Bliss (15 page)

Could he have delivered that speech to a man—any man, anywhere, anytime—and expect to get away with it? Even a gay sugar baby wouldn't tolerate it. But Sophia was supposed to act flattered, as if she wanted to listen to this. As if she enjoyed serving cheese plates and martinis to a higher order of asshole.

“Thanks for the advice. What can I get you?”

“Another round.” He winked. She must have looked repulsed. “You're a lot prettier when you smile,” he said, an edge to it.

Bar 111 opened at lunchtime and closed at ten
P.M.
, when the silvers were poured into cabs and sent home to their long- (long) suffering wives who had the good sense to drink at home where they wouldn't embarrass themselves. After closing, Josie paid out the credit card tips, and gave Sophia a tip of her own. “Just roll with it,” she said. “They're harmless.”

Excuses like that perpetuated sexism. It wasn't harmless to be dehumanized for a living. But Sophia kept her mouth shut. If she was too obviously annoyed, she'd get fired. They weren't paying her to be psychologically aware or to stand up for herself.

“Sorry, I was just in a weird mood today. I'll be perky as shit tomorrow.”

“Perky as shit, I like that,” said Josie, nodding. “We should make T-shirts.”

Sophia sat down at the bar to count her money. She'd clear around $250 tonight. It was enough to keep her going, but not to lift her up. Still, it felt good to hold the cash in her hand. A fist full of dollars. She fanned herself with it.

A text ping. She checked her phone, hoping it'd be Demi. They hadn't talked in a week, just a few texts here and there. It seemed like Demi was avoiding her, but then again, her new boss was a real ballbuster. He never let Demi out of his sight, and monitored her phones and emails. Why would Demi take this job when she and Maya got along so well? Sophia would love to hear Demi's reasoning, if she could get her on Skype for five minutes.

The text was from Agnes, her agent. “Wide-net casting call for female actors ages eighteen to twenty-five for a network pilot. Audition in Los Angeles day after tomorrow.”

She replied, “I thought pilot casting was over.”

“Not quite.”

“Can't do it,” she typed back. Sophia couldn't afford to go back to LA with her old, crappy head shots and thin patience. “No $$$.” A last-minute flight would be over a thousand.

“I'm sending the sides. Just read them. If you love, you can make a self-tape and email it.”

“How much would that cost?”

“Seventy-five dollars.”

Why spend any amount to audition for a part she wouldn't get? “I don't know,” she typed. Was there really any point to this? Scott had made friends, and seemed content to hang on to the outer fringe of the entertainment business. That wouldn't be enough for Sophia. She wouldn't settle for less than being a star.

“Just read the sides,” typed Agnes. “Then call me.”

The document arrived. Sophia didn't open the attachment. She knew if she read a single word, she'd start imagining how to play it, the backstory, the nuance, all the stuff she loved about acting. She'd get excited about it, feel the pieces falling into place, and believe in the deepest fiber of her being that this part was meant for her alone. She'd burrow into the character, express all her emotions, and make the audience feel them, too. That was the ideal, to connect her heart and soul with theirs. It'd be like plugging into the freakin' universe.

At this point, anything less wouldn't be worth the pain. It was just too soon after LA to put her head on the chopping block again.

Or was it? Sophia called Scott, and asked for his advice. “More punishment?” he asked. “Make a life for yourself that's not dependent on the approval of strangers.” He must be in a bad mood.

She called her mom. “It's been four years,” she said. “You gave it a shot. Now come home and start your life for real. It's not too late to get an education. Go to college and business school, and get a secure job to support yourself.” The same speech, word for word, she'd heard since high school graduation, only the opening line changed. “It's been six months,” “it's been a year,” etc. Both her parents worked in finance. They respected her striking out on her own and pursuing her dream. As Dad said, “We love you. We want what's best for you,” with the heavy subtext of “enough is enough.” Sophia was starting to see their point.

