Blind Ambitions Page 3

  “Is this Desi Sheridan I’m speaking to now?” the voice asked, almost sounding surprised.

  “Yes it is,” she said politely, wiping away a tear that was tracing a path down her left cheek. “Who’s calling?”

  “Um, yes, Miss Sheridan, my name is Randall. Randall James. My partner, Steve Karst, and I own a company called—”

  “I’m sorry,” she cut in. “Whatever it is you’re selling, I’m definitely not interested.”

  She clicked off the phone and placed it back in its cradle, heaving a huge sigh of relief that it had not been the people from Neiman’s on the other end of the line. She rubbed her eyes, trying to remove all traces of tears that might still be lingering. She was grateful for the reprieve. At least it gave her a little more time to think.

  Something about this whole Neiman’s thing was filling her with way too much dread. She’d heard Oprah say something once that really stuck with her. Something about doubt. That if you had it, it was your body’s way of telling you not to do something. A warning from God. It was just a matter of whether a person chose to listen or not.

  The phone rang again.

  Desi looked down at the phone as if it were a rattling snake. She still avoided the caller ID. She was so fearful of being offered the Neiman’s job, yet so fearful of not taking it, that she didn’t know what to do. She felt that if the words NEIMAN MARCUS appeared on her caller ID, it would immediately seal her fate.

  She counted to ten. The phone rang three more times during the time that she was counting. She took in a deep breath, and picked up the phone again.

  Before she could say hello, a voice was already speaking.

  “Miss Sheridan, please, don’t hang up again!” the deep voice implored. “This is not a telemarketing call! I’m not some crazy solicitor. I’m actually calling you about a project my partner and I are developing for network television.”

  “Who is this?” Desi asked suspiciously. “And why aren’t you calling my agent? His name is Ken Ashton. You can reach him at 310-555-1811. All my work comes through him. He checks out what’s legit and what’s not. So I advise you to give him a ring.”

  She was about to click the phone off again when she heard him yell,

  “Wait!”

  Desi paused, and brought the phone back up to her ear.

  “Look, whatever your name is, how did you get my number in the first place? How do I know you aren’t some stalker? That’s not very original out here, you know. You won’t be the first.”

  “I’m not a stalker, Miss Sheridan. My name is Randall James. My partner, Steve, and I own a production company called Vast Horizons. We’re developing a new series for network television, and we happen to believe you’d be ideal to play the part of one of the main characters. To be perfectly honest, the character was actually written with you in mind.”

  “How did you get my number?” Desi snapped. “I’m unlisted, and my agent doesn’t give it out without my permission.”

  “You’re good friends with Sharon Lane, right?” the man asked.

  “Yes. As a matter of fact, I am.”

  “Well, Sharon and I go way back. We grew up in the same neighborhood in the Bronx. She gave me your number. She thought it’d be alright.”

  Sharon Lane was an African-American producer who had worked on a number of major films. She knew everybody. She was also one of Desi’s best friends.

  They met eight years before, when Desi was twenty-six, during the filming of Living Foul. It was Desi’s first real acting role on film. It was also her first time working with the controversial African-American director Jackson Bennett, who, since then, she had worked with twice.

  (Including a film he did that she headlined. Flatbush Flava. That was the one that was supposed to make her a star. He had personally told her so. It had a decent studio budget, lots of celebrity cameos, a solid cast, and a pretty good promotional campaign. Lenny Kravitz did the sound track.

  It was dead on arrival. The critics panned it and the public didn’t show. The only real thing of note about the film was that the sound track sold ten million copies. It was phenomenal, and it helped make Lenny Kravitz, who was already a mega rock star, damn near granite.

  Desi hadn’t headlined a film in the four years since. She was also skittish of Jackson, who continued to get studio budgets and kept making controversial black films year after year. He called periodically, offering roles here and there—never anything of consequence. Most of the parts paid nothing, and weren’t even real ensemble work. She usually stayed away. She even wondered if, for her, Jackson Bennett wasn’t the equivalent of career kryptonite.)

