Ethan couldn’t help but think he would regret hearing those words.
They strolled back to his apartment. A light rain was falling. He carried her possessions, which amounted to a surprisingly heavy khaki bag stuffed full of clothes, as well as a small sports bag. They didn’t talk a lot but shared how little Americans seemed to know about Canada.
Back in his apartment, Ethan pulled two cold Bud Lights from his small refrigerator and twisted off the caps. He handed one to Christa.
“I never pictured you as a Bud man,” Christa said, her voice coy, her brown eyes a little brighter.
“Well, I never pictured you drinking from a bottle,” he shot back with a wink.
“Are you kidding? I’m from Calgary. On the ranch, the bottle is the glass.”
They both laughed.
Ethan moved to the side of the room where he stored some of his stuff.
“I have to put down some cushions, as there’s only the sofa for a bed, but you can have it.” Christa’s eyes followed his movements. “I just need to move a few things around.” Sliding a box of books to one side, he piled some clothes on top to clear enough space for a makeshift bed of cushions. He then returned to his beer.
“These are some great pictures,” Christa commented as she flipped through one of his magazines. “Clint looks awesome, and Stallone … well … ‘become a pest to life until it relinquishes your dreams.’ Isn’t that the truth?”
He laid the sofa pillows on the floor. “I’m fascinated by the beliefs of people who’ve made it,” Ethan replied. “I find them such a contradiction to what we’re taught. It’s almost as if we learn to be … where we are.”
“That’s deep, Dr. Jones,” she replied, her lips pursed and her face resisting a smile. She held up a multi-page spread that stretched the length of her forearm. “Look at these. I’ve never seen this one of Marilyn Monroe and Paul Newman. His blue eyes just take me apart.” Then, closing the magazine, she concluded, “I’m done for the night.”
“Yeah, me too. I’ve got to work tomorrow—later today.”
“Work!” she cried. “God, I forgot all about that. I’d better say good night.”
“I’ll leave a towel on the vanity.” He handed her a blanket and sheet. “You can use these. They’re clean.”
“Thanks, Ethan,” she said and kissed him lightly on the cheek. “You’re a saint. I don’t know how I’ll ever repay you.”
“Forget it, and a saint I’m not,” he replied, throwing a sheet over the pillows on the floor. “You found that out last night.”
By the time he was comfortable on the cushions, his clock read 3:30 a.m. He did his best not to think about the beautiful woman lying close by. Just as he’d manage to contain his thoughts, she’d move or sniffle and rekindle his desire for her. But he couldn’t—he just couldn’t. She was in need of a friend tonight, someone to provide her stability from the crazed relationship she’d had. He could hear her breath; she seemed so close he could almost feel her breathe against his skin. He forced himself to let it go.
His eyes closed, and he hoped he wasn’t making a big mistake in helping this fellow human being. His thoughts drifted to the audition Cushman had arranged, and he prayed the dream wouldn’t return that night. It wasn’t long before he was in a deep sleep.
Chapter 19
Ethan’s Timeline
April 1991
The next day dragged on, although he didn’t start till noon. He still found his hours strange, so accustomed to daytime hours at NewTec. He tried to relax, refusing to clutter his thoughts with project details. He was best when he knew what he was going to read. Tonight would put his spontaneity to the test. Would the lack of sleep, raw nerves, and no pre-read take him out of contention? He tried to calm himself by repeating little phrases like “you’re the best” or “you can do this.” To reduce his tension, he resolved that it really didn’t matter; there’d be other auditions. It wasn’t likely he’d want it anyway, but knew if it involved acting of any form, he’d be a fool not to give it his best shot. Everything mattered—every second, every word. He never knew who might be watching or when opportunity would strike. He wished for a way to hurry his workday along.
Christa also was on his mind for most of the day, but each time he thought of Christa, Beth wasn’t far off. Hopeful thoughts of Christa were suffocated by guilty musings of Beth. Christa excited him and made him feel good. His inner voice encouraged him, saying, It’s time to move on, Ethan.
