Ethan smiled. “Thank you.”
“We’ll be in touch,” Wiggy said, standing and shaking his hand, indicating the audition was over. Dale and Lynx both said polite good-byes. Wiggy walked Ethan and Christa to the door. They left and headed back down the dark hallway. Christa remained silent until they were outside in the bright heat. They shielded their eyes from the sun, which set off another bomb blast behind Ethan’s hazel eyes.
“Ethan!” Christa cried joyously, enfolding him in a tight embrace and giving him a kiss. “That was incredible. I believed you were a doctor. You transformed yourself. It was remarkable. I’ve never seen anything like it.”
The volume of Ethan’s headache rose. “Thanks, but I didn’t get the part.” He pressed his fingertips against his forehead. He checked for the time, only to be reminded of giving up his watch for taxi fare. A brief spell of melancholy overtook him, having given up his prized gift for nothing. “Where are you parked?”
“What do you mean, you didn’t get the part?” Christa asked, ignoring the question. Her brow furrowed. “That’s pretty negative.”
“Wiggy didn’t set up a follow-up time,” he replied matter-of-factly, blocking the sun with his hand. He searched for a spot of shade where they could stand, but trees were not a part of the landscape.
“Wait just a minute,” Christa replied and walked back to the door they had just exited.
“Christa, wait,” Ethan called, his voice vibrating the nerve endings above his eyes, but she disappeared inside the building. He struggled to open the heavy door and then stepped inside to stop her. His eyes took time to adjust. He heard the door open at the other end of the hall. Realizing he did not have the energy or the inclination to chase after Christa, he sat down against the cool cement wall for relief.
Christa was in the room longer than he expected. She did seem to have a way with people. Maybe his luck was about to change, but thinking about it required energy—energy he didn’t have. All he wanted now was a bed to lie down on. His head continued to pound, and his joints ached. His head hung down, with his chin on his chest, as he prayed for his misery to go away.
“Thanks, Wiggy,” he heard Christa say from the other end of the hall. His eyes were closed. “We’ll see you Thursday. I’m sure he’ll be feeling up to it by then.”
Christa was at his side a moment later. She squatted down and put her arm around his slumped shoulders. “You’re not doing well, are you?”
“I’m okay,” he lied, raising his head. “Can we go?”
“Yes, as a matter of fact, we can.” She kissed the side of his warm head. “You’re shivering. Your fever’s back, isn’t it?”
Ethan nodded and leaned against her. He’d used up all he had in the audition. As Christa held him, memories came to mind of his mother sitting with him one cold winter night. The power had been out for hours. She’d brought him to the downstairs den in front of the fireplace. He was six years old, suffering from bronchial pneumonia. For hours, she’d cuddled him in his father’s big La-Z-Boy. He’d asked her if he would ever get better. She assured him he would, and that gave him hope he’d not known before. Everything would be okay. She made him feel invincible, although through her sickness, he’d learned invincible was not a human trait.
“Listen, Ethan,” Christa said, whispering close to his ear, her breath passing lightly over his skin. “The car’s close. We’re going back to the apartment and put you to bed. Promise you’ll stay there until your fever breaks. You’re going to be fine.” She crouched beside him for another minute and then whispered, “Wiggy was mesmerized by what you did in there. You have something—a connection. It makes people want to watch you.”
A smile crossed his lips. Christa kissed him. Although he physically felt like death, there was a peace inside him. Sleep and rest would help resuscitate him.
“Charisma!” Christa said all of sudden. Her body moved. “That’s the word. You’ve got it!”
He managed a grin but didn’t reply.
They shuffled off to her car.
He was in bed at the apartment less than half an hour later, shivering again but not extreme like the night before. With a couple of Tylenol and Christa caressing his forehead, he fell asleep—sick but ever hopeful.
