From The Dead

by John Herrick

  “Hey, Barlow! Kiss my horsey ass, you cocksucker!”

  Jesse snickered. It was never just hello with this guy. “Can I help you?”

  Jesse turned on his heels to find Gavin, his downstairs neighbor, who wore a green track suit and had slowed to a trot along the sidewalk. Based on the speed at which he panted, Gavin, a compulsive evening jogger, had fed his habit for the night. As the final hour of daylight lingered, a streetlight highlighted streaks of perspiration, salty badges of achievement that glimmered across Gavin’s face. Even from a few feet away, his track suit smelled like a dishrag.

  “Got myself a gig!” Gavin said.

  Jesse had crossed paths with Gavin, another struggling actor, at a television taping years ago. When the downstairs apartment became vacant, Jesse passed the address along to Gavin. Within weeks, the friends enjoyed their respective advantages of rent control.

  “Quite a resume enhancement,” Gavin continued. “I’m playing a character.”

  “Are you playing an idiot?”

  “Whatever. You know that new themed shopping village that opened up around the corner from Hollywood Boulevard? The one that signed the deal with Sony to show its movie trailers around the place, where its afternoon-cartoon characters wander around in costume?”

  “You’re in one of the movie trailers?”

  Gavin’s breathing returned to its normal rate. “No, man! I’m Clickety Clack!”

  “What’s that?”

  “That cartoon show, Farmyard Frenzy. There’s a film version coming soon. Ever see the show?”

  Jesse didn’t follow. “The one with the pig named Bacon Bitz?”

  “Yeah! I’m Clickety Clack, the horse that walks around on his hind legs and makes that clopping noise. I get to wear that costume at the shopping village.”

  Jesse rolled his eyes. “Did your agent arrange that for you?”

  “Don’t joke. It’s just to pay the bills. They’re gonna put me in a Clickety Clack costume that plays clopping sound effects out of a tiny speaker crammed up its ass. Sounds like a tin can bouncing down a sidewalk.”

  In an odd way, Jesse found the concept pitiful. If Jesse himself were to resort to such a stint, he’d refuse to admit it to anyone. “Could be fun—if you enjoy that sort of thing.”

  “Sure, you wave hello to the tourists. Pose for the cameras with the kids,” Gavin replied. “That’s nothing compared to what Mosley just landed, though.”

  “Did he get hired as Pitt’s double?”

  “No, it’s better: The dude got a supporting role in a new TV show. He met the producer’s assistant at a party in October, and she recommended Mosley to her boss.” Gavin stepped back and rested his hands on his hips. He stared as if Jesse were a choice between two curious brands of lager. “Why doesn’t your girlfriend hook you up with her boss?”

  “She took my head shot to him, but I’m five-foot-eleven. Barry thought I was too tall. Said it screws up his camera shot.”

  “That sucks. Do you get that a lot?”

  “Depends on the film,” Jesse replied. Sometimes, especially when he stood among actors of the five-foot-seven variety, Jesse felt like a giant in his industry, as if he were a prom date for Judy Garland in The Wizard of Oz, one who loomed like a Munchkin scientist’s cloning experiment gone bad.

  Jesse basked in the comfort of this early March evening. “I have an audition tomorrow, though.”

  “Dialogue?”

  Jesse beamed as a rush of encouragement electrified his arteries. “Yeah, a few lines.”

  “Way to go, big guy!” Gavin exclaimed. “About time, isn’t it! What do you think your chances are?”

  “My agent thinks I’ve got a decent shot at it. You know how these things go—nothing’s a lock. Funny thing, they’re looking for someone tall—for once, my five-eleven frame seems customized for the part. Maddy said it’s the part of a basketball-player ex-boyfriend.”

  “It’s no Clickety Clack mascot, but if film is what you’re looking for.” Gavin grinned. “That’s cool. Good luck with it. Let me know how it pans out, okay? Gotta head in.”

  And with that, Gavin trotted to his apartment door while Jesse sauntered toward the stairs.