When dinner break arrived, two fellow engineers invited him to join them, but he declined, using the excuse that he had too much to do. He grabbed a prepackaged sandwich from the vending machine and ate it while looking over the classifieds at his desk. A couple of new casting calls caught his eye. He found Sven Irons’s number from the day before in his pocket—he was worth another call. He left the office for a few minutes to call from the pay phone across the street. One thing Ethan had learned while in LA was that no one called you. If you had a number, you’d better call it, because someone else was right behind you, ready to pounce on your squandered opportunity. Competition was ruthless, and the hungriest got fed.
He dialed Sven’s number first and after a couple of rings, the answering machine clicked on. He left another message and his number. Curiosity gave way to determination in finding out what Sven Irons was all about. The other two casting call numbers resulted in voice messages to “leave your name and number at the beep.”
No farther ahead, Ethan decided to take a little walk along the sidewalk before heading back to the office. He’d bought his Hugo Boss in Tailor’s, a small men’s clothier on Rivoli Road. After the purchase, he’d promised to treat himself to another trip down Rivoli when he landed his first movie role, no matter how big the part.
Everything from the frivolous to the practical existed on Rivoli, from snakeskin shoes to body piercing and tattoos. It seemed funny to Ethan that it took him away from where he was and closer to where he wanted to go. He needed to find the elusive crack in the Hollywood shell. He returned to his office along the opposite sidewalk. Seeing the front of Build Industries brought him back to his present circumstances.
For the rest of his shift, he alternated between revisions to his current project and discussions on a new one that would take several oxygen reservoirs five hundred feet below the ocean’s surface. It was a classified project, on client request. Ethan and another engineer were assigned to the design. At six o’clock, they called it a day. They’d pick it up tomorrow. Ethan packed to leave for his audition.
It was then that Goldsmith, the manager who had hired Ethan, approached his desk. Ethan rarely saw the man, but when he did, it meant there was a problem that needed solving.
Goldsmith was the only person who had asked Ethan anything other than technical questions during his interviews. “What do you like to do besides engineering?” Goldsmith had asked. Ethan had answered truthfully, that acting and movies were his hobbies. Goldsmith seemed to accept Ethan’s answer, as he was searching for something more than just a degreed engineer. Ethan got the job.
“How are you, Ethan?” Goldsmith asked, his large outstretched hand swallowing Ethan’s. Despite being short, his hands were huge, as were his head and feet—a caricature of himself. Goldsmith always greeted Ethan by name.
“Great,” Ethan replied, trying to hide his reluctance. He knew Goldsmith wasn’t there for a social visit.
“That’s what I like to hear,” Goldsmith chortled, nodding his big head. Six days had elapsed since his last visit, which had ended in a twenty-four-hour marathon of drawings and the reason for Ethan’s recently messed-up schedule. “They’re treating you well?”
“Just fine, sir,” Ethan answered, as if responding to a drill officer’s question. “There’s always something to do.”
“Listen …” Goldsmith pulled three sheets of paper out of his binder. “I need some ideas
for this proposal I’m putting together.”
For Ethan, the timing couldn’t have been worse.
“Have you got a few minutes?” Goldsmith asked, spreading the pages out on top of Ethan’s desk. He paused momentarily, his quick eyes measuring Ethan’s movements. “If you have to go, I understand.” His eyes held Ethan’s. There was only one response Ethan could give. The test was on.
“Sure, no problem,” Ethan answered, grabbing his notebook and a pencil.
They moved to the conference room. Ethan checked the time on his watch. It was 6:10. The audition was at 7:00.
At 6:40, Goldsmith was finished. He abruptly stood up and said, “Dammit! Look at the time. Sorry I kept you so late. They’re no doubt waiting for me now. I need the drawings on my desk by noon tomorrow, Ethan. Have a good evening.” He left without another word.