Chapter 30
Ethan’s Timeline
May 1991
Late the next morning, Ethan woke up feeling like a different man. His fever had broken during the night and left him weak and lethargic, but the shivers were gone. Christa had taken the day off and brewed up some of her grandmother’s chicken soup, guaranteed to cure anything—a miracle potion. By midafternoon his strength was beginning to return. He asked Christa to bring in the script for Edwin’s production. He was way behind schedule in getting ready for his evening debut rehearsal, but he would be ready.
Christa did not accompany Ethan to the rehearsal. Despite a number of miscues and forgotten lines, Edwin still appeared to be happy with Ethan’s overall performance and remarked the same to Ethan. By the end of the night, however, Ethan was exhausted. His performance level was not where he wanted it to be, but he had nothing left to give. There was a lot of work ahead of him, but he’d never shied away from work.
Christa was asleep on the couch when he returned to the apartment early the next morning. He sat on the edge of the coffee table and watched her sleep. He was first drawn to her face and then the open Bible facedown on her chest. Carefully, he lifted it from her grasp and was about to set it aside when he noticed the line, “Now faith is being sure of what we hope for and certain of what we do not see.” The words seemed to jump off the page. Funny, he’d never taken much notice of the big book before. He set it down on the table and covered Christa with the blanket from the end of the couch. So as not to wake her, he picked up his script, found a beer in the refrigerator, and retreated to the bedroom.
He wasn’t about to go to bed with everything bubbling inside his head. He pictured himself on stage, delivering his lines to a sold-out audience. Concerns about delivering his lines plagued his thoughts. He’d speak a line from memory as quietly as he could so as to avoid waking anyone, but he found it difficult to really get the feel of the words without their aural impact. He decided to focus on memorizing, leaving the full expression of his words until he could manage it without disturbing the others. Sitting on the side of the bed, he could feel the drag of his body demanding sleep. Try as he might, he caught himself nodding off with the script on his lap or having fallen to the floor.
At four o’clock, Christa dragged herself into the room. He was pacing back and forth at the end of the bed, working his lines from scene three. “How’s it going?” she croaked. “I’ll bet you knocked their socks off.”
“Edwin seemed pleased,” he whispered as he watched her climb under the sheets, “but I have to get better at my lines.”
Christa fell back asleep almost before he finished his reply. Longingly, he watched her sleep for a few minutes, craving to lie by her side and feel her skin next to his own, to cup and hold her breasts and make love to her. He sat down on the edge of the bed and lightly rubbed her back. Her smooth, silky skin was like the taste of dark chocolate truffles on his tongue—exquisite. With the script in his other hand, he forced himself to stand up and leave her alone. He left the room, thumbing through the rest of the script he hadn’t yet mastered.
Doubt dropped into the pit of his stomach. Was he facing the impossible? Did he really stand a chance? The mistrust caused by early morning sleep deprivation crept in. What had he just read? “Faith is being sure of what we hope for and certain of what we do not see.” You better start having some faith, Ethan, my boy. If he didn’t, no one else would.
Before the next hour was over, he finished the rest of his lines. Still in the living room, sitting in the center of the couch, sleep overcame him.
Chapter 31
Ethan’s Timeline
&n
bsp; May 1991
Ethan was up just after eleven. Christa had left for work, and Robbie was nowhere to be found. The apartment was hot, and after taking a long pee, Ethan threw some cool water on his face. He longed for air conditioning. The script was on the floor beside the couch where he’d fallen asleep. It wasn’t long before he was right back in it, memorizing his lines, amazed at how arduous the task of stuffing words in his head had become. After two hours, it was like trying to squeeze one more shirt into an already full suitcase. He had reached the point where he could manage no more and decided to take a shower. Shortly after finishing, he was off to his favorite place—a place where he could see and feel why he was doing what he was doing.
Outside the apartment, he directed a cabbie to take him to the Dorothy Chandler Pavilion. He left the yellow taxi as if he was exiting a white stretch Durango limousine, with Christa dressed in a tight red gown at his side. The faces that followed him lit up as he walked past, holding her hand. The autograph-seekers stuck magazines and photos in front of him to sign, which he did with a flourish, in between photos with the excited fans who were intoxicated by the celebrity in their midst. The time was his. He could feel it—almost taste it; his vision was so real. On reaching the top step near the entrance, he turned and waved to the people watching. Fame and celebrity took his breath away.
