TEN

Los Angeles hadn’t been the great escape Gillian, had imagined it would be. She felt like she’d tripped and fallen into a strange twilight zone. Everyone from the waiter from Idaho, who worked at the all-night diner, to the strip-mall nail technician considered themselves the next big star; they were only biding their time while waiting to be discovered. Everybody was either in the movie business or wanted to be in it, and, sadly, that included her.

Gillian’s somber mood matched her disheveled appearance as she slouched on Paulette’s sofa wearing a threadbare sweat suit and holey socks, with her hair scattered haphazardly atop her head. An ashtray full of rancid cigarette butts added to her despondency. Under stress, she’d chucked the idea of quitting, at least for now. Since returning from New York, after learning that she’d been passed over for the part on Broadway, she’d descended into the depths of despair. A stubborn streak was the only thing that kept her from throwing in the towel. That and the fact that she had nowhere to go.

Flipping through the trades she found herself thankful that at least Paulette was back in New York for the reading of her grandmother’s will. In Gillian’s current mood, she wasn’t certain she could stomach an episode of The Paulette Show. Just as Gillian was polishing off the last of a box of chocolate-covered turtles, the phone rang. She checked caller ID and saw that the name that appeared was that of one of the best casting agencies in the business. With some vigor she tugged at her hair, trying to give it a semblance of shape, brushed away the crumbs of chocolate from her sweatshirt, and sat up straight, as if the caller could actually see her through the telephone. She took several deep breaths, waiting for the phone to ring at least four times. Though she was truly desperate, she didn’t want to seem anxious.

“Hello?”

“May I speak to Gillian Tillman, please?” The female voice on the other end of the line sounded crisp and very professional.

“This is Gillian.” Her tone was nonchalant, but aware; supremely confident, but not arrogant. She wryly noted the absurd, twisted psychology needed simply to pick up the phone in this crazy place called Hollywood.

“Hi, Gillian, I’m Annette White’s assistant, Evelyn, from Perfect Fit Casting Agency.” The woman’s voice rose at the end of her sentence, making her statement sound like a question. “You were referred to us for a pilot we’re doing, and I called to see if you might come in this afternoon for an audition.”

“Can you tell me a little bit about the project?” At this point Gillian would have taken a job advertising a vaginal lubricant, she so desperately needed money, but it was always smart not to appear as desperate as you really were.

“Of course,” the woman replied, as though she had actually been planning to tell her all about the project, when in fact she was acutely aware that there were so few roles available for black actresses that she felt no need whatsoever to sell the project. It was common knowledge that things were definitely harder for black female actresses than for black male actors, partly because once a black male actor went mainstream, one of the first things he demanded, in order to increase his crossover appeal, was nonblack female leads—Hispanic, white, or Asian, anything but a sister. So most black actresses would take anything and be delighted to get it.

“It’s a pilot for a situation dramedy about three African American girls who share an apartment in Harlem. One is a struggling secretary trying to make a way for her three kids, all by different fathers, who are now being raised by her mother in Alabama. The second character is a party girl—you know the type—always looking for Mr. Right. And the third is the part you’d audition for. Her name is Shaniqua; she’s the voice of reason for the three girls. You know, a real ball buster, a no-nonsense girl who’s grown up with hard knocks, and…”

By now Gillian had zoned out creatively. How many times did white studio executives have to resurrect that same played-out, trifling, head-swiveling, hand-on-hip, finger-pointing, tired-ass black female character?

“…so, we thought you might be good for the part,” she sang, clearly pleased with the story she’d outlined.

Why, because I’m black?

“Are you still there?”

“Yes, I was just thinking.”

“Are you interested?” the woman asked, not nearly as confident as she’d been at the beginning of the call.

Gillian was itching to give this woman a piece of her mind, but her survival instinct kicked in. She’d been living in L.A. for over two months now and hadn’t made a dime and, more urgently, she was sick of being trapped in this apartment with Paulette. Having spent a chunk of her remaining money on a piece-of-shit car, she’d left her bank account precariously low.

“The part sounds interesting, and I’d love to audition for it.” The actress in her had indeed surfaced; she’d even managed to muster some degree of enthusiasm into her voice.

“Great—if you could be here by two…”

Gillian jotted down the address and tried hard to motivate herself to really want this awful-sounding role.

         

The casting agency was full of the typical assortment of L.A. black girls who were eager for fame and fortune. They generally fell into three categories: The but-everyone-tells-me-I’m-so-pretty girl, who truly believed that straight hair, good skin, a pretty face, and a bright smile made her predestined for the big screen, talent notwithstanding. Then there was the overcompensator. She was the one who fell short in a major category while growing up, and quickly learned to overcompensate for this self-perceived deficiency by excelling in another area, such as a cutting wit, biting humor, Einstein smarts, or simply being the provider of the best blow job, and any one of those skills could take you somewhere in L.A. The third and most pervasive category was the fix-it-quick girl, who simply eliminated or corrected anything that God forgot to, through skin bleaching, boob implanting, hair weaving, nose chiseling, face-lifting or the most common: creating from scratch a fake, and usually annoying, personality.

Girls like Gillian were few and far between in L.A.; she was beautiful, but not preoccupied with it, intelligent—a word not necessarily synonymous with “actress”—and serious about her craft. When she walked into the holding room, instinctively the others knew that she was not of their ilk. Eyes were cut, weaves flung, and attitudes dispensed, while Gillian sat alone in a corner reading the script that the receptionist had given her. Having survived the divas on Broadway, both male and female, Gillian was completely unfazed by the onslaught of negative energy. When her name was finally called she followed an assistant into the inner office, with several pairs of eyes boring deeply into her back.

