Chapter One: It's Now or Neiman's
Desi fumbled with the keys at the front door of her house
in Culver City, barely able to balance the bags of
groceries she held in her arms. The wind was coming at a
slant, right in her direction (of course), causing her to
be pelted relentlessly by hot drops of smog-infested water
that seemed to fly at her with a sense of purpose.
They said it never rained in southern California.
Well, whoever they were, they lied.
Today the rain was coming down with a vengeance, spewing
upon her out of the heavens with a fierceness that seemed
deliberate in its intent. It was September 20. Officially
the last day of summer.
How appropriate, she thought. Everything today was
apparently the last. The last of the summer. The last of
her luxuries.
The last damn straw.
That is, if things didn't change. And soon.
She normally kept her thick hair blow-dried straight, but
the rain caused it to revert back into its natural, loose-
bodied curl. Now her dark brown shoulder-length hair was
sticking to her face and neck, a clammy mess that didn't
help the muggy feeling she'd been awash in all afternoon
as she drove around in the post-lunchtime traffic and sun.
She'd avoided the freeways, but La Cienega had been
jammed, and so was Sepulveda. Even as she made her way on
Slauson, cars were backed up. People were moving at an
absolute crawl.
Despite the rain, she'd been driving with the windows
down, and her body was hot to the core. There was nothing
she could do about it. She couldn't turn on the air
conditioner in the car. No way could she afford to burn up
her gas like that. These days, she had to make the dollars
stretch as far as she possibly could.
As she stood at her front door, her bulky brown purse
slipped off her left shoulder, which, in turn, caused her
to lose her balance with the grocery bags, which were
already weak because they were made out of paper and
soaked all the way through. Desi always chose paper over
plastic. At least it was biodegradable, recyclable,
something. She'd been in California a long time now, and
subscribed fully to the idea of living a clean life and
leaving behind a clean world.
She stumbled, trying to recover her balance, but the bags
gave way altogether. The lush, tender, rose and yellow
late-summer peaches rolled loosely onto the porch, the
fuzz picking up dirt like fresh Velcro. Already fragile,
only hours away from being classified as overripe, they
bruised instantly.
The peaches were followed by the big green bell pepper
she'd spent far too many minutes picking out. The jicama,
cucumber, plum tomatoes, and fresh cilantro all hit the
porch with a smack, and the fresh-baked loaf of sourdough
bread, a treat for herself, fell top down in the muddy
puddle that had gathered beneath her feet. The bread had
been wrapped in paper. As the driving rain pelted it
further, it became a nasty mess.
A box of Gardenburgers bounced on its corner, rolled down
the front steps, and landed flat on the sidewalk, the rain
smattering an angry tune against it. At that exact moment,
a frog decided to leap over and claim the box as its home.
It perched itself square in the center.
Desi just stared at it, the crowning insult on a miserable
day.
She pulled her purse back up on her shoulder, slipped the
key in the door, kicked it open, and then began the
harried task of gathering up the scattered food. Two of
the peaches were damaged beyond consumption. She collected
everything else in her arms as best she could and tossed
them inside the front door.
Desi gave a quick glance over her shoulder. She decided to
let the Gardenburgers be.
She closed the front door, kicked off her shoes, and
walked into her living room.
Desi collapsed in her burnished leather armchair, the one
facing the front door, and surveyed the wet groceries on
the floor in the foyer.
Well, there was nothing that could be done about it. She'd
have to make do with the food. She wasn't about to go out
and waste more money, especially when she didn't have much
to use, let alone waste. There wasn't much left, other
than her savings, and that wasn't a whole lot. Just a
couple thousand dollars. She hadn't yet begun to dip into
it. She swore to herself she never would.
Desi hadn't started on her credit cards yet either. That
was definitely the no-no zone. She'd had an ugly episode
with her credit cards when she first arrived in LA. She
had stupidly lived off of them for the first few months,
confident that she'd immediately get well-paying work in
the industry. Everybody back home was always telling her
how beautiful she was, how she looked like a movie star,
so it was no worry for her at all.
She used her credit cards for the cheap motel she stayed
in when she first arrived, she used them for groceries,
gas, car repairs, headshots, clothes, acting classes,
everything, with a fervor and mindlessness that she hoped
to never see again.
The cheap motel turned out to be not so cheap after all.
While the weekly rate wasn't bad, there was a charge every
time she picked up the phone to make a call, local or long
distance. The charges for the calls quickly mounted, until
the phone expense was greater than the actual motel rate.
Desi also quickly learned that LA was full of women, black
women, who looked like movie stars. Women out of work. It
was a well-known fact that Hollywood had little place for
actors of color. Not in general. Desi figured she'd be an
exception, blow up overnight and make megabucks, and then
be able to effect change and open doors for other people
of color. That was her first Hollywood lesson: She was no
exception. And these days, other than a Denzel here, a
Will Smith there, and an Eriq LaSalle on television, there
were very few exceptions. There certainly weren't any
black women out there commanding eight-figure salaries,
and those making seven could be counted on one hand.
Whoopi. Angela. Whitney. That was about it.
