She was tired by the middle of the afternoon, but she knew she had to fight it. Years before, a talent agent had counseled Sara to be “perky.” A guy who owns a club is looking for a girl with spark, he’d said, even in a torch singer he’s looking for a spark. Sara had assumed that she would need to show the same spark now that she’d tried to show years before. Especially since the job she sought was one that required her to greet the public, answer the phone.
And so for the past hours, in the assorted jobs she’d sought since leaving the coffee shop, she’d tried to be bright-eyed, sharp… have a spark. She offered a quick smile and a ready hand. But it hadn’t worked, and as the minutes passed, she’d seen the interviewer slowly drift away, then rise, mutter a quick “Thanks for coming in,” and escort her to the door. Nor could she blame these people for not hiring her. She was in her late thirties, a woman with no experience, her resume a blank page. They had seen it in her eyes, seen through the sparkling mask that in some indefinable but alarming way she was at loose ends, would be trouble down the line. She knew that they couldn’t guess the force that drove her, but that didn’t matter. They wanted someone relaxed, someone easy, someone who believed that if you did everything right, things would work out, someone with experience but no past, a blank slate they could write their company’s logo on. They did not want a woman who answered their questions quickly and added nothing, a woman in whom they could hear the aching groan of a tightly wound spring.
She thought of the man who’d interviewed her for the job of receptionist in his hair salon, the way he’d looked at her hair, like it was a nest of squirming snakes, Thank you, we’ll be in touch. Then there was the woman at the attorney’s office, dressed like a man, who talked like a man, and whose flinty gaze said Now you’re sorry, right, for wasting your life, well, too late, sister.
The final job was located on Avenue C, a neighborhood Sara remembered well from her days in New York. Back then it had been a dangerous place, but now, as she moved down Sixth Street, she marveled at how much things had changed. There were young professionals on the street, along with the usual tradesmen and delivery people. Tompkins Square Park, once a mire of drug addicts, was now both park and playground, a well-tended expanse of green where children scurried in all directions while their well-heeled parents looked on.
Addison Film Works was located just off the park, the building a bit more dingy than the ones around it. There was no doorman, only a spare foyer with walls painted institutional gray and an ancient elevator that creaked and trembled as it rose to the fourth floor.
The door was at the end of a corridor stacked high with cardboard boxes and black towers of videotape. The name of the company was printed in block letters on frosted glass. A single name was written in the lower left corner of the glass: Art Gillman.
A stubby, overweight man in a dark double-breasted suit greeted Sara as she came through the door. “I’m Art Gillman,” he said. His hair was a lackluster brown, very thin on top, parted low on the left side and then swept over to cover spaces that would otherwise have been bald. “Sorry for the mess. I just got back from L.A.” He shrugged helplessly. “When I’m out of the office, things go to pot.”
Sara smiled weakly.
“So, what do you go by?” Gillman asked.
“Go by?” Sara asked.
“Name.”
“Samantha,” she blurted out before she could stop herself. “Samantha Damonte.”
Something registered in Gillman’s eyes. “That’s good. I like that. Samantha Damonte.” He stripped off his jacket, hung it on a wooden hat rack, then dropped heavily into a seat behind a cluttered metal desk. “You work in the film business before?”
“No,” Sara admitted.
Gillman nodded toward the single empty chair that rested in front of his desk. “Have a seat.”
Sara did so.
“It takes a little getting used to,” Gillman added. “But most people catch on pretty fast.” He glanced about, as if looking for an assistant. “Mildred’s supposed to stay till five, but she cut out early, I guess.” He eyed the small wooden cabinet to the right of his desk. “You want something to drink?”
“No, thank you,” Sara replied.
“How about a cigarette.” He winked. “I got a full pack.”
Sara shook her head.
“Good,” Gillman said. “A girl should keep fit.” He leaned back and folded his hands behind his head, his belly thrust out aggressively so that Sara noticed how large and firm it was, the way it seemed to poke through the stained white shirt. “So, tell me a little about yourself, Samantha,” he said.
Sara offered her best smile. “There’s not much to tell.”
“Start anywhere,” Gillman told her brightly. “And by the way, you can call me Art. We’re real informal around here.”
“I used to be a singer,” Sara said. “Art.”
“A singer?” Gillman said exuberantly. “No kidding? What kind of singer?”
“Clubs. But that was a long time ago.”
“What kind of clubs?”
“Cabaret.”
“So you’re used to performing for an audience,” Gillman said. “That’s good. ’Cause you got to deal with a lot of people in this business. People hanging around.”
Sara nodded silently.
“What else, Samantha? What else can you tell me about yourself?”
