“Well, it’s definitely doing that,” Christa added, giving him a squeeze and turning back to the bedroom. “Let’s get going. I’m starved, and I’m sure you are too.”
Ethan had other things in mind as he watched her perfect figure move into the room. Her smooth, tan skin against the tight purple panties made him crazy with desire. At the same time, the apartment door opened and in walked Robbie. Christa made an imperceptible remark and closed the bedroom door.
“Hey, how’s tricks?” Robbie announced, letting the door close behind him.
“Depends on who’s asking,” Ethan replied, mildly ticked at Robbie’s timing.
“Always a condition, isn’t there?” Robbie chided. “So what’s up?”
“We’re going out to grab a bite,” Ethan replied, placing the phone on the kitchen counter. “You’re welcome to join us.”
Robbie needed five minutes. While Ethan waited for Christa and Robbie, David came by, and their foursome ended up eating pizza across the street from their apartment building.
Robbie sat beside Ethan in the booth; Christa was next to David. As the wine flowed, their conversation followed, lively and sporadic.
“Have you heard anything from the police?” Robbie asked abruptly.
“No,” Ethan answered. Strange—he hadn’t even thought about the police that day. He touched the scab on his cheek and turned to Christa. “Have you?”
She shook her head, frowning. Ethan didn’t know whether the frown was because Robbie had asked or because of the reminder of the incident. Still, it was the most relaxed he’d seen her since the shooting. She was not about to dwell on the subject.
“How did you get interested in acting?” Christa laughed as she asked the question. “Did you watch a couple of movies?” She reached across the table and squeezed Ethan’s hand.
“It was more than a few,” Robbie replied for Ethan, his smile turning aggressive for an instant. “He was in love with a gorgeous cunt.” Robbie cackled like the Wicked Witch of the West as the words flew out of his mouth. The effect was uncomfortable and disquieting.
“What the fuck!” Ethan fired back, anger lighting him up.
Robbie rubbed Ethan’s arm as Beth might have, aware of the line she’d crossed, wanting him to know her intention was naughty, not mean. Mila flashed through his head. She might have done the same thing. But Ethan had never experienced such a thing coming from another man. He looked across at David, whose expression flashed a lover’s disdain for his partner’s indiscretion. The display, though short, seemed brazen in the intimacy of the booth where they were seated. Robbie’s hand lingered too long on Ethan’s arm to be friendly or inadvertent. His thigh then pressed against Ethan’s, and his proximity moved from awkwardness to repulsive. Ethan looked at Christa, whose facial expression confirmed her knowledge of Robbie’s inappropriate behavior.
Robbie was quick to retract. “Ah, Ethan, I’m sorry,” Robbie said, shifting his demeanor. “I’m way out of line. I should never drink. My bad.” He quickly moved back and extended his hand. “She was beautiful, Eth. God rest her … wherever she might be.”
Ethan shook Robbie’s hand as a truce, but it still didn’t sit well with him. The word Robbie had used was unacceptable in mixed company but worse was how genuinely he spoke his comment.
David broke the silence by asking Robbie about work, and then conversation switched to learning more about David. A native Californian, he’d dropped out of high school at sixteen to pursue a modeling career that lasted all of a week. The big city, however, snatched his untamed heart. That was ten years ago. Now he was working as a bartender where he and Robbie met.
“You know, I’d kill him,” Robbie interjected, unexpectedly returning to their earlier conversation. “I wouldn’t just pull a gun and shoot ’im. I’d plan it.”
Ethan thought the booze was speaking. “Well, I’ll leave this one to the cops,” Ethan said, trying to avoid Robbie’s offering more description.
“Yeah, well, sometimes you can’t depend on someone else to do what needs to be done.” Robbie was shaking his head; his eyes were somewhere else. “Sometimes you have to practice these things.” He paused, not seeming to notice everyone else had gone silent. “Take, for instance, a cat,” he said, withdrawing to the point of talking to himself. “Practice on a cat.”
Christa squeezed Ethan’s hand. Her eyes told him all he needed. She was creeped out by Robbie’s talk, booze or not.
