The Actor's Guide To Greed

by Rick Copp

  But the one person harboring the most venom toward me was our esteemed director, Kenneth Shields. I coasted during the first week with very little to do. As we blocked the scenes, Kenneth appeared annoyed every time he had to address where I was going to stand. It was as if he would have preferred cutting my part out entirely. This did not inspire my confidence. In fact, if it weren’t for my devoted fan Claire Richards, I probably would have fled back to LA and Charlie after the first week. We worked on scenes where I had one or two lines, so I was able to melt into the background and stay out of Kenneth’s eyesight. But I knew my big scene was coming up, where Sir Anthony’s character confronts me about my sordid past. It was the scene that most excited me about the part, but I was acutely terrified on the day we were scheduled to block it.

  Kenneth had excused Claire for the day before we began to work on it. This was not a good sign. Without Claire hovering in the back, protecting me and applauding my efforts, Kenneth would have free rein to humiliate me. Of course, there was the possibility that I was just being paranoid. But it is very unusual for an actor to be paranoid. Not.

  The theater felt disconcertingly quiet with only four of us left. Sir Anthony and I stood onstage while Kenneth and Wallace were seated in the middle of the third row.

  Kenneth had his face buried deep in the script. He never looked up at me. “All right, Jarrod, go ahead.”

  “Where do you want me?”

  Kenneth raised his eyes for a brief moment and sighed. “Where you are is fine.”

  I launched into my first line and got no more than four words in when Kenneth hurled his script to the floor. “Good God, Jarrod, do you think you could possibly give the lines at least a smidgen of life? Can you do that for me, Jarrod? Can you?”

  I just stood there, not sure how to respond.

  “What, Jarrod?” Kenneth said, sighing.

  “Nothing. I—”

  “We open in less than two weeks. You’ve given me nothing. Nothing! Do you need four cameras and a studio audience of laughing hyenas in order to act? Is that it?”

  “No,” I said, resisting the urge to leap off the stage and strangle him with my bare hands until his dismissive, judgmental eyes rolled up in the back of his head.

  “Good. Now start again,” he said, throwing Wallace an “I told you so” look. Wallace shrugged. He wasn’t about to take responsibility for getting me cast.

  This time I made it through a whole sentence before I was interrupted.

  “Holy Christ, you’re abominable! Did you spend any time going over the script before we started rehearsals, Jarrod, or are you naturally this flat?”

  “You haven’t given me a chance to—”

  Kenneth sniggered. “You had five years of chances to hone your craft on that excruciatingly bland situation comedy of yours.”

  Wallace sat up, much more offended than I was. He had been dining out on that credit for years, and this snooty Brit was making light of its lasting impact on American pop culture. Wallace had a skewed view of the importance of Go to Your Room. But he bit his tongue, deciding to stay out of the fray.

  “I’ll be honest with you, Jarrod,” Kenneth said.

  “You mean you haven’t been up to now?” I said.

  This caught Kenneth by surprise. I was actually talking back and my sarcasm was obvious. I could tell he was mildly impressed, but he didn’t want to give me any props. “You were not my first choice for this role. In fact, you were not my second, third, or fourth choice. Directors often have to make casting compromises in order to get other actors like Akshay who they know will shine. So the bottom line is, love, we’re stuck with each other, and it is now my mission to bring you to a point where you won’t embarrass me, the company, and yourself.”

  “Got it,” I said, determined not to let him see me crumble in front of him.

  Wallace had a look of pity on his face. So did Sir Anthony. But neither had the balls to come to my defense.

  “Try again,” Kenneth hissed.

  I took a deep breath and exhaled. He let me go a bit further, maybe half a page of dialogue. Sir Anthony even got to respond. But I knew he was simply lying in wait, ready to pounce.

  “Dear Lord, this is hopeless!” Kenneth barreled down the aisle, leapt up onto the stage, and grabbed me roughly by the forearm. He dragged me up behind some furniture on the set away from Sir Anthony.

  “I’m changing the focus of the scene. I want Sir Anthony down front and you cowering back here. Maybe this way, the audience won’t notice you so much.”

