night meant there’d be all sorts of influential showbiz types there. It might be worth my while. “I’ll do it,” I said.

  I took extra care with my hair and make-up. Looking quite glamorous, I showed up at the theatre and asked for Mr. Empress, the publicity director. He didn’t give me a second glance; just told me to get my ass into the costume. It almost sounded like he said, “Get into the ass costume,” but I figured he was just speaking too quickly. I walked into the changing room and was greeted by the front end of a horse.

  The horse spoke to me. “Finally! You’re late, we have to be on the floor now. Get into the back end.”

  I couldn’t believe it. I was a pork chop all week and to top it off, now I was a horse’s ass. I may have been in the presence of Al Pacino that night, but I couldn’t tell. All I could see were people’s feet. I cheered myself up by telling myself that things couldn’t get any worse; I was surely at rock bottom. Things had to get better.

  And I did find 53 cents in change plus a silver charm that said ‘Hollywood, Florida’. Close enough, I thought, and took it as a sign that every cloud has a silver lining.

  * * *

  Once again, I was sitting dejectedly in Paul’s office. He’d called me earlier to tell me some money had come in. Not even the thought of a $200 check could raise my spirits, although Paul’s 40-buck commission put him in a voluble mood.

  “There’s two big films starting on Monday, both using Toronto as New York,” Paul enthused. “You know what that means? New York streets, which are always so busy, translates to…? C’mon, you know…Crowd scenes! Lots of extra work! If you really stay in the background, behind a newspaper, wearing sunglasses, out of camera range, then we’ll probably be able to book you for a few days.” Paul was already counting the dollar signs. I just sat there, glumly looking at him.

  “What’s the matter? You’re not saying anything,” Paul eventually noticed.

  I acted startled, “Oh, yeah! I forgot! I know how to speak,” I said sarcastically.

  “So, whaddaya think? Wanna work next week?” Paul asked.

  “Yes, Paul, I always want to work. But I don’t want to stay OUT of camera range, I want to be right in front of the damn thing. I want to say something!” the broken record repeated. “What am I doing wrong?”

  “Well, let’s think about that,” Paul suggested. “Who’s your favorite actress? Who do you admire the most?”

  I considered his question. “Hhmmm, Marilyn Monroe is one of my idols. So is Meryl Streep, Drew Barrymore, Susan Lucci, that girl who did three Humble Throat commercials…Pretty well anyone working steady is an idol of mine, Paul.”

  Paul leaned back in his overstuffed plush leather chair. Every time he shifted in that chair, his girth caused it to let forth a squeal. “Let’s see…I could try sending you out on theatre auditions. They’re usually at least six weeks work, often more. That’s steady work.”

  “I’ll do theatre!” Why didn’t he suggest that two years ago, when I’d started in this godforsaken business?

  “Doin’ theatre is a great way to learn your craft. I’m not knocking it. But I have my reasons for not wanting you to do it. It don’t pay. And if it don’t pay you, then it sure don’t pay me.” For a while there, Paul was almost sounding human, but then he remembered his fondness for bucks.

  “How little can they pay?” I asked. “Right now, I’m often working four hours a day for ten bucks an hour.”

  “And sometimes you hit the jackpot and get paid union rates. You’ve had a couple $300 days. Often in theatre, you’ll earn in two weeks what you can make in one day on film.” Paul definitely had a point there. I have a pet – a mongrel cat called Lunchpail. During lean times, either Lunchpail and I share the same can of ‘Miss Meow’ or he eats what I eat – white rice and popcorn.

  Then again, I could use the acting practice. Maybe if I was allowed to work steadily, I’d get to be a better actress and then I’d land that desired speaking role on film. “Paul, let me get just one play. Just for the experience. Then we’ll concentrate on film.” I came alive for the first time that day. Deep inside, I somehow knew this was a wise career move.

  Paul’s face looked as if he were chewing a sour antacid pill. Maybe he was. “Oh, alright,” he agreed. “I’ll see what I can do about lining up some theatre auditions. In the meanwhile, you’ll do extra work.”

  Was he asking me or telling me?

