“Ah, come on,” Robbie prodded. “What’s one little beer gonna do? Might never get to do this again.”
Ethan shrugged, reached for the beer, and took another gulp. At the same time, Robbie’s hand moved down his back. It was an odd moment that Ethan could remember sensing only once before, back in college, and it made him uncomfortable. Was this how a woman felt when a man came on to her whom she didn’t want?
“So how’s work going?” Ethan asked, louder than he’d intended, his voice cracking. With his beer can in hand, he stood up and took another sip.
“Incredibly busy,” Robbie said, sounding aloof, like his mind was elsewhere.
Ethan wondered if he had misjudged the situation and that Robbie simply was being friendly. All he knew was that he felt awkward.
“I’d love to talk more,” Robbie said, “but I need a shower and some shut-eye in the worst way.” He headed to the bathroom. Ethan placed his book on the small table beside his chair and stood up as Robbie opened the bathroom door. “Break a leg, Eth,” Robbie said, poking his head between the bathroom door and door frame. “Hope it goes well tonight.”
“Thanks, man,” Ethan returned with a wave of his hand. “Time to lock ’n’ load.”
Robbie closed the door.
Chapter 39
Ethan’s Timeline
September 1991
At four o’clock, Ethan’s nerves set in. A small pain started in his abdomen, just below his ribcage on the right side. He pressed and massaged the spot, hoping for relief, but the cramp only tightened.
The park—a ten-minute walk from the Limelight Theater—usually was quiet, where he found a vacant bench to sit on. His lines continued to pester him as he went through different parts of the play. Somewhere between the first lines and the last, he’d drift off. Each time, his concentration was interrupted by some diversion—a swearing cab driver in the street, a cooing pigeon by the pond, or a crying youngster in the playground. He sought quiet—it was why he liked this isolated part of the park—but today he heard everything. If he listened closely, he was sure he could hear earthworms crawling through the dark black earth beneath his feet.
His biggest distraction, however, was the thought of Robbie’s advances in the apartment and what he’d done to make Robbie think he was interested.
The harder he tried to concentrate, the worse things became and the worse his stomach felt. The day was beautiful and clear in contrast to his stormy feelings. He had been to the park on several occasions before a show to relax and calm his pre-show jitters. But today was different. Again, he brought himself back to his lines.
“You just can’t stand there and do nothing!” he exclaimed to an imaginary Richard beside him on the bench. “And why not?” he replied, filling in Richard’s lines in a different voice. “Because it’s not the right thing to do, you oaf!”
Another spasm of pain filled his abdomen, disrupting his concentration again. After two and a half weeks, he knew his lines cold, but now he was having difficulty putting three lines together. Even his hand hurt where the nail had pierced it weeks ago.
You have to relax, buddy, he said to himself. It’s going to be fine.
From somewhere else came the voice of his mother: “Don’t screw up your face like that.”
He could not remember being as nervous as he was now. But Eth, you’ve never had this much at stake before.
He closed his eyes, trying to ignore the pain and recite Richard’s line. But nothing appeared on his internal teleprompter. He bent over and pressed his fists against his stomach. One good fart would do the trick, but the gas would have to work its way down. It felt like a bent hanger was snagged inside his intestines. His hand probed his abdomen for a protrusion but found nothing. Waiting would have to suffice for now. His stomach often pained him before a performance, but this was unusual.
He shifted and lay flat on his back on the bench, his feet extending over the gray cement arm at one end, while his head rested on the other. The cement felt rough against his skin but offered a good resting place for his head.
His mind could not leave that night’s performance. He needed to impress Frederick Northum—stand him on his head with his performance.
Richard’s next line popped into his head. Ethan spoke the lines before he’d even thought them through. The words he’d rehearsed again and again over the past few weeks began to flow from his mouth as if on autopilot.
Ethan could feel his body begin to calm. He tried again to sit up on the hard wood beams of the bench, but his stomach still was cramped and tight. He lost his lines and silently prayed they would all stay in his head that night.
He got up, shook his arms, and walked around, trying to move the gas inside his stomach around. His mind was boiling his stomach. He somehow had to switch off the growing pressure.
Be cool, he told himself.
His stomach tightened. He had never been this nervous prior to a performance before. The more he tried to compose himself, the less he could relax. He returned to the bench and sat with his back straight, shoulders back—perfect posture. Slowly inhaling through his nose, he took in as much air as his lungs would hold, closing his eyes as he did so. After holding his breath for several seconds, he exhaled the air from his mouth. He repeated the process five or six times, and each time, the hard tension in his stomach seemed to loosen. Christa had shared this breathing method with him after attending a yoga class. Ethan had paid little attention at the time, but after a few more inhalations and exhalations, he was more at ease.
He let a few more minutes pass before opening his eyes. Still without a watch, he wondered what the time was. No doubt someone would be by soon enough, and he could ask. More relaxed, he leaned forward and farted. It was louder than expected, but when he looked around, no one else was present. The pains in his abdomen dissipated. He closed his eyes again and leaned back, his face to the sun.