  Jesse’s confidence began to mount a comeback. Maybe the self-doubt would fizzle by morning.

  He grabbed hold of the railing, the same black-metal décor he’d seen along cafeteria edifices, and climbed the narrow concrete steps to the second floor.

  When Jesse shut the door, he detected the tang of marijuana. Jada had lit up again—a stash left over from earlier that week. Beyond his recent disaffection for smoking green substances, Jesse now decided that, yes, he had begun to detest the odor.

  When he swept his sight across the living room, Jesse found it empty: just the light of a table lamp. He followed the scent through the living room and into the screened sunroom at the rear of the apartment, where Jada sat on a plastic chair. She had drawn one leg against her body to rest her joint-laden hand, limp at the wrist, on her knee. As she stared out into the evening, she seemed lost in a trance.

  At first, she appeared distracted by the night air. Then Jesse realized she was something else: tranquil.

  Jada seldom seemed at peace. Perhaps she found religion in the herb after all.

  “Don’t you want a light on?” he said.

  “I like the dark.” Her other leg rested on the opposite chair. With glazed eyes, Jada stroked his arm, then scooted the other chair toward him with her foot. She held out the joint. “Here you go, babe.”

  Jesse waved it off. Instead, he reached beneath her hair to massage her neck—but his caress seemed foreign to him and, for a split second, he felt like an intruder.

  Jada had become a stranger to him.

  Without a sound, he withdrew his hand with a tenderness that had, at one time, been passionate but now seemed shallow.

  Together they sat in silence and listened to the steady hum of traffic as it rushed along Van Nuys one block away.

  “Hear that?” she murmured. “Don’t you love the sound of L.A.? It’s intoxicating.” She paused for a beat. “Everyone has somewhere to go.” She tilted her head back, exhaled a stream of silk. The flow crawled like a seductive ghost.

  Jada laid the joint aside, half finished. She drew her other leg onto her chair and, childlike, cradled both legs against herself. Jesse watched as she turned in her seat, a pensive expression on her face, and stared into his eyes. “All right, Green Eyes, tell me what’s going on.”

  “Huh?”

  “You’re not the same. It’s like you’re no longer the Jesse I know.”

  He grabbed his camera, which he’d left on the plastic table between them, and fidgeted with its buttons. In a halfhearted effort, he forced a smile and snapped a picture of her. She nodded in faint humor and returned her gaze to the night sky.

  Jesse reached out and brushed his fingers along her fingertips. “I don’t know what you mean.”

  “You were outgoing way back when we first met. But now …” She shrugged her shoulders. “You’re never in the mood to mingle. It’s like you built a life here and just, I don’t know—gave up.”

  “We went through this the other day, didn’t we?” He found it difficult to argue with her while she was stoned. She looked so vulnerable yet could exhibit astounding recall the next morning. Even when subdued, she could be spiteful. But still, Jesse understood why she behaved the way she did: Jada had her personal issues.

  Then again, so did he.

  Jada pursed her lips, rolled her tongue against the inside of her cheek. She avoided his eyes. “When did you become your father?” she asked.

  Patience intact, Jesse chose to ignore the question. “You’re a little under the influence right now. Why don’t we quit this argument before we say something we’ll regret in the morning—because we both know you won’t forget.”

  Yet her words jabbed further. “Speaking of your father, when will I get to meet him?”

  “Yeah, I d
on’t think so.”

  Jada perked up in her chair, her usual position before she increased the friction. “We’ve known each other for eleven years. Isn’t it about time?”

  Jesse said nothing. He watched her eyes narrow, their pointed depths akin to a missile prepared for launch. The corner of her mouth turned upward. She must have enjoyed this. And times like this reminded Jesse of the love-hate relationship he and Jada shared. How could he be attracted to this woman, yet not bring himself to trust her?

  Then again, he knew Jada had no use for trust.

  “Come on,” she pressed. “What, you don’t think the preacher man would approve of me?”