Why did she feel like she needed permission from her friends to give up? The vow they made at Lighthouse Park wasn't written in blood. If following her bliss led to disaster, they'd beg her to turn around. She tried to reach Demi, but her phone was offline, again. She texted Leandra. “You up?”

“Hi! It's morning in Bangkok,” she replied instantly. “I'm having congee with my sexy boyfriend, Charlie.” She included a photo of Charlie, shirtless and sexy indeed, in what appeared to be a backyard garden with exotic flowers spilling over a trellis, a teapot, soup terrine, and pastries on a table in front of him.

“Beautiful,” Sophia texted back. Then she got to the point, and asked Leandra what she should do. Do the audition tape or rethink her entire life?

“You're so so sosososo talented,” typed Leandra. “But, from what I've seen, the acting life doesn't make you happy. Do you want to be happy? If you do, then stop doing the thing that you know makes you unhappy. Look at me. I know exactly what I want, I go out and get it, and I'm the happiest person I know.”

She included a selfie of herself, complete with a shit-eating grin, sitting on sexy Charlie's lap.

Sophia had gone looking for someone to convince her to keep going, and had come up empty. The consensus—minus Demi's opinion—was to trash her dreams and move on. She sent back a sarcastic smile selfie.

*   *   *

The next night, Sophia was a lot more relaxed at work, and the crusties weren't being as obnoxious. The only annoyance was Agnes. Her agent would not stop texting. A long string of “Call me. Call me. Call me” appeared on her notification screen. During a break, Sophia slipped into the bathroom and called her back.

“Did you memorize the sides?” asked Agnes.

“No, I…”

“Good. I have updates. Forget the last set, and memorize the pages I'm sending now.”

“Agnes, I really appreciate all the hard work you've…”

“Stop. Right. There. I haven't been working for you out of charity. This is my
job
. It's how I earn a living and feed my kids. If I didn't believe in you, I'd have dumped you a long time ago.”

“I know that,” she said. “I owe you a lot…”

“Read the sides!”

Sophia sighed. “What's the name of the show?”

“Come to Jesus.”

“Is it, uh, a Bible story?”

“Not the show. You. I've been doing this for a long time, and I hear what's going on in your voice. You're on the edge. Think of this audition as your last shot, and I will, too. I care about you. I believe in you. But I'm not going to go back and forth with you. I need to know, either way. So call me back when you decide.” Then she hung up.

Sophia heard the implied message loud and clear. If she didn't follow through with this audition, Agnes would no longer be her agent. It was perfectly understandable. She'd put in a lot of time and energy into Sophia's career and hadn't made a dime. It was a miracle Agnes had stuck with her so long.

Ping
. The email arrived with the new sides. Sophia opened the attachment. The name of the show was
Hipsters
. The premise: three girls in Brooklyn living the aesthetic life and falling in and out of relationships. The sides were for the part of “Valerie, 22, a writer.”

The scene was Valerie and Steve, her boyfriend, at a dive bar.

Steve: “I'd say, ‘It's not you, it's me.' But it is you. I wrote a poem that explains my feelings, and I'm performing it tonight at the Cutting Room. You can come, but I can't get you in for free.”

Valerie: “Just record it and send me the voice memo instead.”

Steve: “Yeah, okay.”

Valerie: “I mean it! I want to study it. I take getting dumped very seriously. It's like my special skill. I'm really good at it. Guess how many times I've been dumped since I was ten years old.”

Steve: “I don't … whatever. Five? Six?”

Valerie: “Twenty-three times. And each time, I get a little bit smarter. I figure, I've got about twenty more disasters before I become a genius at love. Thanks for getting me one step closer to figuring it all out. I'm thinking of writing my own poem about it, called ‘How to Fake an Orgasm,' and dedicate it to you.”

Okay, this was a
Girls
rip-off, but whatever. Last year's winner was always copied by the mainstream. But the words resonated with her anyway. It was supposed to be funny, but the emotional truth was dead on. Throughout her humbling experience in LA, and her umpteen botched auditions in Toronto, she believed down deep that each rejection was a victory of the spirit. Doubt could be twisted into confidence. Losing could be winning if you saw it through the right lens, namely, whichever one you chose for yourself. And Sophia chose to see through that rose-colored glasses. She always had. After this little slip, she had them back on.

