Sugar Valley (Hollywood's Darkest Secret) (17 page)

Vivian saw his face looking down at her
composite, rambling around in her brain a prayer that Tom would
just accept her into his agency already, and give her a break.
“This isn’t his photo ... it’s your photo.” Mr. Fryer’s words came
out so softly, it was like Vivian knew he would smile, laugh, and
say “hey, you do have a good look.” But, she was wrong. “What the
hell are you doing, are you trying to confuse me?” Mr. Fryer asked
with anger, putting Vivian’s photo with the rest on the pile.

Damn, you pissed him off, Vivian.

“No sir, it’s just I forgot to give you my
photo. My name is at the top of the list. I figured you would say
and look at it first, but you didn’t,” she answered. Grabbing her
photo from the pile, while her smile turned to a frown, Vivian just
stared at her own image, and wished she could smile right now, like
she was in the photo.

He grabbed her photo, whipped it out of her
grasp, and demanded, “What are you doing now? Leave that photo
here...”

“No, sir, I know what you’re going to do with
it. I’ve been working for you a very long time. I know when you put
the photos on the left side of your desk, that means that you’re
not interested,” she replied as she snatched her photo away from
him, causing all papers to fly off his desk from the wind she
created.

“No it doesn’t, at least not anymore. I’m
just tired, is all. Don’t worry, I won’t forget about you. I’m one
of the top agents in Hollywood, L.A., California altogether, I
don’t lie,” he said, reaching out for the photo.

Just give him it, Vivian, please.

“Okay ... fine, here’s my photo.” Vivian
handed it over to him. It was like she was surrendering to the
devil himself: the devil that was camouflaged as an angel, an angel
that was in control of her destiny, as she thought.

“Now, where is Mr. O’Conner’s photo?” he
asked. Tom placed Vivian’s composite on the middle of his desk, so
it wasn’t on the left side, for her to get upset, nor on the right
side, so she could have happiness and hope. Tom was like that—this
was a game to him, he didn’t want any of his clients, or workers to
know what he was thinking, or what he was going to do when it came
to a judgment of importance like this one. Some call it “being
professional,” but the majority call it, “being an asshole” which
is what Tom Fryer was a perfectionist at being.

Vivian caught on to Tom’s assholish
character, and knew why he put her photo in the middle of his desk.
Being full of so much nervousness, tension, and a bit of anger, she
replied with a very strong and heavily laid-on attitude, “Remember
... he said he didn’t have a photo.”

“Oh, that’s right, he’s the one I met on the
airplane. I’m losing my mind,” Mr. Fryer said. He picked up
Vivian’s sarcasm, mixed with attitude, but ignored it altogether.
That was another game he loved to play; even though Vivian laid it
on pretty thick, Tom still acted as if he didn’t realize it, this
way Vivian would never know if he caught on to her, or not. They
both stared at each other, wondering what the other was thinking,
when suddenly a knock on the open office door, broke this staring
game. It was George Hardy.

“Oh come in, um, um,” Mr. Fryer said, trying
to look for his name.

George, with his long black hair, and
medium-size lips, reached out his hand toward Mr. Fryer and said,
“George Hardy.” Vivian then walked past him and closed the door,
knowing that she was against George in the race to get Mr. Fryer on
her resume, to have him represent her as an agent; she didn’t want
Mr. Hardy to see the fear in her tired, tense, and aggravated
eyes.

“That’s right, George Hardy. Please, sit
down, make yourself comfortable.” Mr. Fryer showed a small grin on
his face when he gestured his hand toward a chair, opposite of his
desk; he was always good at making people feel comfortable. He was
especially good at his job, knowing what he wanted, what he had to
do to get it, and how to handle it once he received the signature
on a small-worded contract.

Tom discussed everything about George’s
acting career. He found out how, why, and where George decided to
become an actor, and how far he came ever since that decision.
That’s one thing about agents of Tom’s nature, they want a client
who has a name, meaning a client who has already been in film or in
modeling photos, and who knows the business up and down. George was
just that person.

When Tom Fryer looked at a potential client,
he stared at them like a product, not as a human being. That’s the
way this business is, when George Hardy stepped his first foot in
Mr. Fryer’s office, he was the product, and Tom, being an agent,
was the person who tried to sell that product to Hollywood. The
only thing was, George, just like any actor, needed that salesman
to sell him, so Mr. Fryer was like God at this moment; and he knew
it.

