Read Online Seeing Stars by Diane Hammond - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Diane Hammond
Tags: Fiction, General, Fiction - General, Family Life, Families, Mothers and daughters, American Contemporary Fiction - Individual Authors +, Child actors
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are the kids who give the freshest reads. They have that clean, unspoiled, real quality directors love.”
“Speaking of strippers,” and here Ruth lowered her voice, “is it true that the porn industry is headquartered here? Because I think we’ve seen some places where they film. On Magnolia in North Hollywood there are these big buildings that don’t have windows or signs, and all the parking’s around back. I mean, we’ve seen some people , too. Well, women.”
“You bet,” Vee said cheerfully. “Porn’s big business, baby. If you ever want a real hoot, watch the Adult Movie Awards on TV. It’ll blow your mind.”
“I don’t think I’m that strong,” said Ruth.
“Just wait. Once you’ve been here a few years you’ll not only watch, you’ll see that some of your neighbors are nominees. We had a porn queen once who used to walk her dogs all the time—pugs, Peachy and Butch, neither of them could breathe worth a damn, dumber than clams—and whenever she walked, men up and down the whole damned street suddenly remembered they had to go out and check the mail. My husband, Herb, kept a pair of binoculars in the front window. Her name was Honey von Buns or something. I am not making this up. Buster used to call her the Implant Lady, and that was when he was only ten. We used to marvel that she didn’t just topple over from the weight. When she put her house on the market, every single person within a quarter-mile radius went to the open house. You would not believe what you can do with a little feng shui and faux painting. I’m not kidding, the whole place was like a Roman grotto where someone had killed a couple of tigers. There were olive branches, stone columns, togas in the coat closet, tiger-striped towels, drapes, toilet seats, the whole deal. You could smell the strawberry massage oil from the front lawn.” Vee sighed, a faraway look in her eye. “Now an entertainment lawyer lives there, and he’s such a bastard. If we’d known, we’d have tried harder to get her to stay. She probably lives in the West Hills now, in some house that Spartacus built. You think I’m kidding?”
Ruth was laughing so hard her eyes were tearing. Vee subsided, taking a swig from her water bottle.
“I’ve got to ask,” Ruth said.
“I know—you think it’s beer. Everybody does. It’s this special apple juice Clara makes me buy at Trader Joe’s. Organic, which I keep trying to tell her just means there’s probably a couple of ground-up worms in it. She loves Trader Joe’s. I figured out once that we pay their monthly electrical bill.”
“We were so glad when we found one near our apartment,” Ruth said. “We love that place.”
“You and everybody else.”
Downstairs, kids were suddenly filing in from three different doorways and being directed to seats in the center section of the orchestra until every single one was taken.
“Oh!” Ruth said, leaning forward in excitement.
“They’re packing them in, so they must be shooting tight,” Vee said. “No cardboard cutouts for this guy.”
“What do you mean?”
“You don’t know about that? You know how in a sports movie the superdome or wherever looks completely filled? They use cardboard cutouts of people up in the high seats.”
“You’re kidding.”
“Think about it. They’re not going to pay ten thousand extras. Cardboard’s a lot cheaper, and from a distance you can’t tell the difference. You never noticed it, right?”
“So there’s a company somewhere that makes a million cardboard cutouts of people?” Ruth said incredulously.
“Yup.”
Ruth shook her head. In another minute she saw Bethany come in, look up for her, and wave. Ruth waved back. A production assistant was giving each row of kids a number. Ruth was thrilled to see that Bethy’s row was number four. Based on where the cameras were placed, she might get a close-up. By Ruth’s calculation, the kids in row twenty didn’t stand a chance.
Once everyone
“Speaking of strippers,” and here Ruth lowered her voice, “is it true that the porn industry is headquartered here? Because I think we’ve seen some places where they film. On Magnolia in North Hollywood there are these big buildings that don’t have windows or signs, and all the parking’s around back. I mean, we’ve seen some people , too. Well, women.”
“You bet,” Vee said cheerfully. “Porn’s big business, baby. If you ever want a real hoot, watch the Adult Movie Awards on TV. It’ll blow your mind.”
“I don’t think I’m that strong,” said Ruth.
“Just wait. Once you’ve been here a few years you’ll not only watch, you’ll see that some of your neighbors are nominees. We had a porn queen once who used to walk her dogs all the time—pugs, Peachy and Butch, neither of them could breathe worth a damn, dumber than clams—and whenever she walked, men up and down the whole damned street suddenly remembered they had to go out and check the mail. My husband, Herb, kept a pair of binoculars in the front window. Her name was Honey von Buns or something. I am not making this up. Buster used to call her the Implant Lady, and that was when he was only ten. We used to marvel that she didn’t just topple over from the weight. When she put her house on the market, every single person within a quarter-mile radius went to the open house. You would not believe what you can do with a little feng shui and faux painting. I’m not kidding, the whole place was like a Roman grotto where someone had killed a couple of tigers. There were olive branches, stone columns, togas in the coat closet, tiger-striped towels, drapes, toilet seats, the whole deal. You could smell the strawberry massage oil from the front lawn.” Vee sighed, a faraway look in her eye. “Now an entertainment lawyer lives there, and he’s such a bastard. If we’d known, we’d have tried harder to get her to stay. She probably lives in the West Hills now, in some house that Spartacus built. You think I’m kidding?”
Ruth was laughing so hard her eyes were tearing. Vee subsided, taking a swig from her water bottle.
“I’ve got to ask,” Ruth said.
“I know—you think it’s beer. Everybody does. It’s this special apple juice Clara makes me buy at Trader Joe’s. Organic, which I keep trying to tell her just means there’s probably a couple of ground-up worms in it. She loves Trader Joe’s. I figured out once that we pay their monthly electrical bill.”
“We were so glad when we found one near our apartment,” Ruth said. “We love that place.”
“You and everybody else.”
Downstairs, kids were suddenly filing in from three different doorways and being directed to seats in the center section of the orchestra until every single one was taken.
“Oh!” Ruth said, leaning forward in excitement.
“They’re packing them in, so they must be shooting tight,” Vee said. “No cardboard cutouts for this guy.”
“What do you mean?”
“You don’t know about that? You know how in a sports movie the superdome or wherever looks completely filled? They use cardboard cutouts of people up in the high seats.”
“You’re kidding.”
“Think about it. They’re not going to pay ten thousand extras. Cardboard’s a lot cheaper, and from a distance you can’t tell the difference. You never noticed it, right?”
“So there’s a company somewhere that makes a million cardboard cutouts of people?” Ruth said incredulously.
“Yup.”
Ruth shook her head. In another minute she saw Bethany come in, look up for her, and wave. Ruth waved back. A production assistant was giving each row of kids a number. Ruth was thrilled to see that Bethy’s row was number four. Based on where the cameras were placed, she might get a close-up. By Ruth’s calculation, the kids in row twenty didn’t stand a chance.
Once everyone
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