FIFI
Anything Goes in the
Double Os
By
Marcus Dino
© Copyright 2005, Marcus Dino All Rights Reserved. Original publication 2005
Airleaf Publishing
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C H A P T E R 1
She drove her 10-year-old dark blue pickup truck, a Grand Junction Conqueror, down Sunset Boulevard on a cool Saturday morning. She had seen all the sights and sounds of Hollywood except for one place. She was finally getting used to living in L.A., although it had taken several months, after driving almost 1500 miles from her home in Des Moines, Iowa. She had an important interview on Monday with a big-shot Hollywood talent agent who could literally define the direction of her acting career. But today was Saturday, and she had to visit a place that one day she hoped would recognize her for her achievements: the Hollywood Walk of Fame.
She whistled along with the tunes coming from an oldies station on her radio as she headed toward the Hollywood Walk of Fame on Hollywood Blvd. “This is what it’s all about. I’ll have a star on that Walk of Fame in no time,” she muttered to herself as she drove past the famed intersection of Hollywood and Vine. She looked out the driver’s window and saw all the nondescript tourists, curiosity hounds, derelicts, and hookers walking the sidewalks. “Losers all of them,” She sneered. “I plan to make it here.”
She stopped at the red light at the intersection of Hollywood and Empire. A couple of young men in a late model Porsche stopped in the lane next to her. They both looked at her and winked at the cute redhead wearing sunglasses. The driver whistled to her, signifying his approval. When the light turned green, she calmly powered down the window on the passenger side, pointed her middle finger at the young men, and took off. She looked at her rearview mirror and saw both men laughing as they made a right turn at the intersection.
She had a deep sense of confidence within herself. She pulled off Hollywood Blvd. and parked her truck on a metered curb at a small side street named Cherokee Ave. She took her sunglasses off and put them in the glove compartment.
All the parking spaces on the sides of the street were metered and, in reality these were the only affordable places in the area to find parking, as the nearby paid lots charged six dollars, minimum. “A bunch of crooks,” she sneered to herself as she got out of the car, “Always trying to rip innocent hardworking people off.”
She was dressed casually in sneakers, tight blue jeans, and a light blue T shirt. She deposited a dollar’s worth of coins for an hour’s parking and walked briskly about three short blocks to the corner of Cherokee and Hollywood. When she got to Hollywood Blvd., she reached the Walk of Fame. There were the Stars—all of them pink with gold trim. Some of them were a little faded, due to many years of erosion.
She carefully perused the Stars while people walked past her, indifferent to the names below them. She felt a sense of indignity that people would show so little respect for some of the greatest names in film. She was immediately awestruck by some of the names she saw: Katherine Hepburn, Spencer Tracy, Clark Gable, Marlon Brando, Lana Turner, Gary Cooper, Henry Fonda...
There were also the names of people who had made their mark in other forms of entertainment besides acting: Elvis Presley, Robert Wise, Bill Haley, Chicago, Ed Sullivan, John Lennon...
There were also the names of people who were famous in anything but entertainment: Neil Armstrong, Buzz Aldren, Michael Collins... There were even a few non-people: Lassie, Trigger, Rin Tin Tin...
Finally, there were the names of people who were little known outside of the studios they worked for. They were the “character actors” who made movies with the big name stars during the “Silent era,” or Hollywood’s “Golden Age” of the 1930’s thru the 1950’s. Some of them had long ago passed away and would have been completely forgotten if not for a little pink star rewarding their many years of dutiful service to the giant, monolithic studios. These were people such as Laura Rowan and Kurt Smolinski...
“Kurt Smolinski,” she whispered to herself as she crossed the street at Hollywood and Gowar, where the Stars ended on one side and walked the other way to see the stars on the other side. “Who the hell is that?”
As she continued walking down Hollywood Blvd., she was surprised by its seediness. After all, this was the renowned Hollywood she had heard about all her life, and she saw cheap hotels, curio shops, nude bars, tattoo parlors, and numerous “street people” walking up and down the street with nothing but time on their hands. Some of them were down on their luck; others were winos, addicts, or hookers.
One of them approached her and asked for a few bucks for some food. He was unshaven and slovenly looking. She replied curtly, “You want money? Go get a job. I hear they’re begging for bodies at Burger Country!” She brusquely walked by the poor bum and continued looking at the Stars.
“You’re real cold, lady,” the unfortunate soul snapped back. “If you think your name’s gonna be in one of those pretty little stars, think again! You got a slightly better chance of winning the lottery.”
“I will make it here!” she shouted back, “In six months I will be a star.” Her voice was haughty and full of self-assurance.
“I wish you the best of luck,” the derelict replied with a tired voice. “You better be ready to kiss a lot of butts in the next six months and pray for that big break. I was in your shoes a year ago, full of spit and confidence. Now all I want to do is go back home, get a real job, and enjoy the rest of my life. But hey, now I see why you’re so mean and stingy; you’ll need every red cent trying to survive out here.”
“Don’t worry, I’ll make it,” she answered with a sneer. “I know I’ll have to work my butt off to make it here, but unlike you, I’ll never give up. Never!”
The bum smiled back at her. “You know, you just may get there. You’re such a bitch you may have what it takes to get to the top, Anyways, good-bye and good luck!” He walked away.
“Thank you,” she curtly answered. “Now don’t forget what I said. There’s a Burger Country restaurant right down the corner. You better shave and shower first; they don’t want any smelly applicants.”
She turned around with a smile and continued browsing at the Stars. “No one’s going to discourage me from taking a shot at Hollywood. Not Father, not Mother, not any of my friends,” she mumbled to herself. “After all, even if it comes to the slimmest of possibilities that I do fail, at least I can say I tried.”
After about 20 minutes of looking at the stars on the Walk of Fame, she decided to head back home to her apartment in Van Nuys. She changed her mind, however, as she drove down Hollywood Blvd. Instead of heading towards the 101 Freeway to her home, she decided to go north on Gowar Street, make a right at Santa Monica Blvd. and head towards Beverly Hills. There was one more place she wanted to go to.