Sara tried to think of something interesting, but couldn’t.
Gillman continued to wait for her to respond in some way, show some sparkle, tell him something he didn’t drag out of her. But all she could think to say was “I lived in New York a long time ago. When I was a singer.”
“You’re from the South, right?” Gillman said. “Still got a little twang there.” He leaned forward, rested his hands on the desk, fingers entwined. “You don’t have to like it, you know.”
Sara looked at him quizzically.
“You don’t have to like what you do, I mean,” Gillman said. “Lots of people don’t like what they do. But they got bills to pay, kids to raise. A lot of people in this business have kids, you know. Do you have any kids, Samantha?”
“No,” Sara answered.
Gillman looked at her with what seemed a deep regard, as if he were trying to get beneath her skin. “How old are you, if you don’t mind my asking?”
“Thirty-eight,” Sara answered.
“That’s pretty old for the film business,” Gillman said. “It’s a younger group, I mean. But the way I see it, it’s the person that matters. People who see you, they wouldn’t take you for thirty-eight.” He looked her up and down. “Thirty tops. Well, maybe thirty-one, two.” He seemed to be talking to himself again. “Yeah, that’s it,” he concluded. “Thirty-two tops.” He waited for her to respond, and when she didn’t, he said, “Have you ever been on a film set, Samantha?”
“No.”
“Think it would bother you, all that hustle-bustle?”
Sara shook her head.
“Well, even if it did, it wouldn’t matter, right?” Gillman said happily. “I mean, you can keep focused, I’m sure.” He sprang to his feet. “Okay, so why don’t I show you around.”
Sara followed him out of the office, then down the corridor to a set of padlocked double doors. “This is where the action is,” he told her as he fumbled for a key. “I keep everything locked up because we’ve had a couple things turn up missing over the years.”
He unbolted the lock and swung open the door into a pitch-black room. “This is where we do the shoot.” He stepped inside and turned on the lights. “It’s not the Waldorf, but in this business you gotta keep an eye on the budget.”
The room was a labyrinth of small cubicles, each with papered or painted walls, and set up to resemble offices, medical examination rooms, prison cells. To the right, a barn loft, complete with fake bales of hay, stood separated from a pool hall by a slender partition. There was an Arabian tent, its multicolored flaps hanging limply in the windless air, and an automobile showroom, complete with two convertibles. Toward the back a sandy beach, dotted with plastic palm trees, swept out from a large photograph of the ocean. “We can shoot just about any kind of story using these sets.” He motioned her to the left, where a mattress lay on the concrete floor, stark and unadorned, covered with a single white bedsheet. “It’s not up to me, you understand,” he said as he approached a still camera mounted on a tripod. “Other people have a say.” He stepped behind the camera and began fiddling with its dials. “Just have a seat there,” he told her, nodding toward the mattress.
Gillman continued to adjust the camera. When he’d finished, he seemed surprised that Sara remained in place, glancing about, her arms stiffly at her sides. “I have to have a look,” he said. “At you, Samantha.”
She stepped back again and felt the wall behind her. She could see the door ahead and wanted to rush toward it, but couldn’t. He would catch her, and she knew it. She drew her purse to her chest. “Stay away from me,” she said.
Gillman stared at her. “What’s the matter with you?” He stepped forward, his hands raised slightly. “Look… I have-”
“Get back,” Sara commanded.
Gillman stopped dead. “I wasn’t going to… do anything to you,” he told her earnestly.
“Get back,” she repeated sharply.
Gillman’s eyes sparked with a sudden stunning realization. “Wait a second, you came for the receptionist’s job.” He shook his head. “Oh, Jesus. Mildred’s job. You’re not an… actress.” He laughed nervously. “I’m sorry, Samantha. Believe me, I wasn’t going to…” He glanced about the room, the grim partitions, the hanging metal lights, the cheap furniture and the plastic palms. “This place. You’re scared. I’m sorry.” He stepped back, his hands now at his sides, and stood completely still. “Just go, okay? Just go, and we’ll end it right here.”
Sara didn’t move. If she moved, he would spring at her, she knew. If she turned her back, he would rush up behind her.
“I’ll stay right here,” Gillman assured her. “Or I’ll go all the way to the other side of the room if you want.”
Sara nodded stiffly.
“Okay,” Gillman said, walking backward one slow step at a time. “This far enough?” he said finally.
Sara gave no answer but turned and dashed toward the door, opened it, and rushed out, taking the stairs rather than the elevator, her feet thudding loudly against the concrete steps, until she burst into the lobby, then across it and out into the air, where, she saw to her relief, no one followed from behind.