Chapter 9
It’s almost lunchtime, and I’ve managed to go the entire morning without putting a call in to my agent. Granted, there’s no chance in hell I booked that J.Lo movie. Not after the god-awful performance I gave. But I still need to check in, you know? Show that I’m engaged with my career. See if there’s any feedback.
Hopefully, it’ll just be a no . Not a no, and . Like no, and does your client have a nicotine problem? Or no, and has your client gained some weight recently? Or no, and by the way, your client can’t act for crap, so please don’t submit her to us for any role ever again.
But before I make the call, I decide to go for a run. I figure the repetitive motion, the rhythmic pounding of my feet, one in front of the other, will help me clear my head and get my thoughts in order. Help me sort out what I want to say. Plus, as an extra added bonus, it’ll be a good way to procrastinate doing something I really don’t want to do in the first place.
I cover up in joggers and a long-sleeved tee. This time, I’m not hiding my body because I have an audition, because I feel pressure to conform to a certain physical type. And in broad daylight like this, I know there’s no chance of any vampires seeing my muscles and surmising what I am. Also, it’s not as if I think I look bad. I mean, if I saw a stranger on the street who was this physically fit, I’d probably be impressed.
But that’s the thing. I look like a stranger. I don’t look like me . I’m not entirely at ease with this buff slayer build, so I’m not exactly ready to bare it all to the world. But I guess I need to start getting comfortable, and taking this new body out for a spin seems like a good way to start.
I call a quick goodbye to Liv, who’s typing away at her computer in some kind of the-muse-has-struck, the-artist-is-in, the-creative-juices-are-flowing frenzy, and I head out of our apartment. Our place is on Fourth Street, near Rose Avenue. The building is mid-century modern, but not in the trendy hip way that you see on a lot of home improvement shows. No, our rental complex is more of a worst-of-the-1960s eyesore, maintained over the years to keep it habitable, sure, but never with the intent to restore any of its former architectural charm. If it ever had any, that is.
I turn down Rose and walk toward the beach, past the eerie but iconic thirty-foot-tall Ballerina Clown sculpture that looms over the CVS at the corner of Main and Rose. Although the public art piece installed in the late 1980s is something of a tourist draw, I barely even notice it anymore. Over the last couple of years, it’s become an ordinary part of my everyday neighborhood landscape.
But today, it’s like I see it—really see it—for the first time. I’m struck by the uneasy tension between its lithe ballerina body, dressed in a pink tutu and red toe shoes, and its oversize, sad-clown head. And suddenly, I feel a rush of affinity for it.
I know exactly how that damn sculpture feels. I understand what it’s like when two opposite forces are forced to share the same body that way. I swear, that thing is like a bigger-than-life reflection of my own new duality.
But hey, if it’s managed to survive all this time? Maybe I can too.
***
I keep going west until I reach the running/walking/biking path. As I start to stretch, I contemplate my course. Technically, Liv and I reside in Santa Monica, but we’re just on the border of Venice. Right takes me deeper into Santa Monica, toward the amusement pier. Left takes me into Venice, along the lively, funky oceanfront walk. I flip a mental coin, and I choose right.
I take off up the beach at an easy jog. I feel the warmth of the sun shining down on my face, the cool ocean breeze blowing through my hair. I can taste the salty air on my lips. And I get the surge of satisfaction that always comes from the simple act of moving my limbs and exercising my body.
I push a little harder.
At this pace, I usually start to break a sweat. And considering how overdressed I am today? Well, I’m pretty sure I’ll be drenched in no time. But somehow, I stay dry. It’s as if I’m not exerting any effort at all, like I’m enclosed in my own personal climate-controlled bubble.
I push harder.
And it’s no sweat —both literally and figuratively . My heartbeat stays steady, and my breathing remains even. Like Nick pointed out last night, my body is strong .
So I push myself even harder.
Now, I run regularly, but I’m no athlete. Mostly, I do it because I need a budget-friendly way to burn calories and stay in shape, and running outside is free. But today, as I hit a pace I’ve never hit before, I actually feel free. I feel powerful. I feel like I can do anything.
I can do anything , I think.
I can get a handle on this whole slayer thing.
I can keep what I am hidden from Dracula’s Army.
And yes, goddammit, I can even call my agent and have an honest conversation with her about my stalled acting career.
As I approach Santa Monica Pier, I squint against the sunlight gleaming off the spokes of the big Ferris wheel. Once I get a little closer, I can hear the music streaming out from the arcade. Adjusting my stride to match the beat, I loop back around to begin the return leg of my run. On the way back, I rehearse what I want to say to my agent.
“I’m tired of being typecast,” I say into the wind.
Nope. Too whiny.
“I need you to put me up for a wider variety of roles,” I say.
Nope. Too demanding.
“Let’s discuss where we see my career going,” I say.
Yup. Better. Much better.
“When it comes to submissions,” I say, “maybe we can start thinking less about whether I can look the part and more about whether I can play the part.”
Yes!
“I’m all in here,” I say. “And I need to know that you’re all in too.”
YASSS!
I enter the homestretch of my run, and I don’t want to drag my feet on this any longer. I pick up my pace.
***
By the time I get back to the apartment, I’m totally pumped for some real talk. I find my phone, open my contacts, and dial my agent.
“The Rebecca Sloane Agency,” says the assistant.
“Hi, Kevin,” I say. “May I speak with Rebecca, please? It’s Carrie Adams.”
“Hold, please.”
There’s a click and a short silence on the other end of the line. Then, “Sorry,” says Kevin after he clicks back in. “She’s not available. I’ll tell her you called.”
I open my mouth to protest, but before I can even say anything, the line goes dead.
I deflate. Despite my new physical prowess, that I-can-do-anything feeling is quickly replaced with my usual sense of frustration and helplessness. Apparently, even with my new vampire-slaying powers, I’m still no match for the freaking entry-level Hollywood gatekeepers.