Blind Ambitions Page 8

  Randall scanned the area.

  “Did you notice how we haven’t seen our waiter since he brought out the food?”

  “Yeah, yeah,” she snapped. “Come on, now. Answer me.”

  He smiled.

  “I don’t know how much of our initial phone conversation you remember,” he said, “but the character Raquel was written with you in mind.”

  She nodded.

  “I remember you saying that. That still doesn’t answer my question. Why me?”

  Randall leaned closer to her, his eyes penetrating.

  “Because I think you’re a damn good actress. You were great in Living Foul, even though it was a small role. Flatbush Flava should have made you blow up, but I think Jackson Bennett’s offended too many people to garner the respect he deserves. You took the brunt of the fallout that rightfully belonged to him.”

  Desi watched him closely.

  “I’ve seen everything you’ve ever done, twenty-eight films total. I respect the fact that you’re always working. You know what? I even saw that indie film that you probably thought only a handful of people caught. The one where you were a lounge singer. My God, you were terrific!”

  He was referring to Blue, a small film she’d shot in London. She was really proud of the project, although it never went anywhere.

  “Where did you see it?” she asked, blushing. Flattered.

  “At the Toronto Film Festival five years ago.”

  “Oh my God, you were there?!” she exclaimed. “So was I!”

  “I know.” He smiled. “I passed by you several times on different days, but I didn’t want to get in your space.”

  They glanced at each other for a moment, then, embarrassed, looked away. Desi slid her plate back in front of her and nervously picked up her fork. Randall grabbed his mango drink, now completely melted, and took a quiet sip.

  He cleared his throat. She glanced up at him.

  “Look, Desi,” he began, “I don’t want you to think I’m some crazed Hollywood stalker disguising myself as a TV writer-slash-exec by day. I don’t use my career to pick up women.”

  She narrowed her eyes at him. He chuckled.

  “Okay, okay. Maybe I’ve used it a couple—five times.”

  Desi giggled unexpectedly.

  “But I’m not using it now. Like I said, I think you’re an awesome actress. Period. The fact that you’re beautiful and not a diva makes it even better. I’d be lying if I said I’m not and have never been attracted to you …”

  She looked down at her plate, avoiding his eyes.

  “But,” he kept on, “that’s just me stating my appreciation as a fan. We have a show we want to develop, and we want you in it. That’s all that matters. Anything else is irrelevant. Anything else is gravy.”

  “So you don’t have any other actresses you’re considering for the role?” she asked, looking up.

  “My short list had only one person on it. You.”

  “That’s not very smart, is it? Suppose I say no? Then you’re going to have to find someone suited to the role, or have to tailor it to them.”

  “This role was written for you, and I’m going to do everything in my power to get you to say yes. Ambitions is going to make you the star you deserve to be. Working on television doesn’t have the stigma it once had. It won’t interfere with your film career. If anything, it will only make you more marketable as an actress. As a star.”

  Desi toyed with the napkin on her lap. She sighed deeply, lifting her eyes up to his.

  “Alright, Mr. James,” she said, reaching into her purse. “Here’s my card. It has the number of my agent, Ken Ashton, on it. Give him a call tomorrow. He’s usually in just after ten. If it’s okay with you, I’m going to take this script and read it tonight.”

  “Yes, definitely,” he said. “Take it. It’s yours.”

  “Thank you. If I like the way it reads, I say you talk figures and terms tomorrow with Ken. By the time you call him, he’ll know my opinion of the script and whether I have any interest.”

  Randall took in a deep breath.

  “Does that mean you’re seriously considering it?” he asked, hopeful.

  “It means you got my attention. Let’s just see if you can keep it.”

  Randall smiled.

  “I have no doubt, Desi, that I will. If it’s alright with you, we’d like an answer, one way or another, pretty quickly. Not to rush you or anything, but we need to blaze full speed ahead to get this show ready for next year. We’re about to be mid-swing of development season. People are out there pitching to the networks like crazy.”

