My parents always warned me that being
an actor would be tough. It would probably take a while to land a big role. Pay
would be sporadic. My studio apartment might get a little cramped. Shit like
that. Honestly though, that didn't turn me off. It all sort of fell in
line with all of the other "hardships" that come with the glamor of
pursuing the Hollywood dream. Yeah, I saw the budding actor's struggle in the
same light that seals see Navy tattoos. These first few years would be my right
of passage into a life of luxury and paid emotional expression. I just hadn't
anticipated I would spend so much fucking time waiting tables at Joe's Crab
Shack. Fuck me, right?
So here I am, 29 and a birthday around
the corner. Two dogs, a cat, and thirteen fish later, I'm still
living in that same studio apartment which is actually (though not
surprisingly) in worse condition than it was when I moved in. I'm making the
same money I made when I first moved here because I keep telling the Crab Shack
(or simply "The Shack") that I can't accept more responsibility, what
with my "numerous auditions" and "hollywood-related
commitments." They laugh because the only time they ever saw me on the big
screen was in a commercial for Nitro Lax, "The Laxative that Won't
Quit!"
I tell my parents that I do a lot of
theatre work around LA to get them off of my back about "making
money" and "not being bankrupt." I don't do a lot of theatre
work around LA, by the way, because shit, it's hard. The competition is huge. Who knew there were so many other starving actors... We're like a
bunch of acne-riddled kids at a middle school dance. We post up along the walls
of the gymnasium waiting for Sally Big Tits to approach us. Everyone
seems to be waiting for their big break.
Nitro Lax was not my Sally Big
Tits. This I would not allow.
Sitting alone in McDonald's, I'm
laughing like an idiot at the picture of Monopoly's Mr. Moneybags on the side
of my Large Fries. A monocle, bro? Really?
In walks a tall man with gray-brown
curly hair, wearing a beret and a matching beige tweed jacket. He was with a much
smaller flamboyant man wearing a stupid-tight purple V-neck to complement his
stupid-gelled hair.
The tall man spoke, "I need you
to express pain, Denario. PAAAAAIN! You look like a fucking school girl with a
broken nail. Try it again.....see now what the fuck is that?" The small man
with him, Denario apparently, was responding to Mr. Tweed with a series of
disappointed tongue clicks, hands in his own pockets looking at the ground.
"Meester Jones, I cannot do eet.
Eet ees too tough for me." Denario rolled his R's like the guy in the Dos
Equis commercials.
"Great...Fucking great Denario.
Your daddy gets you a role in a--" Mr. Jones cut off to lower his volume,
"...in a goddamn Scorsese film, and you can't even show me pain!?! Like
straight up physical pain? I'm not talking inner-torment kinda shit, but real
superficial, 'Ouch my cock hurts' kinda pain." He turned in anger to the
teenager working the cashier, "What?"
I was enthralled. My ketchup was
getting weirdly warm from the sunlight through the window. The two men seemed
to be involved in Hollywood. Apparently little Denario over here had
connections that got him in Martin Scorsese's spotlight? And apparently he was
shit. That crap makes me mad - the politics of Hollywood (put that in the same
book with The Shack under "Shit I didn't anticipate"). You have
people like me, literally working their asses off with Nitro Lax. Then there's
Denario who probably decided yesterday that he wanted his friends to see him in
a movie. Connections. Essential to success. My dad is a doorknob and metal
fixtures salesman.
It was actually starting to make me
feel ill, the scene. Just so despicable. This little arrogant rich boy being
given the opportunity of a lifetime, and squandering it because "Eet ees
too tough." Suddenly, Mr. Moneybags wasn't so funny. I want all that
money, just like Mr. Moneybags. I want my big break.
I stood up, heated, carrying my tray
past the "Floor is Slippery" sign. What would it take for me to
finally break into the scene? To finally get that monologue opposite one
Scarlet Johannson?
Just as I'm approaching the garbage, I
realize that my phone was still on the table. Turning around, still stricken
with pensive anger, I don't pay much attention to my feet on the slippery
McDonald's tiling.
The hot ketchup exploded into the air
as I launched my tray into orbit, my feet out from under me. I could just make
out Denario's nasal, "Oh my God!" before I hit the ground with
unanticipated force (my lack of anticipation seems to be a recurring trend).
With contact came an excruciating pain, as I land on my wrist. I howl, "FUUUCK!" followed by
a series of disbelieving moans and demi-weeps. Everything seemed to be
culminating at that moment - all of my failures and anxieties, my stresses and
annoyances. This was as low as I could bear to go. I look at my hand, it's
quickly taking on a purple-ish tinge. I can't move my wrist at all.
Great, broken. I smell like fucking ketchup. It was then that I felt strong
hands pulling me to my feet. I gathered myself then processed that I had been
helped up by "Meester Jones."
"That, son, was magnificent! The
way you manipulated your face like it would take some of the pain away from
your arm. A real introspective display right there... See Denario? THAT is
fucking acting right there."
Denario, confused and horrified,
responded, "Meester Jones, I think thees man actually hurt hees
wreest!"
"No, no..he..What the fuck Denario?.. No, he must have overheard me talking to you. Right, son? Wait, are
you actually hurt?"
I had a real decision to make here. Do
I sacrifice my integrity and lie to this potty-mouthed man? My wrist was
seriously throbbing - real pain for sure. I always hated actors who got their
beginnings out of sheer luck, having agents come up to them in the park
offering them roles to summer blockbusters. But, this guy apparently has
connections with Marty Scorsese. So yeah, fuck all that, fuck Joe's Crab Shack,
fuck integrity. This was my big break. My broken wrist was my big break.
"Aaaaaaaaand scene!" I
exclaimed.
Get at me, Hollywood.
