Debra Dean - Confessions Of A Falling Woman And Other Stories

(Blah, blah, blah, blah)

"Well, Paul tells us we'll be persecuted for our faith."

(Blah, blah, blah)

I duck and weave through a phalanx of umbrellas at the corner, check for traffic, dive across the intersection.

"I'm not asking you to agree with me privately, Terry."

(Blah, blah)

"Don't take advantage of my good manners."

My guess is that a lot of actors are going in there and reading Hal as a cardboard villain or a buffoon, which is a mistake. This guy's likable and sincere and convincing. That's what gives the play its tension.

In the elevator, I peel away my suit jacket and shake water off myself like a spaniel. I get up to the offices, sign in: name, agency, union membership. I'm on time, which turns out to be irrelevant. They're running behind – the small reception area is clogged with nervous Hals and Terrys. A half-dozen actors are bent intently over copies of the script or staring into some private distance. Two guys in the far corner are shooting the breeze, ostentatiously at ease. One of them is Brad Whalen, who works here all the time. He's not right for Hal, but then again, you never know. I'm hoping he just dropped by.

The other guy is Kyle McCann. We have the same agent. It's not just jealousy when I say the guy is a bimbo, completely without talent and maddeningly successful. At the moment, he is lounging against the wall in the studied pose of a jeans ad and casually tapping a rolled-up script against the brick.

"When'd you get back, man?" Although the question is addressed to Brad, Kyle pitches his volume just enough so all of us can listen in.

"Last week. I took a couple extra days after we were done shooting and went on down to the Keys. You ever been there?"

"No. I did a show at the Burt Reynolds with Nate Bellogi. We kept talking about going down there, fishing some marlin. But you know how it is with Nate." You listening up, fans? He's pals with Nate Bellogi. Nate, not Nathan as he's known to the great unwashed. "Monday would roll around and I'd just drag myself out to the nearest beach and sleep it off."

"I'm telling you, Kyle, you gotta go."

I borrow the men's room key and head back out the door. In the bathroom, I check the mirror: under the fluorescent light, I look dull-eyed and pasty, like something washed up on Kyle's beach. My hair is slicked to my scalp from the rain; below the line of my jacket, my pants are water-stained and sticky with the damp heat. I spindle a couple feet of paper towel off the roll and mop water out of my hair, off my face. Then I run a comb through my hair, take a leak, wash my hands, and glance over the sides again. I say a few lines into the mirror, trying to recall what I did last night when I ran the lines with Robin. My voice sounds as phony in my ears as the jackass back in the waiting room. Whatever confidence I had about this audition, I must have left behind in the cab.

This is the first legit job I've gone out for since March. It's summer and things are dead all over town. Still, last month I dropped by my agent's office with some flimsy excuse (in the neighborhood, heard they're casting such and such, went to school with the director) just to remind him I was still alive. For better or worse, Zak is probably too nice for this business: he didn't tell his receptionist to get rid of me. Instead, he sat me down and lectured me about taking a vacation, for God's sake, giving him a break and going somewhere nice. He recommended Block Island, "but don't eat before you get on the ferry."

I'd be better off with one of those anorexic killers who live on coffee and hardball contract negotiations and bitter gossip, but I've stuck with Zak because, frankly, I get enough rejection in this business without taking it from my agent. I wouldn't go so far as to describe us as close, but we get a kick out of each other, and we've continued to stick it out when there were smarter options on both sides. There are marriages based on less. It'd be a good thing to get this job, if for no other reason than to justify his faith.

I run the lines until they stop echoing back in my ears, then head back into the office and return the key. Brad Whalen and Kyle are gone. I scout a chair next to a husky blond fellow who's carrying on an animated but soundless conversation with himself. His eyebrows raise then furrow, his lips move, then his features twist into an exaggerated expression of disdain. It's like watching a silent movie.

My name is called and I startle. I pull myself to my feet, take a deep breath, begin smiling inside my head. I don the persona of Hal: confident, earnest. I get ready to do my stuff.

Bippety bip bippety bop, I'm in the door, all smiles and bonhomie. The wax museum is lined up behind a long table: the director, the playwright, the casting director, the assistant to the director, each one sporting the glazed facsimile of a smile. I do the lightning round of introductions, shake hands up and down the table like a seasoned politician, go to the empty stool in front of the table, and ask the reader her name, which I promptly forget. Then the scene. It flies, they're awake, and they're asking to see something else, the scene with the reporter. I slide into gear again, and then it happens: I step through the looking glass. On the other side, there is a reporter asking me questions about a young woman Hal knew in Grand Rapids. Katherine Sellers. Kathy. She was wearing a white nightgown that held the shadows of her thighs, and her shoulders were like small birds. Just that once, late at night, while Janice and the children slept upstairs. When she moved underneath me, I heard wings rustling. It might have been a dream. A brilliant light shines directly in my eyes and faces swim feverishly at the edges of my vision. I smile into the light, willing myself to speak slowly into the proffered microphone. "Miss Sellers lived with our family briefly while she was attending college. She helped my wife, Janice, with the boys after Kirk was born. Miss Sellers attended our church and was a fine young Christian woman. I don't know why she would fabricate this kind of…" I feel like I'm going to puke. Some cold and predatory corner of my brain, though, is measuring the auditioners, gauging the heat of their attention. They have stepped across with me.

When the scene is over, there is a fraction of a minute before the tension snaps and we're back in the room. The playwright, Arthur Haines, grins confidentially to me. "That was great, Dan," as though we've known each other for years. The director nods his agreement and seems to be looking me over again, envisioning me in the role. There's a brief whispered exchange, then the casting director says, "Good reading, Dan. Thanks." I'm out the door. Ten minutes, tops. That's all it takes to change the direction your life is heading in.

It has stopped raining, but the air is still steamy and tropical with the smells of overripe garbage and fruit. Sun glints off water coursing down the flooded street. Like Gene Kelly, I want to stamp through the gutters, dance into those puddles, to hell with my already soggy loafers. Instead, I wait expectantly at the curb, careful not to get splashed, bouncing on my twinkle toes and waiting for the sea of traffic to part just long enough for me to dart across. I'm giddy, ready for my luck to change.

As it turns out, I didn't have to wait long. Good news was already blinking on my answering machine by the time I walked in the door this afternoon. Beep: Tribeca Rep wants to see me again in the morning. And in a when-it-rains-it-pours mode, another beep: I've been put on first refusal for the Dobbins Copier commercial. Beep, beep, beep, beep, beep.

It's premature to start counting my chickens. I know that from experience. A callback is a long way from an offer. And even a first refusal doesn't necessarily mean they'll use you. They're covering their asses. These days, there may be two or three other actors on the back burner with you.