Spur of the Moment (16 page)

“Yeah.”

“Great. Like I don't have enough to be stressed out about tonight without having to go on a first date I don't want to go on.”

“You kissed him.”

“I did not.”

“You did. You were making out like horny teenagers.”

“I'm never, never drinking again.”

“Yeah, sure you're not.”

“No, I mean it.”

Marin nodded. “Whatever you say, babe.”

28

Showtime

A
na ran off the stage, high from the sound of the audience's laughter. They had loved the scene she'd written about the cheerleaders. The various cheers they made up had the audience in tears; the sight of muscular, broad Ramiro in a short pleated skirt was always a crowd-pleaser; and the stunt that had gone “awry,” leaving Ana tangled upside down in a jumbled knot of her fellow cheerleaders' limbs, revealing her Wonder Woman underwear, made the audience howl. But the hit of the scene was the fight song they sang while doing high kicks. The song made various demands, from the reasonable to the not-so reasonable, from asking for things like more women's bathrooms and paid childcare, to mandating forced incarceration of men who liked Howard Stern, and government-funded robots that cooked and cleaned for every home. The chorus of the song was “And an orgasm every time!” “Every time! Every time!” Marin would echo.

Ana loved the sound of it, the sound of people laughing. She couldn't keep the smile off her face. She felt awesome. The endorphins in her body were doing high kicks and “hip, hip hoorahs!”

Ana ran back on stage for her next part. For once, Ana stopped worrying and just felt happy. For weeks, she'd been terrified that the sound-and-lights-guy Tom wouldn't show, or nobody would come, or the lights wouldn't work, or the power would go out. But everything was going exactly as planned.

After the show, the actors gathered in the hallway where the audience exited, ostensibly to wish everyone a good night and thank them for coming, but really to keep getting the compliments. Performers are a very sensitive people, after all.

“You were great!”

“Thank you. Thank you so much for coming. Have a good night.”

“You were wonderful!”

“Oh, thank you. Thank you so much for coming.”

Then a woman approached Marin.

“Hi. My name is Kristen Vigil. Could I talk to you for a second?”

“Sure.”

Ana, curious, watched Marin and the woman walk to the corner of the room.

“You guys were hilarious. Your cheerleader thing was great,” a female audience member said to Ana as she left the theater.

“Thank you. Thank you so much. Thanks for coming,” Ana said.

Ana watched the mysterious Kristen Vigil give Marin a business card.

“You guys are so talented. You could really be on TV,” a woman said to Ana. Ana pulled her eyes away from Marin and looked at the lady.

“Oh, thank you. That's really nice to hear. Thanks so much for coming out and supporting live comedy.”

That's when she saw him. Kieran was standing there, waiting for her. Shit, she'd forgotten all about him.

“You guys were great. Mind if I stick around after the show?” he said.

“Oh, yeah, of course. That was the plan. Right?” It wasn't a confirmative, “right?” It was a curious, ‘is-that-in-fact-what-we-talked-about-last-night? ' kind of a “right?”

“Yeah.”

Within another minute or two, the rest of the audience had cleared out, including Kristen Vigil, and Kieran was left on the sidelines as the six friends came together and gave each other a monster group hug.

“That was so awesome! We killed!”

They kept jumping up and down until they collapsed into a heap. After giggles and tickles and a few more hugs, Scott sprang up and pronounced, “Beer for everyone!”

“So,” Ana asked Marin casually, “who was that woman you were talking to?” Maybe the woman wanted Marin to play Cinderella at her daughter's birthday party or something, Ana thought.

“She works for Janet March Talent.”

It was one of the agencies that Ana had sent a press packet to.

“She says she has a friend in Hollywood, a producer for the WB who is launching a show about college students who live in New York who aspire to get on
Saturday Night Live,
well, it's not called
Saturday Night Live,
it's called
The Funny Farm,
but it's an obvious cover for
SNL
. So they do improv, stand-up, sketch, all that kind of stuff. She thinks I have the right look for one of the characters. She saw my picture in the press packet you sent and liked my look, and she liked my energy on stage tonight, those were her words, not mine, so she wants me to fly out to L.A. to read for the part.”