She had seen all the well-known sights that represented Hollywood. She had visited all the major studios as a “tourist.” She had taken the tours of a lot of big name actors’, directors’, and producers’ homes. She had been to Graumann’s Chinese Theatre, and now the Walk of Fame.
She even had her career set up and ready to go. She had a BA in fine arts from Quincy College—a prestigious liberal arts college located in Quincy Massachusetts, not to far from Boston. She had taken numerous drama classes at Quincy and felt she had a leg up on the competition. Little did she realize how hard it was to even get noticed by anybody in Hollywood.
She had spent many months contacting directors, producers, and agents, looking for acting jobs. She used every medium possible, including the Internet and Hollywood trade magazines such as Hollywood Variety. She experienced nothing but rejection, or even no answer at all to her many cover letters, resumes, and glossy photos called headshots. In the time she had been in LA, she had managed to do some work as an extra for about eighty dollars a day.
The extra work, while low-paying, did open doors, as she was able to secure a union card from the Actors’ Union. This card is considered a “must” for any aspiring actor or actress trying to land a steady job in Hollywood, whether in movies or television.
Finally, after experiencing months of rejection, she had an appointment on Monday morning with one of Hollywood’s hottest talent agents, Jerry Goldsmith of the Hollywood Artists Talent Agency.
She had pestered Goldsmith numerous times, contacting his office weekly and sending at least three sets of resumes, cover letters, and headshots. Goldsmith finally contacted her to set her up for an interview.
Yes, she was ready to take a shot at a once-in-alifetime career. She had a part-time job as a waitress, working the evening shift at an out-of-the-way coffee shop in Sherman Oaks, called Jimmy’s. This freed her to go to auditions and tryouts in the morning. She had scrimped and saved almost ten grand with part-time jobs in college by working at a video rental store and as a Residence Assistant at her dormitory. She had been able to save some money, as she paid most of her tuition and living expenses at Quincy through loans, scholarships, and a little assistance from her parents, whom she had promised to pay back.
She figured the ten grand, which she put in an interest-bearing checking account, and the part-time job would give her a year to look for an acting job. However, when she arrived in Los Angeles, she was shocked to see how expensive it was to live there. She realized she would have to get a part-time job and find a roommate in an inexpensive section of town in order to make ends meet.
After she arrived in L.A., she stayed about a week at a Sleepy Hollow Inn motel in Temple City, a small town about 12 miles east of L.A. Temple City was located in the San Gabriel Valley, a relatively blue- collar area that does not have the glitz and glamour of Hollywood or L.A.’s “Westside” area, but was also a far less expensive place to live.
She found it humorous to see so many outdoor advertisements and signs in Chinese, Korean, Spanish, and other languages in lieu of English. “Are we in the
United States? This sure as heck isn’t Des Moines!” she said as she chuckled to herself.
She concentrated on finding a permanent place to live and a compatible roommate. She found an ad in the Los Angeles Sentinel for a person looking for a roommate in a two-bedroom apartment for a reasonable monthly rate—by L.A. standards—in Van Nuys, another blue-collar suburb of L.A. not too far from Hollywood.
The apartment complex was located on Greenwood Ave., just off of Van Nuys Blvd. When she arrived at the place to have an interview with her potential roommate, she was a bit concerned about how safe the area was. Van Nuys is generally a nice place to live, even though there are some seedy areas where gangs are known to inhabit.
Her interviewer, however, told her that the apartment complex had good security and that there had been no trouble with crime for the last five years. The interviewer was an attractive young Hispanic woman who worked as a court reporter for the Van Nuys Municipal Court. She also went to night school at City College to study business administration. Her name was Marissa Sanchez.
“Would you like something to drink?” she asked the aspiring actress as she interviewed her.
“Uh, do you have like a diet soda or something?”
“Of course,” Marissa went to the refrigerator, took out an eight-ounce can of diet root beer, and gave it to the actress.
The actress opened the can and took a sip of the sparkling drink. “Ahh this tastes great. Thank you.”
Marissa continued on. “You know, just from talking to you, I really like you. However, I would like a couple of character references from people not related to you before I let you move in. Also, I need statements from your bank. It’s for my landlord. He’s willing to let me take in a roommate to make ends meet, but he needs that information. He’ll also do a credit check on you; it’s really just a formality. So when do you think you’ll ready to move in?”
The actress took another sip of the root beer and smiled at Marissa. “As soon as possible, all I really have is my clothes. I’ve got like four suitcases full. I can probably get you the information that you requested by the end of the day. I always keep my references in a leather briefcase, along with copies of my resumes. You know, they’re from like former college professors. I even have a few letters of recommendation. Father says you should get as many references as possible when you’re looking for a job.”
“Great,” Marissa responded enthusiastically. “So would you like to move in by the end of the week?”
“Omigosh,” the actress responded enthusiastically. “I was thinking if I could move in like tomorrow. I mean it’s getting expensive living in that stupid motel, you know, paying over forty dollars every day.”
Marissa hesitated, not expecting the actress to move in so suddenly. “Yeah, sure you can move in tomorrow if you wish. Why don’t you get me that information that I requested first and I’ll contact you right away if
everything looks fine? Then you can move in, say, tomorrow morning?”
The actress smiled again. “Oh, I’ll get you those bank statements and references you requested this afternoon. And I’m sure my credit history’s perfect. I mean like I make payments at least two weeks before they’re due.”
“Great,” Marissa replied. “Cheryl Anne Larouche,” she said while reading the actress’s name off the application. “So do you like to be called Cheryl?”
“Cheryl’s my formal name,” the actress said. “My nickname is Fifi. My father gave me the name as a kid because I reminded him of a—French Poodle.”
“OK, Fifi,” Marissa chuckled. “That’s a great name, especially for an actress. Everybody will remember you.” She got up and put her hand out. “So if you can get me the information I requested and there’s no problem with my landlord, we’ll be roommates.”