Ethan was right behind him but left sufficient distance between them to avoid any more questions. The only thing on his mind was what chance in hell he had of making his scheduled audition time.
The taxi driver laughed when Ethan told him where he was going and that he had fifteen minutes. But after running a number of red lights and ignoring some of the posted speed limits, Ethan was at the church by seven-fifteen.
He only hoped they were running late.
After giving the cabbie an extra ten for his effort, Ethan ran to the building with no idea of where he was going. No signs indicated auditions or any other event. He ran up a dozen cement stairs that led to a set of glass doors and entered a deserted church foyer. The quiet that confronted him was discomfiting. He traversed the rear alcove that ran the width of the building and found a stairwell that led downstairs. Taking a few steps down, he heard voices and quickly descended the remaining stairs, coming to a small antechamber, where half a dozen people sat on stackable wood chairs with sheets of paper in their hands.
“Is this where the auditions are?” he asked to no one in particular.
“Shhhh! Yes,” hissed a heavyset young man wearing a bright pink Ben and Jerry’s “I Love Ice Cream” T-shirt. No shit, Ethan thought. “The scripts are next door.” His pudgy finger pointed at a closed door beside the stairs.
“Sorry. Thanks,” Ethan replied, walking in the indicated direction. Posted on a bulletin board beside the door was a schedule for a Bible study group. Inside sat a middle-aged woman with long strawberry-blonde hair tied back with a fluorescent-green scrunchie. Prematurely wrinkled with earthy good looks, the woman immediately smiled as he approached.
“Can I help you?” she asked in a deep, almost masculine voice that surprised Ethan with its loudness.
“Yes, I think you can,” he answered. “I’m here to read for the audition.”
“Why, of course you are. Your name?”
“Ethan Jones.”
“Ethan Jones,” she repeated, seeming to reflect on the sound of her voice while shuffling through several sheets of paper on the table in front of her. “I remember seeing your name somewhere here.”
Farther to his right was another closed door. He could hear faint voices coming from behind it.
“Here it is,” she said with a note of triumph in her voice. “Oh, I’m sorry, Mr. Jones, but you’ve missed your call time. You were scheduled for seven o’clock. Mr. Jackson won’t be able to see you tonight.”
“Dammit!” Ethan cursed before realizing where he was. “Sorry.” At the same instant, an idea flashed through his head. “Would you mind if I had a look at the script anyway?”
The woman seemed relieved by not having to deal with a confrontation from another irrational actor, and she handed him a small coiled-ringed booklet.
There was no way on this side of hell he was going to waste an audition after coming this far. Quickly, he read through twenty-odd lines of dialogue and was ready to perform.
“You can take it with you if you’d like,” the woman offered, rearranging the papers on the table in front of her.
“That’s okay,” Ethan replied. “I just want to know a little more about the character. Thanks.” I need to know these lines. This is my life, he thought. He re-read the lines and conjured the character in his head while watching and listening for signs that the closed door was going to open. There was one chance to make this happen—only one. He had to be on his way to the door as soon as he heard the click of the doorknob turning. When the door opened, he had to be through it.
The lines flowed through his head. The character was nervous and insecure by nature. Holding a roomful of hostages in a bank’s vault for most of the night had begun to wear on him. It wouldn’t take much to set him off while an undercover cop tried to talk him out of it.
He heard the click.
Without hesitating, Ethan skimmed past the man leaving and was through the door in a shot. He closed the door behind him as the woman at the table shouted for him to stop.
Fired up, Ethan felt the pressure his character was under as he entered … the bank vault. Whether they liked him or not, they would remember him.
“You guys are making me crazy!” he shouted across the room, holding a semi-automatic that only he could see high in the air. “Listen—I’ve got three executives behind me, messing their pants. Smells like a shit house. You all look like fuckin’ baby lambs, praying for mercy. Wrong day to fuck with me, mister. Keep your shrinks locked up. What’s inside my head stays. No fuckin’ around.”
