Free Hollywood Boulevard by Janyce Stefan-Cole

shopping, I told him. He said I didn't need any more shoes. I could have mentioned ordering the table for his proposed cocktail party but didn't. "I thought you had a thing for shoes," I said, acting the pervert. He laughed slightly, said I should stop by the set later for dinner. "Ah, honey- wagon food. How can I resist?"
    Â Â Â Â "We have a pretty good caterer this time around." He'd call later, he promised, repeating that I should come to the set. Those involved have no idea how boring movie sets are to those who are not. Well, the grips do, and makeup, costumers, and the PAs. Plenty of hurry- up- and- wait, like watching snails cross the road. If only the fans knew what a glued- together patchwork movie acting really is, so much of it manufactured in the editing. Is that still magical?
    Â Â Â Â Waiting for the light to change, I overheard a creamy hustler lure two chubby female Midwesterners onto a double- decker bus tour of celebrity homes. The ladies at first wisely declined. He seemed to accept their turndown, no aggression from him, only natural, oily charm: Take a look at that wide- open, sun- kissed face, a gander at those defined pecs. The trap's maw widened: " Where you pretty ladies from?" A titter. Watch out, girls.
    Â Â Â Â I'd heard about a football- field- sized discount shoe store on Sunset and decided I would go ahead and buy myself a pair of shoes, now that Andre had put the idea into my head. Not that I needed shoes any more than those gals needed to have a gawk at the movie- star mansions. Does the audience know an actor gets to keep all those Prada shoes and Armani suits? Yup, thousands of dollars' worth of cell phones and wines and clothing, lists of product- placement goodies. If a star pulls out a Black Berry in public, who benefits? Not you, dear audience, springing ten or twelve for a movie seat. Nope. Just another perk in the lives of those needing it least. Joe pointed that out to me, and he was right. I cut down Orange and swung a right onto Sunset.
    Â Â Â Â It was hours before I made it back to the rooms, dispirited, fed up and hungry. There was a fresh bouquet of lilies on the side table where I usually dropped my keys. My sleeve brushed a stamen, leaving an orange streak on the verdigris sweater. I swore instead of appreciating Andre's gesture and the heady scent of lilies filling the room. I was furious at myself for wasting hours at the discount store. I don't know why I was so cranky. What difference did it make if I demolished time in a shoe store or popping bonbons on the hotel couch?
    Â Â Â Â I can easily afford full price, but everybody loves a bargain, I kept telling myself as minutes in the store melted into hours. I'd searched and searched for something between sexy and smart. A minor breakdown held me, going over and over the same rows long after I knew there was nothing there for me. I blame Alesso Lorenzo, Andre's set designer; spry Alesso who notices a woman's shoes first, before breasts or eyes. Before "hello," he'll say, "What shoe do you wear today?" He's from a fishing village in Italy, near Brindisi, toward the heel of the boot; what does he know of shoes? "I am Italian!" he protested before I raised my leg to display an expensively sneakered foot. "Ah, this is the first time with those," he said. He hated the burgundy leather running shoes. One afternoon I returned to the hotel to find Andre and Alesso in the walk- in closet, all the shoes I'd brought with me from New York spread out on the floor, Alesso evaluating each pair. They were supposed to be having a budget meeting.
    Â Â Â Â I'd worn suede ballet flats the evening we were introduced. That was two days after I arrived in L.A., at a party given by the producer, out near Venice Beach. It was too cold with the sea breezes, but I'd stood out on the deck as long as I could, the wind off the Pacific blowing through my hair, shaking out the plane ride and any remnants of New