“There’s one more thing,” Fifi told Marissa before she got up to shake her hand. “I’m not a ‘party girl’ or anything like that. I mean, you won’t see me bringing some guy home at 2 a.m.”
“I’m glad to hear that,” Marissa replied. “I have a boyfriend; his name’s Alberto and he’s a deputy Public Defender for L.A. County, but we’ll also be discreet. You won’t see us doing any hanky panky kind of stuff, especially while you’re around. Do you have a boyfriend?”
“No,” Fifi replied nonchalantly. “I’m not seeing anyone now. I’m too much into my career. I don’t
mean to be a prude, but I feel it’s wrong for a person to... you know, fool around till he or she gets married. Wouldn’t you agree with that?”
Marissa was a little hesitant with her answer. She sat back down on the couch. “You’re right,” she finally said. “Anyways, getting away from that—what do you like to do for fun?”
“Oh, lots of things—when I have the time. I like going to the beach, even though the water out here is deathly cold. I also, being an aspiring actress of course, enjoy going to the movies.” She wrinkled her nose. “You know, my father also agrees with me on this; none of today’s actors really stand out, at least when you compare them to the ‘old time’ actors. That’s why I feel I have what it takes to be a top-notch actress. I think I’m just as talented as any young actor or actress out there today.”
Marissa stared at Fifi with a wry smile. “That’s interesting. Is there anything else you like to do?”
“Oh, I don’t know. I like going to nice restaurants, comedy clubs, and maybe just doing a little shopping on the side; you know, like the One Buck or Less Store. Thank God for that place, considering how expensive it is to live out here. I go to the One Buck or Less Store all the time to buy my stuff. So I told you what I like doing. How about you? What do you like to do?”
Marissa put the application down on the coffee table near the couch. “Pretty much the same stuff, I definitely love shopping, though not necessarily at the One Buck or Less Store. Anyways, when we have the time you and I need to do some stuff together.”
“That’s sounds fine with me,” Fifi replied and finished her drink. “Thanks for the soda.”
“No problem,” Marissa answered as a she took the empty soda can from Fifi and threw it away in a plastic recycling bin in the kitchen. “Why did you choose Van Nuys as a place to live? I mean, why not a place closer to the beach, or near Hollywood?”
“Because, my dear,” Fifi smiled, “it gets quite expensive living near the beach or in any decent area near Hollywood, but I think I’m gonna like living out here in Van Nuys. The people down here seem down to earth; they remind me a lot of the folks back home, unlike some of the people I’ve seen in Hollywood, Beverly Hills, or West L. A,” she gave a sneer, “driving their fancy foreign luxury cars and not giving a damn about anybody but themselves. I mean, you seem to me as someone who’s very down-to-earth.”
“Thank you,” Marissa replied, “And you’re right. Van Nuys is a nice city to live in. The only drawback is that it gets pretty warm here in the summer.”
Fifi chuckled. “Back in Des Moines, when I dreamed about coming to California, I envisioned living in a nice apartment surrounded by palm trees, with a beautiful view of the beach. You know, like they show in the movies or on TV. Little did I realize that I’d be living in a place that could actually get warmer than Des Moines in the summer.” She got up and headed toward the door. “Oh, well, at least I don’t have to worry about any blizzards out here in the winter.”
Marissa laughed. “No, you don’t have to worry about that. I’ve never seen any snow out here.”
“And it’s so diverse out here,” Fifi continued. “I mean, I come from a place where it’s like 95% white. I remember back in high school I could count the number of minority kids with the fingers of my hands. Here in L.A. it’s like the opposite. I mean, you kind of feel like a minority if you’re white.”
Marissa smiled. “That’s what I love about L.A. It’s a mini United Nations, the Multicultural Capital of the World.”
“Oh, absolutely,” Fifi answered. “I enjoy meeting people from so many different backgrounds and cultures.”
“Well, it’s been nice meeting you, and I’ll be very happy to have you as my roommate. So, assuming that everything goes well, I’m looking forward to you moving in tomorrow.”
“Great,” Fifi said. “I’ll see you this afternoon with the papers.” She opened the apartment door and left.
Fifi smiled and reminisced about that first day she’d met Marissa as she drove down Santa Monica into Beverly Hills and made a right hand turn at her final destination, Rodeo Drive.
Fifi parked her pickup truck in one of the many metered parking spaces off Rodeo and chuckled to herself as she saw all the expensive “luxury cars” parked up and down the street. “I’ll easily be able to buy three of four of this kind of cars after I become rich and famous,” she muttered to herself.
She visited all the fancy stores and browsed at the costly merchandise with all the well-heeled “beautiful people,” but bought nothing, nothing.
She went from store to store and just looked at merchandise or put on a sample of expensive makeup or perfume, but she never bought anything. “Right now I just can’t really afford anything; I just want to see what it’s like to be rich. Maybe a year from now I’ll be able to buy a lot of stuff here,” she wistfully told the indignant salesperson.
As she got in her truck and left Rodeo Drive to go back to her apartment in Van Nuys, Fifi smiled to herself and said, “There is no doubt or question in my mind that in a year or two I will conquer this town. I can’t wait for the interview with that big shot agent on Monday. There are dreamers and there are doers; I definitely plan on being a doer.”
C H A P T E R 2
The day that would change Fifi’s life was just a typical spring day in Los Angeles. It was a little smoggy, and there was a miserable tie-up on the 101 freeway due to an accident. She made sure to leave her apartment in Van Nuys around 7:45 A.M. in order to make her 9 A.M appointment at Hollywood super agent Jerry Goldsmith’s office on Sunset Blvd. The drive was only about 10 miles, but traffic jams on L.A freeways— especially when accidents occur—are brutal, and a 10- mile trip can easily eat up an hour or more.
Fifi was determined to get there on time; she had to get there on time. Her career depended on this very important interview. After all, Goldsmith was one of Hollywood’s hottest talent agents and she had worked diligently for months to get an appointment, pestering Goldsmith’s secretary daily with phone calls.