  I shook his hand off my arm and glared at him.

  “Go ahead, love. Quit,” he said with a sly smile.

  That was his plan. He wanted me to walk. Probably so he could fill the role with one of his buddies from his theater company. He was about to get his wish.

  I opened my mouth to tell him exactly what I thought of him and his direction when a booming voice from the back of the theater cut through the momentary silence. “Enough!”

  It was Claire. She had come back.

  “You egotistical, manipulative little prick,” she screamed as she shot down the aisle to confront Kenneth. “How dare you speak to an actor like that!”

  “Claire, he simply doesn’t have the chops to do this,” Kenneth said, turning to Wallace, hoping he would back him up. Wallace, who quivered whenever Claire came within three feet of him, avoided all eye contact.

  “Jarrod is a pro. More than you will ever be. You have no right to treat an actor of his stature this way, never mind a novice. I have half a mind to quit myself,” she said.

  “Try to understand, Claire. I don’t have time to coddle actors who are not up to the task. I’m under a lot of pressure to get this show ready in time for the opening,” he said.

  “He’s up to the task. And you know it,” she said. “And if you don’t start treating him with the respect he so richly deserves, I will go straight down to Fleet Street and spin such an entertaining yarn to all the tabloids about King Kenneth the tyrant, you’ll be a leper to every respectable name actor in London.”

  I had no doubt Claire would make good on her threat. This play was all about her, not Kenneth.

  Kenneth considered his options in about two seconds, then spun around to face me and through gritted teeth said, “I apologize for getting us off on the wrong foot, Jarrod. I promise to be more sensitive in the future.”

  “Thank you,” I whispered, still stung by his blistering remarks.

  “That’s a good start,” Claire barked. “I will think about other ways you can make up for your atrocious behavior later.”

  Of course, the irony of the queen of atrocious behavior saying this was not lost on any of us. Still, I wanted to kiss Claire Richards for rushing so valiantly into battle to save what was left of my tattered ego.

  Kenneth nodded, shot an irritated look at Wallace for staying mute through this whole ordeal, and then offered me a forced smile. “All right, Jarrod, why don’t we begin again?”

  “No!” Claire yelled and waved me to join her. “No actor can be expected to perform after such a ruthless attack on his talent. You can start blocking the scene tomorrow. Come, Jarrod. I have a bottle of 1990 Chateau Mouton Rothschild one of my ex-husbands sent me in my dressing room. I think we could both use a drink.”

  I figured a fancy bottle of French red wine was just the cure for my shaken confidence. Especially one that was worth about a grand.

  Kenneth nodded, giving me the all clear to leave. But he grimaced as Claire took my arm and we headed for the side door that led to a hallway of dressing rooms. As I opened the door for Claire, she whipped back around and barked, “By the way, Kenneth, the reason I came back to the theater was to inquire as to whether or not you have secured a walk-on part for Liam.”

  “Um, no,” stammered Kenneth, “I haven’t asked the producers yet.”

  “Don’t ask them, my dear. Tell them.” Claire sailed through the door. Out of the corner of her mouth she said softly, “Sla
m it.”

  With all my might, I shoved the door closed with a bang. Claire smiled proudly. “It’s always good to punctuate your point.”

  Claire’s dressing room was filled with programs and mementos from her past triumphs on stage. And despite her very loud demands for fresh flowers every day, there wasn’t a bouquet in sight. There was a plain partition and a rack of clothes off to the side and a plush purple love seat to the left of the door. Claire had erected a wine rack on the wall that held twenty-four bottles. Three were left. We had only been rehearsing a week and a half. Claire was giving her rival Dame Sylvia the lush a run for her money.

  Claire popped the cork of her vintage bottle and poured us both glasses. Instead of stopping halfway, she filled them to the brim. When we toasted, streams of red wine spilled over the side and onto my hand.

  “To a dazzling success for both of us,” she said and then set her glass down. She began nonchalantly unbuttoning her blouse. I instinctively turned away.