  Desi’s role in Living Foul had been small, but she spent extra time on the set out of sheer excitement and enthusiasm. There she met Sharon, who was the production manager. The two spoke casually a few times at first. Then, as Sharon noticed Desi hanging around, she enlisted her to run errands when Desi wasn’t in front of the camera. The two quickly became friends, as Desi was practically Sharon’s unofficial second assistant. Their friendship continued long after the film was wrapped.

  They had been hanging ever since.

  They had done the town and gotten high together at least a dozen times in the past year alone. Not that Desi was one to get high very often. But Sharon was good people, and always cool to be around.

  They would usually chill at Sharon’s place, listen to some nice reggae and East Coast hip-hop, grill some seafood, and have a smoke as they talked about who was doing what and what jobs might be coming around. Sharon was the only person on the West Coast Desi knew who was into East Coast music the way she was. She loved hanging out with her.

  They had taken vacations together to Jamaica, St. Barts, London, Aruba, St. Marten, and Costa Rica. They’d been to Amsterdam twice. The two of them hit New York on a regular basis, just for the hell of it.

  Desi hadn’t traveled anywhere of late. These days, she couldn’t afford it.

  Sharon had hooked Desi up with work before. But right now, even Sharon was having a hard time. It had been a while since she’d had a full-time position. Over the past year, she divided her time between freelance jobs here and there, being in love, and lounging around. She was in a fairly new relationship, only six months old, so she spent more time than not involved with the being in love and the lounging.

  “How do I know you’re not lying?” Desi asked the man on the phone.

  “Sharon told me you’d say that. She’s at home right now. Do you have three-way?”

  “Yes.”

  “Okay. Click over and dial her on the other line. I’ll wait. You can call her and confirm.”

  Desi, without ceremony, immediately clicked over and dialed Sharon’s number.

  “Hello?” Sharon chirped. Her already-perky voice had an unnatural lift, like she was on helium.

  “Did you give my number to some guy named Randall James?” Desi asked.

  Sharon drew a short, quick breath. Desi could tell she was getting high at that very moment. Not that she was incoherent. Sharon just loved to get high. It didn’t affect anything she did in any negative way. Desi didn’t know how Sharon managed it, but getting high seemed to enhance her ability to be the consummate professional. She was living proof of why marijuana should be legalized.

  “Yep,” Sharon said, exhaling. “Listen to what he has to say. This could be a major thing for you.”

  “How do you know him?” Desi asked. “He said you grew up together.”

  “We did. But, beyond that, Randall is no joke. He works for Massey-Weldon. He’s written for some of their best shows. He’s won, like, three Emmys or something. In this town, that’s a big deal for a black man.”

  Sharon took another quick breath, then spoke again in a strained voice with her mouth full of what Desi guessed must be smoke.

  “Last year, he and his partner won an Emmy for Westwood.”

  “He writes for that show?” Desi asked, impressed.

  Sharon exhaled slowly. Desi cou
ld almost smell the fumes coming through the line.

  “Yep,” Sharon finally responded.

  “Wow. I love that show. The writing is terrific.”

  “Good,” Sharon said. “So talk to him. He just started his own production company, and, if I didn’t misunderstand him, which I don’t think I did, he has a role for you that might give you the break you’ve been looking for.”

  “Is it a sure thing?”

  “Come on now, girl. Is there such a thing in this town? At least it’s worth listening to him. It’s not like he doesn’t have any clout or an impressive track record. I wouldn’t give your number to just anybody. I’ve got more sense than that, I think. High or not.”

  Desi chuckled. Her first chuckle in a long, long time.

  “Okay. Well, I’ve got him on the other line, so let me go. I’ll call you back later and tell you what he says.”

  “Don’t call me back tonight,” Sharon said quickly. “I’ve got company coming over. And, if I’ve got anything to do with it, I’m going to be under deep cover for the rest of the night, if you know what I mean.”