“We’re about ready to call it quits,” Ethan interrupted, taking Christa’s lead to get out of there.
Robbie and David weren’t ready, so Ethan and Christa headed back by themselves, which suited them just fine.
As they walked along the sidewalk in the dimness of the streetlights, Ethan couldn’t keep his hands off Christa’s bottom. “Ethan, please,” Christa said. “We’re almost there.”
Back in their bedroom, Christa’s clothes fell away like petals from a flower. His shirt came off as she pulled it over his head. They fell together onto the bed, Ethan on top of Christa. Her hot, smooth skin was electric to his touch as she moved to accept him eagerly. He was taken to another place and time as they coupled and recoupled until the pleasure exhausted them both. Eventually, they collapsed in each other’s arms.
Ethan awoke a short while later with Christa’s head resting on his chest and his arm on her smooth back. Her silky brown hair fell across his arm. The clock radio on the nightstand read 4:35 a.m., yet he felt rested. Lying on his back, her hair tickled his chin as he stroked the back of her head. Amazing, he thought, staring at the ceiling in the darkness, how things seemed to work themselves out. The night had turned out great—except for Robbie’s drunken antics—after Ethan’s afternoon’s disappointment. From one moment to the next, it was so hard to tell where he was. The only thing he knew for sure was that each moment was temporary. He had to stay focused on direction and ignore all the other shit that distracted him from getting it done; he would get there. He must never stop trying. The maze of mirrors was unending—he’d bounce off one of doubt and into another of rejection and hurt, until he found a way through. There was a way, no doubt, as others had found it. The unknown was all part of the journey, as difficult as that was to accept. Funny weird and funny ha-ha, he thought, which was more appropriate. One minute things looked desperate and so close to the edge that disaster was imminent. The next saw brightness on the horizon and a path through the chaos, if only for a second.
Moments later, his thoughts carried him off to sleep.
Chapter 27
Ethan’s Timeline
May 1991
The rest of the week and start of the next week flew by. Ethan called to have his personal items from Build sent to Robbie’s address. They paid him four weeks’ worth of severance, which was more than he expected. He was tempted to find another job, despite all he’d told himself.
On Monday, he worked on the first commercial Steve had mentioned. Dressed as a chicken for the better part of the day, Ethan walked around giving people information about California Free-Range Chicken (“For those who want chicken, not chemicals”). The costume was a mobile sauna unit with painted-yellow feathers stuck to the outside. He’d lost five pounds by time he took it off, half due to sweat and half to losing his lunch in the sweltering midafternoon sun. At the end of the day, they paid him a hundred bucks and gave him a book full of coupons for free chicken. It was shit, but it was paying shit.
The meeting with Frederick Northum never left his mind. Nervous and anxious, he was on his way out the door the following Tuesday when Officer Barnes called from the police station to tell them they had located a blue ’82 Chevy pickup owned by the accused. Christa knew the truck well. They’d been unable to locate the owner. “Left the state, more than likely,” Barnes imagined. “Knowing a warrant’s out for his arrest, he’s not likely to come back anytime soon.” He would let them know if anything e
lse turned up. Ethan told him they would not be returning to his old apartment.
As it turned out, Frederick was late—about ten minutes—and did not look at all like the person Ethan had pictured on the phone. His expectation might well have come from the sort of person with whom he expected Jamie would associate. Frederick was quite the opposite. Dressed casually, his clothes were expensive designer brands—Ralph Lauren polo shirt, Armani cardigan, and Perry Ellis slacks. An immediate rapport developed between the two men as they ate steak and exchanged stories. Ethan had hoped to come away with work. Frederick was reluctant to move further until he saw Ethan in action.
“Where can I see you perform?” Frederick asked as they sipped espressos.
