Chapter 8--You Belong To Me

.


You Belong to Me

Dante fidgeted in the metal folding chair and tried to get comfortable.  The sauna-like conditions of the windowless waiting room didn't help.  He glared at the closed door that had swallowed Clark and his buddy, Mark, ten minutes ago.  What was taking them so long?  He'd already memorized the so-called script they'd given him.  Two lines of dialogue total, and a scenario where he was supposed to kiss an actress.  No back story, no motivation for the kiss or for what passed as dialogue.  They didn't even bother to give the characters names, just MALE CHARACTER and FEMALE CHARACTER.  What was he supposed to do?  Improvise everything?

         This whole screen test thing smelled like last week's fish in Momma's refrigerator.  The so-called studio was just a run-down warehouse near the airport.  The waiting room was even less promising.  Besides the metal folding chairs and sleek photos of propeller-driven airplanes, there was no real furniture.  Well, there was a TV tray next to him where he'd dumped the script next to a paper plate with Mark's half-eaten sandwich and a coffee cup someone had used as an ash tray. 

         The only other item in the room was what looked like an antique radio huddling against the wall on his left.  It was huge, about the size of a mini-fridge, and was made from brownish, scuffed wood with an arched top. At the bottom, the veneer had splintered and partly peeled away.  The lower half must hold the speakers, since a curley-cue, carved wooden grill covered a fabric background.  Above that, at the midpoint, were three plastic buttons centered on a fake bronze inlay that read Crosely Radio Corporation, and above that a round, clock-like dial, maybe six inches across. 

         Despite the size of the speakers, the tune they emitted had a tinny, shallow tone, lacking any depth.  The song itself was kind of creepy, despite the retro vibe the boy band singing it tried to channel.  Like they were  Sha Na Na or, the cast of Grease.  The melody they crooned could have been a love song, but the lyrics--something about 'you belong to me,' apparently even in your dreams--sounded creepy, almost threatening.

         The song was like an echo of Jesse's words that final night.  "I don't belong to you," he'd shouted.  More of an anti-echo, really. The reverse of the lyrics.  Dante squeezed his eyes closed and tried to kill the persistence of memory. 

         The door opened, and Clark said, "Come on in. We're all set up. You ready?"

         Dante opened his eyes, and Clark's gleaming smile disintegrated his memories.  The surreal song crackled into disjoint and dissonant snippets, then faded to nothingness.  He stood, and said, "Ready."

         Dante stepped through the door and onto a makeshift sound stage.  Sheets served as a backdrop, with four, large spotlights buzzing overhead and bouncing dazzling illumination off the white surfaces.  Two microphones dangled from cantilevered rods hanging over the center of the space in front of the sheets.  An enormous camera, with a 3x4 framing box, a rotating disk of lenses, and two twenty-inch cylinders for film, faced the sheets.  A bored-looking man, with a cigarette dangling from his lips, fiddled with the camera.

         Mark strutted up to him, followed by a short woman wearing a frilly dress that looked three sizes too small. She wore her tight curls in a shoulder-length bob, and hadn't bothered with makeup.  She was chewing gum and smelled of Spearmint. 

         Mark glanced at his watch, then said, "We ain't got a lot of time.  We've gotta shoot a TV spot on this stage in fifteen minutes.  In and out.  Time is money."  He put a sweaty arm around Dante's shoulder and pressed him forward.  "Just say the lines and kiss her.  Mac here'll get it all on camera."

         Clark grinned and winked at him.  "You'll do great."

         Dante set his lips and took a deep breath.  He'd show them.  He turned to the woman and held out his hand.  "I'm Dante.  Are you my leading lady?"

         She popped her gum and said, "Pleased to meetchya."  She touched his outstretched palm with two fingers. 

         Mark said, "She's playing Lola in the travelling company of Damned Yankees that's in town this week. She's not just a lady, she's a professional."

         Dante nodded.  "Well, Miss Lola, shall we show them what we can do?"

         She shrugged and her breasts threatened to explode from her too-tight blouse.  "Sure."

