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Life Changing Payout
Jane
LA is where dreams come to die. That’s it. This city is a dream graveyard, and mine is buried there alongside thousands of others. I glance at the scribbled note taped on my door and sigh. It’s the second one my landlord has left in the past ten days. If I don’t come up with rent, I’ll be evicted by next week.
I climb down the stairs as quickly—and discreetly—as possible and sneak out of my building. With a deep breath, I stroll to the cybercafé down the street. It’s old, run-down, and smells like everything but coffee, but the owner is friendly and lets you use the computers as long as you’re a paying customer. Needless to say, it’s become a daily stop, both to stock up on caffeine and use the WiFi.
After I receive my watered-down coffee, I plant myself at one of the desks and boot up the old machine. I open all the usual casting call sheets. At first, the page shows over ten thousand results, but when I narrow it down to “unrepresented,” “non-union,” and “less than one year of experience,” those numbers drop dramatically. Growing up, I never really dreamed about being an actress. I landed in LA by accident. Not because I was chasing a dream, but because I was running away from something else. This was never the plan.
But then, when I was bartending, a few producers told me I had the face for Hollywood, so I went to some auditions and started dreaming. Pretending was my thing, after all. I’d been pretending all my life. Like in middle school, when I pretended to have a real family. In high school, when I pretended to live in a house and not a trailer. At the grocery store, when I pretended those bruises were from a horseback riding accident.
As if I could ever afford riding lessons.
I narrow my search to “Theatre”, but I see nothing there but student projects, a.k.a. unpaid work. While I’d love to have the luxury of acting without getting paid, that’s not in the cards for me right now. I need a paying gig, and so far, I haven’t had many. I filmed a couple of commercials that didn’t air, plus an ESL video. But my best so far, and I still get chills when I think about it, was a play two summers ago. It wasn't a major role by any means, but it was everything to me. People were cheering me on. I was in the spotlight, and for once, pretending was liberating. I was free.
Since then, I’ve been relying on survival jobs to help me scrape by. Without any experience or education, my first days in the City of Angels were rough. I was hit by refusal after refusal until someone finally gave me a chance.
Serving men drinks while half naked was admittedly degrading, but I couldn’t afford to be picky. Beggars can't be choosers, right? The job didn't pay much, but the tips made it worthwhile. All the big Hollywood execs were regulars, and they had money to blow. The venue owner even let me crash in the locker room until I could afford rent.
With a little experience under my belt, a knack for thrifting, and a fantastic hairdresser, I eventually landed a job at a fancy restaurant on Sunset. The pay was decent, and the tips were even better. Unfortunately, three weeks ago, I was laid off due to budget cuts. I haven’t managed to find another job since.
So, here I am, skimming the job listings every morning for acting and waitressing jobs. I apply to all the listings I’m qualified for—which aren’t many.
Taking a sip of my flavorless coffee, I open my email inbox. I’m surprised to see an email from Ruth, my acting teacher. At first, I think I still owe her money—she let me pay in installments for my last trimester of lessons—but that’s not what it’s about. But her message is incredibly vague.
“Hi, Jane. My friend at Studio 27 called earlier about an exclusive corporate gig with a life-changing payout. Call if you’re interested.”
As if there was even a question. She had me at “life-changing payout,” and the “exclusive” part leaves me intrigued.
“Ruth,” I say when she picks up. “It’s Jane. Just got your email, and I’m interested. Hope it’s not too late.”
“Jane, I’m glad you called. No, not at all. This is a very exclusive audition. Invite-only, done through acting coaches and held in local theaters. All I know is that they’re looking for a female between the ages of twenty-eight and thirty-two with experience in improv. They also added that the woman must be discreet, well-mannered, and have a presentable appearance. I think you fit all the requirements, don’t you?”
She’s right. I’m twenty-eight, discretion is my middle name, I do have manners, and—I peek at my reflection in the window next to me—I’m presentable enough. Okay, scratch that. I’m a mess, and I look nothing like my headshot. My brown hair is longer than it’s ever been, and blonde roots are showing. My tresses are tangled into knots behind my back, baring a dull, almost dusty color. My eyes no longer have that zestful sparkle, and big circles hang beneath them. On top of that, I’m wearing baggy, unflattering clothes. But it’s nothing a face mask, a haircut, and a wardrobe change can’t fix.
“Yes,” I say, nodding firmly. “Absolutely. How do I audition?”
“Send me your updated resume along with your headshot. I’ll forward it to my friend, and they’ll contact you directly if they’re interested.”
“Okay. I’ll get on that right away. Thanks for thinking of me, Ruth.”
“Of course. Talk soon.”
After sending her all the required documents, I shoot a text to Marlene, my amazing hairdresser a block down the street. She stays on top of trends and offers a big discount to struggling actors like myself. She’s also the one who guarantees I stay the brunette I’m supposed to be. I might not get called back for the jobs I applied for today, but I do need to be more presentable. I can’t go to a casting call looking like this. It would be an auto-rejection. As much as I wish it weren’t true, in LA—and especially in this business—appearances matter.
The next morning, I’m barely out of the shower before my phone starts ringing. My heart leaps in my chest. My phone never rings. I don’t have a lot of friends. I got to know a couple of co-workers at my restaurant job, but we haven’t talked much since I got laid off. Anyway, those relationships were pretty superficial. Not exactly friendly phone call material.
That only leaves one possibility. Work’s calling. I pick up my phone from beside the sink and glance at the cracked screen. Unknown number. My heart beats double time, and I take a deep breath to steady my nerves and my voice.
“Hello, Jane Myers speaking,” I announce, channeling my most professional tone. My body refuses to stand still when I’m on the phone, so I pace the four steps separating my bathroom from the rest of the studio apartment—which is my bedroom, living room, kitchenette, and dining room all crammed into one tight space. Fantastic, isn’t it?
“Ms. Myers, I’m Max Wolverton. I’m contacting you because we received your resume and headshot from Ruth Mitchell. We’d like to meet you in person.”
I start to do a victory dance, then remember to calm myself. “Oh, great. Absolutely,” I say, trying to sound cool and collected, which I’m definitely not.
“Are you free tonight?” he asks as I continue to pace around the room. “We’re rather in a rush and would like to have met with all the applicants by tomorrow.”
“Of course, yes,” I gush in a heartbeat. After all, I’m in a rush too. “I’ll be there.”