“I’m between jobs right now,” Ethan admitted. “I’ll know in a couple of weeks where I’ll be after the next few auditions. I’m doing a commercial—”
“Ethan, I don’t know you well but here’s a little advice,” Frederick interrupted. Then he paused to ensure that Ethan was listening before adding, “Don’t do commercials. Find a day job to pay the rent. It takes such a short time to be pegged as an advertising actor, and it’s extremely difficult to break away from. It takes years to overcome.”
“When I start the play, I’ll contact you right away,” Ethan said, thinking about Frederick’s advice.
“Yes, that would be best,” Frederick agreed, and then almost apologetically, he added, “I won’t do anything without seeing you in character. Just call. I’ll fit it in.”
With that, they got up and shook hands.
“Thanks, Frederick,” Ethan said, stopping to acknowledge the moment. “You won’t regret this meeting.”
Ethan took a cab back to the apartment, bouncing around on the worn and cracked seat that pinched the backs of his legs. He wondered why someone like Frederick would give him a chance. That thought was followed quickly by the “holy shit” moment of landing a part in two weeks. He’d been in LA for two years and hadn’t had a part like that. But if there was a play to be had, he’d find it.
The cabbie dropped him in front of a 7-Eleven two blocks from the apartment, where he picked up the day’s newspapers to begin his search.
Christa still was up when he walked in just before eleven. His number-one fan looked tired but was eager to hear how things had gone.
“He wants to see me perform,” Ethan said, pulling off his dress shirt and tossing it on the couch. He held up the three newspapers. “So welcome to live theater, Ethan Jones. Find your curtain call.”
“You’ll find it,” she said with a tired smile. Her eyelids looked heavy. “I know you will.”
Ethan walked over and wrapped his arms around her as he looked into the brown eyes he found so attractive. He wasn’t falling in love—he was there; the falling was over.
“Ethan, I’m really tired. Come to bed,” she said, knowing what his response would be before he said it.
“Soon,” he replied, feeling the hurt of his own willpower. He would have liked nothing more than to make love to Christa right then and there, with her eyes looking into his own and her breasts pressed against his chest. “I’ve got a few papers to go through. I want to get rolling first thing in the morning.”
“Okay, but I can’t keep my eyes open. Don’t stay up too late. You need your beauty sleep.”
“That’s why there’s makeup and special effects,” he replied.
They both laughed. She kissed him full on the lips, testing his resolve, and then turned and headed to the bedroom. Every bone in his body yearned to follow her, if only to touch her long, smooth thighs and watch her fall asleep. But he held his place.
Over the next hour, he scoured the newspaper classifieds and circled thirty-four theater productions that were holding auditions. With that kind of demand, he began to think finding theater work might not be as difficult as he first imagined. Why hadn’t he done this before? Relieved and confident that he had a good list for the morning, he decided to turn in. The luminescent numbers of the clock radio showed 3:35 a.m. when he entered the bedroom. He undressed, crawled under the sheet Christa had covered herself with, and slid in against her back, his arm on hers. The last thing he thought about was the word he’d written on the wall. Act was what he had to do.
His eyes closed with the confidence of finding his way.
Chapter 28
Ethan’s Timeline
May 1991
The commercial was a big success, despite Ethan’s arriving on the set with a cold. It was the first cold he could remember succumbing to since arriving in California. The commercial, sponsored by the state, promoted healthy eating and pictured Ethan eating green vegetables with a smile on his face. By the end of the shoot, his eyes and throat were scratchy and dry, as if sand had blown into them. The irony wasn’t lost on Ethan. His efforts were rewarded with a cast party hosted by the sponsoring tourism group, where he proceeded to cure himself with ample amounts of liquor. He returned to the apartment in the small hours of the morning. Stuffed-up, achy, and hungover, he forced himself up by midmorning and started calling each of the numbers he’d been unable to reach.
