Starstruck by Rachel Shukert

he cleared his throat, shaking himself out of his reverie. “But that’s Leo Karp for you. Likes to have the best of everything, no matter what. That kind of attention to detail is an ethos you’ll see repeated, ah, repeatedly throughout the Olympus grounds.” Straightening his bow tie, he tentatively proffered an arm. “Now, Miss Frobisher. Please allow me to welcome you to the Dream Factory.”
    The Dream Factory
.
    Margaret had heard that phrase a thousand times; she’d always thought it was one of those hazy terms, like Tinseltown or La-La Land, that movie magazines and gossip rags like to toss around to make it seem as if Hollywood were a land apart, a through-the-looking-glass kind of place where the rules of the real world did not apply. She’d never considered that it might have something to do with the fact that being on the studio lot felt a lot like stepping into a dream.
    Yet that was exactly how it felt. For example, here they were walking down a broad paved street lined with stucco bungalows and neatly kept flower beds. It was a scene that would not have been out of place in any middle-class Southern California suburb … until a man in full cowboy regalia appeared on the sidewalk, swinging his lasso absentmindedly behind him like a tail. The clattering pickup truck that came driving by couldn’t have been more prosaic, except for the gaggle of Marie Antoinette–style courtesans piled in the back, cigarettes dangling from their rouged lips as they held their towering powdered wigs in place. On an ordinary park bench, a very large man dressed as a pirate sat calmly sharing a sandwich from a paper bag with his companion, who was dressed in blue maintenance coveralls and holding a large broom. Olympus was like a fantastical dream, but it was real.
    “The main grounds of Olympus—what we on the lot call the Village—are laid out to resemble the prototypical American small town,” Stanley was saying. He gestured toward a row of cheerful-looking white stone storefronts punctuated by old-fashioned lampposts and a red and blue striped barber’s pole. “We are now walking down Main Street, where one can find the studio’s own full-time barber shop, dentist’s office, doctor’s office, a general store, an all-access branch of the First National Bank, and a post office. We even have our own zip code.”
    “My goodness!”
    “That’s right. Everything one needs for a healthy civic life. Olympus is primarily a place of business, but it’s also a thriving community. And that, of course, includes all types of fun and games. Outside the Village, we have a year-round ice-skating rink, three Olympic-sized pools, tennis facilities, and extensivehorse stables. These are all open to Olympus employees, providing they aren’t being used for filming. Our world-famous studio commissary serves gourmet breakfasts, lunches, and dinners from five a.m. until midnight. To your right you’ll see the Olympus movie theater, which features five showings a day of beloved pictures from the Olympus vaults for anyone who needs an hour or two of happy relaxation, or perhaps a reminder of why we’re all here, doing what we do.”
    Margaret’s gloved hand flew to her mouth. “You mean you can just watch movies again and again?” How often had she longed to see a favorite movie one more time after it had left the theater for good? The idea was positively magical.
    “Sure thing. It’s a different picture every day. And it only costs a dollar.”
    “A dollar?”
The movie theater in Pasadena cost twenty-five cents, and that bought you a double feature with the newsreel and the cartoon. On Thursday nights, they even threw in a small box of popcorn. Margaret shook her head. “I knew it was too good to be true.”
    Stanley grinned. “Not a
real
dollar. An Olympus dollar. The only currency accepted by any establishment on the Olympus lot.”
    Taking out a worn leather wallet from his pocket, he handed Margaret a small,