Barefoot In The City Of Broken Dreams Part 2

"Body powder?" he said. "Get to know it well. It's totally your new best friend."

"Oh! That actually makes sense. Okay, next question: what about the wardrobe? Everywhere I go, I feel like someone's tag-along little brother. But then I look at what people are wearing, and it doesn't look that different from me. I mean, most people just wear shorts and a s.h.i.+rt. I'm wearing shorts and a s.h.i.+rt, but I feel like I'm doing something wrong. So what am I doing wrong?"

"Your shoes," he said immediately, without even looking me up and down, which was actually sort of revealing. He'd already noticed I was wearing the wrong shoes?

I stuck a foot out. "What about 'em?"

"What are you, a thirteen-year-old girl?"

It's true, they were Onitsuka Tigers, which I'd bought solely because they were on sale (and comfortable).

"Maybe I'm being ironic," I said, my mouth full.

"You're not. Besides, that excuse stopped working three years ago."

I swallowed. "Okay, so I need new shoes."

"Not just that," Otto said. "You need to fully understand the function of shoes in Los Angeles."

"To cover your feet?"

"Not even close. In this town, everyone dresses incredibly casually. That just makes the shoes so much more important. They tell people who you are."

I glanced down at Otto's shoes - some kind of well-worn leather loafer. They looked nice, but I didn't know anything about shoes, so I didn't know how impressed to be.

"You want your shoes to say you're rich and successful," Otto went on, "except you can't be too obvious about it or it'll look fake. It's all part of the Bulls.h.i.+t Factor."

"The what?"

"It's the way this town works. Everyone overstates their accomplishments by a factor of three. So if, say, someone says, 'I have this horror project in development with Guillermo del Toro,' what they really mean is, 'I have a pitch meeting with Eli Roth.' Basically, you take the truth and make it three times more impressive. But you never want to lie outright, or even overdo it. You don't want to say, 'I'm really good friends with Tina Fey,' because that kind of thing always comes back to haunt you."

"And this has what to do with shoes?" I said.

Otto looked slightly exasperated with me. "It's all part of the image you present to the world. That you're incredibly successful and everyone wants to work with you. Just not quite so successful that everyone should have heard of you, so it's obvious you're lying."

"Maybe I'll just go barefoot."

Otto kept glaring at me.

"Okay, okay," I said. "So I need to buy expensive new shoes."

He thought for a second. "Wait a minute, hold the phone. I just realized you fall under the Screenwriter Loophole."

My head was officially spinning. "The what?"

"Well, I said before that everyone in this town is a former dork, which is totally true. But screenwriters are the one group of people in town who don't ever seem to make the leap from 'dork' to 'ex-dork'."

"What do you mean?" I said.

"Most of you stay dorks."

I didn't know very many writers, but this didn't surprise me in the least. "Okay, well, how is that a good thing?"

"It's a good thing because everyone expects screenwriters to be dorky and unfas.h.i.+onable. So you show up wearing anything better than a burlap sack, and you're already ahead of the compet.i.tion. And if you're actually capable of making eye contact, h.e.l.l, you're halfway to an Oscar right there."

I know I should have been offended, but I couldn't help but smile. "You're making screenwriters sound like total social rejects."

"Oh, I'm sorry, I didn't mean that," Otto said. "I meant all writers. You know, TV writers and novelists and playwrights too?"

I cracked up. I loved the irony of this, the guy with the scar on his face instructing the non-scarred guy on how to not be a social pariah. But then I realized I was still obsessing about the scar on Otto's face, and that made me feel guilty.

"It's different for actors," Otto said. "Well, it's not that different. Everyone expects actors to be narcissistic and crazy, which, if I'm totally honest, we basically are. But when it comes to the way we look, that is different. We're expected to look a certain way."