His lines returned. He wished for a way to foretell the future, wanting to see how everything would turn out. Frederick Northum would come to the small dressing room after the show with a contract in hand. His face would be alight with the evening’s dazzling performance. So excited with his new prospect, he would hardly be able to hold his pen still enough to hand to Ethan to sign the contract. Ethan would buy him a scotch at the bar next door in celebration. They’d discuss Paramount’s plans for his first project. It was hard to sit still, just thinking about it.
“It’s yours to grab hold of, kid,” his character told the drunken brother who lay unconscious on stage near the end of the third act. “And yours to lose too.”
Tonight was to be his night.
Chapter 40
Ethan’s Timeline
September 1991
A minute before showtime, the theater lights dimmed, silencing the audience. There was no sign of Cushman or Northum. The stage manager counted down with his fingers in the shadows backstage, and the show’s recorded music began. The stage was set. This was one of the most exhilarating parts of theater. The electricity of the crowd’s anticipation saturated the air, feeding the cast backstage. A performance was the re-creation of human events by other humans, a duplication of another time and place. It was an event that took people away from their busy, mundane, everyday lives and placed them somewhere else—like a dream, only more tangible, an escape of sorts. Here, the audience could peek behind closed doors and watch others interact without their knowledge. They could experience another’s life and adventures without leaving their own. People loved to watch others interact in any form, good or bad. Most liked to be spectators, at least once in a while, without having to participate—like watching television or watching someone through an undraped window. Though socially unacceptable, curiosity often was stronger than etiquette. The inclination to watch the acts of others was more important than what was right or wrong. At the theater, all was acceptable; that was the purpose—
to watch and observe through another’s eyes and experience and make judgment without persecution.
The brother of Ethan’s character hustled up the back stairs and onto the stage as the show began.
Ethan’s entrance came about five minutes into the first act, and his timing was perfect. No room to mess up tonight, he reminded himself. His delivery was magnificent, his focus and concentration were uninterrupted. Tonight was his night. He planned to make the most of his opportunity.
By the end of the first act, Ethan had not seen Cushman or Northum in the audience. Disappointment was beginning to distress him. They should have been there by eight. He prayed it wasn’t a no-show. The best opportunity he’d had to showcase his talent seemed to be evaporating before his eyes. As the music began for the second act, he glanced into the audience again. His heart started to pound as he watched Cushman assist Northum to a seat near the rear. He had no time, however, to get nervous, as he was cued on stage. He nodded to indicate he was ready, afraid opening his mouth would cause his heart to pop out. All that faded as he mounted the steps to the stage. The show was his as the second act began.
Pausing on the stairs, he stopped and took a deep breath. Someone tapped his shoulder. He turned as the stage manager frantically pointed him to the stage and mouthed, “You’re on.” Two steps, and he was on the stage. The music stopped as he sauntered into position with his first line easily on his lips. “I just can’t imagine how someone with that kind of talent can treat it so … so …”
And the words were gone.
Chapter 41
Ethan’s Timeline
September 1991
Cushman walked in the dressing room as Ethan was blow-drying his wet hair in front of a cracked mirror.
“You know that’s bad luck, don’t you,” Steve said, forcing a smile. His face looked like cold cement, his forced smile cracking the smoothness. “Tough night.”
“Fuck, it would have been better if I’d just pissed on the stage and shut up.”
Almost nothing went right after stepping onto the stage for the second act. After his first line, he’d drawn a blank, as if he’d unintentionally hit the “delete” key in his brain. He’d recovered the first line by stepping forward, as if his character was searching for the right words to say, rather than the actor searching for his lines. I just can’t imagine how someone with that kind of talent can treat it so … “Commonplace,” he’d ad libbed quickly, “like a scrap of food or a disposable razor.” His next lines were no better. His rehearsed lines were just gone—a blank slate in his mind. Like a child learning to ride a bike, he’d get started again, go for a bit, and then bang—he’d be on the ground. From his first spoken words, he’d wanted to get off the stage. He could not recall being so embarrassed or humiliated in all his life.
“How long did he stay?” Ethan asked.
“About forty minutes,” Cushman replied, shifting from one foot to the other and looking nervous and anxious. “Said he’d call.”
The woman who played Ethan’s sister in the play passed behind him and caught Cushman’s eye. He immediately perked up. She was wearing a bright red bra that helped display her latest breast work. She’d been after Steve to represent her since Ethan had started with the group.
“Eth,” he said, slowly pulling his eyes away from the attractive blonde, “you’re still the only one on stage with charisma. You’ve got it. Northum even said so. He wanted to stay but had another—”
“Prospect,” Ethan interrupted. “Face it Steve. I sucked. I choked. I fucked up.” He slammed his hand against the wall. “I never miss my lines!” he exclaimed. “You know what scares me? It’s that I won’t get another chance like that.”
“You’ll get as many as you want,” Steve replied, glancing back at the woman now brushing her long blonde hair. He turned back to Ethan. “Nobody does what you’re trying to do.” Then he lowered his voice. “There are actors in here who have been working twenty years to get a break. And they’ll work another twenty, trying.”
