wonder. Is the medication just a way of turning us into zombies so our parents can work two jobs and still keep us in line? This is what worries me when I refuse to worry about other things, like the fact that I’m late to rehearsal.
“Two minutes and six seconds late,” Kim states, checking her watch as I arrive at the green room. Pairing her brown heels with a beige-dotted mini-skirt, she looks like a giraffe.
“What are you doing here?” I ask.
“I’m the assistant director,” Kim says, slapping a HELLO, MY NAME IS sticker on my shirt. “And my first direction for you is to be here on time.”
“I plan to be.”
“Good, then we won’t have a problem.” She jots a note on her clipboard.
This is my life. I’m two minutes and six seconds late, and I have Kim to answer to. This is not the kind of tension a flourishing actor needs.
“And just for the record,” Kim adds. “I should have been in this film. However, Mr. Dolby figured I would steal every scene and make people like you seem like unsightly props.”
Here I am, an unsightly prop — a turd in the toilet during the film’s bathroom scene. This is Kim: watch as she flushes me down. Then suddenly, I’m rinsed, I’m clean, and I’ve just reached Mr. Dolby’s office. The dolls are here too, but they’re dressed in green. The reason, Mr. Dolby later informs me, is to symbolize the simple nature in us all. This is how we discover our truth, by soaking in our immaturity, by accepting our lack of experience.
“Sorry I’m late,” I say.
“Tyler,” Mr. Dolby beams, flapping his wrist in the air. “Don’t be silly, dear boy. You’re right on time. Join us. We were just discussing the script.” Seated at an oval table, he pours tea from a kettle into a purple cup. He passes the cup to a resident thespian with long black curls and dimples named Ashley Hewitt. For some reason, Mr. Dolby seems more flamboyant than the day before. Maybe I bring it out in him. Maybe it’s because his pink scarf matches his chair. I take a seat as Mr. Dolby pours another cup of tea. “Sugar?” he asks me.
“Please.”
“One lump or two?”
Billy enters the room.
One lump....
One BIG lump, right in the pit of my throat.
“One,” I say.
Billy takes a seat beside me. He’s wearing a ratty black tee with holes in it, like he’s knows looking homeless is the new cool. Inside, I’m screaming, “He got a part! He got a part!” Outside, I feel awkward though. Should I say hello? Should I allow time for him to say hello first? I’m not sure where we stand. Our date had an awful finale and he might not want to talk to me. Still, I don’t want to be a prude. Oh, why does this have to be so hard? Just say hello. Say it!
“Hey,” I mutter.
Billy doesn’t acknowledge me, not at first. I have to say ‘hey’ another two times before he replies with an “I hear you!”
“Splendid, you’re already friends! That’ll add chemistry to the film,” Mr. Dolby says. With an exaggerated smile, he flicks his pink scarf over his shoulder. “Oh, I’m smitten as kittens with my cast, just smitten as kittens.”
Great, now move aside so I can mark my territory!
“Is everyone familiar with Ashley Hewitt?” Mr. Dolby asks. Billy nods, stating they’d met in a community theater production of The Mousetrap . I don’t utter a peep. I know Ashley but mainly for her offstage antics.
You see, Ashley is a crazy method actress and part of her method, or madness, is to dispel reality, immersing herself into the life of the character she’s been assigned to portray. Last year after receiving the title role in The Diary of Anne Frank she was later found nibbling on her ankle in a locked janitor’s closet where she’d slept for two days, because according to Ashley, the students of German descent were out to destroy her. Crazy or not, this is Ashley Hewitt. She makes no apologies for her behavior, and she brings a whole new meaning to the term ‘starving
“Two minutes and six seconds late,” Kim states, checking her watch as I arrive at the green room. Pairing her brown heels with a beige-dotted mini-skirt, she looks like a giraffe.
“What are you doing here?” I ask.
“I’m the assistant director,” Kim says, slapping a HELLO, MY NAME IS sticker on my shirt. “And my first direction for you is to be here on time.”
“I plan to be.”
“Good, then we won’t have a problem.” She jots a note on her clipboard.
This is my life. I’m two minutes and six seconds late, and I have Kim to answer to. This is not the kind of tension a flourishing actor needs.
“And just for the record,” Kim adds. “I should have been in this film. However, Mr. Dolby figured I would steal every scene and make people like you seem like unsightly props.”
Here I am, an unsightly prop — a turd in the toilet during the film’s bathroom scene. This is Kim: watch as she flushes me down. Then suddenly, I’m rinsed, I’m clean, and I’ve just reached Mr. Dolby’s office. The dolls are here too, but they’re dressed in green. The reason, Mr. Dolby later informs me, is to symbolize the simple nature in us all. This is how we discover our truth, by soaking in our immaturity, by accepting our lack of experience.
“Sorry I’m late,” I say.
“Tyler,” Mr. Dolby beams, flapping his wrist in the air. “Don’t be silly, dear boy. You’re right on time. Join us. We were just discussing the script.” Seated at an oval table, he pours tea from a kettle into a purple cup. He passes the cup to a resident thespian with long black curls and dimples named Ashley Hewitt. For some reason, Mr. Dolby seems more flamboyant than the day before. Maybe I bring it out in him. Maybe it’s because his pink scarf matches his chair. I take a seat as Mr. Dolby pours another cup of tea. “Sugar?” he asks me.
“Please.”
“One lump or two?”
Billy enters the room.
One lump....
One BIG lump, right in the pit of my throat.
“One,” I say.
Billy takes a seat beside me. He’s wearing a ratty black tee with holes in it, like he’s knows looking homeless is the new cool. Inside, I’m screaming, “He got a part! He got a part!” Outside, I feel awkward though. Should I say hello? Should I allow time for him to say hello first? I’m not sure where we stand. Our date had an awful finale and he might not want to talk to me. Still, I don’t want to be a prude. Oh, why does this have to be so hard? Just say hello. Say it!
“Hey,” I mutter.
Billy doesn’t acknowledge me, not at first. I have to say ‘hey’ another two times before he replies with an “I hear you!”
“Splendid, you’re already friends! That’ll add chemistry to the film,” Mr. Dolby says. With an exaggerated smile, he flicks his pink scarf over his shoulder. “Oh, I’m smitten as kittens with my cast, just smitten as kittens.”
Great, now move aside so I can mark my territory!
“Is everyone familiar with Ashley Hewitt?” Mr. Dolby asks. Billy nods, stating they’d met in a community theater production of The Mousetrap . I don’t utter a peep. I know Ashley but mainly for her offstage antics.
You see, Ashley is a crazy method actress and part of her method, or madness, is to dispel reality, immersing herself into the life of the character she’s been assigned to portray. Last year after receiving the title role in The Diary of Anne Frank she was later found nibbling on her ankle in a locked janitor’s closet where she’d slept for two days, because according to Ashley, the students of German descent were out to destroy her. Crazy or not, this is Ashley Hewitt. She makes no apologies for her behavior, and she brings a whole new meaning to the term ‘starving
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