In college, Otto had gotten into acting and ended up a theater major - although, depressingly, his biggest role in school really had been the Elephant Man. Once he graduated, he'd set his sights on making it as a TV and movie actor. He'd gotten an agent and had a few roles, mostly in indie movies. But (also very depressingly), he'd played a lot of zombies.

He'd sighed when he'd said that, how actors were supposed to look a certain way.

"How's it going with that?" I said gently. "The acting, I mean."

He sort of shrugged and rolled his eyes. "It's going. Still no SAG card, but I'm not sure that would be a good move for me right now anyway." I knew enough to know that getting a SAG card - becoming a member of the Screen Actors Guild - meant more money per acting job, but it also meant that you couldn't ever do non-union acting jobs, like small indie films, and that was most of the work for actors like Otto.

I looked at him, encouraging him on.

"My agent says we're in a strange time," Otto said. "There's pressure on writers and producers to be more inclusive, to, like, include disabled characters, and not just the usual 'pity' roles, or the teach-the-able-bodied-person-a-lesson roles. But most people still think of 'disability' as a thing that happens to you, not an actual ident.i.ty. You know? They just don't get it."

Otto and I really had fallen out of contact: I hadn't even known that he thought of himself as "disabled." Or had I? I guess he posted links to stuff like this, and I sometimes "liked" them, but I hadn't really read them. But I nodded along. What he was saying made sense.

"Plus, there isn't really a pool of acting talent yet," Otto went on. "So casting directors can legitimately say, 'We couldn't find anyone disabled for the part.' But how could there be a pool of talent? There aren't enough roles for any of us to make a living! But the greater problem is that no one even thinks twice about casting an able-bodied actor in a disabled role. It was one thing when it was Daniel Day-Lewis in My Left Foot, or even Kevin McHale on Glee. Those were cast a long time ago. But Ansel Elgort in The Fault in Our Stars? Eddie Redmayne in The Theory of Everything? Come on! My agent says that someday that's going to be looked on like casting a white actor in an Asian role - like they used to do all the time, but they don't anymore. But we're not there yet. So yeah, it's a struggle."

"I'm sorry," I said. "That really sucks."

"Whatever," Otto said. "Acting's a tough life. I knew that going in. It's tough for all actors, not just me. Only in different ways."

"Still." It was breaking my heart to see Otto so down like this.

He shrugged. "Things are changing. My agent says that all the time too. Say what you will about Ryan Murphy, but who else is casting actors with Down Syndrome? Oh, and look at Miles Teller. He's Mr. Fantastic in The Fantastic Four."

I stared at Otto. Why should I be looking at Miles Teller?

"He has facial scars?" Otto said. "He was in a car accident in 2007. He's got scars all over his face and body."

He does? I thought.

"Oh, wow," I said. "Yeah, you're right."

"I know," Otto said. "His scars are a lot less obvious than mine. But they're still visible. My agent says that ten years ago, there's no way he could've had a career as a leading man, no matter how talented he was. But now he's the real deal. We're living in a whole new world where the whole definition of 'beauty' is changing."

"That's great," I said. And even if Otto was maybe being a bit optimistic about how quickly things were changing, I did think what he was saying was great.

"What about you?" Otto asked me. "How's your writing going?"

I was almost done with my pizza by now. I swallowed the last bite, then tried (unsuccessfully) to wipe my greasy fingers clean on a napkin.

"Well, that's kinda the thing," I said. "Everyone said, 'If you want to be a screenwriter, you need to move to Los Angeles.' So Kevin and I moved to Los Angeles. But now what? I'm here, so what do I do? It's not like I can go up to a producer and say, 'Hey, wanna read my screenplay?' I mean, that's what producers always joke about, right? How people are always handing them screenplays at the urinal? So what do I do? I'm going to keep sending out my scripts, and agents and producers will probably keep ignoring them, but I could do that when I was back in Seattle. I don't understand how being in Los Angeles helps."

Otto finished the last of his pizza too. "Yeah, it doesn't work like that. It's all about who you know. You have to get to know people. And you will."

