Reel Stuff by Don Bruns Page B

guess that was acting. Happy or sad. No middle ground.
    Very official looking.
    Screen Actors Guild. Associated Actors and Artists of America/AFL-CIO
.
    And there was her name, Emily Minard, her very own identification number, and a statement that she’d joined two years ago. The cocky kid had even laminated the card to keep it shiny and new.
    We were back on the sidewalk, walking toward our rental, and in the small grassy plot to my left, I saw McDonald’s wrappers and discarded Styrofoam cups, dozens of plastic bags, and empty cigarette packs. Empty beer bottles littered the area and ahead the sidewalk was pitted, cracked, and stained with brown splotches and patches that appeared to be blood red. A mangy, gray-haired dog, thin as a stick, prowled the lot with a low growl in his throat, watching every step we took. Not the glitz and glamour Hollywood experience I’d expected.
    â€œHey, boyfriend. I’m an actress. And it only cost about sixty bucks. All right, Mr. DeMille, I’m ready for my close-up.”
    I recognized the quote from
Sunset Boulevard
with Gloria Swanson. An oldie but a goodie. It had been made into aBroadway play, and I should have made her a character in that play on her résumé. Oh, well, if we ever updated that sheet of paper.
    We were both pleased.
    We had dinner at Dan Tana’s on Santa Monica Boulevard. Long known for its celebrity clientele and great food, it seemed like a place to go when you’re on an expense account. Dark wood, red padded booths, and red-and-white checkered tablecloths, the glamour days of Hollywood were still alive.
    At the bar we had a Cosmopolitan and a beer before dinner when we realized a guy who used to be on TV long before we were born was four seats down from us. I never would have known who he was, but a patron pointed him out to us.
    â€œGuy played Linc on
The Mod Squad
. Remember? Clarence Williams the Third?”
    Linc
? We had no clue.
    I did recognize the actor who played The Rock. Dwayne Johnson, he of the sculptured physique. He was sequestered in a far corner of the restaurant engaged in intimate conversation with a beautiful Asian woman. We were sandwiched between a Linc and a Rock. Don’t ask me to explain.
    The hostess ushered us to a spot by the kitchen, where important people weren’t seated. The doors flew open every ten or fifteen seconds, and the raw odors of dozens of dishes wafted to our table, some good and some not so good.
    â€œWell, at least this dining experience is all paid for,” Em said.
    â€œThey don’t know you’re a superstar. If they saw that résumé, those head shots, we’d have the best table in the house.”
    â€œTomorrow everyone will know,” she said. “Girl number three in a Chili’s ad. Whatever. I’m surprised they’re not lined up at our table for autographs.”
    Em ordered chicken cacciatore, and I had a New York stripsteak. At prices I never would have paid, even if it had been my money. Thank God, it wasn’t. James was going to be very jealous. He was a culinary major and dreamed of visiting iconic restaurants in the United States to see if they matched their reputations. This one, in my humble opinion, did. The food, the service, they were impeccable. However, at these prices they should be.
    â€œAll right, Em. We walk in tomorrow. This Bavely chick agrees to rep you. Then what?”
    â€œHere’s what I’ve been thinking.”
    I was glad one of us was thinking. At this time I had no idea what we were going to do.
    She sipped her second Cosmo, tilting her head back to let the triple sec-lime juice-cranberry vodka mix slide down her throat.
    â€œJuliana has a professional office, so chances are she keeps files. On her computer, certainly, but paper files as well. Skip, you and I already have paper files on my acting career and we just started. Already we have a paper résumé, photographs, and this union card.