“I’ll enjoy the peace and quiet,” Ethan lied. He wondered how convincing he sounded. “And I’ll get some sleep.”
“You might as well,” she added, squeezing his hand.
“Thanks, Christa,” he said, feeling a little guilty about the plan taking shape in his head but no less committed.
“What else am I going to do?” she replied, a smile showing her relief. “Someone has to look after you.”
“Yeah, right.”
“Anything you want me to bring you later?”
“My script for tomorrow night. I still have a lot of work to do.”
“Sure,” she replied, her eyes rolling in their sockets as she moved to the door that Robbie was holding open. “See you later.”
“Get some sleep,” Robbie said, nodding as they left the room.
The hospital bed was comfortable. Ethan lay still for a few minutes, undecided about what to do next. He knew he’d been pretty sick, but his strength was returning. Sleep was the last thing on his mind. He wasn’t about to miss Wiggy Jamison’s audition. It meant too much. Otherwise, tomorrow he’d be back to normal and kicking himself.
The intravenous needle still dripped. The tape holding the needle in place in his arm hurt coming off. The needle itself slid out of his arm easily. Fluid dripped onto the bed sheets. He turned the small knob to shut off the drip, tossed it aside, and then slid his legs over the side of the bed.
His bare feet touched the cool floor as he stood up and slowly adjusted to his full weight. It felt much better this time. Light-headedness caused him to pause, catch his breath, and balance against the side of the bed. Once stable in his balance, he started to walk around, using the walls for support.
No question—he was weak. His legs were stiff, especially his calves, and his joints throbbed. His hands and feet felt swollen. It would not be an easy time, but he couldn’t let opportunity pass him by. A pair of jeans—with his wallet still in the pocket where’d he left it—and a T-shirt were in the duffel bag Christa had brought. He slipped his left leg into the jeans. It took more effort than he’d anticipated. He lost his balance and fell against the bed. He then used the bed for support and finished pulling on his pants. Standing upright, he was glad that he was alone.
He pulled his favorite T-shirt over his head. A photo of Winston Churchill was on the front, with the words “Never Give Up.” It fit the moment. He opened the door slightly and looked out. His room, fortunately, was near the elevators, as taking the stairs wasn’t a likely option, given his weakened condition. Without hesitation, he left the room and walked the short distance along the white hallway to the elevator. Acting like any visitor to the hospital, he pressed the elevator button and waited with his arms crossed. The elevator seemed to take an inordinate amount of time, but finally, the door opened. He stepped in, almost colliding with a doctor already inside. He turned, noticed the main floor lobby was selected, and stepped back against the rear wall. Silence reigned as the elevator continued to the ground floor. Ethan wasn’t about to speak, keeping to himself as if nothing out of the ordinary was happening. Upon exiting, the pressure in his head was beginning to build behind his right eye. Fatigue quickly was catching up with him as he passed the hospital’s gift shop. He detoured to buy some Tylenol.
Holding the money to pay, his dwindling financial position surfaced but was short lived, as the oncoming head-banger took over. He searched for a water fountain without success. Working up some saliva, he dry-swallowed two pills, hoping they wouldn’t get stuck in his throat on the way down.
No one confronted him or even took notice of his leaving.
As he walked out the automatic front doors, the midday heat hit like walking into an oven. It made his head swim. Feeling wilted, he raised his hand, which required surprising effort, and signaled a brown Chrysler cab parked at the curb, opposite the hospital entrance. The cabbie nodded acceptance and then drove up in front of him.
“Where to?” asked the dark-skinned, curly-haired driver in an accent Ethan didn’t recognize.
Ethan remembered the address he’d written down the night before.
“That’s ten, maybe fifteen minutes away,” replied the cabbie.
Ethan didn’t feel like talking. His head fell back against the top of the seat as his headache gathered steam. His attempt to extinguish the pain by visualizing a ball growing smaller was little help. But it didn’t stop his drive to get to the audition either. Willpower and the Tylenol would take him through a fifteen-minute audition.