"How? No one ever gets out of their cars!"

Otto smiled. "You have to start small. That's what everyone thinks - that you move to Los Angeles, and then someone 'discovers' you, and a few months later, you're a big movie star. But it literally never happens that way. Or it happened that way once, back in the 1940s, and people have been talking about it ever since. The way it really works is that you work on some dumb little student film with someone, and then six months later, that director gets a chance to direct an episode of The Goldbergs, but you were cool and he's kept following you on Twitter, so he asks you to do a role that only has one line, but then you meet someone on that set, and that leads to something else, and so on and so on. Or maybe some casting director watches that dumb little student film, which probably totally sucks, but sees that you're right for a small part she has, so she calls you in to read, and you don't get that part, but you had a good audition, and you weren't a jerk, so that same casting directing calls you in for another small role three months later, and you actually get that. And then, after three years of stuff like that, you get a part in a pilot that doesn't get picked up, but it leads to a supporting role in a movie, which turns out to be a surprise hit and you're singled out, and then you finally get a leading role, and that's a hit too, and you're singled out again. That's how people become movie stars in Hollywood."

"That was a great description of how an actor breaks in," I said. "But how does that help me?"

Otto froze. Then he scrunched up his face. "Oh, my G.o.d, you're right. I'm such a typical actor, totally self-absorbed! Russel, I'm sorry. I'm such an a.s.shole."

He had kept grimacing out his apology, overdoing it, and I laughed, but I also couldn't help but notice two things. The first was that he really did have an expressive face, almost elastic. I'd only ever seen Otto act in a couple of short films, and it's hard to tell anything when someone is playing a zombie. But I was starting to think that maybe he was a pretty good actor after all.

The second thing I noticed was how handsome he was. Why hadn't I seen it immediately when I'd walked into the restaurant? I really hadn't been able to see beyond the scars. Now it was back to like it had been before, when we'd been boyfriends, how I didn't see the scar, just him, how adorable he was. But it was more than that too. He really had grown into his looks. He was cla.s.sically handsome: firm jaw, straight nose, high cheekbones. He clearly worked out, so much so that just looking at him made me feel tired (and guilty that Kevin and I still hadn't found a new gym). How could I not have noticed all this right away? At least I'd noticed the hair and those amazing eyes. In spite of everything - or maybe just in spite of his scars - I really could see Otto becoming a movie star one day, like Miles Teller.

"It's okay," I said, still laughing, enjoying the moment. Our food was all gone now - our sodas were empty too - but neither one of us made any motion to leave.

Otto got serious again. "I'm not a screenwriter," he said. "But the one thing I do know is that everyone says the system is closed, for both actors and screenwriters. That no one can ever break in. Yeah, then, how come so many people do? This town loves new talent! It's mostly because they don't have to pay us as much, but hey, whatever. People break through every single day. As for breaking in as a screenwriter, I bet it's the same as with acting. It's like the shoe thing. There are unwritten rules, and you just need to learn them. But you will. They're not that hard. If I can learn the acting rules, you can learn the screenwriting ones."

I nodded, but not very enthusiastically. I admit I was being a baby about the whole screenwriter thing. I mean, I'd only been in Los Angeles for three days, and I'd only been writing screenplays for about a year, and Otto had been acting for six years already (including college). But I still thought it was okay to feel overwhelmed.

"Or!" I said. "Maybe some producer will call me up out of the blue and say, 'I want to produce your movie.'"

Otto's face turned to stone. "Um, what did I just say? That literally never happens."

"It could."

"How?"

"Well...maybe Steven Spielberg'll get a wrong number, and I'll answer, and before he knows he's talking to the wrong person, I'll have so impressed him with my charm and intellect, he'll have no choice but want to work with me."

"Oh, well, when you put it like that."

"Okay, okay, so it's possible I might also need a Plan B," I said.

"Ya think?"

