Fake I.D.

by Jason Starr

  “What do you see yourself doing someday?” she asked. “I mean if you can’t be an actor.”

  “But I am an actor.”

  “You know what I mean—if acting as a career doesn’t work out for you. What else would you want to do?”

  I wasn’t in the mood for this—especially after Gary gave me the needles this afternoon. It was hard enough getting turned down for part after part by producers and directors—I didn’t need other people shooting me down. But I didn’t want to get mad at Janene either. Things were going too good tonight and I wanted to keep it that way.

  “It sounds like you have a problem with dating a bouncer,” I said.

  “No, that’s not it at all. I’m just curious. I’m not trying to put pressure on you or anything. I’m sorry, I guess I should’ve kept my mouth shut.”

  “It’s all right,” I said. “I just don’t like to think about the possibility of not making it, that’s all. The power of positive thinking, you know? But, all right, if we’re talking ‘what if,’ I’ve always been pretty good with numbers. I figure if my acting career fell apart I could always get a job down on Wall Street, join one of those stockbroker training programs I always see ads for in the paper.”

  “I think you’d make a great stockbroker.”

  “Or maybe I’d do something else—go into sales or management. Or—who knows—maybe I’ll own race horses.”

  “Race horses?”

  “You know what I mean—there’re a lot of things I can do. Don’t worry, I won’t be a bouncer forever.”

  Janene had started running her fingers through my hair.

  “What’s that?” she asked, squinting, looking at my scalp.

  “Just my scar,” I said.

  “How’d you get it?”

  “Fell off a bike when I was a kid.”

  “It must’ve been a bad fall.”

  “Nah, I just needed a few stitches to sew it up. It was no big deal.”

  I always told “the bike accident story” whenever a girl or a barber asked about my scar. It was better than telling the real story of how I was hurt and explaining how, when I was seven years old, I’d had to have a chunk of my skull removed and replaced with a metal plate.

  But I liked Janene a lot and I planned to tell her the truth about the scar and everything else about me eventually.

  We made love again slowly, talking and laughing the whole time. I couldn’t believe how comfortable I felt around Janene, like I’d known her for years.

  Then, lying next to each other again, she rested her head on my sweaty chest and said, “I have to tell you something important.”

  “What is it?”

  She didn’t say anything.

  “Well?”

  “Never mind,” she finally said. “I’ll tell you some other time.”

  “I thought you said it’s important.”

  “It is, but it can wait.”

  “Is it something I should be worried about?”

  “No, it’s nothing like that. Forget it...really.”

  “Why won’t you tell me?”

  “It doesn’t matter—not yet anyway. I promise I’ll tell you—soon.”

  “Why not now?”

  “Please, Tommy.”

  “Whatever,” I said, figuring if I had my secrets, she could have hers.

  I kissed her gently on the lips, then I went to go pee.

  Four

  Sometimes when I woke up in the morning and saw a girl’s face in my bed I panicked, wishing I’d talked her into going home the night before, but when I saw Janene sleeping next to me I felt like the luckiest guy in New York. Even without a stitch of makeup she was a knockout and I was glad just to be close to her. Maybe this was exactly what I needed in my life—stability, a nice, steady relationship.

  I decided to wake her up in a special way. She was surprised at first, wiggling her legs, but then she relaxed and enjoyed herself. Afterwards, looking up at her, I said, “Sleep tight?”

  “That was wonderful,” she said, her face still red, trying to catch her breath.

  She tried to take her turn, but I pulled her back up and said, “Nah, that’s all right—that was a present for you. Actually, I was gonna ask you if you wanted some breakfast in bed. Want me to go out and get some bagels and coffee?”

  “What time is it?”

  I looked at the clock on the dresser.

  “Five to seven.”

  “Shit—I have to be at work by a quarter to nine.”

  “Call in sick today.”

  “I wish I could, but my company’s in the middle of this important audit—my boss would kill me. Do you have a T-shirt or something I could put on?”

  “Sure,” I said. I went to the dresser and took out a Fruit of the Loom V-neck. She put on the T-shirt, pulling the covers up to hide her body, then she stood up out of bed. She was a big girl, but on her my T-shirt looked like a nightgown.

  She went into the bathroom, taking her clothes with her. When I heard her put the toilet seat down I got up quickly and took my wallet out of the pocket of the jeans I was wearing last night and hid it in my dresser drawer under my socks. A few minutes later, Janene came out of the bathroom, fully dressed except for her shoes. I was back in bed in my underwear.

  “I had a great time last night,” she said.

  “Me too.”

  “I wish I could spend the whole day with you.”

  “We’ll have plenty of time for that,” I said. I stood up and kissed her. “Can I walk you home?”

  “You don’t have to.”

  “I want to,” I said. “The more time I get to spend with you the better.”

  I started getting dressed.

  “So what are you gonna do today?” she asked.

  “First, I have some shit to take care of around the building, then I have an audition to go to.”

  “An audition? You didn’t tell me that.”

  “It’s no big deal. It’s to be in a dog food commercial.”

  “That sounds great.”

  “There’s a lot of competition, but I think I have a good shot of getting it.”

  “Well, good luck.”