Mr. Hardy, who was twenty-three now, but
began acting in film at the age of eighteen, had already done many
things to show Mr. Fryer that he was eligible for his plan and
agency. George already acted in three independent films, principal
roles of course, but enough recognition to know that the audience
would recognize him if he ever landed a feature role and became the
star.

So far, Tom Fryer was pleased at this young,
handsome actor, who was born and raised in Los Angeles. All he had
to see now was how much Mr. Hardy knew the acting craft; the craft
that every actor dreams of getting perfect. He made George read a
part of a script and also made him do a cold reading from a script
that he made up; this was Tom’s way of seeing how George could
handle pressure, and how flexible he was when it came to acting out
different characters, but from the same dialogue.

Mr. Fryer revealed a grin, the same grin he
showed Vivian when she gave him a strict attitude; only Tom knew
what his own mind was thinking.

Mr. Fryer shook his hand goodbye and told him
to come in here next week at 10:00 a.m. sharp; he said goodbye
awfully fast, and that made Mr. Hardy have a glum face as he walked
toward Tom’s office door. He didn’t make him sign a contract, so
George thought he wasn’t interested. But, the thing is, George
Hardy had no idea of the abrupt plan that Tom came up with, so all
he had to do now, was what every actor has to do on a daily basis:
wait. George walked out of his office as Justin walked in. He made
Justin do the same readings and he gave Justin the same speech.

“Don’t forget, Justin, come in here next week
at 10:00 a.m. sharp,” said Mr. Fryer. During those words, Vivian
announced on the speaker phone that the two actors were here, the
ones that were scheduled at the same time. Now the day was
beginning to rush a bit, bringing Tom Fryer up to normal speed,
being that he’s so used to this fast business, in his mind he felt
right at home.

As Justin walked toward Tom’s door, he felt
the same confusion that George felt. Just ask him, Justin repeated
in his mind, tapping at his membranes, and forcing the thoughts
closer to his vocal cords.

“Wait a second, sir, are you a casting
agent?” Justin asked in confusion. He began to rub the sweat off of
his chunky cheeks, and rubbed, under his pointy nose, the sweat
that had been building, forming, perspiring on his face ever since
he walked into Tom’s office.

“No, why would you say that?” questioned Mr.
Fryer as Vivian announced the two names again. Vivian started to
lay on the attitude once more; knowing Tom was making her wait
caused her finger to literally punch the button on the speaker
phone.

“Well, because you made me do a cold reading
and a reading from a script. If I’m correct, that’s what you do at
an audition for a casting director.” A ceiling fan, that wasn’t on
before, suddenly turned on; the switch was outside Mr. Fryer’s
office. The ceiling fan turning on meant that Vivian had clients,
or potential clients waiting outside, and that she knew Mr. Fryer
would see it, feel its breeze, and be reminded of Vivian’s
warning.

Justin’s young face stared at Tom’s few dead,
gray strands of hair, surrounded by all of his fake brown hair, and
how those strands were the only ones blowing about from the generic
breeze that the twisting steel blades made. “I’ll explain it all to
you next week,” Mr. Fryer said. He escorted Justin out of his
office, placed his hand on the switch, right next to his door, on
the outside, and turned off the steel fan; the vibration ended from
the fan’s shaking body when Justin exited the waiting room.

“Hello, um, John and Peter. Please, sit
down,” Mr. Fryer kindly spoke, seeing Justin’s body walking down
the hallway, through the glass door of the waiting room; the door
read ‘Fryer’s Talent’ in white, cloudy letters.

The two young men entered into his office,
with the same type of feeling that Justin had sunken into his eyes:
nervousness.

Tom went through the readings with them too.
One after another, reading each word of the script, explaining
their reasons why they chose the craft of acting, and what projects
they’ve done so far. During this quiz, this test of determination,
Mr. Fryer mainly concentrated, fixed his eyes deeply on Peter’s
image, and only listened to Peter’s voice. You could say that he
thought Peter had what it takes to act in film; the looks and the
talent.

