by Candice Dow
“See, I’m a metrosexual. I felt like that’s what the script was asking for.”
Maybe we were from different metro areas, because around my way, there was nothing metro or sexual about him. I squinted. “Can you read?”
“Yeah.”
Through clinched teeth, I said, “That’s not what I asked for.”
“Nah, I’ve heard directors like to see you put a spin on things.”
I laughed. A spin is one thing, but he’d spun out of control. Would the fashion police please escort this clown away from my table? I extended my hand. “Thanks for coming out.”
As he continued to defend his fashion violation, I nodded. “I understand, but I’m really looking for something specific. I’m sorry. Thanks for coming out.”
He departed with a smile after kissing my hand. I raised my glass to the waiter. I had fifteen minutes to gulp down two glasses. Even when you write explicitly what you’re looking for, dating is a challenge. I rolled my eyes in my head. I’m paying for them to follow instructions and they still want to do it their way.
I looked up and saw Number Two approaching with a crisp electric blue dress shirt and nice fitting black slacks. When he extended his hand, I glimpsed at his nice cuff links and exhaled. He raised my wrist and planted his soft lips on my hand. “Good afternoon, Ms. Barnes.”
“Good afternoon…” I shuffled through my papers to find his name.
He asked, “Would you like a Sante Fe Salad?”
The intensity in his eyes charmed me. When the beautiful Hispanic waitress got the same intense stare, my eyes tried to recruit his back in my direction. He was so entranced that he didn’t notice the disgust on my face. Finally, he turned and smiled at my frown. He reached across the table. His fingertips grazed my forearm. “You look beautiful today.”
Aside from his wandering eyes, I thought he was attractive. He was obviously ambitious. He had several noted gestures in the script down in less than twenty-four hours. Another waitress passed and his head tilted while his eyes stripped her naked. Does this man have any self-control? Just as he was about to be dismissed, the waitress returned with our salads. He might as well have winked at her.
I said, “You’ve fallen out of character three times in ten minutes.”
He acted surprised. “When?”
If he wasn’t conscious of it, he must be a pervert. I extended my hand. “Thanks for coming out, but I don’t think you’re the guy for the job.”
His chest collapsed. His eyebrows reached up to form a temple in the middle of his forehead. “C’mon. Give me a chance.”
“I did. Thanks for coming out.”
His head drooped as he stood. Next. Puddles formed in my eyes as Number Three approached. Don’t even ask what he had on. My watery eyes were too glossy to notice. My nose burned. Did the script say bathe in cologne or wear cologne? My mug questioned the scent as he neared. Is it Brut? Is it Musk? It stunk and he stunk. I rubbed my eyes. Somebody, help me.
As he extended his hand, my lips flipped up to protect my nose. I nodded, but did not speak as he greeted me. He asked, “Are you okay?”
Here we go again. I’d pretty much reached my threshold. My eyes twirled rapidly in my head. “What kind of cologne are you wearing?”
“It’s your favorite.”
“Oh, no, it’s not.”
He smiled. “It’s Acqua di Gio.”
“Not Giorgio Armani’s version.”
Even if he bathed in it, he shouldn’t smell like that. As we debated about his cologne, he jumped and pulled his cell phone from his pocket. It vibrated in his hand. He flipped it open.
After checking his phone, he smiled as if to say, “So where were we?”
I asked, “Are you expecting a call?”
“No.”
“So, why did you feel the need to look at your phone during your audition?”
He gasped. “Ah, c’mon. I mean this is so informal. You know?”
What happened to always respecting me and the job? I cleared my throat. “Thank you for your time.”
I didn’t extend my hand, nor did he. My forehead fell into my helpless hands. Convinced that I should cancel the next two appointments, I called Mya.
“How’s it going?”
When I didn’t respond, she said, “You didn’t like my picks.”
“They were all nice looking, but they were all losers.”
After explaining to her how they’d all misinterpreted the script, she laughed hysterically. “Now, can you see why my job is so stressful?”
“Girl, I feel for you now. It’s one thing to read a manuscript that you just don’t like and send a rejection to a faceless person. But it’s entirely different when you tell someone exactly what you’re looking for and they sit in front you and do something totally different. Then you have to smile when you tell them that they misinterpreted you.”
“You got it down in just three auditions. That’s what I go through everyday.”
“I guess that’s why you’re so blunt.”
“After all this time, you finally understand me.”
I laughed. “You’re silly. I’m about to leave. Cancel the next two guys.”
“No! You have to go through with it now. It won’t be so bad. You only have two left.”
“I don’t feel like it.”
“The best is yet to come. Be patient.”
“Mya, Number Four should be here. I’m leaving.”
“Tima, you are rotten. You better not leave after I put my job on the line for you.”
“Don’t patronize me. You didn’t put your job on the line.”
She laughed. “Sike. Can you just calm down, though? I’m sure he’ll be there. These guys are looking for work.”
I sighed. “No wonder he’s looking for work. He can’t follow directions. He’ll still be looking in thirty seconds.”
“Have you checked to see if Paxil will work for you? That seems to be a milder alternative to Prozac.”
“Screw you.”
After our quick laugh, I hung up and put an X across his resume. Tardiness will not be tolerated was the note I placed beside the name. The waitress walked over with a new bottle of the same sixty-seven dollar Merlot that I had just emptied. I raised my hands. “No, thanks. One bottle is enough.”