Ethan paid little attention to the motion of the car or where they were going. He just wanted to be delivered to the front door and prayed for enough strength to get through the audition.
“I think we close, mister,” said the young driver.
Ethan opened his eyes. Pain surged through his head as he lifted it from the seat back to face the brightness of the afternoon. The hot sun had scorched everything in sight, leaving little but dust, weeds, and parched cement. His apparent destination was a desolate area of empty warehouses and parking lots. Dry, untended grass grew along the sides of the buildings and up through cracks in the asphalt. A late-model Ford was parked in front of the building where the taxi pulled up. The pain throbbed mercilessly above and behind his eyes, making it hard to focus on anything. The Tylenol had taken some of the edge off but that was all. He felt like a bag of bones but wasn’t about to admit it.
“Nothing here, sir,” said the cabbie, bringing the car to a full stop. He turned and looked at Ethan. “You sure this is the place?”
“We’ll have to see,” Ethan answered, every syllable like a hammer striking the inside of his skull. Despite air conditioning, the air inside the cab had become stagnant and nauseating. Ethan pushed the door open and was again greeted by the stifling midafternoon California heat. He was amazed at its oven-like intensity. It sucked what little energy he had right out of him. “I’d better check it out,” he said, as confident about finding someone as the cabbie was with his English.
Ethan gripped each side of the doorframe and pulled. It took everything he had to lift himself up to a standing position beside the taxi. Every movement was an effort. He hoped he’d get a second wind to resurrect him in time for the audition.
“Excuse me, sir!” cried the driver. Ethan could hear him coming from the rear of the car. “Fare, sir.”
Ethan stopped, reached into his pocket, and pulled out a single bill. Five bucks was all he had left. “How much?” he asked, knowing a five might only cover the tip.
“Twenty-two dollars, sir.”
Ethan held out his only bill.
The cabbie’s face changed to something between disgust and anger. “No sir, two-two.” He held up both hands with index and middle fingers indicating twenty-two.
“I have five,” Ethan replied, trying to think his way out. There was no chance in hell he could outrun this guy. The driver went to the front of the car and opened the passenger-side door. He reached under the seat.
Ethan hobbled back toward him and undid his wristwatch. The gold Seiko his parents had given him years before was the only thing he had of any value. “Take my watch!” he shouted as the kid turned around. Ethan thought he saw something that looked like a knife but it never appeared. He extended his open hand, with the watch glistening in the sunlight.
The driver’s expression changed as he stood up and walked back to Ethan. He took the watch and rolled it over in his hands to inspect it. He compared it to the rough-looking Swatch on his wrist.
“Thank you, sir,” he said politely.
Ethan didn’t say a word. He backed away and shuffled toward the nondescript building. His head continued to pound like a post-hole driver. His watch was gone, but the old Seiko had probably saved him from a mean beating, if not his life.
Every step he took landed either on a crack in the sidewalk, crumbled asphalt, or dirt. Step on a cra
ck; break your mother’s back hummed through his head. Ethan could only imagine who might live down here and wasn’t eager to meet any of them. The sun’s brilliance burned into his head, intent on melting his skull and brain into a single mass. God help him; he felt awful. He shook two more Tylenol out of the plastic white container and swallowed them both. Physical movement that normally was involuntary became an arduous task—he had to push aside his pain and force his legs forward.
Walking between the weeds and broken glass, he came to stairs and a side door. At the same time, he heard footfalls approaching from behind. His heart beat faster. He didn’t dare turn around and show weakness. It likely was someone else coming to audition, but he couldn’t help think of a drug-dealing thug, out for a laugh, or the cabbie coming back for more money. As the sound of the steps came closer, Ethan reached for the handle of the steel door, praying for it to open. A hand touched his shoulder, and his heart flew to his throat.
“Enjoying the peace and quiet, I see,” Christa announced loudly in his left ear.
