The Five Acts of Diego Leon (16 page)

“Where’s your luggage, handsome?” asked Rose.

“Don’t have any,” Diego said.

“Take him to his room,” said Ruby to her sister.

“Gladly.” Rose grabbed him by the arm. “We’re going to take these stairs,” she said, her voice low and gentle. He followed her, the faint sound of her tapping leading the way.

A man in a dark jacket passed them as they climbed up. “Morning,” he said, tipping his hat. “I’ll have that money for you by the end of next week,” he said to Rose.

“Fine by me,” she answered. “But you gotta tell Ruby. She’s in a foul mood today.”

“Today?” He laughed. “Every day.”

By the time they reached the top step, Rose’s breathing was heavy and ragged. She was panting excessively, her yellow face now flushed.

“Are you okay?” Diego asked, gripping her wrist.

“I get my exercise this way,” she said. “Just give me a moment, honey.” After a few minutes, Ruby took a deep breath, stood, and squeezed Diego’s arm. “Here we go, handsome.”

She let go now, and he followed closely behind. They continued down a well-lit carpeted hallway whose walls were stained and dirty. At the very end, resting on top of a table was a telephone.

“That’s our telephone,” said Ruby. “Yes, sir. A brand-new desk set
telephone
. There’s one on all our floors.”

The doors to each unit were the same size, extending all the way from one end of the hall to the other so it looked like they were standing inside the mouth of some giant beast, rowed end to end with large brown teeth. Rose stopped at one door numbered 202.

There was a closet and a wooden armoire with drawers and a shelf inside. It was a drab room, drafty and uninviting. It was like living inside a sealed coffin, Diego thought. He shivered. The bed’s mattress bounced, the metal coils groaning, when he reached down to press on it. The bathroom sink dripped a steady drop into the rusted drain, and the tiles were dirty, the grout cracked and flaking off. Diego lit a cigarette and sat in a lumpy upholstered chair pushed up against the wall.

“The Ruby Rose is a respectable establishment,” Rose said. She placed the room key on the shelf inside the armoire. “No monkey business. You hear?”

“Yes,” he said.

“Unless you and me are involved,” Rose said, winking. She then turned and left, swaying her bony hips from side to side. She glanced back over her shoulder and batted her eyelashes. She blew a kiss at him then closed the door.

He put his cigarette out and sat there, his limbs heavy, his eyes unable to stay open. Diego considered the wallpaper, its scrolled pattern faded and flaking off, the mismatched furniture, the coarse coverlet and pillows. He took a deep breath, rose, and went into the bathroom. The handle was hard to turn, but the tub filled quickly with hot water once he managed to get it. He undid his tie and unbuttoned his shirt and sat on the bed watching steam float out and into the room.

He couldn’t sleep and the next day, bright and early, Diego ventured out and ended up on Hollywood Boulevard. There was a great
clamor as people walked along the sidewalks and the shops opened up their gates. Out of sheer obligation, he sent his grandparents a wire, letting them know that he was fine, that he was in Los Angeles. He gave them the address of the Ruby Rose and told them not to worry, to tell Paloma that he just needed some time away, that he would return and they would be married. Just in case, he told himself. In case things here don’t work out.

He smelled coffee and bacon and followed the scent to a diner called Joe’s. A sign that read,
Orientals and Mexicans Must Use Back Entrance
was posted near the front door. In all his talk about it being like paradise here, Reynolds never mentioned that Americans were just as hateful of Mexicans as his grandparents were of peasants. He took a deep breath and entered. A waitress in a white outfit and handkerchief folded neatly in her pocket seated him at the counter and took his order.

“Coffee,” he told her.

“Just coffee?”

“Yes.”

“You got it, doll.”

A man about his age sat at the stool next to Diego, reading a newspaper and sipping coffee. When Diego reached into his pocket and lit a cigarette, the guy looked up.

“Got an extra?” His voice was high-pitched and sounded more like a squeal.

“Yes,” he said. Diego gave him one, and the man lit it and tapped the edge against the rim of an ashtray.

When the man reached out to take it, he said, “Say. I know you.”

“Oh?” Diego was surprised. “I’m sure you’re confused. See, I just—”

“The Ruby Rose,” he said. “Yesterday afternoon. On the stairs.”

