Jack showed up that afternoon at American Pacific; it still sounded more like a railroad than a restaurant to him, but the maitre d', a handsome fellow named Carlos, was a welcome sight. Jack knew at once that Carlos was no Canadian. When Carlos looked at Jack's letter of recommendation, he nodded as if he'd eaten at Mail-Order Bride many times.
The specials were on a blackboard by the bar. "I'll bet you can memorize them in a heartbeat," Carlos said.
"I've already memorized the menu," Jack told him. "You want to hear it?" That got the attention of the other waitstaff. It was only about five-thirty in the afternoon--no customers as yet--but Jack had his audience. He skipped the veal chop with the gorgonzola mashed potatoes, just to make them think he'd forgotten something--only to surprise them by mentioning the veal chop at the end of his recitation. He forgot nothing. He'd already dressed as if he had the job, and he knew he'd nailed the audition. Carlos didn't ask him to recite the specials.
It was to be the first in a long line of auditions for Jack--not counting the aborted one with Donald--but all of Jack's other auditions would be as an actor instead of a waiter; he was at American Pacific until he no longer needed a job waiting tables.
Emma had arranged for Jack's head shots with a photographer she knew; they were ridiculously expensive. Emma carried them around with her. At the studio in West Hollywood, she occasionally met an agent or a casting director. But she was more likely to meet someone important on a date, or in any of several restaurants in West Hollywood and Beverly Hills.
Some young hotshot at Creative Artists wanted to bang Emma in the worst way. There wasn't an agent at C.A.A. who would represent a nobody like Jack Burns, but the guy told Emma he would negotiate a contract for Jack--if Jack managed to get an acting job. (Just how Jack might do that without an agent wasn't made clear.)
Emma took advantage of the young agent's lust and brought him one night to American Pacific. His name was Lawrence. "Not Larry," he told Jack, with an arched eyebrow.
Not much came of that meeting, but Lawrence made a few calls on Jack's behalf. These were calls to other agents, not at C.A.A. but on Lawrence's personal B-list--or more likely his C-list.
Someone whose name Jack confused with Rottweiler (the dog) told him that his recommendations and college acting experiences were basically worthless. "Ditto the summer stock," Rottweiler said, "except for Bruno Litkins." Bruno had a Hollywood connection: casting directors occasionally consulted him on roles related to transvestism. "Or transvestitism," Rottweiler said. "Whatever the fuck you call it."
Jack's toe in the door, albeit an odd one, was that he had found favor with Bruno Litkins for his creation of the gay transvestite Esmeralda in Bruno's transformation of The Hunchback of Notre Dame. "Not what I'd call super-marketable," Rottweiler informed Jack. (Not that Jack was at all sure he wanted to be marketed exclusively for roles related to transvestism or transvestitism.)
Another of the agents on Lawrence's B-or C-list sent Jack to an audition for a movie in Van Nuys. The place looked like a private home, but doubled as a film set. When the woman who did hair or makeup told Jack the name of the movie, Muffy the Vampire Hooker 3, Jack thought it was a joke. He didn't understand the situation until the producer introduced herself and asked to see his penis.
"Small schlongs need not apply," she said. Her name was Milly. She was wearing a slate-gray pin-striped pantsuit, very businesswoman-banker chic, which stood in seeming contradiction to her old-fashioned pearl necklace--of a kind worn by ladies who belong to bridge clubs. Her hair was huge--a silver-blond bubble, like a motorcycle helmet sans insignia.
Jack said there'd been a misunderstanding and started to leave. "You might as well show me your schlong," Milly said. "It's a free opportunity to find out if you measure up." That got the attention of a bodybuilder-type with a ponytail and a busty young woman who looked like a vampire. They were sitting on a couch, watching a movie on a VCR. It was footage of themselves, probably from Muffy the Vampire Hooker 2--a long, unvarying blow job, in the throes of which the eponymous Muffy occasionally bared her vampiric canines. One would hope that when she was moved to bite the bodybuilder and suck his blood, she would do so in his throat. Jack saw that Muffy did not have the bloodsucking canines inserted while she watched the movie on the couch; she was innocently chewing gum.
The guy with the ponytail paused the blow job on the VCR, and the three of them had a look at Jack's penis. While this was not specifically the film career Jack sought, most men are curious to know how their penises compare; after all, here was a panel of experts.
"It's okay, buddy," the bodybuilder told Jack.
"Cut the crap, Hank," Milly said.
"Yeah, Hank," Muffy the vampire hooker said.
Hank went back to the couch and started up the blow job on the VCR again. "His dick looks fine to me," Hank said.
"It's cute," Muffy told Jack, "but in this business, cute doesn't quite cut it."
"Forget quite," Milly said. She was in her fifties, maybe sixty--a former porn star, one of the cameramen had told Jack, but the cameraman must have been kidding. Except for the big hair, Milly reminded Jack of Noah Rosen's mother.
"It's cute, and it doesn't matta how big it is," Muffy whispered in Jack's ear. She went back to the couch and plopped down next to Hank.
&
nbsp; "It doesn't cut it, period. And it does matter how big it is," Milly said. "It doesn't matter if it's cute."
"Thank you," Jack told them, zipping up.
Hank, the big guy getting the endless blow job from Muffy on the VCR, followed Jack to the car; there was nothing cute about Hank's schlong, which Jack had noticed was enormous. "Don't be discouraged," Hank said. "Just eat healthy. I'd stick to low-fat, low-sodium, low-carb stuff, if I were you."
"Hank, are you ready?" Milly was screaming from inside the house.
"This job isn't for everyone," Hank admitted to Jack. "There's a lotta pressure." He had a high, nasal voice--a mismatch with his hulking presence.
"Hank!" Muffy called. She was standing in the open doorway of the house, baring her teeth in a broad-mouthed grin. She had inserted the bloodsucking canines; Muffy was ready for the next shot, whatever it was.
"Coming!" Hank called back to her. "It might have worked out differently if I'd met Mildred's sister," he said, "but I met Milly first."
"She has a sister?" Jack asked.