  An answer pretty quickly. Those were just the words Desi wanted to hear.

  “No problem,” she said. “That’s exactly how I like to work.”

  She stood, gathered her purse and the script, and extended her hand across the table.

  “A pleasure meeting you, Randall,” she said with a smile.

  Randall stood abruptly, startled that the meeting was now, apparently, over. He’d hoped to linger with her a little longer over coffee, but perhaps, he realized, that was hoping for a little too much. Just yet. This was business, after all. First and foremost, he wanted her to commit to the show.

  “Thank you for dinner,” Desi said pleasantly, and walked away.

  “I look forward to hearing from you soon,” he called out.

  Randall watched her as she made her way to the inside of the restaurant.

  Good God, she’s beautiful, he thought. And talented. Please let her take this role.

  As he stood there, his eyes following her, he saw their waiter, surfer dude, approaching.

  Randall, shaking his head, chuckled, opened his wallet, and threw a crisp fifty on the table.

  The waiter rushed up to get it.

  “Is that it? Would you like some coffee or anything?”

  “No,” Randall replied smugly. “My work here is done.”

  The waiter rifled through his pockets for the check.

  “Do you want any change?” be asked, taking the fifty.

  Randall, walking away, cut his eyes at the guy, amazed at his gall.

  “Keep it,” he replied. “You’ll be needing it soon anyway.”

  “What do you mean?” asked the waiter, trying to catch up with him.

  “I mean that you’ll be out of a job. Your waiting skills suck.”

  Surfer dude laughed heartily as they entered the inside of the restaurant.

  “No I won’t,” he said. “My uncle’s the manager here. I’ve got more job security than anybody in this joint. Thanks for the tip!”

  He raced off towards the bar.

  Randall stopped, staring after the waiter, who was now gathering drinks from the bartender.

  Disgusted, Randall made his way out of the restaurant and gave the parking attendant his ticket.

  As he stood on the curb waiting for his truck, he glanced around him at all the seemingly happy white folks coming and going. They looked like they didn’t have a care in the world. For some odd reason, he noted, almost all of them were blond.

  White people, he thought. Why does it seem like they always have it made?

  He caught a few furtive stares, as people entering the restaurant noted his big blackness topped off by a shiny bald head.

  As he waited for his car, he thought he saw Desi driving away in a black 5 Series BMW. It looked as if she were letting her windows down.

  “Nah,” he muttered. “It can’t be.” Someone as well-recognized as she was wouldn’t drive around with her windows wide open. Besides, it was too cool out.

  The valet pulled up with Randall’s dark blue Range Rover. The white attendant gave him and the truck a double take as he stepped out of the vehicle.

  Randall chuckled as he stepped into his truck.

  White people, he thought again, shaking his head as he pulled off.

  TO SLEEP,

  PERCHANCE TO DREAM

  The phone rang eight times. The machine never picked up.


  Groggy, snatched from the cozy confines of an Amsterdam hash bar where she was having a good laugh and a good smoke with a fine faceless man sitting across the table from her, Sharon reached blindly towards the night table. She knocked the cordless phone out of its cradle, onto the floor. It hit the hardwood with a clunk.

  “Damn!” she groaned, patting around for it in the darkness. Her eyes felt like trash. She leaned over the side of the bed and grabbed the phone from the floor.

  “What the hell do you want?” she grunted. “And, I swear to God, it better be good.”

  “Girl, I know you’re not asleep!” Desi shouted. “Wake up! It’s only ten o’clock! What are you doing in bed so early? You’ve been sleeping a lot lately.”

  “Hey, hey … tone that down,” Sharon whispered. “Damn. Can’t you tell fucked-out when you hear it?”

  Desi, feeling very happy and carefree, laughed.

  If there was one thing she could say she envied about Sharon, it was her ability to get her sex on. Sharon made no bones about it. She loved being in love, and was always in it, one way or another. What she said she loved most about it was that it came with regular, hard-core sex.

