The Myth of Wile E

Giant Actor Traps on Every Corner

We were all swept up in the new California gold rush. We came by Impala station wagon, not horse-drawn wagon. And we didn't arrive at Sutter's Mill; we came to Burbank. But, just like the three hundred thousand fortune-seekers who arrived in California in 1849, we found that there were an awful lot more prospectors than prospects.

Mama figured the reasonable approach would be to start small, with TV. Maybe first Gladdy could be a supporting character on a family sitcom—the cute little kid who steals the scenes from mom Joanna Kerns or Meredith Baxter-Birney. Later, when the smitten public began to clamor for "more Gladys, more Gladys!" she could earn her own spin-off show. "But we won't entertain the likes of a Lassie or Mr. Ed show," Mama would always say. "No animal shows! And nothing starring puppets or robots or any nonsense of that sort. And no cartoons or costume shows, because how can Gladdy become America's little sweetheart if nobody even knows what she looks like?"

Every day Mama panned for gold in the phone book. She called every agency listed. "We are not currently expanding our client list," all the secretaries would say. "But if you send a headshot and a résumé, we'll keep your daughter's information on file."

"We'll do better than that; we'll come right down in person!" was Mama's reply.

"That's not necessary. A headshot and résumé will be quite sufficient. We'll get back to you if we'd like to see her."

"It's no trouble. We've come all the way from Kentucky; it's nothing to drive a few blocks to take a meeting."

"Really, ma'am, we wish you wouldn't."

"Nonsense. We'll be over in two shakes of a lamb's tail."

And two shakes later, there we would be.

The agencies were all of a similar shape and decor, like a franchise. On the outside, the buildings had a lot of silvery glass that reflected cars and palm trees and the nearly-cloudless blue sky. It was as if a movie of California were playing on the building, and anyone could step right into it, because if you looked, you'd see yourself in the scene. And as you approached, you'd become a bigger and bigger part of the picture, and as you'd reach out to open the door, another you would reach back. You'd shake hands with yourself while pulling open the glass door: shake, shake. If you smiled, then you got smiled at for certain. The façade of the building would make you a pretend star.

That front door always opened into a big hexagonal reception area, which was usually as far as we got. The walls and floors of the hexagon were very black and shiny. In fact, all the talent agencies looked like gigantic roach motels. Any neighborhood in Southern California that was swarming with actors had one of those giant actor traps stuck on every corner.

There were strange and fascinating things in the waiting area. The chairs were shaped kind of like bent spoons, and were uncomfortable in order to discourage actual waiting. There was usually a little table with similarly forbidding beverages, like hot ground chicory root or some other off-coffee, and also a pitcher of wheatgrass juice. Dougie of course would not drink that, because he was afraid of grass stains in the first place and the thought of an unlaunderable grass stain inside his stomach made him queasy.

I tugged on the sleeve of one of the stars-in-waiting who sat preening herself on a bent-spoon chair. "What's that?" I asked her, pointing to the pitcher of green pulp.

"That?" She shrugged at me, and opened her compact to inspect her makeup and hairdo. Her yellow hair was big and stiff and layered, as if a goose got scared and puffed up all its feathers and then an icy wind blew through and stuck them that way. "Soylent Green," she said.

"What's Soylent Green?" I asked.

The star-in-waiting adjusted her bangs into a new pose. When she moved the bangs, all the rest of her hair moved too, like synchronized swimming strands of hair. It was very impressive. "Don't you know?" she said, widening her eyes at me. "It's . . . people!"

Dougie screamed.

The star-in-waiting cackled with glee.

I stuck my finger into the green glop, which smelled a little like our freshly mown lawn back in Kentucky. I tasted some of it to prove to Dougie that it could be done without lethal consequences (opening my mouth to show him my green tongue). And in fact, it did taste like the sweet grass back home. I knew this because I used to chew on blades of grass while playing in the yard. I'd been sure Kentucky grass was full of magic that could turn an ordinary horse into a Pegasus, which was why the Kentucky racehorses seemed to run so fast-the secret truth was, their hooves hovered an inch above the ground. And the green pulp in the lobby of the actor trap made me feel like I was turning into a Pegasus too. I gulped some of it right out of the pitcher, smeared some on my face like war paint, and galloped all around the hexagon room, flapping my arms and shouting "Greengrass bluegrass, who grass you grass, I can fly I can fly I can fly!" while Dougie hollered and tried desperately to run away before I got any green goo on him.

The stars-in-waiting laughed, some even rising from their seats of deformed cutlery to give us a standing ovation. They were still laughing when Mama swooped into the waiting room and grabbed me by the elbow. She tossed her head back and marched us all out through the front door.

Strangely, there was no movie of California playing on the inside of the door as we left. The door was blank and dark like an unused screen. All of our self-images were gone—they did not see us out the way they had shown us in.

Apparently in California, when you're on your way out, you're on your own.