“Come on, damnit!” she muttered as the traffic moved like slow molasses towards the Sunset exit. Fifi looked at her watch; it was already 8:20 A.M. Even if she arrived on time, she would have little chance to compose herself for what would probably be a difficult interview. She knew she had to be prepared now! Goldsmith would probably have her do a cold reading, which is to read and memorize a few lines on the spot.
How she performed would determine whether Goldsmith would represent her or not.
Suddenly the traffic let up, and Fifi arrived at the Sunset exit in no time. A few minutes later she arrived at Jerry’s office at Sunset and Venice. She parked her truck at a metered parking space about a block from Jerry’s office and deposited an hour-and-a-half worth of quarters. She looked at her watch again. It read 8:35 A.M. She’d arrived 25 minutes early. She breathed a sigh of relief and took her compact out to put a little dab of rouge on her youthful, cherubic face. She took a small brush out of her purse and brushed her fiery red shoulder-length hair. She checked her deep blue blouse and slacks for any wrinkles.
Finally, satisfied with her appearance and having a few minutes to kill before going to the interview, she headed toward a local coffeehouse directly across the street from the agency to prepare herself for any tough questions Goldsmith might ask. She felt cool, collected, and confident, and didn’t have any doubts that she would soon be represented by one of Hollywood’s hottest talent agents.
Fifi was young—22—a cute, vivacious freckle- nosed redhead with dark brown eyes. She was born and raised in the heart of the Midwest: Des Moines, Iowa. She was petite—5 ft. 3 inches tall—with a nice looking hourglass figure. She was fairly nearsighted, so she wore contacts most of the time, and her glasses only occasionally.
She had just recently graduated summa cum laude from one of the finest liberal arts colleges in the
country, Quincy College, located in the rustic rural community of Quincy, Massachusetts.
Her formal name was Cheryl Ann Larouche, but everybody called her Fifi. Her father, Charles, gave her that name when she was a small child. She had a short curly wave of hair on her forehead that reminded him of a French poodle.
She had a high-pitched voice. She talked quickly with a bit of a Midwestern drawl. Her father was Dr. Charles Larouche, a full professor at the Iowa Institute of Technology, better known as “Iowa Tech,” a highly regarded engineering school.
Carolyn, Fifi’s mother, was an assistant principal at Adam’s Elementary School in West Des Moines. Pigg was Fifi’s 12-year-old sister, a 7th grader at Shamrock Middle School in Altoona. Pigg was another outrageous nickname given by Charles to a second daughter, whose real name was Cathy. This was due to Pigg’s love as a small child for the farm animal. She collected Piggy banks, pig dolls, toy pigs, and so on.
The interesting thing was that Fifi and Pigg loved their unusual nicknames. They relished the fact that the Larouche family, especially Charles, was a bit eccentric.
Charles even named the family dog—a young, very energetic Shepard-Collie mix—Samuel, after the noted Nobel Prize winning economist Dr. Paul Samuelson. When Fifi was growing up, Charles saturated her with information at the dinner table on every subject, ranging from Philosophy to Physical Science. “You’ll get a specific education from your teachers in school,
but you’ll get a broad education from me,” he told her. He currently did the same thing with Pigg.
A great example of this “self education” occurred during a Microeconomics class Fifi took in her sophomore year at Quincy. The young assistant professor, noticing that Fifi looked half awake, asked her to explain The Theory of Elasticity, to the class. Fifi not only explained the theory to the class, but she gave several detailed hypothetical examples of how the theory could be used. The professor, who wanted to catch Fifi off-guard for not being attentive, was dumbfounded. “You look like you were taught this before.”
“Of course I was,” Fifi answered with a wry smile. “Wasn’t everybody? I mean, I knew this stuff like the back of my hand when I was fifteen.” The entire class laughed out loud.
Charles, being an economist, felt it was important that everyone in his family was knowledgeable about money. “When you land a career on your own, study your company’s retirement plan,” he once told Fifi. “If they don’t have a good pension plan, make darn sure that they have a strong profit-sharing program where they’ll match any contributions you put in. And last but not least, make sure you invest in something like municipal tax-free bonds. I know you’re reading all this stuff about the boom in tech stocks, but you listen to me; it’ll come crashing down in a year or two. The market’s like a yoyo—always up and down. You don’t want to mess around with your principle.
Charles, a thin gaunt-looking man of average height in his middle fifties with salt and pepper colored hair, could be humorous with his thrifty ways. For instance, he rarely made long distance phone calls when he contacted Fifi in Los Angeles from his home in Des Moines; he preferred using email. “It’s absolutely ridiculous to pay these outrageous long distance rates when I can literally contact her for free,” he told Carolyn. Iowa Tech provided free Internet access to its employees.
Another time, when he and Carolyn were eating lunch in a Des Moines fast food restaurant on a cold December Saturday after doing some Christmas shopping, Charles noticed Carolyn buying a medium sized Orange soda with her lunch. “They have free refills here,” he said, mildly annoyed, to Carolyn. “Why didn’t you buy a small one?”
Carolyn gave Charles a tired look, smiled, and shook her head. “Charles, will you quit being so cheap. There’s just a twenty-cent difference between the small and large size cups. Besides, I don’t want to get up again. I’m doggone tired from all the shopping we did this morning, so I’d rather have one drink from a larger cup.”
There was also a demanding side to Charles. “You know you could have done a little better,” he told Fifi several times: first, when she just missed getting a perfect high school record and making ian due to the fact that she earned a couple when she received a score of 1380 on her college boards, which was 220 points below a perfect score, but still an outstanding accomplishment, as it was achieved by only a small percentage of people who took the test.
Charles was opinionated about almost everything, and he loved discussing current affairs. “It’s just appalling how weak the kids are in math and science in this country when compared with the rest of the world,” he growled to his family at the dinner table. “I don’t see how we can be leaders of the free world much longer unless we drastically improve our educational system.” He expected the rest of his family to be up-to- date on current affairs and to be prepared to have an intellectual conversation with him.
