Chapter Fifteen
Fifteen
Since I’m the only one of us who hasn’t consumed so much as a drop of alcohol, we leave Myra’s car at her soon-to-be bookstore, and I drive us home in Grand’s Caddy. Our own little beach version of Driving the Miss Daisies .
I realize as we travel north on Gulf Boulevard that, although I’m relieved Grand is not planning to invest in the bookstore, I have no idea whether Myra has any experience in books or business. Even though this is none of my business, I ask, “What made you decide to buy that particular house and open a bookstore, Myra?”
I expect her to say that she was bored and did this on a whim, but what she actually says is, “My grandmother owned and ran a bookstore here in St. Pete when I was a child. And some of my happiest moments were spent there, reading my way through the children’s section and then the teen section and so on. I first read Gone With the Wind when I was nine. I discovered romance novels when I was thirteen, and I’ve been a fan ever since. I don’t understand why some people turn up their noses and act as if they’re ‘too literary’ for romance when ‘literature’ is full of romance. And I hate it when a male author writes a romance novel and it’s somehow considered more mainstream or ‘important’ simply because a man wrote it.”
I feel a desire to say, “Amen, sister!” because this prejudice also rears its head in the film and TV worlds, but I don’t interrupt because Myra is clearly on a roll.
“If left alone, I can, and have, read a book a day,” she continues. “Even the smell of books makes me feel happier. And I’ve kept myself up to date on the evolution of the book business and reading trends, because they fascinate me.”
I catch a glimpse of myself in the rearview mirror and realize I’m smiling and nodding.
“To recap,” Myra continues, “I know the book business inside out, including its pitfalls. And as for the bungalow, I’m never going to lose money on a home with that kind of history sitting on a prime location.” She shoots me a wink.
“If you can make the time to teach children’s acting classes at the store, Sydney, you’ll still be exercising your acting muscles. And as far as I’m concerned, story time done well is acting, too. We could organize it so that parents pay you directly for the acting lessons. And if you host story time once or twice a week for me, I’ll pay you a hundred dollars per story time, which would also supplement your acting income.”
“I’ll tell you what,” Grand adds. “If Sydney teaches acting, I could give art lessons to promising students. Or even to a class if we have room. Ooh.” She brightens further. “Maybe we can offer a figure drawing class for adults in the evening.” She waggles her eyebrows at me. “Do you think Luke would be willing to pose? He’s got the perfect body and musculature for it.”
“Grand!”
“What?” She shrugs. “There’s no shame in admiring or painting the male form.”
· · ·
Ten days later, I’m still striking out at landing an acting gig even though I forced myself to audition for everything from minor roles in feature films shooting in the area to maxi pad and antacid commercials.
The problem is the same each time: None of the casting directors are capable of looking at me without seeing Cassie Everheart and/or Tonja Kay.
Once upon a time I believed that being so closely identified with my character was a good thing, but I know better now.
So I meet Kyra and Troy at Harley’s on Saturday night to see what’s what. Maybe the hulks notwithstanding, no bouncing will actually be required there.
A.J. gives us drinks on the house. Kyra’s and Troy’s have alcohol in them. Mine does not.
There’s a crowd at and around the large square bar. The pool tables are full. People seem to be having a good time.
Customers who spot me fall silent, and even the rowdiest of them take it down a notch.
“See, I told you you’d be a good influence,” A.J. crows. “They’ve watched you take down bad guys on TV for years. And word’s already spread about you cutting those two goons down to size. Only a few people know you got knocked out by that guy’s knee.”
Oh, joy.
I sip at my drink—if it had even a hint of alcohol in it, I’d be downing it in one long, thirsty gulp. I know I’ve mentioned this before, but it totally sucks to be in a bar and not get a real drink when everyone else is enjoying theirs.
Ten minutes later there’s an altercation at one of the pool tables. It’s between two burly guys with mohawks and tattoos of what look like their mothers on their beefy forearms.
A.J. angles his head in their direction. Fortunately, he doesn’t reach under the bar for a gun to toss my way.
Half-heartedly, I amble over to the pool table and flash my best Cassie Everheart smile. “What seems to be the problem, gentlemen?”
They stare at me.
I quirk an eyebrow like Cassie did on every episode. It was her trademark “Don’t mess with me or you’re definitely going to be sorry” eyebrow quirk.
“Wow, it really is you!” Player One says.
“Yeah, man, I told you!” says the other player.
I sigh. “Yes, it’s me. Now. Seriously. What’s going on?”
“He pushed the ten ball in with his finger!” Player One points his finger at the side pocket, and I’m not sure if he’s demonstrating the finger that was used, or offering the ten ball in that particular pocket as proof.
“Is that true?” I speak to Player Two as if he’s an unruly child because that’s what these guys are. And because that’s how Cassie would have sounded.
“Huh-uh!” The accused shakes his head.
“Uh-huh!” the accuser fires back.
“Enough.” I reach into the pocket, retrieve the ball, and place it on the table. “Time to play nice.”
“Or what?” they chorus.
“You’ll have to leave.”
I wait for them to ask who’s going to make them leave like the would-be robbers Hulk One and Hulk Two did. But these two are still staring at me.
Finally, the accused looks at the ball and then at his opponent. “Sorry, man. My finger must have slipped.”
“Yeah. No problem. I can see how that might’ve happened,” the accuser replies.
They turn to me. “Thanks, Cassie,” Player One says.
“Yeah, thanks,” Player Two adds. “We’re gonna take that shot over.”
As I walk back to the bar, I have this weird feeling that I’ve somehow ended up in an episode of The Twilight Zone . (FYI—it’s a really cool TV series from the sixties, but you can stream it on a number of platforms.)
“Way to go, Cassie.” A.J. slaps me on the back. “I knew you were the woman for the job!”
When I reach our table, Kyra and Troy are attempting to suppress their laughter.
“Sorry!” Kyra is the first to apologize. “I just…Oh my God! Sorry!” She tries to hide her laughter by lifting her drink to her lips, but that turns out to be a messy move.
“Gee, thanks.” I try not to roll my eyes. Or laugh.
Then I remind myself that it’s not at all unusual for actors to have to cobble together part-time jobs before they land a regular gig. I have lost my regular gig and am sliding backward professionally inch by humiliating inch.
But in the meantime, I can be a bouncer. And a story time lady. And an acting coach/teacher.
Best of all, if I give acting classes at Myra’s bookstore, I’ll have a legitimate reason to turn to my students at some point and say, “Hey, kids, let’s put on a show!”