Sky Tongues (4 page)

   “
What?” I exclaimed. “You think they’ll just wait for me? They won’t wait, they’ll hire someone else! And you know damn well I could work for you for a month and not get that amount of money!”
   “Sorry, darlin’. You know if I could afford to pay you that, I would. Hell, I’d pay you all you kids that but you know I can’t. Just wait until the end of the season and you can come back here. There’ll be other jobs.”
   “You don’t know that,” I said. “I’m staying and I’m gonna do this. You can’t stop me.”
   “Well, sadly, that’s where you’re right. I can’t stop you. But, I’m asking you respectfully. Don’t do this. A young girl alone here in Los Angeles.” He shook his head. “That can only be trouble and I want to keep you safe.”
   I stared into his eyes, furious. He stared back helplessly, pleadingly.
   In the end though, I walked away from him. I walked away from all of them and a life that I had loved. I think now it was out of spite, out of resentment at being told what to do. I’d had enough of that shit from my parents and I told myself I would never let anyone order me around ever again.
   And, for the most part, I never did.
26
   I camped out on the beach that night, listening to the waves gently tasting the shore.
   Sleep didn’t come for quite sometime, however, due to the beach itself being quite famous for its aqua-colored sand and tiny rainbow snails, which had tourists combing it night and day, bagging sand as souvenirs, or homeless folks looking for a tasty slimy snack. The snails were free, after all, and quite good when eaten raw.
   Later, I washed up in a restaurant bathroom and showed up for work on time. During the downtime, I went around asking the crew if they knew of any cheap places to stay and of course, they all did, but no place was cheap enough for my wallet. A homeless shelter was the best I could do for the time being.
   The day after that the ice cream director gave me a business card, telling me it was a friend of his, an agent who specialized in getting work for Mues. I called the guy and made an appointment for the following week.
   As I lay in the shelter night after night with druggies and drunks and people just down on their luck, I thought about Gus and Milo and all of the rest of the carnies and wondered where they were now. Portland? Seattle? I wondered if where they were was a prettier place than LA but of course I was just playing a game with myself. There was no doubt that wherever they were, it was better than here.
27
   My agents name was Franz and he was a complete human, not a single drop of Mue blood in him, but he was nice enough and sent me out for job after job, without end. I got a few more commercials—enough to get me out of the shelter and into a tiny roach infested studio apartment where I shared a bathroom with other tenants—but not enough to get me much else. Rent in LA was obscene and I finally broke down and got a job working nights in a laundromat. The atmosphere was horrible, the pay was horrible and the customers where horrible, but I was desperate and took what I could get.
   I searched around for an acting class or program I could get into, but they were all out of my budget for the time being. Continuing to pound the pavement everyday, I was always tempted to drift into one of the theaters off Sunset but Franz was always discouraging me from doing so. He said my night job paid me more than they would and the real money was in film.
   “I can’t stress it enough, Sky!” he would say. “Film is the only thing worth your time.”
   I held out and got bit parts in a few sitcoms and another commercial or two. I had become a real working actor, complete with the headshots and the portfolio. Something was bound to break for me eventually. At least, that’s what Franz kept telling me.
   He was also convinced that I was not your average Outie. He kept insisting that I was also a Uni, the most rare of all Mues, those being unlike any others, having a deformity or mutation that was unlike anyone else’s in the entire world. They were unique, hence the name Uni.
   “I’m telling you, Sky,” Franz would say. “You are a Uni! An Outie-Uni!”
   “Please. I am not.”
   “Have you ever seen anyone else with tongues for fingers?”
   “No, but—”
   “I rest my case! I’m going to put in your resume that you’re a Uni!”
   “You can’t do that! It’s not true! You’ll get us both in trouble!”
   For months we had the argument over and over, until I’d gone about 11 weeks without getting a single job. I became convinced that my previous successes, however minor they had been, had only been due to luck. I obviously had no talent at all.
   Then I waited until the next time Franz brought up the Uni business and I agreed to let him put it in my resume. I figured, at that point, it sure as hell couldn’t hurt.
28
   The very next week I landed a supporting part in an episode of a popular TV drama, playing the best friend of the suspected villain. In the end, the villain turned out to be me.
   The ironic thing was that I hated television. Always have, always will. I think it is nothing but swill for the brainless but it certainly paid well. No doubt about that. I suspected I would be swallowing my pride quite a bit, ignoring my own opinions and values, showing up for the job and collecting that fat juicy paycheck.
   But, my personal feelings about television and television studios aside, there was still one more negative thing about working in TV. Despite all the positive things your co-workers could say about your performance, it was still months before anyone else saw the work, thereby making it the same as if you’d never done it when it came to meeting new casting directors.
   But I muddled through, forgetting about the show and continuing on to the next project, always keeping in mind that I was lucky to
have
a next project because there could easily come a day when I woke up and all the projects would be gone.
I
would be gone, before I’d even arrived.