  “I know what you mean. Well, thanks. I think.”

  “You’re welcome, I think,” Sharon replied, then hung up the phone.

  Desi clicked back over.

  “Hello?” she said.

  “I’m here. Did you get her?”

  “I got her.”

  “Did she confirm that I’m authentic?”

  “Yes, she did.”

  “Good. For the record, Miss Sheridan, I wouldn’t be calling you now if I didn’t think this was something that you could truly benefit from. I’ve been following your work for a very long time, and I know that if we pair you up with this show, it’s a guaranteed formula for success.”

  “If you’ve been following my work for such a long time, then how come we’ve never met before? This industry’s not that big. Sooner or later, most black people meet each other. That is, I’m assuming you’re black. Sharon called you a brother.”

  “Last time I checked. And we have met before.”

  “When?” Desi asked, surprised.

  “At a birthday party for Will Smith. Last year. You were there with Sharon. I came over and introduced myself to you when you walked over to one of the food tables.”

  Desi searched her mind for the moment and his face.

  “I’m sorry. I remember being at the party. I just don’t remember much of what went on there. I go to so many industry parties, I can’t even keep count.”

  “The goal is to go to the ones that matter the most,” he replied with authority. “Try not to spread yourself so thin.”

  Was this guy trying to school her? she wondered. Just because he had a few Emmys to his name? Let a cop pull his black behind over at night in Beverly Hills. See what those Emmys mean then.

  “Whatever,” she replied stiffly. “Tell me about the show.”

  The tension in her voice was obvious. Randall noted the change and his mistake. He quickly adjusted his tone.

  “I’d like to, but I’d prefer to do it face-to-face. I want to show you a copy of the pilot script, tell you the concept, our vision for how it should go, the whole nine. I want to give you the full celebrity pitch.”

  Desi instinctively frowned. Despite his attempt to kiss up to her, in no way did she want to go back into that afternoon’s smoggy, sticky, uncomfortable weather, driving with her air conditioner off.

  “It’s raining out. I just came back in. In all honesty, Randall, I’m not up to going out again.”

  “I didn’t mean today,” he said. “My schedule is pretty tight as it is. How about if we meet tomorrow? It’s a much easier day for me.”

  The thought of going out into the heat at all didn’t sit well with her, even though it was for something that might, as Sharon and he implied, be life-changing for her.

  “Can you make it later in the day?” she asked.

  “Sure. Would you mind a business dinner?”

  She hesitated, then thought about the prospect of a free, possibly elegant meal. As callow as that sounded, her finances had reduced her to seizing opportunities like this.

  “Dinner is fine.”

  “What about Spago’s?” he said.

  “Ew. Spago’s is much too trite and touristy.”

  Even though, theoretically, she was a beggar, she surprised herself that she had the nerve to be choosy.

  “I really don’t care for Spago’s either,” Randall replied. “I just said it because I thought it was the appropriate thing to say.”

  “You don’t get out for dinner much, do you?”

  “No, I don’t. I do more takeout than anything these days. I’ve got too much going on right now to know what’s hip and what’s not.”

  “Well, for the record,” Desi said, “the in spot for me is Crustacean in Beverly Hills. And you can never go wrong taking me to Georgia’s or M & M’s.”

  “M & M’s?!” Randall laughed outright. “Damn! No disrespect, but it sounds like you’re a cheap, ’round-the-way kinda date. I would have never figured you to be an M & M’s or Roscoe’s kind of girl.”

  “I didn’t say Roscoe’s.”

  Her tone again immediately put him in check. Because he didn’t know her, he couldn’t tell if she was being playful or merely tolerant. He’d already made one faux pas with his comment about her attending so many industry parties. Since he didn’t know what expression was accompanying her current tone, he figured he’d better stop being too lighthearted with her too quickly.

  “Well, um, M & M’s, Roscoe’s, what’s the difference?”