  She had a knack for finding lovers who gave her sex just the way she liked it. Desi often wondered if that was the thing that made her end up falling in love.

  “The way to my heart is through my panties,” Sharon once brazenly commented. “If you can make me come, you can make me go.”

  “I hope I didn’t catch you in the act,” Desi said in an apologetic tone. She hadn’t expected Sharon to be in bed. She was a night owl who always seemed perky, no matter what time the call.

  “If you had, I would have never answered the phone.”

  “Why didn’t you just turn your machine on?”

  “I forgot,” Sharon grunted.

  “I don’t understand why you don’t have voice mail on your phone to begin with,” Desi replied. “You’re the only person I know who still has a physical answering machine, and the one you have is old as dirt!”

  “Whatever. What do you want?”

  “And look at how you answered the phone!” Desi exclaimed, her voice still hyper. “Sharon, what if I was a major producer or somebody who was calling to offer you work? You can’t just answer the phone like that!”

  “I know every black son- and daughter-of-a-bitch working in this town,” Sharon croaked, clearing her throat of phlegm, “and they all know me, so how I am won’t be a surprise to anybody. If they want me for work, they want me for work. My reputation speaks for itself, so I don’t give a damn about who is and who isn’t impressed by how I answer the phone.”

  She cleared her throat again, making a sharp hacking sound.

  Desi laughed.

  “I guess you’ve got a point,” she said. “But suppose it was somebody like Spielberg or Oliver Stone?”

  “Right now, I’m not worried about what Oliver Stone thinks about me. He’s not exactly the poster child for perfect behavior. None of us are.”

  “Alright, alright,” Desi quickly chimed, “but suppose it was Spielberg?”

  “So. I already know him.”

  “You do?!” Desi asked, surprised. “How come you never told me that before?”

  “Please!” Sharon scoffed, her voice still thick. “Like I got enough brain cells to spare to remember to tell you anything. It’s a wonder I can even remember your name on a day-to-day basis.”

  Sharon, Desi knew, was joking. She was notorious for her memory. She never forgot anything, good or bad. For instance, people in the business who intentionally (or accidentally) snubbed her at functions, then, months or years later, approached her, wanting introductions to popular actors, celebrities, directors, other producers, or a part in a film she was working on. Most of them were oblivious to what they’d done, perhaps not knowing at the time how quietly powerful and connected she was in the film and television community. Some of them merely thought she forgot, their disdain being a generally accepted thing known as Hollywood attitude. Sharon usually gave them her ass to kiss.

  “Excuse me?” was how she always responded. “I know you’re not talking to me. Remember that time …?”

  At which point she would recount the transgression, then politely walk away.

  A person only had one chance to do Sharon wrong. After that, the offending party, once amends were made, knew to show her respect. What it took to make peace with her was in direct relation to how badly she’d been offended. It could be anything. An invite to an intimate gathering. Premium seats at a New York Knicks game (including airfare to and from New York). Dinner at her favorite restaurant, the Polo Lounge at the Beverly Hills Hotel. Drinks at the Sky Bar. A bag of weed.

  Sharon never told the offending party what he or she needed to do to make amends. She was completely unavailable once she pointed out the crime. All the person had to do was ask someone who knew her how to get back in her good graces. Since almost everyone, at one time or another, had rubbed Sharon the wrong way, figuring out how to win her back wasn’t hard.

  Usually, a formal invitation or tickets would arrive by courier. Mysterious packages wrapped in plain brown paper were delivered by limo. Flowers and gift baskets, accompanied by cards scrawled with varied versions of I should have known were conveyed. Sharon graciously accepted them all, and a newly forgiven acquaintanceship would begin.

  People knew that, even though Sharon was currently freelancing, her life could change at any moment. She’d held high-ranking positions at some of the most powerful black production companies in town. She’d worked on projects with everyone from Ron Howard and Penny Marshall, to Bruce Willis and Laurence Fishburne. There was a bevy of stars in between that knew her and admired her work.