The rock of stability in the family was Carolyn—a tall, attractive, still youthful-looking brunette in her early fifties. She worked hard at her dual roles of being the family matriarch and an elementary school administrator. She kept quiet and tried not to take sides during family conflicts. She did comfort Fifi and Pigg when they felt frustrated in always trying to please Charles. She’d known Charles for nearly thirty years, going back to when she met him when they were both graduate students at the University of Iowa. She knew he could be stubborn, but that deep down inside he was a good and honest man.
Fifi was an ardent churchgoer who rarely missed attending Mass on Sunday. “The Lord expects me to fulfill my obligation as a Christian,” she would say. “People who don’t attend church regularly aren’t real Christians.”
Fifis’ personality was also distinct. She liked to use terms such as “Omigosh!” and “Give me a break!” in her conversations. She also had a most peculiar trait of humming, or even singing La Marseillaise—the French national anthem—when she got bored or stressed out.
“I’m part French, and I really enjoy the lyrics,” she would respond.
Charles noticed this habit of Fifi’s singing La Marseillaise and asked her why she didn’t sing the “Star Spangled Banner” instead. “Wouldn’t that be more patriotic?” he questioned Fifi. “I mean I’m proud of my French ancestry, but we are Americans now!”
“Oh please, Father!” Fifi responded nonchalantly, “The Star Spangled Banner doesn’t have the smoothness and rhythm of La Marseillaise. “It just gives me a rush of excitement when I sing it.” Little did Fifi realize that her strange habit of singing La Marseillaise would change her life one day.Fifi looked at her watch.
“Ten minutes till nine,” she muttered to herself. She looked at the agency and saw a man and a woman unlocking the doors. “That must be Goldsmith, and maybe his secretary.” She rushed out of the coffeehouse towards the agency, knowing that next few minutes could possibly be the most important in her life.
As Fifi rushed toward her interview, she thought about her father. Charles had no idea about Fifi’s acting career. He thought that Fifi was working in California for a prestigious consulting firm, McReynolds and Company. Fifi told her father she was working as a Management Consultant for McReynolds. She did interview with McReynolds her senior year at Quincy and because of her impressive interview combined with her strong credentials she was actually given an offer with a very good salary from the prestigious consulting firm. She turned the job down, though, saying her heart really was not in being a management consultant. She wanted Charles to think, however, that she had accepted the position and had been working as a consultant, since he would never accept her pursuing an acting career.
She knew that Charles would balk at her pursuing a “one chance in a million” type of career. He was a little discouraged when she chose Fine Arts as a college major, as opposed to Economics. “I hope you’re not considering something like acting as a career,” he sternly told Fifi. “You have a better chance of winning the lottery than making it big in Hollywood. You will be waiting on tables the rest of your life!”
Charles showed little respect for people who pursued what he called “lottery type” careers, such as entertainers, professional athletes, or even the young “techies” who made millions as founders of high tech “dot com” startups.
“They always talk about that one percent who made it to the top,” he would angrily say, “How about the other ninety-nine percent who didn’t make it?”
He felt that pursuing a “long shot career” was a waste of time and that the best formula for success was still the old fashioned means of working for a reputable company or firm and move up the ladder. He had worked hard to reach his current position of prominence as full professor at a major research university, and he sneered at anyone going for the easy buck.
Thus Charles was relieved when Fifi told him she was considering going to Law School or Business School after she graduated. She had chosen Fine Arts as a major, but because the coursework was not too strenuous she earned a very high GPA. This made it easier for her to get into a highly competitive Graduate School. Charles was happy to hear that Fifi was ambitious about her future. “Even if you lose your job because of downsizing,” he told her,” you can always get another good paying job in a short amount of time when you have a graduate degree from a top school.”
There was a bit of malaise in Charles’ feelings about the present. On one crisp April Sunday he expressed this cynicism to his family, while taking a leisurely tour of the scenic Iowa countryside on Interstate 35 outside of Des Moines in his large silver
Grand Junction Century Sedan. The Larouche family, which included Fifi—home for Easter break from Quincy—Charles’ widowed mother Claudia—a thin energetic white haired woman in her early eighties who looked much younger, Charles, Carolyn, and Pigg—the frisky young brown-haired tomboy who naturally wore pigtails. They were all dressed in their Sunday finest after attending mass at St. Christopher’s Catholic Church in Des Moines.
“We’re now in the 21st century, the 2000’s,” Charles nonchalantly told his family as they drove quietly past the farms of the Iowa countryside. “When I was a kid I thought everybody would have their own little flying car and we’d all be taking round trips to the moon by the year 2000.” Everybody in the car chuckled.
“This decade doesn’t even have an identity,” Charles continued as they drove quietly past the farms. The air was filled with an early spring frost in the Iowa countryside. “Look at the people who are the movers and shakers today; they all seem to come out of a cookie jar. No personality!” Charles grumbled angrily, to no one in particular. “There’s no one to look up to today like in the old days—men like Harry S. Truman or General Patton.”
Charles then gave Fifi a whimsical look. “And your generation, young lady, under 40, is even more full of angst than mine. They don’t seem to care about anything except making money and relaxing in a hot tub!”
“Oh, Father, give me a brreak!” Fifi responded, half asleep in the back seat. “People my age are interested in the environment and doing volunteer work. Not everyone is into making a zillion dollars at something Dot Com”
“Then name me someone under the age of 40 who stands out in the arts and sciences besides movie stars or pop musicians,” Charles replied sardonically. There was a moment of silence. “Yeah, that’s what I thought,” Charles yelled rhetorically. “Can’t think of anyone, face it, Fifi, we are becoming a society without color—nameless, faceless, the so-called ‘Information Age’ where people are tied to technology. Hell, they might as well be computers!”
“Charles!” Carolyn blurted out. “Watch your language!”
