Slate: The Salacious Story of a Hollywood Casting Director Read online

  Slate

  by

  Brian Rowe

  Kindle Edition

  Copyright © 2011 by Brian Rowe

  http://mrbrianrowe.blogspot.com

  Kindle Edition, License Notes

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return it to Amazon.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  This book is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is entirely coincidental. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  -Prologue-

  I am a star.

  His legs had been killing him for the last half hour. Crusty yellow corns were buried deep within his foot soles like large, oozing whiteheads, and his dirty tennis shoes hadn’t been replaced in over three years. His bottle of water had spilled a mile or so back, and he was already starting to feel lightheaded. He stopped for a moment and dry heaved, glancing to his left and right to make sure no other more experienced hikers were bearing witness to his incompetence.

  The trail was not clearly marked, and the parking lot in which he had carefully tied his bike up to a large, silver post had not been easy to find. He had done his Internet research the night before, but he was still uncertain if he had made all the turns to get to where he needed to go. He was confident but prepared for disappointment.

  It was a Saturday. The wind had picked up in the last few minutes, and the temperature was suspiciously cold, especially in a city that he had been told never changed seasons. His sweatshirt, awkwardly tied across his waist for the first two miles of the trip, now was pulled over his white t-shirt, slowly but surely keeping him warm. The clouds were descending closer to the ground, and he half expected to see a tangible stairway that would lead him up to the stars.

  I am a star.

  A random woman would pass him here and there, usually with her loud and shrill mutt nearby. Two men had also passed him, dog less, and he assumed that they were gay, or, at least, experimenting. For the most part, he had been met with angelic silence on the large, intimidating mountain that separated the bustle of the main city from the maligned hole of misery known as the San Fernando Valley. He had been able to focus on that one simple truth, the truth that had sent him cross-country, alone and afraid, but up to the challenge of a new chapter in his life.

  He walked for another twenty minutes until he realized that there was just one more hill to climb. This one would be the steepest of them all. Halfway up he started grabbing onto the occasional sad shrub of greenery just to keep himself from plummeting to his death. The pain in his feet had become unbearable, almost as if the ground he was walking on was not dirt but molten rock. He almost threw up, for real this time, but managed to keep the half-digested eggs and spinach from breakfast as far down as possible.

  With just a few minutes left of tireless ascension, a new challenge presented itself, and he had to keep from laughing. At first, he thought another hiker was above him kicking rocks in his face. It wasn’t until he caught a fragment of the cloud’s anger with his right hand that he realized what was happening. It was hailing.

  He tried not to think about the long walk back to his bike. He tried to concentrate on his goal, only his goal. Little cuts and bruises started to aggravate his temper, but he kept cool and calm. Finally, he was at the top of the mountain.

  He cheered for himself, and then immediately started searching for the sign. He looked out in every direction and only saw blobs of gray. He sighed and sat down on the dirt, which just minutes ago had felt like the smooth consistency of hardened chocolate, but now felt like a large pool of chunky peanut butter.

  He sat for a while. He closed his eyes and tried to clear his head. He wasn’t going to leave the top of this mountain until his goal was met.

  By the time the hail stopped, the top of his head was in pain. He was able to stick his tongue out and catch drops of what looked like red dye on the tip. It wasn’t until he brushed the palm of his hand on his forehead that he realized he was bleeding.

  But not even the gruesome sight of blood could stop his mission. Finally, after much patience, the clouds started to subside. The air was colder now, and he was certain that he would spend much of his hike back to the bike in darkness. But he knew his time was now.

  He looked out. He didn’t see it. He turned to his left. There was nothing.

  He turned around.

  And there it was.

  Nathan LeMille stopped breathing.

  The last bit of the day’s sunshine was shooting through one of the large black clouds to reveal the nine letters, almost as if this moment had been preordained for decades by God himself.

  H.O.L.L.Y.W.O.O.D.

  His eyes welled up with tears. He started jumping up and down as if he had won the lottery.

  Nathan had resided in Los Angeles for three whole weeks, but for the first time, it was starting to feel real.

  He was here. And it was finally time to fucking shine.

  I am a star.

  I am a superstar.

  On his way down the mountain, he slipped on a bed of rocks.

  -1-

  “Slate your name.”

  The old man sat at the edge of the chair, the fingers on his right hand massaging the bottom of his chin as if it were a keyboard.

  “Just give me a minute,” he said.

  He covered his face with both of his hands and started to breathe deeply, so loud everyone in the room could hear him.

  Fat pig, she thought. Fat ugly old pig. Stop wasting my time.

  Vivien glanced down at her sheet to see that they were not even halfway done with the session. The first actor had been a no-show, the second a cancellation, but everyone else had shown so far. Nobody had impressed her.

  She cracked her knuckles and put a check mark next to his name. CLEMENT HYDE MONROE. She underlined all three of his names and wrote a question mark underneath. She looked up to see his hands still covering his face.

