The Five Acts of Diego Leon Page 13
He then rattled off a list of movies Diego had never heard of. “But I’m still looking for that big break, you know?” Charlie pointed to the newspaper. “That would explain the Cast Call.”
“Sure,” Diego said.
“You’re one too, ain’t ya?” Charlie asked.
“Of course.”
He laughed. “I knew it. I could tell. Well, good luck with the ads. There wasn’t anything in there for me, but there might be something for someone like you.” He stopped and stroked his chin. “You got a look,” he said. “Very interesting.”
“Thanks,” Diego said.
“Anytime,” he said, saluting as the light turned. He joined the crowd, and the mass of people crossed over to the raised concrete platform in the middle of the street where they waited for the trolley.
His money wasn’t going to last forever, so Diego wouldn’t be able to afford to buy new issues of Cast Call. Fortunately, he discovered a newsstand near the boardinghouse that was managed by an old man with a patch covering his left eye. He moved slowly, chatting with the men in suits who stopped by for the paper or a magazine, and Diego got good at quickly shoving copies of Cast Call down his trousers and strolling off without his noticing. He had spent two weeks thumbing through page after page of the paper, reading the calls for auditions, the calls for extras. The roles in question were usually billed “walk on part” or “people for a crowd scene,” and they advertised very low pay.
By that time, all he had left was thirty dollars. The room was five dollars a week, so what remained would have to be stretched. He didn’t buy food but instead picked oranges and grapefruits from trees whose branches hung over the edges of the sidewalks. He stole apples and bananas from fruit vendors on busy Sunday mornings as he wandered through the street stalls. At a drugstore, while the soda jerk was busy making orange phosphates and mixing tonics, Diego filled his pockets with candy mints and jelly drops from the large glass jars lining the counters. He picked an old woman’s purse while she waited for the trolley at a stop, ran off with a bag of tobacco and papers from a vagrant stumbling out of a pool hall. He waited in the long lines at the soup kitchens, eating runny clam chowder out of tin cups in the large and drafty cafeterias with hundreds of men and women in frayed and tattered clothing, their faces smudged with dirt, their children skinny, their legs so thin he wondered how they were capable of sustaining their little bodies. This wasn’t what he had imagined, but at least he was living his own life, not one dictated to him by someone else.
There were nights when the hunger was too much, too overpowering, and he would dress, walk up and down Hollywood Boulevard toward the restaurants where men in suits and women with fancy dresses and complexions smooth as porcelain dined. He watched them through the glass windows savoring their meals, sipping from large goblets. He caught the faint smell of food, and this made him salivate, made his head spin. He would have to force himself not to wander behind the alleys of the restaurants, not to pick through the large barrels of trash for scraps of food as he had watched others do. He had seen two men fighting over a bag of moldy bread, each of them shouting that they had a wife, kids, and that there was no work, nothing to eat. One of them pulled a knife out from his pocket, threatening the other, who tossed the bag on the floor and ran off, sobbing.
He bit his lip so hard it bled, and he no longer felt hungry. He took slow steps toward the large theater houses along the boulevard. In that daze brought on by hunger and fatigue and confusion, he looked up, saw his name there in large black letters, saw his picture on the lobby card sketches that faced the street. The hunger, he told himself, was part of the sacrifice. He walked with new vigor down Hollywood Boulevard, passing the diners and pool halls, the dress shops and shoe stores, swinging his arms, his stride long and assured. He straightened his hat, pushed his shoulders back, and pointed his chin down. He would see things differently the next day.
Arriving back at the Ruby Rose, he fumbled through the dark sitting room and collapsed on the bed, sweating, trembling, weak and defeated. It was easy to doubt, easy to toy with the idea of returning to Mexico. But how would he afford it? He was stranded here for now, but it was fine, he told himself. Besides, there was no way he was giving up. Not yet. He was thirsty for something cool, not the tepid water from the bathroom. He bit into a warm apple, felt the pulp run down to his chin, felt his stomach clench and then let go. It was his last, and the skin had already started to brown, just like the bananas. He finished the apple then sucked on the core and chewed on the seeds. There were three oranges left, nothing more. It wouldn’t be enough. He closed his eyes and gripped his stomach, hoping for the sleep to come. Only this would relieve him. Only this.