“I’m sorry,” Charles replied. “It’s just that I’m so disillusioned about the current state of affairs our society is in. Yesterday I read a story about some kid who cashed his stock options after quitting his job as CEO of an Internet Startup in the Silicon Valley—some company called Footwear.com or something like that. I think they sell shoes. Anyway, the kid made something like 200 millions dollars.” Charles clenched his teeth. “What got me was his age and education. He was 28— half my age, and a college dropout! Meanwhile, here I am with a doctorate in economics from a prominent school like Iowa, working my butt off just to get by.”
The cornfields stretched to the horizon; the sky was a brilliant azure, with hardly a cloud to be seen, as the
Larouche family drove south towards Winterset to visit the some of the famous covered bridges of Madison County.
“What gets me so pissed off,” Charles continued, “is even if these son-of-a-guns get fired, they get well- compensated. I just read about a CEO who was ousted at Benning Labs, you know that big telecommunications firm? This guy received a severance package worth 15 million dollars, including stock options. A regular Joe like me gets booted out the door without a red cent if we get canned for being incompetent.”
He glanced at Fifi from the rearview mirror “By the way, when’s your interview for McReynolds and Company?”
“In late May Father—about a week before graduation.”
“Good. Try your best to get a job with them. They’re a big-time firm, and they have offices in all the major cities. Later on, when you get established, you can get an MBA at night at one of the top business schools. They’ll reimburse your tuition. Yeah, don’t be stupid like me; get something hard like a Doctorate Degree in Economics and still be poor. Go get a basket-weaving degree like an MBA and be rich, or at least marry someone who’s rich.”
“Charles!” Carolyn interrupted. “Let Fifi run her own life. She’s just got an interview with the firm. She may not even get an offer.” She looked at Fifi and smiled. “Fifi, don’t let your father decide your future; you do what’s best for you.”
“She’ll get the job, right Fifi?” Charles chuckled. “She’ll knock ‘em dead in the interview.”
“Of course, Father,” Fifi replied. “I have every intention of getting that job.” She was lying; the only thing she cared about was being an actress. She did the interview just to appease Charles. “And you’re right,” she continued. “It takes good common sense, not just brains, to be successful in this society, so why not study something that’s not too difficult in college or graduate school. If it just took brains, all the engineers and scientists and economists,” she smiled at Charles, “would be living the great American Dream, making all those big salaries with stock options and living in million dollar homes, while the lawyers, accountants and MBA’s would be making an average wage and living in modest homes or apartments.”
“That a girl!” Charles replied. He continued to voice his frustration about being a have not as opposed to a have. “You know, they just named the new Arts and Science Dean at Tech. He’s only 42 years old. Heck, he’s probably just been teaching a little over a decade. That’s what gets me so frustrated. I’ve been teaching nearly thirty years, been tenured the last twenty, and have had my papers published in major economic journals. Now some young upstart fourteen years my junior becomes my boss. I mean I’ve been working over thirty years and never had an unsatisfactory performance evaluation. Most of the time I was rated outstanding to excellent.”
“Oh please, Charles,” Carolyn blurted out. “You’re a tenured professor, you’re an outstanding member in your community, you’ve got total job security, and besides that you get over three months vacation every year. What more could you ask for? That young dean probably has to deal with twice the amount of stress that you do. And I read that only a few of those dotcoms survive, while the vast majority fails. So that dotcommer you are talking about is one of the lucky few.”
“Maybe you’re right, honey,” Charles sighed. “I should be thankful for what I’ve got. A good family, a good career, job security. I mean I do read about people losing their jobs everyday and living in homeless shelters. But... sometimes you feel like it’s the haves against the have-nots in this society. I haven’t even gotten a traffic ticket the last ten years, and I have an excellent credit rating. Why should we reward people in this society who are less deserving?”
“You know, Charles,” Carolyn blurted out, “your biggest problem is your ego. Society is always going to be like that. There’s always going to be a lucky someone who gets to be top dog. I say forget about those lucky few and be satisfied with our station in life.”
“Hear! Hear!” Claudia chipped in. “Now Charles, you pay attention to your wife. What she says makes a lot of sense. The Lord gave us all prominent roles to pursue in our lives. No one is more important than anyone else, regardless of how much money they make. You know, Carolyn, he’s always had an ego the size of a balloon.”
“OK, Mom,” Charles chuckled. “I won’t let my ego get to me. Besides, something else just crossed my mind.”
Carolyn smiled. “What’s that, dear?”
“This decade, it doesn’t even have an identity. I mean what do you call it? The Naught decade? The new millennium sounds corny. Heck, we didn’t call the 1970’s, 80’s, or 90’s the ‘old millennium’.”
“What are you trying to get at, dear?” Carolyn responded. “Who cares what people call this decade? And by the way, dear, I forgot to mention a lot of those young men who were dot com millionaires a year ago are much poorer now because of the drop in the stock market.”
Charles didn’t reply. He was deep in thought.
Claudia noticed that, “When Charles is thinking about something, you might as well be talking to a brick wall,” she said laughingly.
“I know, Mother,” Carolyn responded. “I’ve lived with the man for thirty years and sometimes he has the attention span of a flea.”
“I know what they should call this decade: the Double O’s!” Charles said excitedly, not paying attention to Carolyn’s comments. “How about this caption to describe our current state of malaise anything goes in the Double O’s? Yes, I like that! Anything goes in the Double O’s. That phrase gives this decade a feeling of personality,” he said with a wry smile.
“What do you think guys?”
“I like it, Dad,” Pigg replied. “It sounds catchy.”
“Sounds great, Father,” Fifi said, looking out the window nonchalantly.
“Whatever you say, dear,” Carolyn replied.
“And you, Mother?” Charles asked Claudia. “What do you think of the phrase?”
“I’ll go with the rest of gang. Maybe you ought to sell it to Madison Avenue,” Claudia said half jokingly.
“Not a bad idea,” Charles replied half-kidding. “Make a ton of money and quit my day job,” he chuckled.
