Lucky Stars by Jane Heller Read Free Book Online Page A

nfortunately, there weren’t other commercials. At least not within the next few weeks. I’d go on auditions and fail to get the jobs every time. The casting directors dismissed me with either “You’re not the look we’re going for” or “We need someone less ethnic” or just plain “Thanks anyway.”
    Hoping for some sage career advice, I went to see Mickey Offerman, my agent. Mickey was not one of the trendy young men in black that you see everywhere in L.A.—the ones that are always shouting into their cell phones and hustling deals over drinks at the Four Seasons and getting written up in Variety. No, Mickey was a throwback agent—a cheesy-looking guy with a bad toupee and an equally bad nose job. He was in his late sixties, when nose jobs tended to be about nostrils—i.e., you could see right up them. The other thing you could see when you trudged up the stairs to his seedy little office in West Hollywood were black-and-white photographs of people he used to represent (“used to” being the operative words). Sally Struthers. Gabe Kaplan. Joan Van Ark. Actors of a certain era who were no longer in the spotlight, to put it diplomatically.
    So what was I doing with Mickey and why didn’t I dump him for one of the trendy young men in black, particularly since my career had stalled? A couple of reasons. First, I was loyal. When I’d come to L.A. in my twenties and pounded the pavement with my head shots and resume and couldn’t get anybody to take me seriously, Mickey was the only one who would. Sure, he’d turned me off with his tacky, Rat Pack-y style. For example, I think he actually said to me at our initial meeting, “I just love to find gals, bring ’em in off the street, and make ’em stars.” He even called me “little lady,” as if that’s what men call women in this century. But while the other agents in town wouldn’t take my calls, wouldn’t see me, wouldn’t lift a finger to help me, Mickey did. And because he was a one-man operation, he handled movies and television as well as commercials—a plus, as far as I was concerned.
    The other reason I stayed with Mickey was less altruistic: he was the only one who still wanted me. When you’ve plateau - ed in the business and can’t get work no matter how hard you try, it’s not the best time to go looking for a big-time agent. So it was Mickey I clung to, Mickey I listened to.
    “Like I told you, we’re gonna have to let the dust settle a little,” he said the day I went to see him. He was wearing tight blue jeans, a purple shirt unbuttoned mid- sternum, and a pair of sunglasses on top of his toupee, as if to hold it down. “Pet Peeve tanked and Jack Rawlins trashed you. We’re gonna have to deal with that.”
    “How?” I said. “Unless I get some commercials soon, I’ll start panicking about my finances.”
    “Take a part-time job until things pick up again, kid.” By now, he had dispensed with the “little lady” and referred to me as “kid,” probably because he had no desire to sleep with me. As he had a desire to sleep with every woman he saw, I felt somewhat insulted.
    “No more biker bars for me, Mickey. Been there, done that.”
    “So do something else. There are plenty of jobs in this town. Why don’t you take one until you’re hot again?”
    “When do you think that’ll be?”
    Mickey patted my hand. I braced myself for him to say, “When hell freezes over,” but he said instead, “When your time is right. This business is all about timing, Stacey. You know that. You were the fresh face when you first came here. Now there are a million new fresh faces. You’re in your—what—mid- thirties?”
    “Early thirties.” Thirty-four was early, compared to thirty-five.
    “ Tough age bracket,” said Mickey. “They all want twenty-year-olds now.”
    “But I can play twenties, Mickey,” I said, hearing the desperation in my voice. “I’ll redo my head shots, dress edgier, walk the walk.” Whatever that