  “Do you have some money to lend me?”

  I couldn’t believe I said it like that—not even building up to it.

  She looked at me for a second or two—it seemed longer—then said, “Sure...I guess so.”

  “Oh, didn’t I tell you?” I said. “I think I lost my wallet yesterday.”

  “No, you didn’t tell me that.”

  “Yeah, yesterday afternoon. I was doing some laundry and when I came back from the laundromat my wallet was gone. I looked all over my apartment for it, but I couldn’t find it anywhere.”

  “That’s awful.”

  “I probably dropped it on the street or maybe somebody picked my pocket. Anyway, it was no big deal really—I only had a few dollars in it and, luckily, I had my driver’s license at home. I already called the bank and the credit card companies and they’re gonna send me new cards. The bank’s gonna Express Mail me a card this afternoon.”

  “So how much do you need?”

  “I don’t know. I guess fifty bucks should hold me over. It’s just for today. If my boss was around this afternoon I’d—”

  “It’s no problem at all,” she said. “The thing is, I only have about twenty dollars in my pocketbook. But if you wanted to walk out together we could pass a cash machine and I can—”

  “I’d really appreciate that,” I said. “I’ll pay you back tomorrow. I’ll come by your apartment if—”

  “It’s all right,” she said. “You can pay me back whenever you want to.”

  We left my apartment and went down to the street, holding hands. It was another freezing day, but not as windy as yesterday. We talked about the weather and about how she loved skiing. I told her how I once modeled for a ski catalog, but how I’d only gone skiing once in my life, about five years ago, and how I wasn’t very good. But I told her I’d l
ove to go with her sometime.

  We went up First Avenue to the Citibank cash machine on the corner of Sixty-eighth Street. She punched in the code and I stood behind her, memorizing the digits—4-7-6-6-3-4.

  When she was about to type in the amount of money she wanted to withdraw I said, “You think you can make it a hundred instead of fifty? I mean if it’s a problem forget about it, but I needed to buy some cleaning supplies for the building. If I don’t clean today my landlord’ll get pissed off. He has this bad Greek temper and I really don’t feel like dealing with it.”

  “Sure,” she said. “A hundred’s no problem.”

  “Thanks,” I said. “This is really nice of you.”

  I walked her to her building on York Avenue near Seventy-first Street. It was a pretty nice elevator building. I felt like shit for taking her back to my dump two dates in a row.

  In front of the building we hugged and kissed.

  “I had an amazing time last night,” she said.

  “Me too.”

  “So will I hear from you this time?”

  She laughed, trying to make it into a joke, but I knew she was serious.

  “You kidding?” I said. “I’m dying to go out with you again. How’s tonight sound?”

  “Tonight?”

  “Yeah. How about you meet me at the bar around midnight? We can hang out awhile, then, if you’re up for it, we can go out for a little bite. Maybe this time we’ll make it to the restaurant.”

  We both laughed.

  “Unless it’s too soon,” I said.

  “No, it’s not too soon.”

  “Wait, I forgot—you have to work tomorrow so maybe we should wait till Friday or Saturday.”

  “It’s okay,” she said. “I can make it tonight.”

  “You sure?”

  “Positive. I’ll see you at midnight.”

  We kissed and hugged for a while longer, then I walked away, looking back every few steps and waving. At the corner, I turned and I waved again.

  I did some chores around the building—the guy in Apartment 2 had a leak in his radiator—then I cleaned the hallways and stairs, dumping out buckets of half water, half Clorox, and mopping up. My neighbors were mainly interns at New York Hospital and young college grads. They were nice enough people, but I kept to myself mostly, only talking to them if I had to do work in their apartments.

  Around ten o’clock, I finished cleaning and went to a deli on First Avenue and bought a couple of bacon-and-egg sandwiches. I started eating the sandwiches on my way home and finished them in my apartment. Then I started getting ready for the audition.

  When I got out of the shower I put on the outfit my manager had told me to wear—jeans and a white V-neck T-shirt. In the commercial, I was going to play an average Joe, a working-class guy who lives alone with his dog. My manager thought it would be a good idea if I looked scruffy and a little tired so I didn’t shave.

  When I was dressed and ready to go, I practiced my one line in front of the mirror. I had to kneel down next to a dog and say, “He eats great and looks great, too.” I practiced saying the line as many ways as I could think of, until I thought I had it down perfectly. They’d have to be crazy not to pick me.

  The audition was at a studio on Fifty-seventh Street near Seventh Avenue. I took the 6 train downtown, switching for the R at Fifty-ninth. I arrived at twelve-thirty, a half hour before I had to go on.

  As usual, there were dozens of guys in the waiting area who looked like they could be my twin brothers. They were all wearing white V-necks and hadn’t shaved.

  I was practicing the line in my head, still positive I was going to get the part. My turn came. I went into the room where the director, producer, and a few other guys—probably the writers and ad execs—were sitting behind a long desk. There was also a woman with curly brown hair, holding a golden retriever on a leash.

  “Tommy Russo,” the director said. He was a thin guy with short blond hair and glasses. He was wearing a black turtleneck.

  “That’s me,” I said.

  “Thank you for coming down,” he said.

