Now, here she was, doing Fluffy Tissue commercials.
Her stupid car took several pumps on the gas and turnovers before it actually started. She crossed her fingers that it would make it all the way to the rundown bungalow in Venice she shared with another struggling actor, because at least there, she could bum a ride to her job waiting tables at a low-rent Italian restaurant.
“How great is this scene?” she asked herself as she gingerly put the car into reverse. “Education at NYU: $50,000. Current Job: $6 an hour plus tips. Acting Career: So bad, it’s priceless,” she said, and laughed at her own sick humor.
Unfortunately, it was true. She was almost thirty-four years old. Her chances for stardom were eroding away each day. A few weeks ago, her new agent told her that she needed to start thinking character roles at the same time she told her about a chance she had to land a role in War of the Soccer Moms, a studio film about a war between two groups of suburban moms.
“Women reach a certain age, and a good meaty character role is about all they can hope for,” Frances had said as they sat in her tiny little beige office and popped chocolate-covered cherries, one after the other.
“A certain age?” Leah had echoed, mildly confused.
“Late thirties.”
“Except that I’m not in my late thirties,” Leah pointed out, reaching for another chocolate-covered cherry.
Frances adjusted her black, thick-framed glasses and leaned across her desk, her eyes reminiscent of a mutant fly. “Don’t fool yourself, Leah. You’re getting close to late thirties, and frankly, thirty-four is not that far from forty in the greater scheme of things.” She leaned back. “When you hit forty, forget it,” she said, making such a grand sweeping gesture that the fleshy part of her arm created a breeze, “The well dries up, and you are lucky if you can even get an audition anywhere, unless you make a name for yourself doing character roles. You really need to do this film.” And with that, Frances shoved the casting information at her, stuck a pencil behind her ear, and closed the box of chocolate-covered cherries before Leah could snatch another one.
“Get something soccer mom-ish to wear to the audition,” she’d said, waving her heavily jeweled hand at Leah’s outfit. “You know, Keds, or something like that. Maybe one of those shirts with flowerpots or kittens on it. Do not go looking like a hottie. Soccer moms aren’t hotties.”
“Okay,” Leah said uncertainly.
“Great. Now go be a soccer mom,” Frances said cheerfully, then swiveled around in her seat to her computer. The meeting was, apparently, over.
Leah opened the box and took one more chocolate cherry before she went to pursue a career in character roles.
AT the time, she hadn’t been too crazy about the film, but now, as her car hissed and shuddered its way onto Sunset Boulevard, she prayed she got the damn part. She made it all the way home, her car gasping its way into the driveway of the house she shared with Roddick Anthony—or as she’d known him since she met him in an acting class four years ago, Brad.
Brad was home, lounging as he often did. His skinny, lanky frame was barely enough to hold up his boxers, his loungewear of choice. He was sprawled across a plaid rent-to-own couch, eating Doritos, drinking cheap beer, and flipping channels. “Hey, how’d it go?” he asked as Leah dropped her bag in a chair next to the enormous, lopsided, half-finished peacock, her latest work of origami she refused to part with. She was going to finish it. Really.
“Apparently, I do not possess the acting skills necessary to portray a sick housewife,” Leah said solemnly before heading for the kitchen.
“Bummer. By the way, your agent called,” Brad said, looking away from the boob tube for a split second. “Something about soccer moms.”
Leah stopped midstride and jerked around. “Soccer moms? What? What did she say?” she cried, suddenly hurtling toward the couch and Brad, who instantly fell back and raised the remote between them as if he was afraid she was going to hit him.
“She said to call her, she had good news.”
“Aaaiieee!” Leah shrieked and twirled around, lunging for the phone. “War of the Soccer Moms is a huge studio film that Harold Bristol is directing!” she said breathlessly as she punched in Frances’s number. “You know Harold Bristol, right?”
“Yeah,” Brad said, twisting around on the couch. “He got the Academy nomination for Red Devil, right? So what’s the war?”