Almost a month had passed. Diego made it through the days and nights, fending off the hunger, taking here and there, and reading his stolen copies of trade magazines, hoping something, anything, might catch his eye. An article in Screenshots talked about headshots, and Diego used what little money he had left to get some photos taken, which he carried around with him in a paper envelope. He was careful not to soil his clothing, draped his only shirt and pair of trousers on the chair every night and smoothed them with his hands each morning before putting them back on. He felt worn away from not eating right. His skin went pale, his vision blurred and grew fuzzy. He found a razor blade one afternoon while rummaging through a pile of trash behind a barbershop and had been using this to shave, but the blade was dulling and scratching and cutting him up. On the bathroom counter there were the peeled skins of oranges curling like large fingernails. At the sight of them, Diego’s stomach turned and knotted. Their taste was no longer sweet but acrid, foul, deadening the sensation in his mouth. He had to save his money. But he just couldn’t help it. He suddenly felt desperate for company, for something warm to put in his stomach. Diego searched through his pockets and found enough for a cup of coffee. He splashed cold water on his face, dressed quickly, and walked to Joe’s.
He savored the coffee, taking small sips, closing his eyes each time he brought the cup to his nose. Jean laughed, said to a couple sitting near him at the counter, “Look at this guy. Like he’s never seen coffee before.”
“Maybe he’s auditioning for a part,” said the lady to the man.
“Don’t be an idiot,” the man told her.
“Well,” she said, grabbing her coat, “I refuse to go back to Minnesota until I’ve seen at least one star.”
“Oh, Helen,” said the man, rising from his stool. He reached into his pocket and set some money down.
Jean was in the kitchen, arguing with the cook about a botched order. Diego could see the cook’s red face, his fat fingers pointing accusingly at her. The other diners sat around either reading or talking. Nobody was looking. Diego reached across the counter, scooped up the money, and shoved it in his pocket.
“Well, how about that?” Jean said when she came back out, her hands on her hips, shaking her head.
A man in a pair of dirty coveralls and a hat placed crookedly on his head looked up from his newspaper. “How about what?”
“Those two stiffed me,” said Jean when she picked up the plates and cups and saucers the couple had left behind. “Damn tourists. City’s getting overrun with their likes, flocking in to gawk at the stars. They get all the attention, and we get stiffed. Damn them all.”
“Send the bill to DeMille,” shouted a diner and laughed.
“Aw, horse feathers,” said Jean. “Another cup?” she asked Diego.
“Why sure,” he said, reaching into his pocket. He counted the money, looked over to a pastry case at the edge of the counter. Glazed donuts filled with cream and jam, slices of apple pie and chocolate cake on glass shelves twirled around inside. “And a donut. Cream filled,” he said.
Jean brought it to him and poured Diego another cup of coffee. “You, I like,” she said, setting the pot down. “You, I can tell, would never stiff a person. You got a heart. A big heart, son. Keep it that way.”
He had
been sitting there all morning, flirting with Jean, telling her just how much he liked her new hairdo, cracking jokes, making her laugh.
“Forty-two?” he asked, astonished, when she admitted her age. “I would have guessed thirty.”
“Oh, stop,” she said, removing her thick bifocals and cleaning the lenses with the edge of her apron. “You’re kind.”
A diner paying his ticket looked at Diego and rolled his eyes.
“Get lost,” he said to the man, remembering the expression when someone else used it that morning.
“Dirty foreign punk,” the man muttered and stormed off.
She poured him cup after cup of coffee as long as he kept the compliments coming, as long as he engaged her in conversation. “You really got a way of making a girl feel special,” Jean said to him. All the booths, their blue vinyl glossy and bright, were empty, their speckled Formica tops clean. Each salt and pepper shaker, each sugar jar and napkin dispenser, was full. It was just before noon, and Jean told him it always quieted down right around that time.