The reading room was set up with a small stage and two rows of chairs, which at present accommodated the casting agent, the director, the producer, and their assorted assistants. Before she could mount the stage, directions were barked at her from the first row.

“Read the first line and give it lots of ’tude.” This came from the director, a baby-faced white boy—or, more correctly, Jewish—who had only minutes of experience in the business, but was male, of the correct persuasion, and connected.

Gillian put her backpack at the side of the makeshift stage, walked to the center, and made herself focus on the material and her delivery. She’d read the lines, but it took an act of sheer will for her to speak them. Still, she swallowed her pride and said, “Girl, you know better than to lie down with dogs, ’cause you always gonna wake up with a buncha fleas.”

The director, producer, and Annette, the casting agent, all looked at her strangely. Finally the director spoke up. “That was okay, but I need you to be more”—he gesticulated, struggling to find the word—“…black.” As he said this with a straight face, he even had the nerve to cross his hands, homeboy style.

“I’m afraid I don’t know what you mean. Given who I am, I’m not sure it’s possible to be more or less black. I am black.” Gillian struggled to keep an even tone, though she could feel a fire kindling in the pit of her stomach.

“Ya know what I mean?” he said with the cadence of a rapper. “Just don’t speak as clearly. You know, act black. Give a little neck action and some ghetto attitude.” He and the producer exchanged a little chuckle between them.

That did it. “If you think that’s what being black is, then I suggest that instead of producing a sitcom you simply put on a minstrel show. You know, get some white-faced, shuffling black people to tap-dance across the stage for you. Or better yet,” she said, her voice steadily rising, “just get a plain ol’ monkey and an organ grinder. That should do it!” She yanked her bag from the floor and stormed out of the room, leaving her small audience truly baffled.

She was a blur going through the reception of wannabes, all anxious, eager, and willing to snatch any crumb thrown their way.

Gillian was now sure that moving to L.A. had been a mistake; the only question was what to do now? She supposed that she could tuck her tail between her legs and slither back to New York again, hoping to pick up where she left off, or maybe she should do what most everybody else in the world did: get a real job. The thought of that was physically nauseating. She was unable to envision herself sitting behind a desk from nine to five. Besides, her catwalking and acting skills didn’t necessarily transfer to corporate America, even when accompanied by an undergraduate degree from Brown University.

She cursed all the way up the 405 to Wilshire, and barely heard the phone when it rang. When she saw the caller ID it occurred to her not to answer it, but when she considered that the world wasn’t beating a path to her door, she decided to pick up.

“Hello.”

“Hi, Gillian.” It was Brandon Russell on the line.

“Hi.” She was somewhat surprised to hear from him. He’d called a couple of times since they’d met at the Ivy, and she’d promptly blown him off on each occasion. Gillian was sure that he would have given up by now; a man like Brandon must have a full stable of girls, and she wasn’t interested in becoming part of his herd.

“Are you okay? You sound a little tense.”

“Not exactly the best day I’ve had.” Actually, she hadn’t had any good days since moving here. She didn’t like L.A.—not the people, not the energy, not the seven days a week of sunshine. There was no texture in Los Angeles; everybody was a version of the same person, and to top it off, each day even looked like the one before it!

“Well, you’re talking to the right guy. I called to invite you to a cocktail party tonight. It’ll be full of film people.” When she didn’t respond right away, he continued, “I apologize for the short notice. I hadn’t planned to go—thought I’d be out of town—but a couple of meetings were rescheduled, so here I am. How ’bout it?”

Part of her wanted to say no and go home and crawl between the sheets with another box of chocolates, but Gillian wasn’t a quitter, so she accepted his invitation. Why not? She realized after that horried casting call that it would take more than a contact sheet, a so-so agent, and a good résumé to get any decent work in this town. Worst case, she’d go with him to this fancy Hollywood cocktail party, hopefully meet some interesting people, and maybe even make a few industry contacts.

Before they hung up Brandon said, “I have a quick question for you. Remember when our bags were swapped at the airport?”

How could she forget? That was how they’d met. “Of course.”

“When you opened my bag, did you see a flash drive in it?”

“No, I didn’t.”

“Are you sure?”

“Absolutely. I opened the suitcase, saw that the clothes weren’t mine, and called you right away.”

“Okay, babe; I’ll see you later on.”

She raced home as quickly as L.A.’s inexplicable, barely creeping traffic would allow. She called Lauren immediately.

“You’re not going to believe this,” she said.

“What happened?” Lauren asked, then said excitedly, “Don’t tell me. You were offered a role in a big-time movie?”

“Nothing quite that exciting, but I do have a date.”

“You’re kidding! If you told me you were starring in Steven Spielberg’s next movie it’d be easier for me to believe! Who’s the lucky guy?”

“Brandon Russell. Remember, our bags got switched when I first moved here?”

“Of course. This is good news. Hey, it’s about time you got out. What are you going to wear?”

“I don’t know. It’s been so long since I actually wore anything besides sweats and jeans.”

“Just because you live in L.A., Juicy Couture still doesn’t count as couture fashion, so do yourself a favor and really dress up. You’ll feel better.”

Gillian followed Lauren’s advice and wore a fitted, knee-length knit dress by Zac Posen. The print was a Pucci-esque mix of coral, brown, and mustard, great contrasts and complements to her rich, dark complexion, and the whimsy of the design worked well with her wild, free curls, which she wore scattered atop her head. And, of course, she’d wear her coral wrap sandals by Ron Donovan. She was actually getting excited about going out, and smiled genuinely for the first time in weeks.