ACTOR
Matt Perron |
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I ARRIVED HOME FROM WORK JUST AFTER DAWN TO FIND A CRACK OF LIGHT
shining from under the door. Laura sat Indian-style on the bed with her dirty-blonde hair drawn into a pony-tail, smoking a cigarette and sipping coffee. Nervous red splotches marked her neck.
"Guess what happened to me," I said.
She exhaled a plume and shrugged.
"Russ Frist dropped by the bar. "
"Who?"
"You remember. The director we met at the festival in Boulder. The one who got distributed. He's going to read my script. "
"How could I forget?" She crushed her cigarette and lit another.
This wasn't the reaction I'd been expecting. "What's the matter with you?"
"Take a look around. "
Pink coffee cups, pink rubber arm bracelets, jars of pink nail polish, stacks of pink ribbons and tubes of pink lipstick littered the apartment. A collection of goodie bags stood just inside the door.
"You didn't notice this stuff or think to ask what I'm doing awake. "
"I did notice, but-"
"But what?"
"I thought you'd be excited to hear. "
She put her coffee mug on the bedside table and jabbed a finger at me. "You took one class and wrote one script. A ridiculous story about a Brazilian guy someone told you over the bar. You didn't even make it up. "
"So?"
"Now you think it's going to be your big break," she said derisively shaking her head. "Just like the last role or the last commercial or whatever the hell came before that. Lately, these fucking delusions are all I notice about you. "
I'd seen her angry many times since she quit singing, but never with this venom. "I don't know what your problem is," I said, "but being a bitch won't solve it. "
She tapped the ash of her butt into a tray on the mattress. "Remember the first time I edited the newsletter?" she said. "I slaved for hours and asked you to proof read it. "
"I read it. "
"No. You skimmed it and immediately wanted me to help you rehearse. When I asked, you couldn't remember a single article. "
"I wasn't reading for content. "
She blew smoke and shook her head. "That's too rich. "
"I was concentrating on the punctuation. "
"You mean on your lines?"
"If you're done grilling me, I'd like to get some sleep. "
"One more thing, just tell me the name of the place where I work. "
The answer sat stubbornly on the tip of my tongue. She had me. "It's not the title that's important," I said.
"Thought so. "She looked through the window at the chipped cornice of the brownstone across the street and slowly shook her head. "I've met someone else. "
"That's not funny. "
"It's no joke. He's a lobbyist I know through work. I've been putting off telling you for a couple weeks. I'll pay another month's rent, but I'm leaving this weekend. "
As clearly as she'd laid the facts, I still couldn't imagine her cheating on me. "All these nights I'm working, you've been seeing this guy?"
"I spent a lot of nights alone first. "She rose from the bed.
I grabbed her elbow. "How long have you been lying to me?"
She shook her arm loose. "You never even asked a question that forced me to lie. "
She glared at me for a moment, then went into the bathroom and closed the door.
I paced from wall to wall listening to humming water pipes, then the hissing hairdryer through the cheap, paneled wood. She'd cheated, yet I felt guiltier and guiltier with each passing moment. Maybe I had pushed her to it. I refused to believe that, and stormed into the cramped, steamy space.
She turned off the hairdryer and looked at me through the mirror. She'd been crying. "I'm sorry," she said.
Suddenly I no longer wanted a scene. I left the bathroom, pushed aside some boxes of nail polish and collapsed on the bed.
The hairdryer stopped.
I closed my eyes.
Her bare feet crossed the floor. Hangers clicked. Sometime later, the mattress compressed and I heard her slip on her shoes. Cool lips kissed my cheek. "Goodbye, Bruce. "Heels clacked across the floor, the doorknob jingled and the bolt thudded home.
. . .
My agent phoned me that the audition was on 8 th Avenue in a rehearsal space between 52 nd and 53 rd. A collection of men in their early thirties or late twenties sat on or stood by a row of folding chairs outside room 723 ignoring a curly-haired guy polluting the hall with his nervous jabbering. No one looked any more or less like an eccentric, tennis playing uncle from Queens than I did.
A woman with spiky, short hair, wearing a t-shirt and jeans tucked into clunky boots emerged from the audition room. She called a name and third-in-line followed her inside.