“Everyone’s at work,” she said.
Jean walked around the counter and took a seat on the stool beside Diego. She sighed loudly when she sat. He saw her pale legs, a series of thick green and blue veins threading like spiderwebs just beneath her skin. “Oh, Lord. I’m tired.”
He sipped his coffee. “I bet.”
She rubbed her temples then stopped and regarded him. “Child,” she said. “You look terrible.”
“What are you talking about?”
She reached a hand out, the skin around her fingernails rough and dry. Jean touched his forehead, his cheeks. “You’re pale. Thin. You been eating all right?”
“Why sure.” He chuckled. “I have.”
“Hum,” she said. “I raised eight children, all of them ungrateful savages, but I raised them. I know the look of hunger in a face.” Jean rose, shouted to the cook, “Hey, Fred. Get your hide off that stool and make me a plate of eggs and bacon, will you?”
Fred muttered something, and soon Diego heard the sound of eggs frying, caught the familiar scent of bacon, of toast. The plate was big, the eggs fluffy and yellow, the bacon thick and salty. He devoured it, eating so fast he nearly choked a few times.
“Easy there,” Jean said. “Easy.” She stood behind the counter again, her arms crossed, a sweater draped over her shoulders. “Where’d you come from?” she asked.
He didn’t want her to know. He continued eating, ignoring her question.
“Fine. You don’t have to tell me.” She reached for the pot of hot coffee and poured him more. “You got any money?”
“Some.”
“A job?”
He shook his head.
She sighed. “You come empty-handed, right?”
“Yes,” he said, finished up the last of the eggs.
“You expecting to live off of charity?”
“No,” he said. “Certainly not.”
She was quiet for a long time. “I might be able to help you.”
“How so?”
Joe, the owner, had been thinking about hiring someone to come in every day to mop and clean up the place. It wouldn’t be a lot, Jean said. But it would be something. “What do you say?” she asked. “I think it’d be perfect for someone like you. A lot of people would kill for anything these days. But I like you. I’m gonna give you the first crack at it.”
His situation was bad, and it would only get worse if he ran out of money. It was this or he would have to wire his grandfather, ask him for money for a ticket back. No, he told himself. Not that. Not yet.
“Sure,” he said to Jean. “Fine.”
2.
April–October 1927
HE WAS PAID IN TIPS. MEASLY TIPS. CHUMP CHANGE. IF HE WAS lucky, a crumpled dollar bill. Whatever Jean saw fit to give him. For this, he had to sweep and mop. He had to pour coffee and get shouted at by the diners. He was cursed at, ridiculed, never acknowledged, never looked in the eye. He cleaned up spilled milk and water. He gathered dirty dishes and washed them in the large sink in the back kitchen, the hot water scalding his skin, his face moist from the steam. The cooks made fun of him, and there were days when Jean came to work in a foul mood and hardly spoke to Diego, never called him sweetie or honey or doll the way she did to the diners, the way she used to with him. Over one month with the job, and Diego was starting to feel it affect him. Though he was grateful for Jean, for the opportunity to make some money, for her feeding him when he complained about being hungry, he was always tired now, frustrated, and the pay was very little.
“Could be worse,” Jean said on one of her good days, laughing, as she carried out plates of eggs and pancakes, and ham and cheese sandwiches. “Never forget that. Could be a hell of a lot worse, kid.”
Diego sighed, took his broom handle, and continued sweeping. “I guess you’re right.”
“It ain’t that bad, angel,” Jean said, pushing the swivel door open with her hip. “Trust Jean.”
Rose flirted with Diego whenever she saw him. Once, when he bent down to pick up a handkerchief she had dropped, she pinched his behind. Rose was always charming and warm to him and most of the other clients. Ruby, however, was usually in a bad mood. Where Rose greeted him with a smile and a compliment, Ruby was reticent. She never seemed to smile. The afternoon he received the telegram, Ruby greeted him without looking up to Diego.
“Good afternoon, Ruby,” he said.