After twenty minutes of dreaming, in an attempt to touch what he was chasing, he headed back to the apartment, charged and ready to work again. For the next twelve hours, Ethan focused on memorizing the rest of A Baker Makes Three. It was the early morning again when he finished. To celebrate, he ordered a pizza. Christa got up while he was paying for it and joined him.
“I can’t believe your drive,” she said, pulling a slice of the steaming pizza from the box. The cheese stretched the length of her arm. “It’s remarkable. You don’t get tired?”
“Don’t be fooled,” he replied after swallowing a bite of his pepperoni-and-mushroom slice. “I’m plenty tired.”
Christa grabbed another slice and then set it down. Ethan gave her the eye, as if to say, Two pieces at this time of the night? She looked across at him and asked, “What is this acting thing all about for you?”
Ethan thought for a moment. Only one other person would have asked him that question. He wasn’t sure he even knew the answer. It made him feel good about himself. It felt right. But those answers didn’t seem quite adequate.
“Fame and celebrity,” he blurted out, laughing, without thinking further, “are high on the list.” He thought for a moment and went on. “I have an inherent need to know that I can. I have this gift that I’ve played around with for years. I need to know. I have a chance to figure it out.” He paused, reflecting on his past. Some of what he said surprised him. “There’s nothing else I’ve ever done that gives me this satisfaction. I love being someone else. I’m not that person; he does things I would never do. Yet I get to connect him. If I can believe, I can get there. I want to live—fully. I want to live the saying, ‘Two roads diverged in a wood, and I … I took the one less traveled by, and that has made all the difference.’ Only it’s not that simple. I traveled down the road most traveled, only to backtrack and realize I have to take the other one.”
He watched as Christa listened to his answer. Every once in a while—and this was one of them—he had to kick himself to believe he had the company, love, and friendship of such a wonderful woman. Her rose-silk nightgown did little to hide her statuesque beauty.
“Thanks, Ethan,” she said, sleepily melting into the couch. “I get it.”
“The clock is ticking, Christa,” he added, pointing to the script. “I’m scared to death that I might be locked in this mediocrity forever, and it’s all I will achieve, despite refusing to accept it. Now I’m chasing it, even if it means losing everything.” He smiled, thinking he was closer to the truth than he would have admitted. Christa didn’t say anything. Ethan picked up the script. “This could be the play that gives me my ‘in,’” he said, fanning the pages with his thumb. “It’s not award-winning material, but it has enough to let me perform. It’s all I have at this point.”
Ethan reached beside the couch and pulled two cold cans of Coke out of the brown paper bag that had accompanied the pizza. He handed one to Christa. She took it but set it back on the floor. “I know most of this seems crazy,” he said, rubbing his head where he’d banged it in the bathroom. It was still sensitive. “To most, it probably is. But I’ve played myself—and I want redemption. I’m not happy living that way. I can’t let myself slip away any longer.” He got up and went to the refrigerator. He replaced his Coke with a Heineken. “In case you haven’t noticed,” he added, sitting back down, his hazel eyes bright with intensity, “I’m going for it. I will get there. I will find a way.”
The second slice of pizza Christa had taken was still on the table. Ethan pointed to it with his open hand. She shook her head and said, “I’ll have nightmares from the first one. It’s yours, Ethan Jones.” He took it and downed a mouthful. “You know,” Christa said as she watched him stuff himself, “there’s no doubt in my mind that you won’t be a movie star. I know you’ll be on the big screen and one day accept an Oscar for your work. I know it like I know where I work.” She paused for a moment and then rose to her feet. “And speaking of work, I have to get up in a few hours. I don’t have an actor’s schedule.” She laughed. “I hope you finish soon.”
“Well, as a matter of fact,” he said, extending his smile, “I’m finished for the night. The pizza was my reward. I would be honored to join you, if you’ll have me?”