At once relieved and shocked, Ethan had to hold the door handle tightly to remain standing. Upon seeing his unsteadiness, Christa instantly moved to support him.
“Well, you know …” he replied weakly. Though up to his elbow in the cookie jar, he couldn’t have been more pleased that she was there. Her timing was perfect.
“Yeah, I know,” she sighed. It was impossible for her to be angry, seeing him in his current state. “When Ethan Jones tells me he’s ready to enjoy ‘peace and quiet,’ I know enough to be wary. But I have no idea how you expect to get through your audition.”
Ethan didn’t know either, but he didn’t say a word.
Christa followed him through the doorway and into blinding darkness. Other than the wedge of light coming through the partially open door, nothing was visible. Several seconds passed before his eyes adjusted enough to make out the surfaces of the hallway. Thankfully, the throbbing behind his eyes began to relent as they moved forward in the dark. After several steps, he called out “Hello?”
“Ethan, what the fuck are we doing?” Christa said, her voice filled with concern as she gripped his arm tighter. “I should be taking you back to the hospital.”
He didn’t answer.
“Ethan,” Christa whispered. He could hear the disquiet in her voice. “Is this really worth it?”
“Hard to tell yet,” he replied, feeling much the same way, “but it will be.” They walked a little farther before Ethan saw a crack of light coming from the bottom of a closed door in front of them. “This must be it,” he said.
“I sure hope so,” Christa said tersely as her nails dug into his skin.
When they reached the door, Ethan knocked—and even that hurt. His aches were returning, despite the temporary respite from the Tylenol.
Footsteps were audible on the other side of the door as someone approached. “Who’s there?” asked a raspy female voice. Ethan couldn’t tell whether it was Wiggy he’d spoken to on the phone or not.
“Ethan Jones,” he replied.
Metal scraped on metal as the door opened, sending blinding white light into their eyes. It was impossible to see who opened the door.
“Hi,” Ethan said, tentatively raising his hand to shield his eyes from the piercing light.
“Hi, yourself,” said a young earthy woman in torn jeans and a tank top.
“Is this where the auditions are being held?” He wondered if he sounded as stupid to the person at the door as he sounded in his own ears.
“It sure is,” replied the woman, thrusting her hand forward in a friendly gesture. “Wiggy Jamison. Glad to meet you, Ethan.”
“Nice to meet you too,” Ethan said, stepping forward. “This is my friend Christa.”
Wiggy was just as friendly with Christa, introducing herself again. Christa followed Ethan into the room. There were two other people inside, sitting at a makeshift table made of plywood. A gun was placed in the middle of the table.
“You’re just in time. We’re just starting,” Wiggy stated.
The walls were cinder block construction painted beige. The floor was smooth concrete in the same color. The ceiling was unfinished, with plumbing and wiring in full view. Ethan thought the room resembled the inside of a garage.
Wiggy introduced the others. “This is Dale and Lynx,” she said, pointing to the man and woman sitting at the table. Wiggy motioned for Ethan and Christa to take a seat as she pulled out and unfolded a brown bridge chair leaning against the wall. “Sorry about the location,” she said, “but I needed to find a place away from our present locale. We’re making changes to the cast, and I don’t want to be interrupted by those not selected. Two of our members were arrested and charged with drug offenses last week.”
Wiggy was candid, as if they were all old friends. She appeared to hide nothing and spoke without pretense. “Our on-stage chemistry has deteriorated as of late and is reflected in our ticket sales. We feel the show’s in trouble. A friend of mine owns this space. Said we could use it to find replacements and rebuild what we had. Dale and Lynx are helping and are the co-producers.” Wiggy paused, taking a breath before continuing. “I know this is very unorthodox, but we’re the only ones who can bring it together or lose the show entirely. I’m not yet prepared to give it up.” Her smile was joined by nods from the others.