“Afternoon.” She sat on a wooden stool behind the front desk, smoking a cigarette and jotting down figures in a leather-bound book. She reached for the slots behind her, found 202, and plucked a yellow telegram envelope out. “This came for you.” She slid it across the desk to him.
He took it, then regarded her. He watched as she added more numbers to a long column, a lit cigarette dangling from her lips.
“Are you all right?” he asked
She shrugged her shoulders. “I’m fine.” She looked exhausted.
Back in his room, he removed his apron, smeared with grease, and threw it on the floor. He knew the telegram could only be from his grandparents. He took a deep breath, opened it, and read:
YOUR GRANDFATHER IS SICK WITH WORRY. ALL THIS HAS BEEN A STRAIN ON HIS HEART. HE’S SLOWING DOWN AT WORK. PALOMA IS DEVASTATED. WHEN ARE YOU RETURNING?
YOUR GRANDMOTHER
That night he tossed and turned in his bed, unable to sleep, his grandmother’s words seared into the backs of his eyelids. He tried to push the guilt aside as he thought about his grandfather, who, despite everything, had given Diego so much. How could he return now, though? He didn’t want them to know he had little money; they would likely offer to wire him some or to pay for his ticket back. No, they couldn’t find out. He rose early the next morning and went down to the Western Union office on Hollywood Boulevard. He wrote:
GRANDMOTHER
SORRY TO HEAR ABOUT GRANDFATHER. WILL RETURN AS SOON AS I CAN.
DIEGO
In Hollywood, average people were transformed into movie stars overnight. They were discovered on trains pulling in from Omaha, Tulsa, Billings. They were discovered painting houses, playing tennis, sunning on the beach, pumping gas, on walks, sitting on bus benches, at intersections, and even waiting tables. He wondered about this as he watched the men in suits and ties parade in and out of the diner. Were there directors and producers among them? Would he be discovered there? He imagined being interviewed, telling the reporter that yes, he had indeed been found at Joe’s, mopping floors, washing dirty dishes, running around with a coffeepot, filling cups, working for a few tips when there he was, the director who saw “star quality” in him and discovered Diego León. Can you imagine it?
He was nice to any man in a tie, just in case. Diego poured the coffee slowly, engaged them in idle chitchat. How about the weather, huh? How’s the family? You should try the special today. He made sure to smile a lot, to look them in the eye when he spoke, to always be kind and courteous no matter how rude they were.
He shrugged his shoulders. “I just feel like talking. That’s all.”
“Well, take the molasses out of your ass and get going,” she said, snapping her fingers. “Pronto!” She pointed with a dripping rag across the diner to a table. “Clean up table eight before the lunch crowd comes.”
He loaded the tray and scooped up the remainder of the tip she had left for him.
He saved it all. Little by little. After paying rent and buying a few necessities, there wasn’t much left. Maybe coming was a mistake, he thought. If he went back, would they forgive him? Would they take him in again? And what about Paloma?
“You look like you lost a friend,” Charlie told him that morning. He sat at the counter sipping black coffee. It was still too early, so the diner was empty. It was one of those rare days in the city when the sky was gray and overcast. Outside, a thin fog clung to the trolley car wires and veiled the trees and grass.
Diego sighed and leaned on the counter, his elbows resting on the Formica. “I shouldn’t have come. I was dumb to think I could break into films. A few months ago I arrived, and I’m still here, still just mopping floors. Boy, was I stupid.”
Charlie took a sip of his coffee and shook his head. “Not stupid. A bit naïve, maybe. Like all of us. But not stupid.”
“What do you mean?” Diego asked. He removed his elbows from the counter, straightened his back, and folded his arms.
“Well, where most go wrong isn’t in coming here. It’s in not educating themselves about the way the show’s run.” He pointed to his temple. “It’s all about having the smarts. About knowing what to do once you’re here. How to see and be seen.” The first thing Charlie said he had to do was to go down and register with Central Casting.
“Come again?” Diego asked.
“Register,” Charlie said.