The manuscript described a pause as the anarchist grabbed a young woman hostage and brutally dragged her across the room by her long blonde hair. They were on the main floor of a Manhattan skyscraper, and he’d just blown out the window with a round of gunfire.
“I want three things,” Ethan shouted, miming dragging the woman by her hair to the blown-out window. Ethan visualized the scene in his mind with extreme clarity. Wind, coming through the broken window, blew his hair around. “First, I want the three men in last week’s bombing released and flown back to Iran. Second, I want the salaries of these three gentlemen deposited in an unmarked Swiss account today. And third, I want safe transport for me and my escort.” He shook the woman he was holding, indicating she was his escort. “To Columbia. You got thirty minutes, or I start getting fuckin’ creative with my new associates.”
When he finished leaning across the desk he’d used as the open window, he stood up. With his lines delivered, he looked as if he were waking from a trance and seemed surprised that he was in a church basement. It was an inspired performance.
Standing, he took a step back from the desk. The two he’d auditioned for were silent. The woman who had handed him the script was standing in the doorway. Her face showed she was perturbed by his actions, but her dark eyes were alight with what she’d just witnessed. She spoke before anyone else had a chance.
“I’m very sorry,” she said to the man and woman sitting behind a foldout table. “He just barged in. I couldn’t stop him.”
The woman behind the table spoke next. Her bleached-blonde hair was cropped close to her scalp. Prominent black-rimmed glasses were positioned near the tip of her nose, which was pierced with a tiny diamond. Ethan figured she was approaching forty.
“Jason?” she asked tentatively. “That was most …”
“Entertaining,” finished the man sitting by her side. He stood up and towered over Ethan’s five-foot-ten frame, extending a long-fingered hand to Ethan. “Good to meet you, Jason.”
“Actually,” Ethan interrupted, feeling very confident about his audition, “my name is Ethan Jones.”
There was a pregnant pause as the man looked at the list before him. “But the list has Jason … next,” he said as he scrutinized the sheet he was holding. “Ah, here it is. Yes, Ethan Jones. We waited for you at seven o’clock, didn’t we, Bren?”
The woman nodded her head, refusing to raise her eyes from the table.
“Very well,” said the man. “We have a num
ber here at which to contact you. Thank you for coming out. Who’s next, Shirley?”
“That’s it?” Ethan cried out. He’d just poured his living soul into the audition, and all he was getting was a “thanks for coming out.” He felt like he’d just been gutted like a slaughtered pig.
“Yes, thank you. We’ll call you.” The man sat back down and scribbled something on his sheet.
Ethan still couldn’t believe it. They were rejecting him because he was late. Fuck. Life isn’t perfect. You have to grab opportunity when it presents itself and not squander it because of some pre-planned procedure that it doesn’t quite fit. He’d done enough of that over the years to recognize it for what it was. He stood there shaking his head. It wasn’t right, but he wasn’t about to change them. He’d nailed the fucking scene, and he knew it.
Shirley held the door open as he passed. “Just a tip, Ethan,” Shirley whispered. “Next time, be on time.”
“Yeah, right,” he huffed and walked by the fat boy on his way to the stairs.
“Ethan!” Shirley called out, moving toward him. “If it means anything to you, that was amazing. Don’t quit. Come back again. You’ve got something we don’t see every day.”
“Thanks,” he replied, still dejected and more than a little pissed off. The part should have been his.
He climbed back up the stairs and pushed open a side door. The warmth of the evening met him full-on. The heat of the day had subsided, but it was warm compared to the air-conditioned coolness of the church basement. It felt good. He had paid little attention to it earlier. Disappointment weighed heavily on his mood.
A long night was in store back at the office. Most of it would be in front of a computer screen, not acting. He was back in half an hour, having walked for a piece before waving down a taxi. When he pulled up in front of Build Industries, he decided to grab a bite from the diner across the street first. He sat quietly and ate a cheeseburger and fries, washing it down with two Budweisers.
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