“That’s what I’m afraid of, Steve,” Ethan hissed; his face was flushed. “I don’t want to be here for twenty years, grabbing for scraps that fall off the big-screen table.” He sighed heavily. “That’s why I hired you.”
“Come on, Eth,” Steve said, turning the doorknob. “Let’s grab a drink. I think you need one.”
The words were a welcome melody to Ethan’s ears.
Steve opened the door and nearly walked into a man dressed in green khaki shorts and a yellow golf shirt. His California-tanned face smiled and revealed a set of very white teeth. “Sorry,” Steve said, hastily stepping back.
“No problem,” replied the stranger.
Ethan stepped out from behind the mirror. His mind already had switched to savoring that first taste of alcohol. Who better to help ease his woes than his good pal Jack Daniel’s?
“Listen, can you—” began the tanned-faced stranger, but then he stopped abruptly and looked straight at Ethan, saying, “This is the man I’m looking for.”
Chapter 42
Ethan’s Timeline
September 1991
“Lou Royson,” said the man, extending a tanned, manicured hand. His grip was solid and locked into Ethan’s hand with purpose. Ethan was reminded of his father’s repeated advice in shaking hands: Be firm—make sure they know you’re there.
“Really enjoyed your show tonight, Mr. Jones.”
Ethan nodded. “Thank you, it’s one—” He’d begun to make a deprecating remark but changed his mind. “Glad you liked it.”
Never dump on the audience no matter how bad you want to, came Mila’s voice.
“Where you from, Mr. Jones?” Lou Royson asked before Ethan could say another word.
“Ottawa, Canada,” Ethan answered. “Please call me Ethan.”
“Could have guessed that. I was in Ottawa a week ago. How long have you been in California?”
“About two years, I guess.”
“What brought you to California?”
Ethan looked at Steve, wondering what to make of this guy who seemed overly interested in him. “Hollywood,” Ethan all but blurted out, his eyes returning to the sharp emerald eyes of Lou Royson. “I’m here to be in the movies.”
Royson continued to stare directly into Ethan’s eyes, like he was searching for some hidden message. It was beginning to make Ethan uncomfortable, but he held his own.
“I’ve been here to see you for the past four nights,” Royson said, his smile broadening with glistening teeth. “I’d like you to come down and do a test with us next week.”
Ethan stared at Lou Royson unbelievingly. He did not say a word. It was Steve who jumped in.
“Mr. Royson, Steve Cushman,” he introduced himself, turning to shake hands. “Good to meet you. I represent Mr. Jones. I’m his agent.”
“Great,” said Royson. “That was actually my next question. If he didn’t have one, I was going to suggest he get one.”
“Excuse me, Mr. Royson,” Ethan asked, his head leaning forward, “but what test? What are you talking about?”
“I’m sorry,” Royson said, retrieving a small black leather wallet from inside his jacket. He pulled out two cards and handed them to Ethan. “Maybe I could get you to jot your number down on the back of one of these.”
Ethan took the card and stared for several seconds at the printing on the front face. It was difficult to believe what he saw:
Louis Royson
Columbia Pictures, Inc.
Casting Director
The address and phone numbers were in the bottom right-hand corner.
“I work for Columbia Pictures and am always on the lookout for new talent,” Lou said, handing Ethan a gold-plated Cross pen with the initials LHR on the clip. “We’re working on a number of projects. I’d like to see how you look on screen.”
Et
han’s face expressed a mixture of emotions, reflecting what was bubbling inside him. Was this real? It seemed too easy. He’d had one of his worst nights yet—a truly mortifying experience by any measure. Yet here was a casting director—from Columbia, no less—inviting him to come down for a screen test. Go figure.
Ethan wrote down his phone number on the back of one of the business cards and handed it back. “I can be reached here. There’s an answering machine.”
“I have a lady waiting in my car,” Lou said, passing his hand through thick brown hair. “I’ll be in touch.” He shook hands with Ethan and Steve and left as quickly as he had appeared.
Ethan looked at Cushman and held up the second card Royson had given him. Steve’s beaming face said it all. “Well, about that drink, Eth. It’s on me.”
Steve bought two rounds that night, but Ethan was too agog to even feel the alcohol. Sleep did not come easily.
The Limelight show was supposed to close that Sunday but was extended another week after Saturday night’s show sold out. Ethan waited all weekend for Lou’s call. By Monday afternoon, he still hadn’t heard. Another short wick, he concluded, that burns bright for a moment and then goes out quickly. That was Hollywood.
After four o’clock, he dialed Lou’s number from the pay phone in the back of Rosie’s Bar, across the street from the Limelight Theater. His mind was not on the evening’s performance. Fucked again, he thought, dialing Lou’s phone number. Royson was going to hear an earful, if the number even worked. Why hadn’t he called Lou the next day and saved a week of hopelessness? Unbelievable. He was pissed for letting himself get sucked in yet again. How many times was he going to fall into these goddamn traps? Would he never learn?
One ring. No answer.
Two rings. An answering machine would soon click in.
He anticipated a third ring that never came. Instead, Lou Royson answered the phone.
The Actor Page 25
