Jackson Ford - Eye of the Sh*t Storm

“Um. Thank you?” It was months ago that Reggie played Titania, the fairy queen in A Midsummer Night’s Dream .

“I’ve kind of kept you in the back of my mind,” Lorenzo says. “Just when we’re going through casting notes, you know. I wasn’t sure I’d find a role that’s right for you, you know, since…” For the first time, the woman sounds unsure.

“Since I’m in a chair,” Reggie says, a note of steel entering her voice.

“Right, yes, exactly.” Lorenzo actually sounds relieved. “As I said, I kept you in mind and… well, I think I’ve come across a role you’d be perfect for. I tracked down the folks who own the theatre you performed at, and got your number. Do you have an agent right now?”

“An agent?”

“It’s totally fine if not. Actually, better than fine, because it gets me in on the Regina McCormick ground floor.” Another tinkly laugh.

Reggie clears her throat. “I’m not—”

Available . She was going to say, I’m not available .

And she isn’t! There’s way too much to do. She has to deal with the aftermath of what Teagan did, for one thing, and… God, so much else.

Lorenzo continues as if she hadn’t spoken. “Now as far as I know, this casting call is agency-only, but of course I’d be happy to submit it on your behalf. No commitment – we’d talk about that if they gave you a callback – but I speak for everyone here when I say we’d be delighted to represent you. Are you able to film an audition? On your phone is fine.”

“I… yes, I…”

“Outstanding. If you give me your email, I’ll send over the scene – I can’t say too much about what the project is right now, NDAs and all that, so don’t worry about putting it in context. Just hit us with your best shot.”

In a daze, Reggie gives the woman her personal email address. After they hang up, she spends a long time staring at her phone.

Reggie might not be from LA, but she’s an actress, and she has some idea of how these things work. And what just happened… shouldn’t happen. Agencies don’t even cold-approach actors with two good feet under them. Actors with disabilities? Reggie’s an optimist, but she’s never shied away from reality. She certainly isn’t going to start now. Hollywood can be brutal, and no casting director is going to go through the hassle of casting a quad or a para when they can just pick someone bankable and have them occupy a wheelchair on set. They did that with Denzel, didn’t they? Had him play a full quad on that old 90s movie, the serial killer thing with Angelina. The Bone Collector .

Except: just because it doesn’t usually happen, doesn’t mean it won’t ever happen.

This is insane . Reggie’s dreamed of going pro, sure, pleasant daydreams spurred on by the almost liquid thrill she got as she rolled out onto the playhouse stage in Anaheim. But actually doing it? Come on.

Before she can process this thought, her phone – still in her hand – rings again. And this time, there’s no debate who it is. Reggie knows, even before she looks at the phone screen.

“Answer call,” she says, trying to ignore the pitter-pat of her heart. “Moira. It’s all under control. I haven’t found any evidence of what Teagan—”

Tanner cuts her off. Her breathy New England voice sounds unusually harassed. “Where is the team now?”

“They’re getting some food. What’s going on?”

“We have a situation.”

When you’re in LA, and you’ve just wrapped up a hard day busting meth labs and beating up biker gangs, where do you go for a good meal?

Howlin’ Ray’s.

Howlin’. Motherfuckin’. Ray’s.

The greatest hot chicken in history. Fine, that may or may not be true, but who cares? As I take a bite of the sandwich, the glorious, crispy breast, firm bun and tangy slaw compact together into a magnificent, salty, crunchy, garlicky delicious mouthful. At that moment, I am a hundred per cent sure that there has never been a better bird.

And that’s before the burn hits you. This is Nashville hot chicken, and I like mine so spicy it burns the top three layers off my tongue.

The quake torpedoed a lot of LA’s finest restaurants. Which was a bummer, obviously. But LA’s food scene is known for its food trucks and hole-in-the-wall operations, and it didn’t take much for those spots to start up again. Ray’s was one of the first to come back. It’s in a little spot in a Chinatown food court, and even post-quake, the line is always nuts. I nearly went insane waiting for our turn.

I’m still high on the meth, although I’m no longer in super-mega-ultra-apocalypse PK mode. There’s an uncomfortable hollow feeling in the pit of my stomach, one that’s been building for the past half hour though – a feeling I’m trying real hard to ignore. And I can’t stop clenching my muscles. My shoulders and lats and quads are tight and hard, almost vibrating.

The food court is rammed, despite it being only noon. A seething mess of noisy people, making the already-sweltering space even hotter. It’s elbow-room only at the tables, whole families jammed up against construction workers and business people in suits, the floor a mess of discarded serviettes and food splatters. Places like Ray’s have become focal points for entire sections of the city – buzzing hangouts where you’re almost certain to see somebody you know, no matter the time of day.

Once we retrieved our van – which, thank fuck, wasn’t too far from the Main Street Bridge – it took us for ever to find a place to park here. Guess not even an apocalyptic earthquake can solve LA’s parking problem. All the same, the sheer number of people out getting food gives me hope. LA’s hurting, but it isn’t dead yet.

There’s not one but two chicken sandwiches for me, a quartet of jumbo tenders for Africa, with shake fries and collard greens. Annie has a slim plate of wings. She’s barely looked at me since we left the Main Street Bridge. Africa’s attention, though, has been entirely on me. My little meth episode horrified him, even if it was accidental. He kept asking me if I’m OK, offering me water over and over again until I wanted to hit him.

The dose of meth he and Annie got wasn’t anywhere nearly as big as mine. They’re already coming down, and although neither of them look especially comfortable, and probably won’t be for a while, they’re going to make it out OK.

Not sure I can say the same for me. I am still flying.

I smash through the first sandwich in four giant bites, every cell in my body awake and screaming for sustenance. When it’s done, my tray is a mess of dribbled sauce and pickles, but I don’t care. I smack my lips, reach for the second sandwich. Annie has hardly touched her wings. She’s just sitting, shoulders tense, not looking at anything.

I tease out a hunk of pickle jammed between my teeth. “Your food OK?”

She doesn’t respond.

“Annie? Earth to Annie? If it’s bad, we can send it back. Or is it not hot enough? They’d probably give you some sauce in a cup if you want.”

I trail off when Africa gives me a minute shake of the head. He’s chewing at a tender, arms tucked in so he doesn’t jab the woman sitting next to him.

He’s right. I should leave it alone. Annie’s got a lot of shit to deal with, and if she wants to sit and stew, that’s fine.

Except: the part of my brain that understands this isn’t in control. I’m still vaguely pissed at Annie for getting angry with me, for no goddamn reason. This feeling sits alongside the joy I’m getting from my sandwich, and they are not easy roommates. It’s bringing out a weird passive-agressive vibe in me that I’m not sure I like.