  * * *

  It had been three weeks since the theatre discussion in Paul’s office. During that time, Paul had me working eight days a week. I took that as a sign he was confident I’d land a theatre gig. Before I did though, Paul was going to make damn sure he’d work me for every cent he could get out of me.

  I was a New York citizen almost the entire time. Trying to make Paul happy, I was always ducking the camera. Not that we got on camera very much. Most of the time, the 80 background performers set up camp in a vacant parking lot the film company so graciously allotted us. On my fourth day I got wise and brought a lawn chair to work with me.

  Paul honored me one day with a visit on set. Of course he had a check for me and needed his $29.70 commission. I saw him approaching my camp, which consisted of my lawn chair, my Complete Works of Shakespeare (as I prepared for my theatre career), my Styrofoam coffee cup, and my ‘acting bag’, which mainly held food, as extras (contrary to popular belief) cannot live on donuts alone.

  I didn’t bother to get up; I was too bored. Paul was excited though. “I saw George Clooney!” he effused. I shrugged my shoulder in indifference.

  “So? I see him every day,” I yawned. “The thrill wears off after a while.” In all honesty, the closest I’d come to him was 500 feet. The camera was usually on him and I was usually the farthest thing the camera could see, if it could see me at all.

  “Alice, you’re looking quite tanned,” Paul commented on my blistered, thrice-sunburned face. “Must be all this sun you’re getting.”

  Boy, Paul was a real Sherlock Holmes. The extras either sat in the parking lot most of the day or were at work on the street. Either way, we were always in 90-degree Fahrenheit weather. The only shade you got was when you used one of the two Johnny-on-the-Spot washrooms, which got quite rank around 11 a.m.

  The heat was beginning to affect Paul. His face had rivers of sweat running down it. “Jeez, it’s hot,” he noted. “Alice, you want a break from this job? I got a call from a film looking for tanned beach bunnies. You interested?”

  What I would have liked was a day off but I was enjoying my new wealth. Lunchpail got a flea collar and I splurged on a huge fern. Next I wanted to have new head-shot photos taken, as I was still using the one taken three years ago when I had braces.

  Being a beach bunny might be fun. At least it’d be a change of scenery. “I’d love a break. Where is it?”

  “Cherry Beach, tomorrow, 7 a.m. Bring your bikini.”

  I don’t own a bikini. I showed up on the set of Limbo Bimbo at the appointed time and showed the costume man my attractive one-piece swimsuit. As I knew he would, and without saying a word, he dug into a rack of bathing suits and pulled out a high-tech modern bikini for me. I wished I’d brought my shaver with me. I wondered if the make-up lady would cover up the pimples on my ass.

  This time, although I was still in the heat, I’d exchanged pavement for sand. We seemed to be shooting some kind of limbo contest. It was a sixties movie with a contemporary look. I noticed there weren’t too many extras and thought, Good, maybe I’ll get lots of camera time. And I certainly did, but the camera was pointed everywhere else but at my face. Over and over, I was a-limboing and the camera, whilst shooting me, seemed to be coming from
weird angles. I had a queasy feeling they were getting some good T & A shots.

  I limboed until the sun set. In my opinion, they shot it backwards. They should have begun shooting with us in the low limbo position, when our backs were still fresh and rested. By the end of the day, if we’d worked our way up to the high-broom position, we could almost walk under erect. (I’d become a limbo expert.) But I had to do it their way. So by the end of the shoot, I was squeezing myself under the broom which was held about two feet high. When I tried to straighten up and walk around, I measured four feet. I couldn’t uncurl my back which had locked into a back-arch position. On the crowded subway going home that night, I had to lie across three other people’s laps. The film company allowed me to keep the bathing suit though, which I’d probably wear once in the privacy of my apartment.

  Paul, true to his word, did manage to turn up one theatre audition. It was for a children’s play, the story of ‘Little Red Riding Hood’. I really wanted this job and since I’d heard that theatre today is innovative, I decided I’d show them a Red Riding Hood no one could ever forget. I played Ms. Hood as a young heroine plagued by puberty…claustrophobic in the mysterious forest…yet strangely attracted to the big, bad wolf. I know I gave the original character a mild twist but I wanted them to see that I’d given the part a lot of thought. I didn’t get called back.