  Jesse clenched his jaw and made a slow rise to his feet. “Don’t worry, he wouldn’t approve of me either. By the way, in case you’ve forgotten, he and I haven’t seen each other in those eleven years. I don’t think his son’s sex life is his primary concern.”

  Although Jesse had made the occasional phone call to his father, the last time Jesse had seen the man face-to-face was the night before Jesse left home. On that night, Jesse had explained to his dad that he planned to leave in the morning and revealed he’d made the arrangements weeks before. Jesse was eighteen at the time and, in his own rebellious fashion, had escalated the discussion to a heated argument.

  Jesse never revealed the whole story to his father. The guilt weighed too heavy within. But when it came to the departure, Jesse assumed his father blamed himself.

  Dad, if only you knew.

  Jada resumed her joint. “So nothing’s wrong; there’s just a side to you I never knew existed after these years together. That’s what you’re telling me?”

  “I have my secrets.” Jesse walked away. “Do us both a favor and let it go, okay?”

  From the living room, he heard Jada shout. “By the way, your sister called.”

  Great. More tension, as if the air weren’t thick enough.

  Jesse and his sister remained close after he moved to the coast. Jada knew Jesse confided in his sister regarding certain aspects of his and Jada’s relationship—he could see the resentment in Jada’s eyes. But he needed to confide in someone he could trust, and though he trusted Jada with his romantic needs, he didn’t trust her with his soul. The implant-to-L.A. Jesse matched well with Jada; the true Jesse did not.

  CHAPTER 6

  “Jesse Barlow, we’re ready for you.”

  Script in hand, Jesse, dressed for the role in a basketball jersey and long, shiny shorts, followed the staffer into the audition room. His stomach felt as if jelly jostled inside, back and forth, an invisible high tide. For him, the greatest challenge lay in the preliminaries—the hours and minutes that preceded an audition—when nervousness settled in, confined until the appointed time.

  When Jesse entered the room, he noticed its blandness: Unlike an actual film set, this room appeared stripped down, with a less-expensive video camera pointed in his direction. He stood in front of the camera, his back to a bare, white wall. A hot overhead light, aimed at him, baked his skin. As he scanned the area before him, he found a folding table covered with a white tablecloth, where Mark Shea, the director, sat. In a hushed tone, Mark conferred with his assistant, perhaps Jesse’s age, who took notes on a palm device. Two other people, a man and a woman, filled out the other half of the table.

  The simplicity of the setting, however, worked in Jesse’s favor, as it allowed his creative wires to emerge to the forefront and amplify the scene, to conjure imaginary props and visualize an environment that was not otherwise present. In essence, Jesse entered a world of his own.

  A man of styled salt-and-pepper hair, the goateed Mark wore khaki pants and a casual striped shirt with its sleeves rolled up. The assistant handed Jesse’s form to Mark, who clucked his tongue while he advanced down each line with his pen.

  Mark gazed at Jesse. “Jesse Barlow?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’m Mark Shea. As your agent informed you, this film is called Taking Sides. Today you’ll read for a supporting role: a professional basketball player, Rod Meacham, the ex-lover of the lead. The setting is a news conference. Lots of commotion between questions; cameras flash around the room. My assistant will read the lines of the other character in the scene. Do you have any questions before we begin?”

  “No sir.” Jesse held the script below eye level, about twelve inches from his face.

  “And … action!”

  With a deep inhale from his diaphragm, Jesse started to read the dialogue. “I was not aware, and did not become aware until Monday afternoon, that Felicity Hugo has a husband.”

  “Mr. Meacham,” Mark’s assistant called out with a journalist’s finesse, “can you confirm that you were an acquaintance of Ms. Hugo’s prior to the alleged incident?”

  Jesse’s eyes felt hot under the lighting, his stomach in motion again. He shook his head to clear his thoughts, and then continued. “No, I never met the woman.”

  “Hold on,” Mark said. “You’re doing fine, but keep in mind this film will be a comedy, so an air of humor will surround this character.”

  Jesse nodded. To lighten his interpretation, he cocked his head back and swaggered like an egocentric ball player. He thrust forth a confident smirk. “No, I never met the woman.”