"I need to make some friends in the industry. But I have absolutely no idea how to do that."

"Oh, that's easy in this town. You just need to step outside. And the good news is, you already have one."

"One what?" I said.

"Friend in the industry."

"I do? Who?"

"Me, you idiot!"

I smiled. "Oh. Right." I thought about what I'd been wondering before lunch, about whether Otto and I were still friends. We definitely were. Knowing that, having him in my life, was already making Los Angeles feel a little less overwhelming, a little more like home. Just in terms of him being an actual friend in the industry, it was kind of surreal how much I'd learned from him in one single lunch: the Bulls.h.i.+t Factor, the Screenwriter Loophole, and more.

Even now, neither one of us made a motion to leave.

I fiddled with the hot red peppers. "I've really missed you," I said, not meeting his eyes.

"Me too," he said.

I looked up to him smiling back at me.

"I'd forgotten how much I like you," he said.

We stared at each other for a second, no one saying anything. It was one of those moments of connection I mentioned earlier. At the same time, there wasn't any weird s.e.xual subtext, at least not much of it. We really were friends now - just friends. But good friends.

It was the first time in my life I'd ever rediscovered an old friend, which was great, like taking the cus.h.i.+ons off the couch and finding a lost wallet full of money. It was actually better than making a new friend, because there was almost no chance he'd turn out to be moody, or pa.s.sive-aggressive, or end up f.u.c.king my boyfriend. It was like meeting a new person you like, but knowing for a fact you'll actually end up best buddies.

Later that afternoon, Kevin and I went down to the pool again. I'd spent my whole life in damp, rainy Was.h.i.+ngton State, so I'd always thought of a swimming pool as something sort of fringe-y and extra, like a trampoline. Here in blistering hot Los Angeles, I was starting to think of a pool as something almost essential, like a bed.

"How's Otto?" Kevin asked me, sounding casual, but I knew he had to be at least a little jealous. After all, Otto was still an ex-boyfriend.

"He's actually really good," I said. I told him about Otto's plan to make it big, despite his scars. I couldn't decide if it would be rea.s.suring to tell him there were no longer any s.e.xual feelings (despite how great Otto looked), or if that would come across as defensive, so I didn't say anything.

"How'd the job go?" I said.

Back in Seattle, Kevin had worked as an editor for IMDb (which is actually part of Amazon.com). When he told them we were moving to Los Angeles, they asked him to stay on as a freelance consultant. The plan had been for him to go to events and interview celebrities. It had sounded kind of exciting, plus we needed the steady income, so he'd said yes.

"So far they've got me doing exactly what I was doing back in Seattle," he said.

"For half the money," I said, and he nodded glumly.

Later, after we'd dried off, we ran into a woman with her teenage son, both Latino, just coming in. She was probably in her thirties, well-dressed, like for an office, but with maybe too much starch. A receptionist, I decided. She looked tired. She didn't have the weight of the whole world on her shoulders, but there was at least a pretty good portion of Southern California.

Her son was maybe seventeen or eighteen, with long cotton pants and a polo s.h.i.+rt, both of them dirty and rumpled. Everything that could be untucked was untucked, including his pockets, which were pulled up out of his pants. (Seriously, was this a "thing"? It had been six years since I'd been in high school, so I didn't know.) "Dios Mio!" he was saying. "No mames!"

"Can we please not argue about this?" she was saying to him. "Just this once?"

We met at the bottom of the stairway and did that awkward dance about who was going to go up first. Technically, we'd arrived there about a second before them, but she was older, and a woman, and also carrying a bag of groceries, so Kevin and I shuffled back away from the stairs.

"Hey there," Kevin said. He motioned to the steps. "Go ahead."

She hesitated, like she was trying to decide whether to thank us, and I said, "I'm Russel, this is Kevin. We just moved in."

"Yeah, I saw." She forced out a smile. "I'm Zoe, and this is my brother Daniel."