Christa paused, feigning the act of making a difficult decision. “On one condition,” she replied, looking to the floor, playing coy. “I get to make love to a movie star.”
“Condition accepted,” Ethan answered and followed her into the bedroom. His desire for her was overwhelming.
“Ethan, promise me one thing,” Christa said, after they’d made love. Their faces glistened with perspiration. His arms were wrapped around her from behind. “Don’t forget me when you succeed. I don’t think I could bear it.”
Ethan tightened his embrace, feeling her breasts against his forearms. “Christa, I’ll never forget you. You’re with me forever.”
Chapter 32
Ethan’s Timeline
August 1991
Over the next few months, Ethan rehearsed with both Wiggy’s small group and Edwin’s codgers, becoming ever more comfortable with his lines and the cast. A Juilliard graduate had landed the second role that Wiggy was after, someone who wanted to try live theater. The man wouldn’t have been Ethan’s choice, but he wasn’t consulted.
His finances ate at him constantly, despite attempts to the contrary. All his time was going into acting. He couldn’t fit in a day job. Yet it wasn’t like rent was an option. His lack of money added to the constant stress of performing.
Learning his lines took more time than he ever expected. Memorizing was usually quick but maintaining character took a lot of energy and concentration. Auditioning lines on the first go-round was exciting and stimulating, but duplicating the performance often seemed nearly impossible on a consistent basis. His focus often was diverted in rehearsals, where he worried about his future and the money he needed to live on. There were days he didn’t get through a midday rehearsal without prompting.
His most recent rehearsal with Wiggy’s group had been rough. The group had found a new, larger rehearsal space on the east side of the city. Ethan got lost on route. The group had gone ahead without him and nearly completed the first scene before he arrived. Flustered and angry at his own delinquency, he proceeded to screw up throughout the next scene. His lines showed up on his internal teleprompter, but his delivery was flat. Scene two was better, but the third scene was abysmal. The strength of the other players and his lapses in attention denigrated his best efforts. Most stomach-wrenching of all was that his Juilliard p
al delivered his lines flawlessly throughout the rehearsal. That same night he learned that Mr. Juilliard was Wiggy’s nephew. He knew he was in trouble before Wiggy’s phone call came two days later while he was out doing laundry.
She left a message on the machine: “It’s not working, Ethan babe,” Wiggy said, adding salt to his already bleeding wounds. “Nathan knows the lines. He fits better. I’m sure you agree. I’m sorry. Good luck. Love ya.”
Christa was first to hear the message and was at the door when he returned. He knew something was up before she said a word. Down but not out, Ethan had Edwin’s rehearsal to prepare for that night. Maybe full concentration on one script would help. He had to ask Christa for cab fare—he’d used the last of his money on laundry. Christa obliged without comment, pleased she could help him. She treated his heavy heart to Chinese food before he left.
They took their usual place beside the front window of the Chinese buffet, two blocks from the apartment. They ordered chow mein, rice, and chicken balls. Ethan was quiet, trying to stay relaxed before the rehearsal. The more he tried to forget about his money situation, however, the more it seemed to dominate his thoughts. Christa didn’t know quite what to say, so the two of them ate in silence.
At six o’clock, Ethan kissed her good-bye and left. He told her not to wait up; he’d likely be late. Tonight was the last night before final rehearsal, and Edwin was a stickler for detail. It had to be perfect, or they’d stay until it was.
Christa waved to hail a taxi. Ethan climbed in and blew her a kiss.
On the ride over, he thought about asking Robbie if he knew of any potential jobs. He was uncomfortable pushing the point too far, as Robbie had set him up for the job at Build. Robbie likely had lost ground as a credible source of competent talent, yet he hadn’t acknowledged anything of the sort to Ethan. A strange recollection suddenly occurred to him—it was an off-hand comment Robbie had made about Build, something that seemed rather odd in retrospect. “I’ve never heard anything but good stuff about you.” Robbie must have been talking to them and had to have known Ethan was going to be fired. Why hadn’t he said anything?
The Actor Page 20