  It had been my last day on the Clooney film. I dragged my butt through the front door and started running a cold bath. I hadn’t even gotten on set once. Instead, I learned how to play chess.

  The phone beckoned. “Alice! Glad I caught you! Fun job tomorrow! You get to wear a Martian suit and you’ll be working at a landfill north of the city.” I think Paul purposely saves these jobs for me. I think he goes looking for them.

  “Paul, I am too tired. Give me just one day off, please,” I begged. “I’ve worked twenty-one days in a row. I need a break.”

  “I’ll give you a minute to think about it,” Paul said.

  “No, Paul. Sorry.”

  “If you say so. Well, if you aren’t going to work, then I have a theatre audition for you tomorrow.”

  * * *

  I arrived 45 minutes early for my audition, absolutely determined to win the role. My intensity scared the other hopeful applicants away from me – they were seeing a hungry actor. The room held about a dozen fellow thespians who all seemed to know one another. One poor soul, dressed in a holly black turtleneck sweater and black patched jeans, was reciting his resume to another.

  “I just finished Save the Whales and before that I toured for six months in Just Say No, which I had to start one day after my tour of Charlie Brown ended. That was just this year, too,” he bragged. I figured he must have been so busy, he had no time to buy new clothes. “How ’bout you?” he asked the poncho-clad, bearded hippie sitting in front of his chair.

  “I did a tour of Jesus is Our Friend about six months ago. We rolled the truck in a blizzard though and killed a couple actors, so the tour got cancelled. I’ve been on Welfare since,” he agreeably replied.

  The door opened and an anorexic, elderly man dragged himself in. In slow motion, he sat in the chair next to me. I could smell an odor wafting off him. Oh no, did he pee his pants? Was that old B.O. ? Nooo, it smelled like grease. Sneaking a look at him, I thought I detected a thin sheen of oil on his skin. He immediately fell asleep.

  One of the girls, wearing an Indian wraparound cotton skirt, woke up the new arrival. “Danny! How’s your Winnie the Pooh tour going?” she asked.

  “We have a week left. I have to get another show right away. I owe the phone company 600 bucks.” Danny looked worried. I sensed another hungry actor. Obsessed with keeping the odds in my favor, I decided this actor would have to drop out of the race.

  “I hate to tell you this, but they’re looking for actors under 30,” I said with false sympathy.

  Danny looked at me strangely. “I’m 22.”

  I was about to question the authenticity of his answer when I was distracted by a twosome that had just walked in. They filed past me. The woman in front was contorting her face – grimacing, bugging her eyes, widely opening her mouth. The man following her kept snapping his mouth open, saying one syllable, “Ma!”

  Ohhh, sad, I thought. Some poor mother had to bring her mentally disabled child to her audition. They chose the last two vacant seats which were on the other side of me. The woman turned to face me and with every face and neck bone stretched taut, she perfectly enunciated, “Are – they – on – time?”

  Her partner looked over at me and with quizzical eyes, he said, “May Me My Mo Moo.”

  I bluntly stared back at them and could feel laughter starting to.0 boil. Don’t laugh, Alice, there’s something wrong with these people. They’ve obviously come to the wrong address. Yet I couldn’t avert my face from hers. She waited for my answer with her nostrils flaring in opposite time to her stretching tongue. Fighting the urge to guffaw, I tore my gaze off her face only to have it land on the man’s. Again, with a questioning look, he asked, “May Me My Mo Moo?”

  That did it. I began to giggle and in the attempt to suppress it, it was coming out like nose expulsions of air. I looked around at the others in the room, hoping I wasn’t the only crass one to be laughing at the retards. I caught the braggart’s eye and he looked at me and said,“Bbbrrrr”, his lips a blur. He looked away and said the same thing. I didn’t find the room cold at all, but the boaster sounded like he was freezing to death.