He remembered now. “Yes. Of course.”

“Charlie,” he said, extending his hand. “Charlie Applebaum.”

“Diego.” He took it and shook.

“Diego?” Charlie tapped his finger on the counter. “That Italian?”

“No.”

“Spanish?” Charlie asked.

“Well, I’m French. My father was born—”

“I knew it,” Charlie interjected. “You look Latin. That’s all the rage at the studios.” He laughed. “Too bad for me; my parents are Jews.”

“Any luck today, Charlie?” the waitress asked, setting Diego’s coffee in front of him.

Charlie puffed on his cigarette and shook his head. “No way. I tell ya, Jean, maybe I should just call it quits and move back home. Seems every day there are trains full of people like me pouring into Los Angeles looking to be picture stars.”

“Don’t give up,” Jean said. “Ain’t that right, doll?” She looked at Diego.

“Yes,” he said. “You should absolutely not give up your dream.”

“Thanks,” Charlie said. He gathered his coat and hat and left. He forgot his paper, so Diego grabbed it, and walked out after him.

“Charlie,” he said, tapping his shoulder.

“Yeah?” He turned around. He was short and his blond hair, the color of dry weeds, was thinning some. Charlie’s eyes were wide, unblinking, and his stare was that of a person who had just been startled.

“Your paper,” Diego said. “You left it inside.” He recognized it:
Cast Call
. Somehow, a few copies had managed to make their way to newsstands around Morelia. He had brought an old issue with him, but it had burned in the fire.

“I don’t need it,” Charlie said, sighing, shaking his head. “Just throw it away, will ya?”

“Excuse me,” Diego said just before he turned away, “you’re an actor, right?”

He chuckled. “Why, sure.”

“Been in anything I’ve seen?”

He then rattled off a list of movies Diego had never heard of. “But I’m still looking for that big break, you know?” Charlie pointed to the newspaper. “That would explain the
Cast Call
.”

“Sure,” Diego said.

“You’re one too, ain’t ya?” Charlie asked.

“Of course.”

He laughed. “I knew it. I could tell. Well, good luck with the ads. There wasn’t anything in there for me, but there might be something for someone like you.” He stopped and stroked his chin. “You got a look,” he said. “Very interesting.”

“Thanks,” Diego said.

“Anytime,” he said, saluting as the light turned. He joined the crowd, and the mass of people crossed over to the raised concrete platform in the middle of the street where they waited for the trolley.

His money wasn’t going to last forever, so Diego wouldn’t be able to afford to buy new issues of
Cast Call
. Fortunately, he discovered a newsstand near the boardinghouse that was managed by an old man with a patch covering his left eye. He moved slowly, chatting with the men in suits who stopped by for the paper or a magazine, and Diego got good at quickly shoving copies of
Cast Call
down his trousers and strolling off without his noticing. He had spent two weeks thumbing through page after page of the paper, reading the calls for auditions, the calls for extras. The roles in question were usually billed “walk on part” or “people for a crowd scene,” and they advertised very low pay.

By that time, all he had left was thirty dollars. The room was five dollars a week, so what remained would have to be stretched. He didn’t buy food but instead picked oranges and grapefruits from trees whose branches hung over the edges of the sidewalks. He stole apples and bananas from fruit vendors on busy Sunday mornings as he wandered through the street stalls. At a drugstore, while the soda jerk was busy making orange phosphates and mixing tonics, Diego filled his pockets with candy mints and jelly drops from the large glass jars lining the counters. He picked an old woman’s purse while she waited for the trolley at a stop, ran off with a bag of tobacco and papers from a vagrant stumbling out of a pool hall. He waited in the long lines at the soup kitchens, eating runny clam chowder out of tin cups in the large and drafty cafeterias with hundreds of men and women in frayed and tattered clothing, their faces smudged with dirt, their children skinny, their legs so thin he wondered how they
were capable of sustaining their little bodies. This wasn’t what he had imagined, but at least he was living his own life, not one dictated to him by someone else.