  “Oh for God’s sake,” she said, softly under her breath.

  She glared at Brandon, her associate. He smiled at her and shrugged his shoulders but clearly knew what she wanted him to do.

  “Mr. Monroe,” Brandon said to the man, “please slate your name.”

  The overweight actor, who looked exhausted from merely breathing, brought his hands down and turned to the camera. “Yes. Clement Monroe. Thank you.”

  Brandon made sure the shot was framed just how Vivien would like it and hit the red record button. “OK, I’m rolling.”

  Vivien looked up at the slob in front of her, and then down at the first page of the scene. “I can’t believe it’s you,” Vivien started to read. “Get out! Get out now! I told you to never come back!”

  The actor stood up and started pacing. His eyes were bulging out of his sockets.

  “You smell that? Huh? The smoke in the air? That’s gonna be the smell of your body when they find you.”

  Vivien tried not to laugh at the ludicrous dialogue. “Please, no. Just leave me alone. I didn’t do anything.”

  “You better shut your mouth, you whore!”

  The actor took a step closer to her and started gritting his teeth.

  “I can’t believe you’re sa
ying these things,” she said. “I’m sorry I killed your brother, but it was an accident. You told me you would leave me alone!”

  He smiled maliciously. “The minute you took my brother’s life away was the minute your little ass became mine. I can do or say anything I want. You understand me?”

  The actor took three steps closer. He put his right hand out and touched Vivien’s shoulder.

  Oh, you didn’t just touch me asshole.

  “I think you better leave,” she said. “You better leave my house right now or I’m gonna—”

  “You’ll what?” The actor stared at her.

  “I’m gonna call the police!”

  “They won’t be able to get here in time.”

  “And why is that?”

  “I’ll tell you, you stupid little nothing…”

  He brought his face down to hers and grinned, eerily. The actor’s teeth were yellow and crooked. “…because I’m gonna eat you!”

  He stared at Vivien for the longest time, so long that she forgot what she was doing.

  Finally, he backed away.

  “You want to try anything different?” the actor asked.

  He brought his hands down toward his pockets and stared at the casting director like a dog waiting to be thrown a bone.

  “I think that’s all we need, but thank you so much,” Vivien said.

  He flashed her his nauseating smile one last time before exiting the room, the door slamming shut behind him.

  The room was silent for a moment. And then, Brandon started laughing. “Wow.”

  Vivien brought her pen down to her session sheet. She wrote three letters. W.T.F.

  In the back corner of the room sat Mary, the director. She was forty-two years old but looked to be in her late fifties. An out and proud lesbian, her hair was spiked gray.

  She turned to Vivien with a surprisingly gleeful look on her face. “What did you write down? I put down that he was interesting. I don’t know if he’s right for this role, but there might be a character for him toward the end of the film. I was thinking one of the goons. The fat goon, maybe?”

  “Are you shitting me?” Vivien wanted to destroy her. She turned to Mary, briefly looking at Brandon to make sure he agreed with her. “There’s no way that guy is gonna be in your movie. He can’t act.”

  Mary’s jaw dropped. “But he’s got a great look!”

  “No. He’s horrible.”

  “I don’t know. I kinda like him.” Mary started writing on her session sheet as if she couldn’t care less what her casting director had to say.

  Vivien looked at Brandon again, who gave her a knowing look.

  “All right, who’s next?” Vivien asked.

  She watched as Brandon moved away from his beloved camera and walked out of the room.

  Vivien sighed. This is gonna be a long one, she thought.

  The room was square and vomit yellow. It was mostly bare, aside from a few office chairs and an oversized white desk that separated the actor from everyone else. The essentials were all there—pens, paper, water bottles, headshots. Brandon even made sure there was an extra copy of the session sheet just in case one of the producers had decided to tag along.

  A knock at the door broke Vivien from her daze.

  “Yes?” she asked, sitting up straight.

  The door opened to reveal the intern. His name was Tom, and he may have been the worst one yet. He waved at Vivien, a torn sheet of paper in his left hand.

  “Did you want your messages?” he asked.

  “Yes, of course,” she said. “Anything important?”

  “There were just two messages. Or was it three? Hmm…”

  “OK, just, what are they?” Vivien asked, annoyed.

  Tom studied his notes before letting out a whimpy chuckle. “Sorry, sometimes I can’t even read my own handwriting.”

  “Do try.”

  “Oh, yes, that was it. Your son called.”

  “Yes, and what did he want?”

  “He wanted to know what you were making for dinner tonight.”

  “Well you definitely needed to interrupt me with that,” Vivien said with obvious sarcasm. “Next.”

  “And Financial Home Business called for you again about your timeshare in Mexico. They wanted you to call them back.”

  Vivien stretched out her arms and tried to keep from smashing them against her desk in frustration. “That’s not important either. Anything else?”

  He scanned his notes again. Tom was just out of high school and looked not a day over fifteen. His hair was blond and unkempt, and his face was covered in acne. He looked at his boss and smiled. “That’s it.”