Ana couldn't breathe. She felt like she had when she'd fallen out of a tree as a little girl, like she'd just hit the ground at a hundred miles an hour. She wanted to join in the congratulations and agree with everyone else that this was in fact awesome and cool, but she couldn't speak.

“There's all this stuff I have to do first. I have to go to her office tomorrow and sign with her so she can represent me, but she said there is no fee, so it's not like I have anything to lose. She wanted to fax over my headshots to him, the producer guy I mean, tonight, and I was like, yeah sorry, I don't have those. She was flabbergasted, but she said she'd call him and tell him she has found his Garrett anyway. That's the character's name. The pilot is a mid-season replacement, and they've already cast everyone else over the last couple months, but the producers and directors can't agree on someone to play Garrett. So basically I'll fly out and see if they like my look. They want to start taping right away. They'll shoot twelve episodes in about two months in Los Angeles and it'll replace some show on the WB I've never heard of in January.”

“I thought you said it was in New York,” Chelsey said.

“It's set there, but they actually film it in L.A.”

“Marin, congratulations, I'm so happy for you,” Ana finally managed. She called upon every shred of talent she'd developed as an actress over the last six years to sound convincing.

“It's not like I got the part yet. I'm just going to read for it. The character is supposed to be cute and spunky and funny, obviously.”

“Still, it's so exciting!” Chelsey said.

“She wants me to fly out tomorrow. The ticket's going to cost like $1,500.”

“Won't they pay for it?” Chelsey asked.

“No. Not unless I get the part. Are you kidding? I'm sure there are four million cute, spunky girls in L.A.; it's not like they need to ship girls in from across the country.”

“Apparently they do. You're totally gonna get it, girl!” Ramiro said.

“This calls for a drink!” Scott said. He ran behind the Spur of the Moment bar and began searching out the appropriate cocktail for such an occasion. “Well, I don't see any champagne. What do you think about Gray Goose?”

As the others talked and laughed, Ana did her best to act like she was happy and interested in what was going on. Luckily, Kieran just sat there and drank and was happy to be entertained by the other five Spur of the Momenters and didn't seem to mind that Ana ignored him completely. Despite Ana's vowing never to drink again, she did three shots of vodka in succession, then sat there in the middle of the boisterous room, not hearing or seeing anything. She tried not to think about how she was the one who had done all the publicity to get a full house and get the talent agent to come, yet it was Marin who had been asked to fly out to L.A. to potentially star in a TV series. Ana was reeling. It felt like there was a black hole in her chest, sucking out all the air in her lungs.

After a couple hours, she couldn't take it anymore, and she staggered to the bathroom, closed the stall door, collapsed to the floor, and wept.

29

Destination Hollywood

T
hank god for credit cards. Marin had several, a couple of which hadn't been completely maxed out—just enough to cover her airfare and hotel expenses for the next few days.

As Marin waited for her flight, she flipped through the latest issue of
People.
It was the only thing light enough for her to handle with the constant barrage of announcements about how unattended baggage would be confiscated or it was time to board, or for Mr. So and So, Mr. John So and So to please come to the customer service desk.

“Where are you headed?”

She looked up. A good-looking guy in his twenties had sat down next to her. He looked at her expectantly.

“L.A.”

“Oh, I thought we might be on the same flight together. But I'm headed to Arizona. Spring training in the winter.”

“Spring training? For, like, the military?”

“No, no,” he laughed. “Soccer. I'm going to play for the Arizona Sahuaros. They're a professional soccer team.”

“Oh cool.” Marin thought a moment. “Never heard of them.”

“Soccer isn't as big in the States as in other countries, but we're getting there. What are you off to L.A. for? Going to be a movie star?”