On the Latina front, Jennifer Lopez was able to command
big bucks. These days, however, as her hair got blonder
and blonder, she looked not so much Hispanic as she did a
white girl with a tan. Which made it easier for Hollywood
to accept her and place her in roles. Pretty soon they'd
be pretending she was white. Something that was much
harder for them to do with a black woman.
Desi canvassed everything to find acting work. She read
Backstage West, Variety, Hollywood Reporter, and any other
trade magazine or rag she could get her hands on. At one
point she had three agents that she operated between, none
of whom helped her book anything. She mailed out
unsolicited headshots to casting agents, but received no
responses. At night, she hung out at restaurants and clubs
known for their celebrity clientele, in the hopes of being
discovered. She found out about auditions on her own and
showed up, stunned at the staggering number of beautiful
black women who were all trying out for the same roles.
Not one callback ever came. Her desperate pursuits always
turned out the same.
Nothing. Not one single gig.
In the process, Desi the ingenue, newly disillusioned,
spirits sagging, and without any offers for industry work,
accrued, in her first two months in LA, over fifteen-
thousand-dollars' worth of debt, with no income to offset
it. Long before she got any real work, the creditors were
hovering and harassing her around the clock. It had been a
horrible experience. She swore to herself that it would
never happen again.
Things were tight now, but it wasn't as bad as that
situation had been. There were no creditors hovering. She
didn't panic every time the phone rang. At least, not
because she was afraid there'd be a creditor on the other
end.
She'd been anticipating the phone ringing, and, even
though it might bring good news, she also knew the good
news wasn't necessarily good news for her future.
It had been a while since she'd done any industry work
that paid her well. She did a film the year before, but
the budget was small and she was only paid twenty thousand
dollars. She was very aggressive about working, but the
roles were scarce. The last part she had auditioned for
went to Nia Long. Since then, there hadn't even been any
auditions worthwhile enough for her to go to.
The last good-paying work she'd done was a commercial. She
had taken it against her better judgment, but it had
turned out to be a major blessing for her. She made over
sixty thousand dollars from that commercial. It was a
national spot for Burger Boss that paid her ten thousand
dollars up front and delivered amazing residuals. Those
residuals kept her going for a full year.
It was the first and only commercial she'd ever done, and
it had been a major letdown for her to do it. She
considered herself too big for commercials. At least, the
kind of commercial that one had been, where she was one of
three attractive black women who grinned and giggled in
the background, not the featured actor in the spot. Her
face, she believed, was far too recognizable and popular
for her to even consider doing the commercial. But she
needed the money, so she took the gig.
All her industry friends and acquaintances had been
shocked. But work was work. It paid the bills. What made
it such a good deal was that the Burger Boss people had
done a major blitz in an attempt to seriously compete with
McDonald's, Burger King, and Wendy's, so the ad received
extensive play on all the networks, not just UPN, WB, and
BET and during so-called "urban programming."
Her agent told her to expect the residual checks every
thirteen weeks or so, but, to her pleasant surprise, they
arrived every month. During one unusual streak, checks
arrived every week for five weeks straight. The monthly
residual checks averaged forty-one hundred dollars a month
for about thirty runs per month of the ad spot. That was
more than enough for her to pay her bills, keep herself in
the gym, stay out on the circuit doing the parties and
premieres, and send money back home. That monthly check
was sweet. It gave her a chance to get comfortable. And a
little complacent. She didn't even think about auditions,
foolishly believing that, with all the films she'd done in
the past, work would come to her. To her alarm and
disappointment, it never did.
The ad had stopped running more than six months ago.
Burger Boss's campaign to compete with the Big Three
didn't exactly pan out, so they cut back on their national
ads. Her ad was completely taken out of rotation. And the
checks dried up, seemingly overnight.
She considered another commercial, but she knew that was
like the kiss of death. If she did another spot that was
not a national campaign for a major product, like shampoo
or makeup, or for a major car company, then she'd be
pigeonholed for sure. Her agent advised against it.
Besides, her agent told her, the Burger Boss thing had
been the exception. Most commercials didn't pay that well,
and didn't deliver anywhere near the residuals she'd grown
accustomed to receiving. At best, she could expect a check
for five hundred dollars a month. That is, if the
commercial got a decent rotation.
Desi turned up her nose at the thought of five hundred
dollars a month. That would do nothing for her. But, as a
result of refusing commercials, she was now faced with the
prospect of having to get a real job in the real world.
Something that would bring in enough dough to allow her to
keep her face in the industry, and, at the same time, take
care of the responsibilities she had at hand.
But getting a nonindustry job posed a major catch-22: it
was cool to be a waiter, waitress, or service person when
you weren't a recognizable face. People expected that of
actors-in-waiting. But if you were famous or semi-famous
and then took a job outside of the industry? Forget it.
You could kiss your career in the entertainment business
goodbye.
She'd been rejected from ten nonindustry jobs already.
Every interview she had, while complimentary, turned out
to be a no. Most of the people were pleasant, some even
fawning, but they said no nonetheless. Every one had
instantly recognized her. Some even quoted her films to
her, as if she wasn't aware of her own body of work. All
of them mentioned the Burger Boss gig.