  “My pleasure,” I said.

  “If you could just stand right over there,” he said, pointing toward a piece of masking tape on the floor, about ten yards in front of the desk.

  I went to the spot and the woman came toward me with the dog. But as soon as she tried to take off the leash, the dog started barking, going nuts. She tried to calm it down, saying “Easy” and “It’s okay,” but nothing helped.

  “I’m sorry,” the woman said to me. “She’s usually not like this.”

  At first, the guys at the table were laughing, like they thought it was a big joke. But after a few minutes went by and the dog was still barking, trying to come after me, they started checking their watches and whispering to each other.

  “Maybe you should take her out of here!” the director finally yelled to the woman so she could hear him over the crazy dog.

  The woman started to walk away, but the dog kept pulling her back, scratching the floor, trying to come after me. Finally, the woman and the dog left the room, but I could still hear the dog barking somewhere.

  “I guess I must’ve put on the dog-biscuit cologne this morning,” I said. Nobody laughed.

  “I’m very sorry about this,” the director said.

  “It’s not your fault,” I said. “I mean blame the dog, right?”

  “We’ll contact your manager or agent if any other roles come along.”

  I stood there for a couple of seconds before it set in, but then I still couldn’t believe it.

  “I don’t get it,” I said. “Don’t you want to hear me read the line?”

  “I don’t think that’ll be necessary,” the director said.

  Again I stared at him, then I said, “Why not?”

  “Because you’re not getting along with Molly.”

  “Who’s Molly?”

  “Molly is the dog.”

  “So bring Molly back in here. Maybe she’ll calm down.”

  “I’m sorry, Mr. Russo, but we have to see the next actor now.”

  “I’m sorry, too,” I said, “because I don’t think this is fair. I came all the way down here, I practiced for this part. The least you could let me do—”

  “Please leave, Mr. Russo.”

  “I just want to read my line,” I said. “If you’d just sit back for a second you’d see—”

  “I asked you nicely to leave, Mr. Russo. We’re not hiring you for this role so you’re just wasting all of our time by being here. So I’ll ask you nicely one last time—please leave.”

  I knew the smart thing to do was to walk out of there, keep my mouth shut.

  “Why do you think you can talk to people this way?” I said. “Just because you’re a big shot, sitting over there behind your desk?”

  The director whispered something to the guy next to him and the guy took out a cell phone and started making a call.

  “If you want to avoid a very bad scene,” the director said, “you’ll turn around and leave right now.”

  “I’m not going anywhere,” I said.

  The director and the other guys were standing up now, talking to each other. I heard the director call me an “asshole” and something in me snapped. I went after him, climbing over the desk. He backed away and the other guys tried to hold me back. I broke free, then two security guards came up behind me and pulled me out of the room. They escorted me out of the building and said if I ever showed up there again I’d be arrested.

  Walking along Fifty-seventh Street, I couldn’t believe what had just happened. I knew if I thought about it anymore I’d really start getting down on myself, so I did what I always did when I wanted to take my mind off my problems—I stopped at a newsstand and bought the Racing Form, then I headed crosstown toward the OTB Inside Track on Second Avenue.

  I hung out upstairs, at a table in the back under the sun roof. The usual degenerates were there—guys I saw all the time,
but I didn’t know any of their last names. A couple of people were my age, but almost everybody else was over sixty. Sometimes I got depressed, thinking about these guys who’d retired to spend more time with their wives and their kids, but they wound up spending all their time betting. I knew I wasn’t as bad as they were, but I also knew I could wind up like them if I didn’t watch out.

  The third race was going off. I played the one and the horse jogged—suddenly, I was up over three hundred bucks. When I was collecting, I gave Lucy, the teller, a five-dollar tip. I didn’t like anything in the fourth so I sat it out. But in the fifth I loved a horse. I was going to bet a hundred bucks, then I decided, what the hell, and I let the three hundred ride. The horse got caught in a speed duel and faded to last. By two o’clock, I was back home, broke again, watching TV.

  Now all I could think about was the audition. Maybe if what happened today had happened a few years ago, or even a few months ago, things would’ve been different. I would’ve thanked the director for his time and walked calmly out of the building. But I guess there’s a limit to how much abuse one man can take. After over thirteen years of trying to make it as an actor and not getting anywhere, it was hard to stay calm sometimes.

  I decided to get back up on my horse—stop feeling sorry for myself.

  I called my manager to see if he had any more auditions for me to go on. Danielle, his secretary, told me to hold on, then she came back and said Martin was out of the office.

  “But I thought you said he was in the office,” I said.

  “I thought he was in the office,” Danielle said, “but he wasn’t at his desk.”

  I’d known Danielle a long time and I could tell she was lying.

  “I know he’s there,” I said. “Could you please just tell him to take my call? I’ll only take a minute, tops.”

  “Hold on a second,” she said.

  A minute or two went by, then Martin came on the line.

  “So what’s the deal,” I said, “you don’t want to take my phone calls?”

  “I was going to call you later today anyway,” Martin said.

  “What’s going on?” I said. “You got something hot for me to go on? Because if you do I’m ready to go. I’ll even go out again today.”