  Word got around that she should not be slighted. No one ever knew when they’d be sitting in front of her, asking for a job.

  When she wasn’t holding a grudge, Sharon was a fun, upbeat person who loved living life to its fullest, generally well-liked by those who knew her.

  As a friend, she was one of the best people to have around.

  As an enemy, she was worse than acid rain.

  Desi was glad Sharon was her friend, though she thought Sharon didn’t fully realize just how talented, powerful, and connected she was.

  “Okay,” Desi said, still prodding Sharon with questions, “what about if it was Coppola calling you? Or one of the Weinsteins?”

  Sharon groaned with frustration.

  “I know the Weinsteins and they know me too, so I don’t give a fuck. And if Coppola calls, that would mean he got my phone number from someone who already knows me, in which case he was warned that I’m unorthodox, but I’m good. So, either way, he’ll know what to expect. You gotta go through somebody I know to get to me. That’s just the way it is.”

  She yawned, a long, drawn-out sound that crescendoed in a squeal.

  “Why am I even entertaining all these foolish questions?” she asked, annoyed. “I’m tired, I’m hungry, and I think I might even be horny again.”

  Desi heard a series of deep grumbling utterances in the background.

  “It’s Dez,” Sharon said in response to the grumbles.

  Again, the grumbling.

  “Hell if I know,” Sharon replied. “Dez, why are you calling me? I know it wasn’t to play the what-if-so-and-so-calls-you game, ’cause, last time I checked, none of them so-and-so’s have been calling me.”

  “This is important, Sharon,” Desi replied, her voice ripe with nervous energy.

  “So spit it out, then. I got company, and I’m about to hang up.”

  “Is it Glen?” Desi asked.

  “Who else?”

  “I’m being nosy, aren’t I?”

  “Yes you are,” Sharon grunted. “So tell me what’s up.”

  “Alright.” Her phone beeped. “Sharon, hold on a second.”

  “Hurry up,” she said.

  Desi clicked over, then immediately clicked back.

 
; “That was fast.”

  “It was a stupid hangup call. Anyway, I met with your friend Randall tonight, and he told me all about the show he wants me to be in. He really wants me for it, girl, and it sounds like it’ll be something I can really sink my teeth into.”

  “Mmm-hmmm,” Sharon said dryly. “And? It’s not like I didn’t tell you that already.”

  “I know, I know,” Desi replied. “But come on. It’s one thing to have somebody talk about how they’re gonna put you on, and another having somebody ready to do it right now.”

  “Did he show you a contract?”

  “No, but he talked about one. He’s going to call Ken in the morning and find out if I like the pilot script enough to be interested in the role.”

  “Do you?” Sharon yawned.

  “Are you kidding?!” Desi exclaimed. “I love it! It’s awesome! The character he wants me to play has so much depth and potential. I feel like there’s a lot I can do with the role.”

  “Did he write the pilot script?”

  “Yes. He and his partner, Steve.”

  “And they’re executive producing, right?” Sharon asked.

  “I think so, along with Jet Jonas. Randall didn’t say, but I assumed as much. Did you know Jet was putting up a hundred million dollars to help start their company?”

  “Get out!” Sharon exclaimed, the jolt of Desi’s words making her sit straight up. “Randall told me Jet was a partner, but I didn’t know any of the details.”

  The line was quiet for a moment. Desi could hear the grumbling in the background again.

  “Alright, hang on,” Sharon muttered, “just give me a second. Yo, Dez, I just thought about something.”

  “What’s that?”

  “You need to find out if Randall and Steve are going to be writing for the show full-time, or if they’re planning to hire other writers.”

  “Why would I ask that?”

  “To protect yourself. I’ve known Randall long enough to trust that he’s not going to attach his name to something that isn’t quality work. But think about it: it’s one thing to read a script written by people whose work you respect, and another to be signed for a show that’s no longer being written by those people.”