   It was during this time that I was finally able to attend a few acting classes and it was there that I met Rimona Rishona, the famous porn star. She had decided that she had made enough porn movies (13) and now she wanted to have a “serious career.” She’d been laughed out of almost every audition, most of the casting directors telling her she needed to learn how to act
without
using her 3 vaginas. So, there she was, in an acting class with me and a bunch of other unknowns, learning monologues and method.
   One night, during a break she began asking me what I thought of her hot tub scene in
To Have and Have Hot.
   “I didn’t see it,” I told her. “Sorry.”
   “Really?” She was quite surprised. “Well what about,
Honey, I Screwed the Kids
?”
   “I haven’t seen any of your movies, Rimona. I’m not into porn.”
    “You’ve got to be kidding me! Even with those?” She looked down at my hands.
    “Even with these. Just not my thing, I guess.”
   “Oh, honey, you’d make a fortune with those! Well, you know, not as much as
me,
but a lot!” She giggled and added, “There aren’t many people with 3 vaginas though!”
   Instead of replying, I took a bite out of my apple.
   She leaned forward in her chair and whispered conspiratorially, “You don’t have three vaginas, do you?”
   “No,” I said, still chewing. “I have a clock.”
   “Oh.” She sounded almost disappointed. “How big is it?”
   I shrugged. “Not very. Maybe the size of a kiwi.”
   Rimona squealed, making me jump and drop my apple. “Shit, Rimona! What the fuck?”
   “That’s pretty big!”
   “It is?”
    “Yeah, most of them are the size of cherries or so. At least the ones I’ve seen anyway.”
   “Hmm.” I drank down the rest of my coffee and went to throw the paper cup away.
   “You really should meet my manager. He’s a hoot. I know he’d be dying to see a clock that big. Probably get you lots of work.”
   “Thanks, but no thanks. Like I said, I’m not into porn.” I started walking away but she said my name. I stopped and looked at her. She smiled what I’m sure was her best porn movie smile. “I wouldn’t mind seeing one that big myself.”
    I nodded, thinking she was crazy. “I’ll keep that in mind,” I said and then got the hell away from her.
   After that, Rimona was always flirting with me, making it hard to concentrate and remember my lines. When we were asked to pick a partner to do a scene with, she always picked me and then kept whispering to me about my clock, often getting us scolded by the instructor.
   She even began telling other people that she was interested in me, going so far as to tell another girl about my clock and then
she
too spent a good part of the night flirting with me.
   “Tit clock, tit clock,” Rimona would chant at me. “Time is precious you know, Sky.”
   “Tongues and tits and clocks, oh my!” The second girl joined in. “We should have a threesome!”
“No,” Rimona disagreed. “I want Sky all to myself. At least the first time!”
   Then they both burst into fits of cackling laughter and I had to get out of there.
29
   I didn’t go back to that particular acting class again after that, but not entirely because of Rimona and her unwanted sexual advances. Mostly, I didn’t go back because I had to take on another night at the laundrymat. Work had dried up again and I was becoming more and more frightened that I’d made a terrible mistake by staying in LA.
   But as it always happens in my life, just when I’m at my most desperate and about to give up, something comes through for me.
   This time it came in the shape of a television pilot for a sitcom. It was called “Chrome Cowboy,” about a Split-Mue-his lower half was a unicycle-touring the country as a rodeo clown. I was hired on to play Ponderosa Lollipop, a cowgirl clown with a knack for boxing bulls. Though I was still only 16, I was smart enough to have my doubts about “Chrome Cowboy.” Franz, however, considered it a paycheck, another good thing to put on my resume and of course, he was correct.
   We taped 9 episodes of Cowboy and in the meantime the episode I did of the popular drama finally hit the airwaves. Suddenly, I was slightly famous. People recognized me on the bus and at the laundrymat and they always asked the same question: “What are you doing here? You’re a famous actor!”
   Their illusions were further encouraged when “Chrome Cowboy” was finally released. It played on Fox for a total of three weeks before they yanked it. Part of me was relieved. I was fairly certain that I didn’t want to get stuck playing the same character for months, maybe years, on end.
   But the tide was turning in my direction now and once it turns, like it or not, there is no stopping it.
30
   The next job I got was a TV movie, playing a character with ESP, but only through touch. It was supposed to be a scary thriller but I’m not so sure it succeeded in that regard. It did, however, keep me working for over two weeks, meaning I had to quit my regular job and focus solely on acting.
   These kinds of little roles and odd jobs lasted for over six years. I was a professional actor, actually making my living at doing what I loved and what I’d set out to do, but I wasn’t making a lot and I still had far to go in order to consider myself a true success.
   It was during these years, when I had a recurring role on “Gimp Country,” the popular nighttime soap, that Franz called me up one day sounding a bit distressed.
   “I got a call just now,” he said. “Someone named Zion said he was your brother and wants to get in touch with you. Do you know anyone by that name?”