  “But Mr. Meacham, sources say they found your credit card in Ms. Hugo’s Denver hotel room. How do you respond to that?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe she stole the thing.”

  “And the money clip engraved with your name?”

  “Psycho woman.”

  “Mr. Meacham?”

  “No further comment.” With this, Jesse completed the scene.

  “Pretty good,” Mark Shea said as he wrote a few notes on Jesse’s evaluation sheet. “We’ll be just a few moments.”

  Aware that the audition had gone well, Jesse suppressed a smile, attempted to remain calm. He kept his arms uncrossed to avoid negative body language. As Jesse stood there, he reminded himself not to bounce on the backs of his heels, a nervous habit Jada had pointed out. At the rear of the room, the doorway threshold reflected a glare from the overhead light, which Jesse used as a focal point while he waited. Maybe it would keep him from looking desperate by staring at his evaluators—or worse, from revealing a lack of confidence by focusing on his toes with his head tilted down.

  To stand in front of a group of people as they whisper about you—Jesse found this to be the most peculiar aspect of an audition. In what other circumstance would you seek to be discussed and gauged in secret? But by Jesse’s own admission, at his first audition years ago, such lull time had proven quite awkward, akin to standing before a group of strangers in his boxer shorts. What do you do with your hands while you stand alone, scrutinized like a specimen under a microscope?

  But he adored this line of work—when the line moved. Jesse fell in love with drama as a teenager, but that passion didn’t emerge right away. His height and physical aptitude led to membership on his high-school basketball team. Invigorated by the energy exertion and swift competition of the sport, Jesse proved a decent player. But the rush from the games couldn’t compare to the personal revelation that surfaced when he discovered theater. On a whim, he auditioned for a fall play his sophomore year and secured a supporting role. From that point on, he participated in the fall and spring plays, which occurred, for the most part, during basketball’s off-season.

  As expected, Jesse’s teammates didn’t understand. The jocks seldom interacted with the creative types, and Jesse’s interest in stage productions suffered verbal jabs. Yet he persevered in his craft, enthralled by the ability to climb into another character, to become someone else for periods of time. Although film versions existed for many of those plays, Jesse never rented them until the school production completed its run. While his cast mates watched the films to study their characters, Jesse wanted to adopt his role as his own, to create something visible from the unseen.

  Unknown to those outside his family, Jesse possessed an innate a
bility to empathize with the pain of others. As a boy, Jesse would spot random individuals, such as a woman who sat alone on a park bench or a man who had entered his final years of life, and imagine how it must feel to wake up in the morning to their isolation. This tenderness helped fuel his interpretation of characters.

  During his junior year, he played the role of Willy Loman in Death of a Salesman. And with the depth of human experience embodied by that character—the battle of despair and the ache of failure—the deal was sealed. Jesse Barlow would pursue a career in acting.

  But this present wait, which couldn’t have lasted beyond a minute, bordered on eternity for Jesse. He sneaked a glance at Mark Shea and his crew, but they continued to whisper and shuffle papers.

  At last, Mark nodded to his assistant and leaned toward Jesse. “I have to tell you, you look good to us. Your interpretation of the character was dead-on accurate. You’re the exact height and build we need. Now granted, this part is only a few lines long, but for the film, we also need to take some shots of this actor playing in a basketball game.”

  He’s already talking about the film shoot, Jesse thought. A positive sign—a strong one. Jesse’s heart rate jumped a notch.

  “Because the part is small, we won’t invest in basketball training,” Mark continued. “Do you have experience with the game? Nothing superior; just the basics. Enough to look like you know what you’re doing?”

  This started to sound even better.

  “Sure. I played on a high-school team.”

  Again Mark nodded, as if his question were a formality and he had known its answer in advance.

  Jesse grinned. His eyes grew feverish. Across his brow, perspiration beaded, not in anxiety but in raw relief: a golden triumph after years of defeat.

  Could he have a lock on this role?