I retrieved the sides from my bag, closed my eyes and tried to envision sad Maurice the Country Club drinker and needy womanizer. I imagined Laura's hair catching a spotlight, the taste of sweat on her mouth, her hip swiveling under my palm until I had depression to channel. When summoned, I followed the woman into 723.
Sunlight through tall windows lit a plank board floor and a room bare but for another folding chair before a wooden table. Two people sat behind it, the woman and a broad man in a loose-fitting polo shirt. "I'm Steve Miles," he said and rose to shake my hand.
I grabbed his pudgy fingers. "Bruce Thompson," I said.
"This is Oriole Allison, one of the producers," he said.
She gave my hand a firm, dry pump.
"How long you been in New York?" Miles said.
"Since I went to NYU. "
"Never tried L. A. ?"
"There's enough work here to stay close to the theater. "
He nodded. Oriole wrote something in her notebook. Had I said something wrong?
"Where'd you grow up?"
"Watertown, Massachusetts. "
"That a city or a town?"
I'd heard of auditions like this. They wanted an actor with the right history. There'd be no reading. "Its right next to Brighton," I said, gesturing with my hands to show the proximity, "practically part of Boston. "
He nodded. "Parents get along?"
Maurice's certainly did not. "Most of the time," I said, subtly loosening my posture. "They fought, but for the most part they were all right. But those fights...you never really forget them. "
Again Oriole's pen scratched across the paper.
"What'd they do for work?" Miles said.
"My father is retired Navy and works for the Post Office. My mother is a nurse. "
"Do they support your acting?"
"Financially?"
"In any way. "
"They come to see the plays and seem proud of me. My father says if worse comes to worst he can always get me a job at the Post Office. "
They laughed. Oriole made another note. "Okay," Miles said and rose to shake my hand again. "Thanks for coming, we'll call. "
Two minutes. How long had the guys before me been in there? I hadn't noticed. Back in the hallway, the line of actors just like me had gotten longer. I hurried past, but couldn't help seeing the dog-eared, sweat-grimed script quivering in somebody's hands. Should I tell him not to bother? But what if I'd simply failed the initial screening? And suppose I'd been fine, suppose all the initial auditions were quick? Even that guaranteed nothing. You could line the shores of Manhattan with actors that could play this part. Someone had to know someone. At least there was Frist. For once, I was the one who knew somebody. Someone else could wait in line to audition for nothing. I kept jabbing the elevator button, but it didn't come any quicker.
. . .
Everybody wanted the special drinks, Mojitos, flavored Martinis, even a couple of Muddled Old Fashions, hardly a draft beer in the lot. Hours blurred by until the rush ended at about two. I opened a bottle of beer and angling my head for a sip, noticed Frist sitting on a stool. "What a surprise," I said. It'd been three auditions since the strange not-a-reading with Miles and Oriole and still no call backs. Laura had come for her things while I was at work and hadn't returned my messages. Nobody wanted anything to do with me. I needed good news in the worst way. "How long you been here?"
"Just arrived. "He put his elbows on the bar and gave me an impressed nod. "Loved the script. "
"Thanks. "A string of influential customers had dropped into the bar lately and there'd been some trouble with the boss about free drinks. But what was the sense of being a bartender if you couldn't set up the right people?" Same as before?" I said.
"Of course. "
I took two glasses from the rack, dropped in the first cubes of ice and splashed on the bourbon. I wondered for a moment if Frist was just thirsty, if he was taking advantage of me, but dismissed the thought.
We clinked glasses and sipped.
"Story's got a gritty feel," he said. "Ever think about the logistics for some of those scenes?"
"I've talked to the police department and a cab company. They're expensive but doable. Problem's getting an apartment. "
He swirled the liquor around the ice. "Any chance I could get a chaser?"
I poured a beer.
"Thanks," he said. "One guy I know rented a dance studio and filled it with furniture off the street. Barely cost a thing and you couldn't tell the difference. "
"That's a great idea. "
"How about the bar?Could you use this one?"
"Doubt it. He gets a day crowd. But I'm sure I could find a place for five hundred an afternoon. "
"What about people?If it's union, that'll cost you. "
I had no chance of drawing professionals. Why would it be union unless he wanted to do it himself? I refilled our glasses. "I'd just like to see it get made with the best people possible," I said.
"Who do you have in mind to direct?"
"Nobody yet. You'd be the perfect guy. "
He gave a curt nod acknowledging the obvious. "Anybody behind it?"