  “Don’t turn away, darling. Behold!” And with that she tore the flimsy blouse off, revealing two remarkably well-preserved breasts.

  “Nice,” I said, for lack of anything else coming to mind. “Very nice.”

  Claire pushed me down on the love seat. More wine flew out of my glass and onto my Banana Republic khaki pants. “They’re yours if you want them, Jarrod.”

  She pressed her bare breasts against my face almost to the point where I couldn’t breathe. I was still stunned that such a big star was so blatantly putting the moves on me. I muttered an unintelligible reply, my mouth smothered by her milky white flesh. She pulled back a little in order to hear what I was trying to say.

  “Come again, cutie?” she said with a warm, seductive smile.

  “Claire, I’m gay.”

  “Oh, isn’t everyone just a little bit gay?” And with that, she buried her mouth over mine and ripped my shirt open with her hands. She began rubbing my chest and squeezing my nipples. I tried protesting again, but her tongue was in the middle of a sword fight with mine.

  Neither one of us heard the door open. But I quickly sensed another presence in the dressing room. I flicked an eye upward to see Liam, clutching a fistful of peach carnations and boiling with rage, standing over us. Without saying a word, he dropped the flowers, grabbed Claire by the neck, and yanked her off me. Then he reached down and wrapped his big calloused Irish workingman’s hands around my throat and started to choke the life out of me. Claire struck him from behind with her balled-up fists, battering him mercilessly, but he was in the zone. He didn’t feel a thing. He was entirely focused on killing me.

  Before losing consciousness, I knew I had one chance to save myself. I brought my leg up and slammed my knee into his groin hard enough to knock the air out of him. He loosened his grip, allowing me to grab his arms and twist them. He howled in pain, and before he had the chance to recover, I punched him hard across the face. Liam went down, writhing and groaning on the floor. Living with a cop gives you an added advantage when it comes to self-defense. Not to mention five years of scene combat class.

  Claire, fuming, kicked at his sides. “You big Irish oaf! How dare you come barging in here like that?” Claire knelt down, scooped up the discarded carnations, and began whacking Liam in the head with the bouquet. “And how many times do I have to tell you, I hate peach! Give them to Sir Anthony! He loves peach carnations!”

  As Liam moaned an apology, I quietly slipped out the door to leave the two lovers to quarrel. Let Claire explain what happened. It didn’t matter. I had already made a lifelong enemy out of Liam Killoran.

  As I made my way down the hall, I bumped into a gorgeous brunette with a perky little body too small for her electrifying, luscious lips. “Hi, I’m Minx.”

  “Of course you are,” I said with a droll smile, perfecting my James Bond cool.

  “I’m Claire Richards’s understudy,” she said.

  I was somewhat taken aback. Little Minx was in her mid-twenties, more than twenty years younger than Claire was. Then I realized Wallace had originally written the role for an ingenue. But when Claire agreed to do the play, no one dared age the character up. That would steer everyone in the prickly direction of having to acknowledge Claire’s advancing years. So Kenneth probably decided to ignore it and just use a very thick make-up base on Claire to melt away as many years as possible.

  “I’m Jarrod. It’s nice to meet you, Minx.”

  “I am just so thrilled to be a part of this production. It’s been my dream to appear on a West End stage.” Then with a wink, she said, “So how is Claire’s health? Do you think she might be susceptible to colds or anything like that?”

  “She seems fine,” I said, knowing the evil thoughts swirling about in Minx’s pretty little head.

  “Drat. Well, I need to jump-start my acting career, and this play is the perfect vehicle. So if Claire doesn’t fall ill at some point, I may have to kill her.”

  I laughed, but a little voice deep inside told me this girl was dead serious.

  Chapter 5

  Minx’s hopes for a sudden illness were dashed when on opening night, Claire arrived at the theater looking robust and healthy and ready to take the stage. We had suffered through a rocky dress rehearsal the night before. Dame Sylvia couldn’t remember her lines due to acute intoxication. Liam mangled his one walk-on line. Sir Anthony was threatened with a harassment suit by a cute, wiry, and very heterosexual twentysomething stagehand. Akshay kept blocking me from the audience during our one scene together just to piss me off. And our director, Kenneth, got the shakes considering the possibility that this production would bring an abrupt end to his once-promising career. We all held our collective breath hoping the old adage would prove true: a bad dress rehearsal always means a good show.

