A wax mannequin was standing there, approaching my sister. The vampire had a touch of red blood smeared at the corners of its mouth. Brad Pitt never looked well defended.
My sister was 11, and I was 16, but it was a sunny day in Hollywood, and instead of being at the beach an hour away, we were in Ripley's Believe It or Not, near the famous corner of Hollywood and Vine, in Ripley's dark hallways.
“Oh… awwww…” and we eased our excitement. The director told us to remember how happy we were, imagining that just a few years ago we felt like tourists. We were not fond of Hollywood managers/agents/fathers. Doing this infomercial for this famous museum was a credit that went nowhere. Neither of us wanted to become actors. Our father was not a boutique but rather a small agency that was more of a huckster's fruit, yet we actively discouraged pursuing a life in the industry.
That was a question I couldn't ask him. Why did you allow us that one acting job? His death crept up on us - the feeding tube went into his stomach, fell from the bed in his nursing home to the floor, while a speech therapist was giving him ice cream. Those moments were intrusive…