         Mark sat in a director's chair, crossed his legs, and looked at the cameraman.  "Ready, Mac?"

         Mac shrugged and said, "Anytime."

         Mark turned back to Dante and Lola and tipped an eyebrow at Dante. "You know what a mark is?"

         "If you're referring to the masking tape Xes on the floor where we're supposed to stand, yes." He wasn't a dumbass rube.

         "I knew you was smart.  Lola, you stand on the stage-center mark.  You--Dante, right?"

         He nodded.  The creep didn't even remember his name.

         "Yeah.  Start on the one stage right, say your line, then move in and kiss her.  Think ya can do that without trippin' on your feet?"

         Dante kept his voice even. "I think I can manage."

         "All right then."  He waited a moment while Dante and Lola took their positions, then said, "Action."

         The camera emitted a faint whir, and Dante slipped into character.  It was easy. He'd played a role countless times with Jesse.  A scene from an old, black-and-white noir movie started playing in his head.

         Lola said her line, "What do you want?"

         He let a smile trifle with his lips.  Instead of his lame line, he ad libbed, "You know, Lola, you're not very hard to figure."

         She just said her next line, but surprise showed in her voice.  "What do you mean?"

         He answered, "Sometimes, I know exactly what you're going to say."  He walked toward her and put his palm on her breast. He inhaled the minty smell of her gum.  "The other times, you're just a stinker."

         He leaned in, tipped his head, and kissed her on the lips.

         Surprise showed in her eyes. "What'd ya do that for?"

         Because the script called for it, you dumbass.  But he instead said, "I was wondering whether I'd like it." It was as nasty as he'd expected, nothing like kissing Jesse.  Still, he kept his features soft.  Alluring. 

         She fluttered her eyes, wiggled her hips, and murmured, "What's the decision?" God.  She wasn't acting.  She thought he meant it.

         He leaned closer and said in his best, musky voice, "I don't know yet." He drew out the second kiss even longer.  She relaxed in his arms, and her tongue penetrated his mouth.  He kept control and didn't gag. 

         He let the kiss linger for four slow beats, then stepped away. "It's even better when you help."

         She gave a little gasp, and her eyes threw daggers at him.

         He turned his back to hide his satisfied grin and strolled to his first mark, where he faced her again, features now leering.  "You don't have to act with me, Lola.  You don't have to do a thing." 

         He paused to let that sink in, then bent his lips in a sly smile.  He let a playful edge creep into his tone. "Or maybe just whistle.  You know how to do that, don't you?  Just put your lips together and blow."  With that, he exited stage right.

         There was a breathless moment while everyone absorbed what had just transpired.

         Mark called, "Cut!"  His face exploded in a manic grin.  "What was that?"

         Even Lola seemed impressed.  "Amazing improv.  It took me a while to catch on to what you were doing. I didn't expect to be working with the next James Dean. Where'd you study? Stella Adler?  The Actor's Studio?"

         Dante shrugged.  "There wasn't a back story, so I made one up."

         Clark slapped him on the back.  "Wait until the studios see that. You can forget about wasting your talents on commercials.  You'll get a movie contract for sure."

         Lola nodded.  "You're a pro.  You were way better than Tab Hunter.  I always thought his heart wasn't in it, even when we made out on dates.  But you?  I know you were acting, but you had me going there for a moment.  Dreamy."

         Dreamy. If only she knew.  He'd been thinking of Jesse when they kissed, of his sweet embrace, of his toned body. He'd not been acting.  He'd been remembering. Imagining. Perchance, dreaming.

         Clark squeezed his shoulder and warmed his heart.  "We'll have to celebrate tonight for sure.  You're life's going to pick up pace, faster than a roller coaster.  You'll see.  The future belongs to you."

         The future?  Without Jesse?  The soaring adrenalin high from the scene crashed into a pit of despair.  The future stretched empty and endless in front of him. 

         He still belonged to Jesse.  Even in dreams, just like the song said.

         
                                                 
Back to the chapter list
"Dreamin' Life Away"