I GOT THE JOB!
No more 4:00 A.M. wake-up calls and 2:00 A.M. wraps. No more production managers hounding me about spending two pennies for an actor's wardrobe. No more producers who cast their girl-friends or boyfriends in the lead. No more fat actors to dress in clothes 2 sizes too small. No more directors who thought they knew anything about style.
I GOT THE JOB!
I want to celebrate, but I don't know where to go.
Hugo's shut down Mocha Daze while it (and he) recovers from the break-in.
"Congratulations, my little streetcar named desire."
Hugo sounded like he was back to normal, but he still looked like a Dorothea Lange photograph. Drawn, sad eyes, no smile, a smudge of dirt on the cheek.
"Hugo?"
"Yes, turtle dove."
"Please talk to me."
"About what?" He leaned back against the counter, broom in hand, a mild look of interest on his face.
"You must feel awful. Mocha Daze..." The emotions welled up in me so quickly I didn't have enough time to censor my next few words. " I don't understand why you're so sedate about the whole thing!"
"No tears, Fran!" He pointed a finger at me, lifted a Six Million Dollar Man eyebrow. " We talked about this yesterday morning. Stop it or leave. "
"Why are you talking to me like this?" I heard my voice warble.
"In the long run, this is nothing. I've gone through worse," he said, touching my arm, delicately. "I need my friends to be strong. I know you want me to talk about it, but you know that's not my cup of tea. "
He started to sweep the tiny fragments of broken coffee cups into a pile in the corner.
"If I barrel-ass through it, then I can make it, Fran," he said. "Sitting down and being a melancholy baby won't get me anywhere. I've taken the easy way out once before." He winked at me, drew himself up and declared into the broomstick, "Oh no, not I. I will survive. As long as I know how to love, I know I'll be alive...."