  “Trust me,” Desi answered flatly, “it’s huge. And if you’d really done your homework on me like you claim you have, you’d know that I’m from the South, and M & M’s is down-home-style cooking, so that’s right up my alley.”

  “Is that where you want to go?” Randall asked, now completely put in check.

  “No. How about The Cheesecake Factory?”

  “That’s one of my favorite places,” he said, feeling back on track. “I can’t believe you just took me through this whole soul food exercise to wind up at The Cheesecake Factory.”

  “You’re the one who brought up Roscoe’s.”

  “You’re right,” he admitted. Desi thought she could hear a smile in his voice as he spoke. “Alright, Miss Sheridan, which Cheesecake Factory do you want to go to?”

  “The one in the Marina.”

  “Yes. I know where it is. How about if I meet you there at, say, seven tomorrow?”

  “Can you make it eight?” she asked, for no reason other than to not seem too easy.

  “Eight is fine.” Randall was all business again. “And, Miss Sheridan, I’m really looking forward to meeting you again. I think you’ll really be interested in what I have to say.”

  “We’ll see,” Desi said.

  I hope was what she meant.

  “Well, I’ll see you tomorrow at eight sharp.”

  “Goodbye, Randall,” she said, and abruptly clicked off the phone.

  She placed the receiver back in its cradle and slumped limply in the chair.

  “Wow” was all she could muster.

  She sat there, staring at the food in the foyer, wondering what kind of role this man could possibly be calling to offer, and why Sharon seemed so positive about it as well. She hoped it was something worth her while. There had been far too many gigs that seemed to have promise but just didn’t pan out.

  Some of them had even been referred to her by Sharon, so the fact that Randall came through her was not necessarily a guarantee.

  As she sat there, the phone rang again.

  She looked down at the caller ID box.

  NEIMAN MARCUS showed up in large black letters.

  Desi stared at the phone. It rang once. It rang again. She let it ring and ring and ring. Her answering service was set to pick up after six rings, not the standard four. Four was too quick. Sometimes it took her at least five rings to locate the co
rdless phone.

  She wasn’t quite ready to talk to Neiman’s.

  After five rings, the phone was quiet.

  “I guess they didn’t want to leave a message,” she said aloud.

  She stared at the phone, wondering if it would ring again. She stared at it for a long time. For what seemed like an eternity.

  It didn’t ring.

  “Good. I’d rather talk to Randall first before I talk to them anyway. At least, this way, I have options. If things work out, I may not have to take the job after all.”

  She pushed herself up from the chair and made her way to the foyer to gather up the scattered food.

  As she knelt down to pick up the jicama, she made the conscious decision to find her Bible that night. It had been far too long since she had prayed.

  Her grandma said the Lord was always listening.

  Desi hoped He wasn’t too busy. She hated coming to Him when she was desperate, instead of on a regular basis.

  Better now than never, she decided.

  Now was the perfect time.

  With her future teetering on the brink of fulfillment or failure, she knew it was time to hand things over to a higher authority.

  When Desi touched the jicama, she realized that she was already on her knees. She didn’t need to wait until later to pray. She could do it right now, right there in the foyer.

  Her eyes closed, still clutching the jicama, she sent a quick request up to the heavens.

  “Heavenly Father, please let me have just a minute of Your time. I’m sorry I’ve been gone for so long, but I know You know my heart, and can feel it’s in the right place.”

  She paused, searching for the proper words. Her grandma told her to always be specific in prayer, and believe with all her heart that He would provide.

  “He might not give you what you want,” she used to say, “but He’ll always give you what you need.”

  Desi mulled things over, choosing the exact words to convey what she was asking.

  “Dear Lord, I’ve been out here for eight years, and I’ve been trying so hard to fulfill what my spirit compels me to do.”

  She nervously squeezed the jicama.

  “I know You wouldn’t have let me come this far if this wasn’t where I was supposed to be. I don’t want to go back to Jensen, but if that’s what you want, Thy will be done.”