  “OK. Where’s Brandon?”

  “I’ll get him.”

  Vivien looked down at her session sheet. Nine more actors were scheduled to read for the role of the rapist.

  What goddamn movie am I casting?

  She waited another minute until Brandon finally walked in. “Sorry, we had to print out the next actor’s headshot.”

  He stapled two pieces of paper together and handed Vivien the amateur headshot. She examined it, briefly, before setting it down on the desk.

  The next actor walked in. His name was John Fallwell. He was overweight like the last actor and looked even older.

  Vivien forced a smile. “Mr. Fallwell, hello. This is Mary Hayes, our director. That’s Brandon on camera. I’m Vivien Slate, the casting director. I’ll be reading with you.”

  He sat down in the chair and rested his right foot above his left knee. “I beg your pardon?”

  Vivien didn’t hear him. “Which scene would you like to start with?”

  “I’m sorry,” he said, clasping his hands together, “my agent said I didn’t have to read.”

  Awkward silence ensued. Vivien looked at Mary, and then back at the actor. “I’m sorry. John, is it? Everyone has to read.”

  “Vivien, is it?” the actor said, leaning forward. “I’ve been in this business for forty fuckin’ years. I don’t read.”

  Vivien brought her pen down to her session sheet and slashed a line through his name.

  I hope for my sake there aren’t forty more.

  ---

  An hour later the session was over and life was back to normal in the little casting office in Chatsworth, California.

  Vivien sat down in her big gray chair and started perusing her e-mails on her laptop—there were more than sixty. She coughed even though she didn’t need to and started typing. She still used only her two index fingers. But she could bang out more than a dozen e-mails in a matter of minutes.

  Just time me.

  Vivien Slate was forty-four years old. Her skin was pale white and her hair was black as film noir. She had been a casting director nearly half her life. Since the early 1990’s she had worked in some capacity at three of the major film studios—Universal, Paramount, and 20th Century Fox. She had been let go six years ago when Paramount briefly shut down its casting division. When it re-launched two years later, they didn’t ask her back.

  “Thanks, darling,” Mary said, tiptoeing into her private office. She gave Vivien a hug and a brief kiss on the cheek, but, thankfully, expected nothing more intimate in return. “So should we just focus on offers for the time being?”

  “Yes. We need to get a name for the role of Ian. Anyone you want me to go to?”

  “I think my first choice would be Brian Dennehy.”

  “He’ll never do this,” Vivien said.

  “What about John Goodman?”

  “Isn’t he a little young?”

  “No, I like him.”

  Vivien pursed her lips. “Well, I can call his agent. Goodman usually gets off on dollar signs, which we don’t have on this movie.”

  Mary looked disappointed but maintained a smile. “I wish I had more money for this. Half a million doesn’t seem to mean much these days.”

  Vivien sat down, as if to encourage Mary to make her way toward the door. “Actors are always looking for
money. Even a little bit. You never know.”

  “I can only offer fifteen, twenty tops.”

  “For four days?”

  “Yeah.”

  Vivien started turning her chair toward her laptop in the hopes that Mary would get the hint. She still didn’t. “I’ll see what I can do.”

  “You know what I was watching on TV last night?” Mary asked, still talking. “Streetcar Named Desire. What a classic.”

  “Yes, Mary, I know the film.”

  “People don’t make them like they used to. You know, I was wondering, what do you think about Karl Malden?”

  “What about him?”

  “You know, for Ian.”

  Vivien stared at the wall past her, and then locked eyes with the dumb ones inhabiting Mary. “I think he’s dead.”

  “Oh,” Mary said. “Right.”

  She was finally gone a minute later.

  ---

  Brandon’s desk sat just across from Vivien’s office near the waiting area. It was neatly organized, with a pad and paper, stapler, and bouquet of pens sitting in a row next to his impressive Apple laptop. To the left of him was the office telephone, with a drawer underneath stuffed full of headshots.

  He started going through the day’s stack of mail, filled mostly with postcards from wannabe actors. He opened a giant envelope and pulled out a headshot that screamed amateur like no other.

  “Tom, look at this.” Across from him sat the intern at a smaller desk, also with his own laptop, telephone, and pad of paper.

  “Yes. What?”

  “I think we’ve got one for the Wall of Shame.”

  The picture showed an emaciated old man standing with his back against a decaying, orange wall. A pink, wrinkled post-it had two words written on it: HOMELESS MAN.

  “What’s that for?” Tom asked.

  “The rape movie we’re casting.”

  “What’s that called again?”

  Brandon shook his head in frustration. “You should know the names of the movies we’re working on, Tom.” He threw the script on the intern’s desk. “It’s called Throes of Death. Read it by next week or I’m gonna strangle you.”

  Tom sat back in his chair and started skimming the first page. Brandon smiled. He thought this kid was kind of cute, despite his unfortunate case of facial acne.