By mid-May, he still hadn’t landed work with a theater show production and was starting to suffer a few chinks in his armor of confidence. I have to be able to find one show, he thought, blowing his nose into a wad of toilet paper. His cold was breaking up, and his nose was dripping like a melting icicle. Desperation was beginning to set in. He didn’t care what the part was—in dinner theater, repertoire, nightclub—as long as he was performing. His standards dropped as his list dwindled. Almost everyone had either filled their casts or couldn’t be reached. As he got to the last few numbers, he began to lose all hope. One ad read, “Need an actor. If interested, call …” The woman who answered the phone asked him two questions: “What’s your name, and do you have any experience?” After that, she gave him a place and time to meet the following Sunday and hung up abruptly. Ethan was ecstatic. With the phone in his hand, his arms shot into the air as if he’d scored a game-winning goal.
Placing the phone on the counter, he stared at the list of numbers he’d contacted. He’d doubled his starting list of thirty-four and only two of the first group of prospective ads remained. One for thirty-two. He shook his head. Discouraging odds at best, but he had his audition. He decided to call the last two numbers from the first list. Maybe his luck was changing. The first number gave a popular message he’d heard over and over again—“Sorry, we’re no longer looking”—but the other was answered by an elderly sounding man who was in charge of directing a small production company. He wanted Ethan’s name and asked when he could meet. Though wary, Ethan agreed to meet on Saturday afternoon.
Ethan hadn’t done any live theater since his university days. He’d learned voice projection and stage movement from the director, but it was Mila who had taught him most of what he knew. It was the vow he’d made her and let slide that pushed him even further now—the vow to take his gift and her dream to the end of the earth.
Ethan met Edwin, the old man on the phone, at a small greasy spoon not far from the Build Industries building where he’d worked. Edwin was a short man in his mid to late sixties with a full head of shiny gray hair. After ten minutes of discussion, Edwin suggested that Ethan follow him to an empty warehouse and audition for the lead in his play, A Baker Makes Three. Despite what Ethan thought was another unorthodox introduction to theater, he went along with it, determined to perform. His father would have said, “You have to work with what you’ve got.” So on that Saturday afternoon, Ethan found himself in an empty warehouse, auditioning for a play he’d never heard of.
“Here’s the script,” Edwin said, handing Ethan a coil-ringed booklet. “Take a few minutes and go through scene two. I’m going to call over my partners to meet you. It won’t take them but a minute to get here.” He left Ethan alone to prepare for the audition.
The script
itself was neatly typed—probably on a Corona typewriter—and double-spaced. Scene two had a lonely old baker, the lead character and the role Ethan was to read for, planning a bank robbery around a table in front of two stuffed animals. Ethan chuckled as he scanned through the scene; the story was humorous in a goofy way. Ethan kept trying to picture how the scene would look on the stage. As the baker walked through the strategy of robbing the bank, he asked questions of each stuffed toy, and then his character answered for each toy using a different voice. Ethan kept repeating to himself that it was better than nothing, but he really wasn’t convinced. The play was poorly written, very disjointed, and hardly ready for public consumption, but given the chance, he could work with the material. He skimmed through the rest, shaking his head. Edwin reappeared with his two elderly cronies.
“Ethan, I would like to introduce my playwright partners,” Edwin said, motioning with his outstretched arm. “Bob and Henry.”
“Good to meet you,” Ethan replied, shaking their extended hands; it was like grabbing cold, limp fish.
Ethan stared into the space between the two men as they sat down behind Edwin. He was beginning to question whether the three men were senile and this was a little sojourn from their daily activities at the seniors home. Rather than playing gin rummy or pinochle, they’d written a play and this time had gone outside their in-house realm by placing an ad in the Times. Ethan wondered if he was wasting his time.
Edwin motioned Ethan to a chair in front of them. “We’d like to have you read scene two as an audition,” Edwin stated as he sat back, crossing his legs, ready to watch and listen. “You can start whenever you’re ready.”
Ethan stared out at three pairs of wide, eager eyes awaiting his first words. The arrangement was awkward, but he went along with it, thinking he wasn’t much of an actor if he couldn’t perform in front of three old fogies. The lines were easy, and it didn’t take him long to transform into a hunched-over old man, talking to imaginary toys. He was making something real from the unreal lines of the script, and he had an attentive audience. They became so involved with his magic that he ran out of scene before they stopped him.
The Actor Page 17