“I hope to get there someday, but now I'm just going out there to audition for a TV series. Well, a pilot anyway.”

“You're kidding, right?”

“No. Why would I kid? I don't even know your name.”

“A TV series, wow. Aren't you nervous?”

“No. If it's meant to be, it's meant to be.”

The PA system boomed overhead that her flight was boarding.

“Well it was nice to talk to but not meet you,” Marin said, shaking his hand.

“You too. Ahh, I'm Blake Hennsley.”

“I'm Marin Kennesaw.”

“I'll be able to say I knew you when.”

“Don't worry, I won't forget the little people.”

“I bet they all say that.”

“Yeah. Of course we do.”

 

 

A
nd truly, Marin wasn't nervous. She arrived in L.A., took a taxi to Burbank, and checked into the Graciela Burbank, the hotel where her agent had told her she should stay. It was an upscale place and even though Marin got the cheapest room they had, the cost was exorbitant. She dropped off her baggage, freshened up, and took another taxi to the studio.

Then
she started to get nervous. Driving through the windy parking lot, seeing all the sets and soundstages, she realized suddenly she was
this close
to making her dreams come true. Ever since she'd been a little kid, she'd wanted to be an actress in the movies, on TV, on stage—she wanted it all. She had imagined winning an Emmy, a Golden Globe, and, of course, an Academy Award. She'd practiced her Academy Award acceptance speech about four million times. She'd timed it at about seven minutes, even though she knew the winners were only supposed to have forty-five seconds. It was a fantasy. In her fantasy, she could tell lengthy, poignant stories about all the people who'd helped her along the way, which would make the fact that she left her parents off that list that much more pointed. Every now and then she'd imagine that as she started her climb to success, her parents would finally be there for her, and she'd include them in her acceptance speech, but even thinking that she'd have to get famous to get their attention pissed her off all that much more.

A receptionist—an eighteen-year-old knockout—gave Marin the script she would be reading from. Marin waited in the lobby for about half an hour, reading the script and getting a feel for how she should play Garrett. Then the receptionist brought Marin to a tiny room that was packed with about twenty-five people.

“Hi, I'm Don Gordon, the director of
Roommates.”
A man thrust his hand forward for her to shake. He introduced the two producers, and the rest of the people went without being introduced.

“Hi, I'm Marin Kennesaw.”

“Great. Can I get a copy of your headshots?” Don said.

“Um, I don't actually have any.” A collective gasp splintered through the room. Marin thought quickly and pulled off the last sheet of her script, which didn't contain any lines for her. She drew a round face, gave it eyeballs, a smile, and a few doodles of hair and wrote her name beneath it. She handed it to Don, who laughed.

“Well, it's actually better than a lot of headshots I've seen.”

Some guy with zero personality read all the other parts as Marin did hers. The director kept running behind the camera, apparently to see how she looked on camera.

“All right. I'd like you to read with the other characters tomorrow, eight
A.M.
,” Don said.

“Okay, well, thanks a lot for your time.”

Marin was confused. That he asked her back seemed a good sign, but he seemed totally unexcited about her performance, and hadn't told her if he liked her or if she sucked or what.

Marin went to her hotel and made some calls asking around about getting headshots. The average cost was four hundred bucks. She might not need them right away, but it looked like she'd need them someday to be in this business; it was best to be prepared. Her birthday was coming up; maybe she could talk her dad into forking over some money so she could get the pictures taken.

She called Ana and dutifully reported all the day's events.

“The entire room nearly exploded with shock when I told them I didn't have headshots. So I drew a stick figure kind of face on the back page on the script and gave it to the director. He laughed, so I guess that's a good sign. But the point is, we have to get headshots.”

“How much are they?”

“About four hundred bucks.”

“Ouch.”

“Uh-huh.”

“So when do you think you'll find out?”

“They want to start taping right away, so soon. I guess.”

“Break a leg, babe.”

“I'll do my best.”