I debated telling him that my brother was an investment banker and that I was thinking of asking him, but didn't want to sound amateurish. "Not yet," I said.
"Let me know if you get the financing. "
"To good luck," I said and raised my glass. I kept the drinks coming and we discussed post-war Italian cinema until grey shafts of light pierced the curtained windows. After a sloppy hug at the door, I watched him totter down the Bowery until he staggered into a cab. Wiping down the bar, I noticed my reflection in the mirror and burst into laughter.
The next day I took some aspirin, rode the F under the river and walked back to the bar. A couple sat with their elbows on the mahogany and shopping bags around their feet and a bunch of kids surrounded a pitcher-littered table in the glow of the online-juke. Hopefully it wouldn't be a slow night; I already owed my landlord money I didn't have. Jim, the old guy who always wore suspenders and had been working here for at least a decade, manned the bar.
"I'm a little early, so close your tabs if you want," I said.
"Bob asked me to pull a double. "
The first tendril of anxiety twisted in my stomach. There'd been others besides Frist, the commercial director with national spots under his belt, the guy from the Shakespeare festival in Canada, and the artistic director from the Signature Theater Group had all had their share of Bob's whiskey. "Why'd he do that?" I said.
He gestured with his chin to the far corner of the bar. "Ask him yourself. "
Bob sat pressing a pen to his lower lip, inventory notebook open on the finished wood beside his inevitable diet cola. I was in trouble. He pulled back the chair beside him and slapped the seat. "Placed the liquor order yesterday," he said.
"Good," I said sitting down. "We're short vodka. "
"It's not vodka that concerns me," he said. "It's bourbon, the good bourbon. Fact is reorders are out of line with the sales numbers again. "
"Maybe I've been a little heavy on the pour. "
"Heavy pour?"He finished his soda, jingled the ice cubes and clacked the glass onto the bar. "Two times in a row, I'm at least two bottles down. "He opened his wallet. "Got your last check here," he took out an envelope.
Although I always knew there was a possibility he'd catch on, perhaps even dock my pay, I never imagined he'd fire me. "My girlfriend just moved out," I said. "If I lose this job I'm screwed. "
"Should've thought of that before you stole my booze. "
I grabbed the envelope, rushed to the street and kept walking for blocks. So it had finally come to this. The naysayers were right. Before long, I'd have to drive a moving van up 95 to the drudgery of a Post Office job and my childhood bedroom. I swallowed my pride and phoned my younger brother. "You're not going to believe this but I just got canned," I said.
For what seemed a very long time, he didn't reply.
"What should I do?" I said.
"Stay with me until you get back on your feet," he finally said.
. . .
Delivery trucks choked the streets of Soho. Designer street vendors pedaled clothes, paintings and jewelry. Everyone on the sidewalk sported at least a couple grand's worth of shirts, skirts, boots, suits, handbags and sculpted hair. I sucked in my stomach and ran a thumb between the waist band of my faded jeans and lean torso, still, feelings of inadequacy crept up on me. I'd been living on my younger brother's couch for over a month, sending letters and making calls to find agents or raise money for the film. None of it worked. Now I was trying a more aggressive, direct approach.
I reached Greene Street and an office building that had probably once been a textile mill. I stopped and looked up at the long, black windows set in bricks high above the street. Somewhere up there sat my investor.
An old guy in a cap and jacket sat behind a tall desk before the elevator bank. "Where ya' goin'?" he said.
"Wifco Productions." He pointed to an open ledger on the desk. "Sign here. Tenth floor suite six. "
I pushed the button. The elevator emptied a gangling assortment of long-legged models, a French-accented cloud of eyeliner, lipstick, swiveling mini-skirts and clacking heels. When they'd disappeared outside, I stepped into the elevator and came face to face with my rising hairline in a gleaming mirror. I turned towards the brushed steel wall and focused on confidence. The tenth floor smelled faintly of incense. A gold plaque screwed into the wall indicated the office door. Inside, a young woman sat with her perfect ankles crossed beneath a glass desk. A smear of modern art loomed over her head. I stood before her for what seemed a long time.
She looked up from her magazine. "Can I help you?"
I looked over her shoulder at the doors lining the wall behind her. One of them was open and I could see a guy talking on the phone. I read the nameplate. "Here to see Maxwell," I said.