As Ethan listened, the pain in his head continued to build. He had to get moving and do something. Sitting and listening only exacerbated the situation and made it increasingly difficult to concentrate. “Can you tell me what the play’s about?” Ethan asked, barely above a whisper, anxious to get on with his audition and back to bed.
“Of course,” Wiggy replied, turning her chair around and straddling the seat, her forearms crossing on the backrest. “It’s a whodunit story with a twist. The young doctor, who appears professional and caring throughout the play, turns out to be the killer. The doctor’s one of the characters we’re looking to replace. The other is the police officer assigned to solve the murder.” Wiggy paused to take a sip of coffee from the white Styrofoam cup she was holding.
“Which one am I to audition for?” Ethan asked, rubbing his forehead with his fingers for relief. The young doctor was the role he wanted, despite his limited knowledge of the script. “I like your description of the doctor’s character.”
“Great, let’s go with it then,” Wiggy responded, her face alight with intensity. “That’s what I like—direct and to the point. Dale, let’s get another script. We’ll use the first scene in the second act as a first go.”
Dale handed a script to Ethan.
“I’d like to take a few minutes to run through it, if you don’t mind,” Ethan requested, again rubbing his forehead with his fingertips as if pressing the skin would make the pain go away.
“Sure,” Wiggy agreed. “Take your time. Would either of you like a coffee?”
Ethan shook his head. “No thanks.” Caffeine would only mess with his head at this point.
Christa nodded her head. “Sure.”
Wiggy then asked Ethan, “Are you feeling okay? I don’t want to be impolite, but you don’t look well.”
“A little under the weather is all,” Ethan replied, taking the script and pulling a folding chair into a corner of the room where the light was less intrusive. He opened the script as Christa continued to converse with Wiggy and the others. The first scene of the second act was only a few pages long. Reading quickly through the doctor’s lines, he knew at once where he wanted to go with the character. No longer focused on the pain behind his eyes, the scripted words transferred him into another world. He became entranced with imagining the doctor’s disposition, going deeper to find more. In five minutes, he was ready to go.
“Okay,” he said, standing up and returning to the plywood table. “Let’s give it a go.”
“Great,” Wiggy said and th
en directed the others. “Dale, you read the constable’s lines. I’ll take the wife’s.”
They exchanged pages of the script so they all had the second act in front of them.
“Dale, start,” Wiggy said, pointing her index finger in his direction.
With that, Ethan’s audition for the doctor was underway. There was no ceremony or elaborate flourishes, just a raw reading of the script. As the audition continued, Ethan’s headache became less invasive as he concentrated on the doctor’s lines. He tried to shape the character by realizing why he said what he did. The words had to become his own as a different person. His delivery was extraordinary. The reading went on for about ten minutes, leaving Ethan drained both mentally and physically. After the doctor’s final words in scene two, he glanced at Christa. Her eyes were wide, her face expressionless.
“Wow, that was great, Ethan,” Wiggy said as she put the script down on the table. “You’re certainly animated. Listen, I don’t mean to hurry you, but we have several other people to audition today. Can I get your address and phone number again?”
The air in the room was stiff, almost suffocating. His eyes watered and dropped to the gun still in the center of the table. Something seemed wrong, but he couldn’t put his finger on what it was. Maybe he’d gone too far with the character. Or maybe the gun on the table just bothered him. He knew he’d done well. The look on Christa’s face indicated she did too. Was it too good? he wondered.
Ethan wrote out Robbie’s apartment address and phone number in Wiggy’s small notebook. As he wrote, he could feel the slow ache gaining momentum behind his eyes. Still, he was glad for the temporary reprieve from the pain.
“Tell me, Wiggy, did I give you the interpretation of the doctor you envisioned?” Ethan asked, squeezing Christa’s hand in his own.
“To be honest, Ethan,” Wiggy replied, her vibrant eyes glancing at the ceiling, “we’re looking for more subtlety. The character is a doctor, not an entertainer. I see a doctor as a quiet professional. You sounded quite animated. But it worked just the same.”
The Actor Page 19