  Something hit my foot. I glanced down and saw the hippie stretched out on the floor between the seats. He seemed to be reaching for something with every ounce of strength in his soul, then suddenly he compressed himself into a tiny ball, a fetal innocent. Was he having some kind of flashback to that accident he was talking about? But then he did it again.

  The blasts of air emitting from my nose slowed down. Maybe I wasn’t in a roomful of mentally disturbed people. Maybe I was in a roomful of professional actors. Maybe they were the same thing. I wondered if I should be doing something equally stupid and decided to pretend my nasal clearing would be my warm-up exercise. I started snorting with a practiced conviction.

  A woman walked out of a room and just before my nose started to bleed, she called out, “Alice Kumplunkem?” I stood up and gave one last nose blast to let the woman have a glimpse into how professional I was…and wished I hadn’t. Suddenly I needed a Kleenex. Wiping my nose and chin with my blouse, I followed the lady into an empty room furnished only by a table and three chairs.

  “Have a seat,” the lady said. “I’m Eliza Spottle and this is my husband, Rauger. He’s the director and I handle administration. Please,” she kindly requested again, “have a seat.”

  Gee, what a nice person, I thought. I looked at her with an enchanted look on my face and then slowly swung my head to look at her husband in the same way. I was greeted by a steely-eyed look. Rauger was sitting hunched over in his chair, his fists placed directly in front of him on the table. As soon as he saw that he had my attention, he began barking questions at me.

  “How’s your back?”

  Be on guard, Alice. You want this job, remember? Sell yourself. “Just fine,” I answered. Besides, I don’t think he wanted to hear about that old slipped disc problem.

  “Can you drive a truck?” he fired at me.

  “Yes…sir,” I replied. “Growing up in Oak Paw, Saskatchewan, you learn how to drive on a standard transmission pick-up truck. I was…”

  “You like fries?” He interrupted my tidbit of the past.

  “Pardon…sir?”

  “Fries! French fries! You like them?” he yelled at me.

  Loaded question, Alice. Maybe they only hired vegetarians, judging by the looks of the applicants for the position. Not that I’m crazy about fries, but….

  “Yes, sir! I love fries, sir!” I felt like some sad sap of a buck private, cowering before the tyrannical drill sergeant.

  “You better, ‘cuz when you’re pullin’ into
a truck stop at three in the morning, don’t expect to find a fruit salad. There’s two actors needed for this job and besides doing all the driving and finding your own places to stay, you’ll also be expected to put up the set and pull it down when you’re done. And those kids are monsters, do you understand me? They are the ENEMY.”

  I saluted. “Yes, sir!”

  He nodded, pleased with my response. “Can you act?”

  “Yes, sir!”

  “Then get out on that floor and show me your stuff, soldier. Be smart about it!” he ordered me. I jumped up and marched into the center of the room.

  With a visible effort, I tried to relax. I had decided to do a monologue from the play A Streetcar Named Desire. I know Blanch Dubois is 20 years older than me, but it’s such a strong piece for an actor to do.

  With a final reminding thought of how desperately I wanted a real acting job, complete with lines, I decided to give my monologue every ounce of emotion the lines called for. I stretched my arms out yearningly in hope; I flung myself to the floor in despair; I beat my chest in anger. With a final flourish, I ended my piece, looked at the Spottle’s and managed to squeeze a tear out of my sad, imploring eyes.

  Fifteen long seconds later, I was still looking at them with the same hound-dog expression. I had finished my piece but I didn’t know if I was to tell them or if they were supposed to applaud or if they realized when a piece had ended. Maybe they thought I was taking a dramatic pause and had more monologue to go? In a split second, my hangdog face changed into Miss Bubbly Actress. I sat there and smiled and tried to look like Alice Kumplunkem instead of Blanche.

  The husband slowly turned to his wife. “She’s very physical,” Eliza commented.

  That seemed to comfort Rauger somewhat. He picked up a script sitting in front of him. “See this script? You will read the part of ‘Betsy Bunny’. I will be Farmer Dell opposite you. Ready?” he asked just as he handed me the script.

  I wanted to ask for at least a minute to skim it over but didn’t want to cause waves. “Uh…ready,” I said.