"Have an appointment?"
"Russ Frist sent me. "
"I don't know anyone by that name, sir. "
I ignored her. Glossy floorboards creaked underfoot until I knocked.
His suit was worth five-thousand if it was worth a dime. "Let me call you back," the guy said. "Someone's here. "He dropped the phone in the cradle. "Have an appointment?"
The woman appeared at my side. "No he doesn't. He walked right past me. "
I held up the script.
"All unsolicited scripts are to be left with Melissa out front. "
"You don't understand. Russ Frist wants to make this movie. "
"I don't know any Russ Frist. "
Melissa reached for the pages and I snatched them back.
"Please listen," I said. "My name is Bruce Thompson. I have this script that Russ Frist wants to direct. He just won the Boulder Film Festival. You've heard of that, right?
"I have. "
"This'll be his second movie."
"Let's see. "
I handed him the manuscript.
He read for a time, turned the page, read some more then turned another. Finally I had the right person's attention.
Maxwell opened a drawer and dropped my script into the well. "I'll be in touch," he said.
I stood staring at him, not sure what to do.
"Good day, Bruce," he said.
Back in the elevator, I leaned against the mirrored wall and exhaled. At least he'd kept the script.
. . .
That evening, as I waited at the take-out counter for Cuban sandwiches and an order of rice and beans, my cell phone vibrated. I didn't recognize the number.
"Russ Frist here. "
My pulse quickened. Had he heard from Maxwell already?This could be it. I tried to keep my voice calm. "What's up?"
"Have you been telling people we're doing a movie?"
I didn't like the edge in his voice and nervously switched the phone from one ear to the other. "Was it a secret?"
"A secret?What the fuck are you talking about?Use my name again, and I'll blacken yours every chance I get. "
The line went dead.
For a moment, I stood staring down at my phone as if it could tell me what had just happened. I went to incoming calls and chose Frist's number. I wanted to tell him he was a leech, a whiskey-soaked, soon to be has-been who didn't have the first clue how to treat people. But when I got his answering service, I imagined him smiling as he deleted my voice with the touch of his finger. I closed the phone, pushed a twenty into the counter-girl's palm and drifted down Butler Street to my brother's place.
Jay, still in his work khakis and blue dress shirt, sat on the edge of the foldout bed. My box spring and mattress blocked the window and boxes of clothes, plays, playbills and kitchen goods stood stacked on both sides of his television. Everything I had to show for my life fit into his living room. I let the bag of food fall on the coffee table and collapsed on the displaced easy chair.
"What's with you?" he said rising to get plates and forks.
"Just got a call from Frist. Fucker doesn't want to do the movie. Turns out he never did. "
Jay spooned beans over the pile of rice on my dish. "Thought all you had to do was get the money. "
"That's what the prick told me. "
"For all you know, something else came up is all. "
I grunted.
"Just eat. "He bit into his sandwich.
"Maybe the script sucks," I said. "I'm no writer. I'm supposed to be an actor. "
"Look," Jay said. "I enjoy your stuff, the theatre gigs, especially the commercials, all of it's great. But you're in a ridiculously competitive field. Half the time it's who you know. Maybe all the time. "
"That's why I wrote the script," I said.
He nodded. "Maybe one of those literary agents you sent it to will like it and you can still get a part. "
Hearing him say it made me realize how pathetic I'd become. I was his older brother; I was supposed to do things for him. But the most I'd done over the years was buy him beer, invite him to a few college parties and show him the good bars when he moved to New York. To think I'd actually considered asking him to back my shitty film. I unzipped a bag at the foot of the bed and took out some sides. "Got an audition next week, have to practice. "
He turned on the television. "That's the spirit. "
I closed the bedroom door behind me, sat on his bed and let the pages drop into my lap. A decade of struggling and what did I have to show for it, a S. A. G. card, a so-so agent and a handful of paying roles. I pictured Laura's dimpled smile and slammed the sides onto the floor.
The next day I didn't want to think about acting. I left the house at the same time as Jay and went with him to Manhattan to look for another bartending job. I returned to Brooklyn well after dark, depressed and still jobless. Crossing Atlantic Avenue on my way home from the 5 train, I saw a help wanted sign in the window of a restaurant. A week later, I started work.
. . .