He could be cast as a Leading Man...

Mr. Fryer kept on trying to quiz his own
mind, continuing on, trying to analyze Peter’s face, look, the way
he appeared to him; the questions just swam about in Tom’s tired
head. Maybe he could be cast as a young high school kid? Yeah, that
would be perfect. Wait a second, is that acne on his face. Damn, he
has some makeup on, to cover it up. Well, that’s okay. Maybe he
could be cast as a young high school kid with acne.

Vivian came over the speaker phone, during
Tom’s thoughts on Peter’s face and the way Peter’s voice sounded,
telling Mr. Fryer about a phone call she received, but he ignored
her voice and still stared at Peter.

Damnit, if she calls me again, I’ll wring her
neck...

The fan went on, over and over again, but Tom
ignored it, and that caused Vivian to worry, to create fear in her
soul. She knew, realized that Tom was interested in one of them;
his not answering her call, or her warning of the fan going on,
allowed her a warning of Tom’s interest. A dial tone came over the
phone that Vivian was holding, it turns out that no one called, she
was just faking it, made it up, only to create a diversion to get
Mr. Fryer out of the office. Vivian knew, felt in her mind that
Peter was a very attractive young man, and he was going to be
competition for her; she tried to cheat at the game but lost in the
pursuit.

They finished by 2:00 p.m.; Tom told them all
to come back next week at the same time he told the other actors.
They walked out of the room as Mr. Fryer told Vivian to stop Peter
from leaving. “Vivian, send Peter back in my office,
immediately.”

“Yes, sir,” Vivian replied in a low and sad
tone; she knew Mr. Fryer was definitely interested in him, not
her.

She turned toward Peter’s back, and how it
was ready to leave the waiting room for good, and actually thought
about not calling him back in at all. She stared, concentrated her
pupils on him, shaking her head in an upset motion, and then
finally gave into morality by saying, “Excuse me, but Mr. Fryer
wants to see you right now.” After her words of hope toward Peter,
and lost toward her, the other actors, who were waiting in the
room, either for a ride home, or to see Tom Fryer, looked saddened
by the news. “He just wants you to give your social security number
again,” she added; her lie made the other actors faces lighten
up.

“Yes, sir ... you wanted to see me?” Peter
Welch asked. Entering the office again was something that many
actors had never done before, and this was an awesome sight for
young Peter Welch. He watched as Mr. Fryer lit another cigar, sat
down at a chair made out of pure, brown leather, and waited for Tom
to exhale the sweet smoke, and say the words that Peter has waited
to hear a very long time; the words that every actor dreams about
breathing in from an agent.

Tom Fryer opened a black wooden case, and
held it near Peter’s face. Offering Mr. Welch a cigar, Tom blew out
a cloud of smoke and said, “Yes, I want to discuss some things with
you, mainly your future with Fryer’s Talent... ”

Chapter Twelve

Sun pounding down on Damen’s sleeping,
imperceptible eyes gave him a feeling of warmth; he felt like he
was sleeping back in the Valley. The way the roaches, with their
big and small bodies, would crawl on the floor in the motel room
and make little sounds, Damen felt like he was lying on Sugar’s
grass, with the sweet, tiny ants making tapping noises as they
would come out of their dirt-filled cities in the ground. But, as
soon as Damen opened his eyes a bit, reality set in, seeing the
roaches crawl, and the terrible hot sun pounding through a cracked
window with dust dancing in its path; this sight caused his eyes to
close again, to be obscured toward reality. But then, Damen woke
up, on this second day in Hollywood, to the sound of pounding
against the motel room door. Roaches of all sizes scattered about,
ran through the cheap, ripped carpet that lay upon their home, and
disappeared, vanished, dispersed their yucky figures before Damen
could see where they slept. He looked at the time, at a small clock
that sat on a night stand, with spray paint from the old tenants
still on its body, and saw through a glass that the clock read 2:00
p.m. He shot up out of bed like a firecracker being blown off on
the Fourth of July, realizing this was an important day for all of
them. In his race to get up, there was a lingering roach, left
behind from the herd, and Damen’s foot, naked as could be, stepped
on this disgusting creature; its poison-filled blood pressed
against his foot, causing him to say, “Shit, we have roaches?”