In a town like LA, where everyone was focused on who was
who and who did what, she learned that it was hard for her
to not be recognized. None of the people who interviewed
her believed that she was giving up the limelight. They
were all afraid that her presence would be just a
temporary thing. While her presence might mean a momentary
increase in revenue, they knew that pretty soon they'd be
faced with the hiring process again. None of them wanted
that.
Some wondered why she was leaving the industry. Was she on
drugs? Did she have some kind of habit that had ruined her
career? She answered so many personal and humiliating
questions that she almost quit the job search thing
altogether. That, however, was not an option, so she
gritted her teeth and forged on from one interview to the
next.
Desi had applied for a job as a personal shopper for
Neiman Marcus. It was her last chance. If she didn't get
it, she'd have to make a drastic life change.
The job paid very well. If she got it, it would mean that
she would be able to stay in Los Angeles. But what was the
point of being in LA if she was no longer able to pursue
her dream? That was her whole reason for being there in
the first place. Taking a nonindustry job would kill her
chances at that. No doubt about it. Just ask Gary Coleman.
He hadn't had too many offers since he'd started working
as a security guard at the Fox Hills Mall. Star or not,
once you took a job outside the industry to pay the bills,
and the industry found out about it, the powers that be
just didn't take you seriously anymore.
She sighed, thoroughly frustrated.
If she didn't find work soon, she had made up her mind to
go back home, back to Jensen, Alabama. There was no way
she could stay in LA, be as well-known as she was, and be
broke. She couldn't take a job that was too common and
ordinary, because then she'd risk ridicule, and she was
too proud for that. At the same time, even though the last
thing she wanted to do was go back home after all these
years, she was afraid of what it would mean if she got the
job at Neiman's.
Some of the very women she competed with for roles shopped
there. Not only might she run into them, she might,
ironically, end up being the one they arrogantly requested
to help them select their attire. Once word got around
that she was working outside the industry as a personal
shopper, even though on its own it was considered a
prestigious job, her career would be over. No one would
ever hire her as an actress again.
She'd had three interviews already. The store manager, the
manager of the designer clothing department, and the
district manager were all impressed by her sense of style,
and they reveled in the fact that she had a recognizable
face. Desi figured they would offer her the position. It
was just a matter of waiting for the phone to ring.
She prayed that it wouldn't. At least, not right away. She
needed more time to think about what all this meant, to
examine the repercussions again. She wasn't ready for a
ringing phone.
If it rang, answering it would mean more than just the
chance to earn a decent living.
A ringing phone with a job offer from Neiman's, right now,
would be a death knell.
The beginning of the end.
Desi sat in the leather armchair, limp, staring at the
food scattered all around the foyer. She was hot, she was
sticky, and she was so, so tired. Tired of the day. Tired
of the situation. Tired of her crazy never-could-catch-a-
break life.
Money, it seemed, was always an issue. When was her life
ever going to change? She'd seen her peers, women like
Lela Rochon, Vivica Fox, and Vanessa Williams, all claim
their place. They were constantly getting work.
What was the difference between her and them? She was just
as pretty, just as smart, and thought she had a pretty
good agent. And, like Vanessa, Desi could sing. No...she
could sang, as they said in church. She had legions of
people back in Alabama to prove it. There'd been many an
eye that had welled up just hearing her notes ricochet off
the walls of Mt. Nebo Baptist Church. Every now and then
she sang at West Angeles, the church she attended in town,
just to keep her lungs on point. West Angeles was very
popular, and she'd caused more than a handful of well-
known celebrities to catch the spirit there as well. She
was once offered a recording contract with a major label
by a record exec who happened to be in church during one
of her solos. The man had tears in his eyes when he
approached her. She flatly turned him down.
Desi didn't want a record deal.
She wanted to be a movie star.
And no amount of fame as a singer was going to take her
off that course. She wanted to be known as an actor first,
and she was unwilling to compromise that in any way.
Even if it meant an uphill struggle, which it had, all the
way.
Desi sighed heavily and rubbed her temples. She didn't
feel like gathering up the food in the foyer, but she
figured she'd better get about the task of doing it. It
wasn't like she had the luxury of just letting it sit
there to go to waste.
Just as she pressed her hands against the arms of the
chair to raise herself up, the phone rang.
Desi's breath stopped cold. She stared at the phone as it
jingled on the table beside her. She hadn't even checked
yet to see if she had any messages. Perhaps Neiman's had
already called. There was a caller ID box next to the
phone, but she refused to let her eyes affix themselves to
it. She didn't want to see the inevitable, even though she
knew she would have to contend with it soon enough.
The phone kept ringing. Desi sat frozen in the chair,
afraid to remove the cordless receiver from its cradle. If
it was Neiman's, then that would change everything.
Whether they said yes or no, that call would affect the
rest of her life.
Her heart beat heavily against her skin. The blood in her
temples rushed and pounded with a thunderous fury. Beside
her, the phone rang again and again.
She sighed.
"Please, Lord Jesus, let me be doing the right thing," she
whispered as she reached for the phone.
As Desi brought the phone up to her ear, her eyes filled
with tears.