I was topping off a couple stouts when Laura and her new guy entered the restaurant. She'd cut her hair so that it just touched her shoulders and was wearing a blouse that I'd bought for her twenty-seventh birthday. He stood a full head taller than me and wore a sport coat with jeans. I moved behind the line of taps and watched her follow him to the other side of the four foot partition dividing the restaurant. So long as they stayed in the dining room, enough people crowded the bar to prevent her seeing me.
I finished pouring the pints, collected the money and looked for her in the dining room. They'd sat at the table under a framed photo of Ebbett's Field. As I worked, I watched them from the corner of my eye, hoping to see an argument, some sign of discord. When she smiled, reached across the table and squeezed his hand, I'd seen enough. For the next hour, no one came close to finishing a drink without me offering another. I'd dared to hope they'd gone when a crowd of people left their stools and I found myself face to face with Laura.
"Thought it was you," she said with a smile that made me ache. She seemed genuinely glad to see me, probably to show off her new man. "This is Clay. "He fidgeted onto a stool and tried to smile. Grey flecked the whiskers on his soft chin.
I shook his hand and we mumbled polite greetings.
"When did you start working here?" she said.
"Bout a month now," I said. "What'll you have?"
"Two drafts. "
"Still living on Myrtle?" she said as I grabbed the glasses.
She knew damn well I couldn't afford that without her. "Found a place in Sunset Park after you split," I said.
Clay turned from the bar to look out the window at the street, but the remark had no visible affect on Laura. "That far out?" she said.
"Rents are high. "I put the beers in front of them. "They're on me," I said and made a mental note to pay later.
"Thanks," she said.
I searched the length of the bar, not one person needed a drink. "How's life at that non-profit place?" I said.
A brief flash of anger lit her eyes. I could still get a reaction.
"Great," she said and turned to smile again at Clay. "But I have better news. "
Of course. I tried willing myself to be happy for them. "What's that?" I said, hoping to sound care-free.
"I'm going to sing on Letterman. "
"What?I thought you quit singing. "
"Remember Lisa Danbury?"
"No. "
No anger this time, she laughed. "She was supposed to sing back up for this kid whose Dad used to be a big shot executive at Motown, but she's going to be out of town. She got me the gig. Millions of people are going to see it. Isn't that unbelievable?"
I couldn't have been more stunned. She didn't audition, hadn't so much as sent out a single letter. The opportunity had simply fallen into her lap. I wanted to strangle her.
"Well?" she said. "What do you think?"
"It's unbelievable. "I forced myself to say congratulations. "When will you be on?"
"Next Wednesday. "
"Hey buddy. "Someone down the bar waved a twenty and I excused myself. As I poured his beer, I attempted to rein in my jealousy. After all, she'd worked as hard at her craft as anyone for years, and this opportunity was a remnant of those days. I tried to tell myself she deserved it, but I couldn't. She'd quit.
I took the money and returned to her end of the bar.
"How's the acting going?" she said.
It was all I could do to keep my face from twitching. "Haven't landed a thing since you left," I said.
She nodded, shifted on her stool. "Don't put so much pressure on yourself," she said. "See what happens. "
The last thing I wanted to hear was ridiculous advice from her about trying too hard. "How about you, Clay?" I said. "What do you do?"
He talked for awhile and I didn't listen. The interaction grew more and more awkward. Finally, Laura gulped the last of her beer. "Have to run," she said. "We're seeing a movie. "
Naturally. Where else would they be going?I kissed her cheek goodbye and shook his hand before watching them walk out of the bar, clasp hands on the sidewalk and disappear. For a time I stood there, staring at the place in the window where I'd last seen her. She could just as easily have finished her dinner and left without saying a word. No. If I'd landed a big role and then ran into her, there's no way I wouldn't have told her. I'd have relished it too.
"Excuse me. "An attractive brunette sat at one of the stools. She put her purse on the bar and fished inside for her wallet. She appeared to be alone. "Could I have a Cosmo?"
"Sure. "I made the drink and placed it in front of her.
She leaned back, put the tip of her index finger to her lips and gave me a thoughtful stare. "You look a little familiar," she said. "Do I know you from somewhere?"
"I was in a deodorant commercial that ran for awhile on TV. "
She laughed. "I heard New York was full of stars. "
I smiled. "We've got more stars than sky to hang them in. "
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