“I wonder what they’ll call the next decade.” Charles pontificated, “The teens, the tens, or the adolescent years?”
“Oh please, dear!” Carolyn sighed. “As though we should be worried about what the decades should be called.”
“I’ve got a good phrase for the next decade,” Charles said excitedly. “We’ll all be eating pork and beans in the Teens.” The whole car exploded in laughter.
“Oh, you’re so optimistic, dear,” Carolyn answered. “It’s the way of nature when you teach a dismal science,” Charles retorted.
“Well, I’m much more optimistic,” Carolyn said. “How about we’ll all be living like kings and queens in the Teens?
“Yes, that’s more optimistic and much more realistic, dear,” Claudia responded. “Charles is just an old fuddy duddy.”
“All right, all right,” Charles said. “Maybe we’ll all live like kings and queens in the next decade, even
though I highly doubt it. But I definitely feel the term anything goes in the Double O’s is appropriate for the current decade. Anyway, enough of that; let’s go stop for some lunch. There’s a nice Chuckys’ over in Winterset, and then we can go take a look at some of those bridges. If we have some time left, maybe we can stop by and visit John Wayne’s birthplace. You know he was my hero when I was a kid growing up.”
“Anything goes in the Double O’s,” Fifi muttered to herself in the back seat of her family car, while the rest of her family continued on with small talk. “That’s the motto I’m using from now on to help me get ahead in this cold cruel world: Anything goes in the Double O’s.”
It was this motto that crossed Fifi’s mind at she approached Goldsmith’s office. “Nobody’s going to stop me from reaching my goal,” she whispered to herself as she opened the door. “Not Father, not Mother, not anybody. I may be taking a one-in-amillion chance of making it as a star, but it’s a chance I’m willing to risk.” She muttered about one more thing that Charles had mentioned—about being a have as opposes to a have not. I definitely plan to be a have, she thought to herself as she closed the door. After all, anything goes in the Double O’s!
C H A P T E R 3
Fifi walked into Goldsmith’s office at 8:55 A.M., 5 minutes ahead of schedule, and was greeted with a warm smile by the receptionist, Debbie Matthews, a statuesque blond in her middle thirties.
“May I help you?” she asked.
“My name is Cheryl Larouche,” Fifi answered. “I’m supposed to have an appointment with Mr. Goldsmith at 9:00. So here I am, right on the dot.” She gave Debbie a weak smile.
“Oh, yes, Ms. Larouche.” Debbie responded. “Mr. Goldsmith will see you in a few minutes. Please sit down and get comfortable.” She contacted Jerry on the intercom to tell him that Fifi had arrived for her interview.
She quickly closed her eyes for a few minutes while she waited. She wasn’t nervous about the upcoming interview. Heck, this can’t be any tougher than passing my elective class in Differential Equations, she thought to herself.
She noticed a few people coming in. Three young, well-dressed men walked into different rooms. Two of them were associate agents of Jerry’s; a third was an in- house lawyer who helped with negotiations and contracts.
“Mr. Goldsmith will see you now. It’s the first door on the right.” Debbie smiled at Fifi after about a ten- minute wait.
Finally the moment of truth arrived for Fifi. She did a last-second styling of her hair and opened the door, feeling proud of herself. “Please sit down, Ms. Larouche.” Jerry smiled as he greeted her. He was a short, dapper man in his late fifties. He had a nice tan and still had curly black hair, probably due to using a little hair dye.
“Hello, Mr. Goldsmith.” Fifi smiled back as she sat curtly in a large armchair in front of Goldsmith’s desk, which was cluttered with scripts and trade publications. There was also a picture of Jerry on a fishing trip with his teenage daughter. “I can’t tell you what a pleasure it is to finally meet you.”
“The pleasure’s all mine,” Jerry responded. He sat down in a large red comfortable-looking armchair behind his desk. “So you’re looking for representation. Well, I basically have all the clients I need, but I would be foolish to say I’m not looking for good young talent.” He gave Fifi an intense glare. “Tell me, Ms. Larouche, are you really serious about being an actress? Do you know how slim your chances are of making it in this business?”
Fifi returned the glare. “Mr. Goldsmith, I’ve wanted to be an actress since I was eight years old. On Sunday afternoons Father and I always curled up in front of the TV set and watched old movies.” She cuffed her left hand to her mouth and spoke softly, “I mean, between you and me, they don’t make movies or
TV shows like they used to. All you see today are movies full of sex and violence and dumb comedies and ‘reality shows’ on TV.”
She continued her voice now full of spit and confidence. “I know how tough it is to make it in this business; you don’t have to tell me. I turned down a potential high-paying position as a management consultant for an opportunity to make it in show business, so I’m not letting you nor my father nor anybody else try and stop me, and if you don’t want to represent me I’ll find an agent who will. Heaven knows, I’ve already contacted at least a dozen before I talked to you. They have all rejected me, but I’ll keep on trying till I find someone who won’t. And if things get tough out here, then I’ll just go to New York and try to make it out there—you know, Broadway. But I won’t give up, ever!”
Jerry was at first taken back by Fifi’s forwardness, but then he smiled at her.
“I like your style, young lady maybe you do have what it takes to make it in this ‘Darwinian’ world of survival-of-the-fittest.” He paused. “All right, I’m going to have you do a cold reading and then I’ll tell you if I’m interested in you, but first I want you to tell me a little about yourself. Now I got your nice looking glossy and your resume. I see you graduated with a degree in Fine Arts from Quincy last year.”
He motioned towards Fifi’s resume sitting on his desk. “But a piece of paper doesn’t tell me what you can do. I’ve had many prospects that have graduated from some of the finest colleges and drama schools in
the country. Only a handful of them have made it. I also represent high school dropouts who are some of the biggest name actors in Hollywood. Like anything else, it takes hard work, perseverance, and being in the right place at the right time.”
“So what you’re saying Mr. Goldsmith is that like anything else in this world it takes more guts than brains to get to the top in Show Business. Well I’ve got plenty of guts, I wouldn’t even consider an acting career if I didn’t have any.”