  Since I didn’t make my first entrance until the third scene in the play, I was the last one to head into make-up. I decided to grab some alone time in my dressing room and pray to the almighty gods that I wouldn’t somehow screw this up. Kenneth begrudgingly admitted I had come a long way from those inauspicious first rehearsals and was now on a par with the rest of the cast. Still, I had no illusions about ever working with him again once this production closed.

  I passed Minx, who paced nervously up and down the hallway, eyes clamped shut, wishing Claire would trip and fall and fracture her leg at the last minute, thus allowing her to go on in her place. I flashed her a brief smile and hurried on, afraid if I paused for even a second I would be stuck in a vapid conversation with her. I slipped into my dressing room and was happily surprised to find an opulent gift basket filled with wines and cheeses and crackers and chocolates all wrapped in clear cellophane. I picked up the gift card that was tucked inside the red ribbon that tied it all together and beamed with joy.

  The note read I ache all over, and not because of the bullets. I miss you. When are you coming home? Love, Charlie. My eyes welled up with tears brought on by a sharp pang of homesickness. I had been gone a month, and I desperately missed my better half. But I wasn’t going to cry. I had a show to do.

  Stuffed in a corner behind my clothes rack was a big grocery bag of gifts. Two bouquets of flowers. A box of chocolates. Some Giorgio Armani aftershave. A bottle of scotch. I lifted it up in my arms and headed out the door. My mother, Priscilla, had begun a long-standing tradition during my days on Go to Your Room. At the start of each season, we would arrive on the set bearing gifts and dispense them all to our fellow cast members. It was a nod of gratitude for their enduring love and support and dedication to the show. Of course, I strongly felt that this motley crew of drunks and has-beens deserved nothing from me. Claire was the only one who had even shown me a modicum of respect during the last weeks, but it was a tradition. And I always felt it was bad luck to thumb your nose at tradition.

  I stopped first at Akshay’s door and knocked. “Hi, Akshay, it’s Jarrod.” I heard him inside on his cell phone. He stopped talking for a moment, and then resumed his conversation. He didn’t d
eem me worthy enough to even bother opening the door. I set the bottle of aftershave down in front of the door and secretly hoped he would come out and step on it, crushing it with his bare feet and cutting himself. I moved on to Dame Sylvia’s and knocked heartily for fear she might be passed out in a stupor. She opened her door a crack, inspecting me with one eyeball.

  “Yes?” she said with obvious disdain.

  I thrust the bottle of scotch out to her. “Opening-night gift. From me to you.” Her hand shot out, snatching it from me like a grabby, snot-nosed little schoolboy. She inspected the label and sniffed.

  “Thank you,” she said and slammed the door.

  I arrived next at Minx’s dressing room. I figured why not include the understudy. She was just as much a prisoner at the Apollo as we were. But as I raised my knuckle to rap on her door, I envisioned myself getting dragged inside and forced to listen to her incessant girlish babbling. And I had to be in make-up soon so I softly knelt down, slid the box of chocolates quietly up against the door, and tiptoed away. She never even knew I had been there.

  Only two to go. Sir Anthony and Claire. The gay pervert was next. I sighed, pulled myself together, and strategically took a position that would make it very difficult for him to pinch my butt. I knocked. When the door was flung open, I gasped. Standing before me was Sir Anthony. Stark naked. Like Baby New Year.

  “My dear boy, how good of you to drop by,” he said with a proud smile.

  “I was . . . um . . . I just wanted to . . .”

  He leaned in conspiratorially and then glancing down at his groin region, whispered, “Mighty impressive, I know.”

  He could have been telling the truth. Frankly, I didn’t know. I refused to look.

  “Would you like to come inside?”

  “No, I just wanted to give you these,” I said, thrusting a bouquet of multicolored carnations at him.