   I released the breath I’d been holding and said, “Nope, I sure don’t.”
   “Yeah, that’s what I thought. I told him you don’t even have a brother.”
   “That’s right. Must have been one of those crazy nut jobs.”
   “I guess so. You’re getting to that place where they’re starting to notice you, I suppose. Time to start being careful.”
   “Right.” I faked a yawn. “Well, thanks for telling me, Franz. I’m exhausted though. I’ll call you in the morning?”
   “You do that, babe. Sleep tight.”
   “I will. Goodnight.”
   “Night.”
   Though I really had been sleepy before his call, by the time I was hanging up, I was wide awake.
31
   At the age of 22, after 7 years of struggling, I finally had my “big break.”
   It came in the unlikely form a cable TV show called “Exquisite Afterlife.” Finally, I had a script in my hands that I genuinely loved. It was funny, but in a smart way, serious, but not sappy, tooth-decaying syrup.
   The premise was this: a band of Mues, one of each kind, are killed in a plane crash and returned to Earth in the form of angels to try to save the other victims of the crash and figure out the evil government conspiracy behind it.
   It didn’t make too much sense if you thought about it too hard, but it was still entertaining with enough twists and turns to keep you guessing.
   Plus, I was working with two very well known, very respected actors: Dove Sabotka, one of the worlds most famous Unie Mues, was hired to play the head angel Woodrow. As you already know, Dove could morph his limbs into any shape or color he desired, which was perfect for his character. Gorgeous purple Skin Lavinia Camano would be playing his second in command, Jardena. That alone was enough to make me ecstatic, but our entire ensemble cast was phenomenal. There was myself, playing the wisecracking, gum-chewing Outie angel Star, David Fredrickson would be the not-so-bright Split angel, Sacheverell and for the chilly but beautiful four-armed angel, they cast the Norm, Lucia Housner.
   David, Lucia and I were all relative unknowns but the producers told us we had “youth appeal.” We didn’t give a shit what they said; we were just stoked.
   And so began the long lustrous chapter of my story called “Exquisite Afterlife.”
   It was easily the best chapter yet.
32
   I was not prepared for the amount of work that went into producing a fifty-minute once a week cable show.
   My mornings now began at 4:00 am, with a 6:00 am makeup call. I was picked up every day in a white Lincoln Towncar by a driver named Lotus. Lotus was fairly amusing. She had no idea who I was or what was going on. She saw the place where I lived and clucked her teeth in sympathy. I agreed with her that it was a dump and hoped that the show would do well and I could finally move to a real place and not be afraid that I’d have to move right back to the slums again.
   Every day, I was happy to get up and go to work, but I was also happy when, at midnight or later, Lotus dropped me off and we said our goodnights. It took a long time to adjust to the exhaustion and even longer to adjust to the fame that was suddenly mine. Of the three of us newbies, I think I had the hardest time coming to terms with it, but David wasn’t the greatest at it either. Lucia seemed fairly comfortable with the insanity, maybe because she’d always expected it.
   The cast and crew of Afterlife became my new family, the only one I’d known since my carnival days. We instantly bonded with each other and I took a particular liking to Lavinia, who played a tough bad-ass angel on the show but in reality was the sweetest Uni I’d ever met in my life. Whenever I watched her work, her delicate purple skin so perfect for the camera, those high cheekbones, I knew I was watching a legend. Of course, she was too young to be a legend back then, but she still had a lot of time and projects under her belt and there was just something about her that made you know she’d be remembered forever. Part of me, I know now, was a little bit in love with Lavinia, but so was the entire world. She was magic.
   There was sometime early on the show, maybe our fifth or sixth episode, when one of our guest actors suddenly died shortly after completing his part. He was a very young man, about the same age as me and we’d had most of our scenes together, along with Lavinia.
   When I heard the news, I couldn’t stop crying. It was impossible for me to work. I kept trying to say my lines in a scene with Lavinia but I kept bursting into tears. Finally, the director called for a break and I went to Lavinia and said, “How are you staying in character so well? Aren’t you sad?”
   She gave me a compassionate look and stated, “What I am is irrelevant. Jardena isn’t sad.”
   Then she walked away, off to her trailer where I suspect she may have done a bit of her own crying, but that was Lavinia crying, not the bad-ass Jardena. On set, she was her character and no one else existed.
33
   “Exquisite Afterlife” was nominated for Best New Cable Drama our first year out. Dove was nominated as Best Actor and we also received a few nominations for things like set design and screenplays and costumes.
   Everyone was thrilled that people had noticed and liked us, but I was somewhat apprehensive. “Doesn’t this mean we’ll have to go?” I asked David while we sat in our chairs waiting for the light guys to finish lighting the set.
   He looked up from his script. “Go?”
   “Yeah. To the Emmys.”
   He smiled. “I would imagine so, love.” He replied, his limey accent just as appealing off-screen as it was on.
   I groaned. “