Jerry leaned back in his chair gazed at a defiant Fifi, and smiled. “Yes that’s kind of what I’m saying, so tell me a little bit more about yourself.”
Fifi looked up at the ceiling for a second then gave Jerry a thoughtful look. “Well, my name’s Cheryl Larouche, but everyone calls me Fifi because I had curly red hair when I was a baby, so Father thought I looked like a French poodle, therefore my given nickname. I happen to also be of French ancestry, so the name just comes naturally.”
She paused a few seconds and looked at the fingernails on her right hand. “Anyway, Father’s a bit eccentric. He nicknamed my kid sister—she’s twelve —Pigg because she used to love the animal as a small child. We like our nicknames, and so do most of our friends and acquaintances.
Jerry sat back, smiling at Fifi’s amusing anecdote. She continued on. “I grew up in Des Moines, Iowa. It’s not really a farm town, like people think. A lot of large insurance companies have their headquarters in Des Moines, and recently a lot of high tech companies have opened shop there. The cost of living’s real cheap out there, compared to here. My God, I’m splitting a two bedroom in Van Nuys with my roommate for $1200 a month. I mean, in Des Moines you can get a two-bedroom apartment for one- half as much. It’s just so ridiculous. It’s also so crowded out here, long lines everywhere! There must be a million people per square mile.”
She noticed that Jerry was getting bored, and she smiled. “Ok, let’s talk about me again. Like I said before, ever since I was a kid I’ve loved movies. I especially loved the old movies and the old time actors. I mean Bogart and Brando. There’s nobody like them today. Then you have such classy women like Ingrid Bergman, Katherine Hepburn, and the other Hepburn— Audrey. My favorite movie was Casablanca. I started pursuing my childhood dream of being a famous actress in high school. I played Ophellia in my school’s production of Midsummer’s Night Dream. Then in college I studied drama under some renowned teachers such as Noah Krasner.”
“I know of him,” Goldsmith interrupted. “I believe he taught here a few years back at the L.A. playhouse. Please go on.”
“Omigosh, I loved his class!” Fifi continued. “I mean, he made us all talk to each other for a few minutes before we rehearsed about anything that came to our minds. He wanted us to develop good speaking skills so we could feel and express how our characters felt. Anyway, besides majoring in fine arts at Quincy, I was in the school productions of Streetcar Named Desire and My Fair Lady. Of course I played the lead roles of Blanche Dubois and Eliza Doolitle. They felt I was a natural.”
“Yes, I wouldn’t doubt that,” Jerry responded, shaking his head. “Please go on.”
“Anyway,” Fifi continued, “I got my degree and headed out west. Of course Father thinks I took a high paying consulting job with a prestigious firm. I mean, I told him a little white lie.” She giggled. “So now I’m here and I’ve been busting my butt the last four months contacting agents, and to be honest you are the first one who has responded. I mean, what are they doing that keeps them so busy? Like do they all have a whole stable of stars and can’t talk to anyone else?”
“I told you its pretty competitive out there.” Goldsmith responded wistfully. “All right, so you’re the All-American Girl from the Midwest who’s got stars in her eyes and plans to make it big in Hollywood. Remember what I said, there are a million out there just like you, but I do like your fire. Now, let’s see what you can do.”
He went over to a stack of books on a shelf next to his desk. He took one out. King Lear, he muttered to Fifi. “Do Act 1, Scene I. We’ll go from stanzas 80 thru 114. You play Cordelia, I’ll play Lear. Now, what I want to see is emotion.”
“No sweat,” Fifi replied confidently. “I took several classes in Shakespearean drama in college. I know King Lear like the back of my hand.”
“Good,” Goldsmith answered. “After we’re done with the reading I’ll have some idea in my mind aboutyour abilities and whether I should represent you or not.” He gave her his book and took another copy of King Lear from the shelf. “OK, let’s get started. Go to page 4 and start from Stanza 80.
“Then poor Cordelia,” Fifi responded. “And yet not so, since I am sure my love’s more ponderous than my tongue.”
Jerry answered as Lear. “To thee and thine hereditary ever...A third more opulent than your sisters? Speak.” This dialogue continued on for the next five minutes. Jerry studied Fifi as she read her lines, looking to see if she was immersing herself in the role of Cordelia. For the first few minutes he was delighted with Fifi’s performance as she showed strong affinity for the character, but then the emotion in her voice began to trail off.
She was strictly starting to read her lines, a taboo in acting. Jerry knew that actresses who read or just memorized their lines were a dime a dozen.
By the time Fifi had finished the reading, Jerry had made up his mind. He couldn’t represent her until she perfected her acting skills. It was a shame, he thought, because she did have a wholesome appearance and a perky personality that could get her attention in this cutthroat business. The people who called the shots, though—the producers, directors, and casting directors —wanted more than just someone with the “right look.” They wanted an actor or actress who breathed life into the character. Jerry, even though he had a good
reputation in Hollywood, was concerned that Fifi would suffer too much rejection.
“All right, good job,” he said to Fifi after she completed the last stanza. He tried to be subtle in rejecting her. “Look, I think you’ve got great potential, but I can’t represent you right now. I’ve got too many clients and just don’t think I have the time to bring in anybody else at the present. Why don’t you take a few acting classes in the evening? I can give you a list of some excellent teachers who charge reasonable prices. Then, after you get some experience, call me back in a couple of months or so. I may have an opening or two by then. You know there’s a lot of turnover in this business, and some clients do leave.”
“Wait a minute,” Fifi interrupted caustically. “You look like you’re telling me in a nice way that you don’t think I can act.”
“I didn’t say that,” Jerry answered. “I told you that I’m very busy with my clients right now and for you to contact me in a couple of months. Meanwhile, you need to improve your skills by taking some acting classes.”
“Oh, give me a break!” Fifi angrily replied. “I can read between the lines. If you’re not interested in representing me, why did you call me in the first place?”