There were nights when the hunger was too much, too overpowering, and he would dress, walk up and down Hollywood Boulevard toward the restaurants where men in suits and women with fancy dresses and complexions smooth as porcelain dined. He watched them through the glass windows savoring their meals, sipping from large goblets. He caught the faint smell of food, and this made him salivate, made his head spin. He would have to force himself not to wander behind the alleys of the restaurants, not to pick through the large barrels of trash for scraps of food as he had watched others do. He had seen two men fighting over a bag of moldy bread, each of them shouting that they had a wife, kids, and that there was no work, nothing to eat. One of them pulled a knife out from his pocket, threatening the other, who tossed the bag on the floor and ran off, sobbing.

He bit his lip so hard it bled, and he no longer felt hungry. He took slow steps toward the large theater houses along the boulevard. In that daze brought on by hunger and fatigue and confusion, he looked up, saw his name there in large black letters, saw his picture on the lobby card sketches that faced the street. The hunger, he told himself, was part of the sacrifice. He walked with new vigor down Hollywood Boulevard, passing the diners and pool halls, the dress shops and shoe stores, swinging his arms, his stride long and assured. He straightened his hat, pushed his shoulders back, and pointed his chin down. He would see things differently the next day.

Arriving back at the Ruby Rose, he fumbled through the dark sitting room and collapsed on the bed, sweating, trembling, weak and defeated. It was easy to doubt, easy to toy with the idea of returning to Mexico. But how would he afford it? He was stranded here for now, but it was fine, he told himself. Besides, there was no way he was giving up. Not yet. He was thirsty for something cool, not the tepid water from the bathroom. He bit into a warm apple, felt the pulp run down to his chin, felt his stomach clench and then let go. It was his last, and the skin had already started to brown, just like the bananas. He finished the apple then sucked on the core and
chewed on the seeds. There were three oranges left, nothing more. It wouldn’t be enough. He closed his eyes and gripped his stomach, hoping for the sleep to come. Only this would relieve him. Only this.

Almost a month had passed. Diego made it through the days and nights, fending off the hunger, taking here and there, and reading his stolen copies of trade magazines, hoping something, anything, might catch his eye. An article in
Screenshots
talked about headshots, and Diego used what little money he had left to get some photos taken, which he carried around with him in a paper envelope. He was careful not to soil his clothing, draped his only shirt and pair of trousers on the chair every night and smoothed them with his hands each morning before putting them back on. He felt worn away from not eating right. His skin went pale, his vision blurred and grew fuzzy. He found a razor blade one afternoon while rummaging through a pile of trash behind a barbershop and had been using this to shave, but the blade was dulling and scratching and cutting him up. On the bathroom counter there were the peeled skins of oranges curling like large fingernails. At the sight of them, Diego’s stomach turned and knotted. Their taste was no longer sweet but acrid, foul, deadening the sensation in his mouth. He had to save his money. But he just couldn’t help it. He suddenly felt desperate for company, for something warm to put in his stomach. Diego searched through his pockets and found enough for a cup of coffee. He splashed cold water on his face, dressed quickly, and walked to Joe’s.

He savored the coffee, taking small sips, closing his eyes each time he brought the cup to his nose. Jean laughed, said to a couple sitting near him at the counter, “Look at this guy. Like he’s never seen coffee before.”

“Maybe he’s auditioning for a part,” said the lady to the man.

“Don’t be an idiot,” the man told her.

“Well,” she said, grabbing her coat, “I refuse to go back to Minnesota until I’ve seen at least one star.”

“Oh, Helen,” said the man, rising from his stool. He reached into his pocket and set some money down.

Jean was in the kitchen, arguing with the cook about a botched
order. Diego could see the cook’s red face, his fat fingers pointing accusingly at her. The other diners sat around either reading or talking. Nobody was looking. Diego reached across the counter, scooped up the money, and shoved it in his pocket.

“Well, how about that?” Jean said when she came back out, her hands on her hips, shaking her head.

A man in a pair of dirty coveralls and a hat placed crookedly on his head looked up from his newspaper. “How about what?”

“Those two stiffed me,” said Jean when she picked up the plates and cups and saucers the couple had left behind. “Damn tourists. City’s getting overrun with their likes, flocking in to gawk at the stars. They get all the attention, and we get stiffed. Damn them all.”

“Send the bill to DeMille,” shouted a diner and laughed.

“Aw, horse feathers,” said Jean. “Another cup?” she asked Diego.