No one else could tell Sophia what do to with her life. Life didn't work that way. She could hear out her family and friends. But the choice to take their advice or ignore it was up to her. She was in charge of her destiny. She would, absolutely, fuck up royally at times and make mistakes she couldn't avoid or anticipate. But the messes would be her own and, therefore, gratifying to clean up.

Objectively, it might be wrong or stupid or insane to keep bashing her head against a wall. That was how her parents and friends saw it. But Sophia was going to do it anyway. She had (time check) … twelve hours to memorize the sides, get someone to make a professional recording of her audition, and email the video to the
Hipsters
producers.

A knock on the bathroom door. “Sophia? Did you fall in?”

“One second!” She left the bathroom and quickly took orders from her customers. After she fetched their drinks and served a few charcuterie platters, she ducked into the cloakroom to memorize one line at a time. Then she'd rush back into the bar to take orders.

Josie caught her crouched between the hanging trench coats. “What the hell are you doing down there?”

“Winning!” said Sophia.

“How about Serving? Like, now?”

Whatever, nothing could deflate her. She had this.

*   *   *

Sophia arrived at Casting Central at eight o'clock in the morning. Along with hosting live auditions, the facility had a recording studio for making high-quality audiotapes and videos. A staff of videographers ran the studio, charging for the space and their services. It was booked solid every day, with a waiting list. There was no chance she could talk her way in during regular business hours and convince a professional to do her shoot for $100 in tips, which was all she had to spare. But if she arrived early, she could maybe get in there, line up the equipment, and do it herself or ask a certain someone for help.

Harriet the receptionist always showed up early to open the offices. Sophia knew this because whenever she had a morning audition, Harriet would say, “You think this is early? I've already been here for hours.” Sure enough, Harriet was wiping chairs in the waiting room with Windex. “Hi, Harriet,” said Sophia. “I brought you coffee.”

“Now I'm nervous,” she said.

“I need a favor.” She explained the situation. All she needed was for Harriet to open the studio, point the camera, push record, and let her do her thing for five minutes. “I have a flash drive. We can record directly into it. No one will ever find out.”

“I've always liked you, Sophia. Most of the actors treat me like a piece of the furniture. I'm not saying ‘no' right off the bat. But. When actors ask me for a favor, I give them a litmus test. Hope you're smarter than you look.”

“Okay,” said Sophia.
Please let it be trivia about the provinces in Canada
. Sophia had that down cold.

“What are the names of my kids?”

“Er, you don't have any kids.”

“Ding, ding, we have a winner. I knew I liked you for a reason. You actually listen. Most actors, they just talk, talk, talk. Makes me sick. Come on, let's do this before anyone shows up.”

Sophia followed Harriet down the hall to the studio. “I can pay you.”

“Forget it. Just give me your autograph when you're famous.”

“I can give it to you right now.”

They entered the recording studio. “Go stand on the mark in the center of the room,” said Harriet. “Are we doing close up or full body?”

“Full body,” she said.

Harriet set up the camera, already in position on a tripod, and adjusted the boom mike on a swing stand overhead. “I'll start recording remotely when I get in the control room.”

“Got it,” said Sophia, shaking herself out, running a hand through her hair. She wore light makeup, a dark green Urban Outfitters V-neck, her favorite JBrand jeans, and Converse sneakers, a stripped-down girl, confident enough to show her real face. A few producers in LA said that the heavy makeup in her head shot made her look older. When the photos were taken, she had been eighteen, and purposefully aged herself up. Now she wanted to look exactly like herself.

From the control room, Harriet turned on the overheads and a spotlight. She flicked a few buttons and the red light on the camera started flashing. “You look great,” said Harriet through the control room mike. “Ready?”

Sophia was ready.

“Here we go.”