She smiled. “The gentleman at the bar sent this over to you.”
A milky brown brother with that deep red undertone strolled toward me. His clean shaven face exposed the true dimensions of his features and it appeared that the clay-maker shaped everything to perfection. He was a work of art and I wanted to purchase the sculpture with no questions asked. When I finally caught my breath, I looked him up and down. Now he’d put a spin to the script that had my head spinning. He wore a khaki designer blazer, with a crisp white shirt. Jeans. Cowboy-inspired brown shoes and a brown leather belt. He grabbed the chair and asked, “May I?”
I nodded affirmatively. Was he technically late even though he was at the bar? Hmmm. Let’s see. He was much too gorgeous to reprimand. My inquiring mind concluded he was about six-two and around two hundred thirty pounds with ten percent body fat. I extended my right hand and his brown skin fused with my brown skin. We were a perfect match. My nose inhaled the pleasurable scent of my favorite cologne. His deep set eyes gazed into mine, as his soft lips melted on the top of our grip. When he sat down, I crossed the fingers of my left hand under the table.
He asked, “Awkward, huh?” I nodded and he continued, “Yeah, I’m sure this is pretty hard. I’ve been sitting here watching the competition.”
“So, what did you think?”
He laughed. Was he showing his sense of humor or was he laughing at my unconventional method in finding a date? I raised my eyebrows. “So?”
“Well, I don’t like to bad talk my opponents. I like to let my skills shine through and allow my director to discuss the others’ talents at his—” he nodded toward me—“or her leisure.”
“Makes sense. Um…”
He waited patiently as I organized my thoughts. “So, how long have you been acting?”
“Practically all my life…”
“Really?”
“Yeah, my mother was a stage mom. I did several commercials as a kid. A few little kids’ shows.”
“‘Romper Room?’”
He chuckled. “Yeah, I was actually on a few episodes. I did a gang of stage plays in my teens.” He took a deep breath. “I’ve always loved performing, but then I went to college.”
“Why did you say it like it was a death sentence?”
He shrugged his shoulders. “Not a death sentence, just a dream deferred.”
“What school did you go to?”
“H-U.”
“Which H-U?”
“Don’t play—the one and only, Howard U.”
I shrugged my shoulders because I’m not hip to the whole HBCU civil war for supremacy.
“So, I take it that you didn’t like school?”
“Oh, I loved school. It was corporate America that I had a problem with,” he said.
My dancing eyes questioned what he meant and he explained: “Work made me miserable and I regretted putting acting to the side for school, because I felt like it was too late to go back to what I was put here to do.”
“How old are you?”
“I’m twenty-seven.” He sighed. “You know most actors were building their resumes while I was in college. I was way behind the eight ball.”
“So…”
He laughed. “One day I caught a taxi to work and my stomach balled in knots. I told the driver to take me home and I set my sights on acting. I stopped worrying about my resume being good enough and focused on my talent and the drive in my heart.”
“How long ago was that?”
“Two or so years ago.”
“How has it worked out so far?”
“It was pretty steady at first. No big breaks. Several low-budget commercials, stage plays. Enough to stay afloat, but over the last few months things have almost come to a halt.”
“What field did you work in when you—”
“Accounting.” I raised my eyebrows and he added, “I’m much better at acting, I mean, auditioning than I am at accounting. I’m an audition expert.”
I laughed. He shook his head. “I’m good at what I do.”
I laughed harder. “I believe you.”
“Nah, you think I’m joking. I can audition my butt off, but the decision is subjective.”
“I feel you.” I reverted to the script. “You know that good money management is a requirement. You can’t make sound investments if you can’t handle money. Right?”
He whipped out his Palm Pilot and turned it around for me to see. “I believe the exact wording was to be continuously learning about investing and money management.”
“Well, you get the point, right?”
His humble smile collided with mine. We chuckled.
“What did you hate so much about work?”
“The lack of creativity. See, creative people can’t thrive in corporate America. It robs us of our soul and for me, it wasn’t worth it.”
“I do understand.”
“I believe in following your heart and that’s what I’m doing.”
“What will you do if it doesn’t work out?”
“Have you ever heard that what you believe is your destiny? I’m a positive man.”
“Yes, but you also have to be a realist. You should always have a backup plan.”
“A backup plan is a submission to defeat. Your heart will give you the okay when it’s time to give up, but not until then should you consider a backup plan. Backups distract focus and unconsciously make you conform. Conformity seems too close to comfort for me. Comfort steals your drive and settles your hunger. I have to put it all on the line. Blood, sweat, and tears.”
He smiled and his philosophy made me smile. Though I could have interpreted his speech to say that he planned to be a starving actor for the rest of his life, I decided to assume that this was a man with strong faith. I shrugged my shoulders. “It makes sense. So, did you live in New York prior to pursuing acting?”
“Born and raised. What about you?”
“Alabama.”
He blushed. “I love Southern women.”
“Why? Do you think they can cook?”
He laughed. “I used to, but I noticed that the script says the only thing that you can make are reservations.”
I smiled. He said, “It’s okay. I love to cook.”
I should have just told him that he was hired on the spot. Instead, I decided to be fair and finish the auditions. Thirty minutes didn’t seem long enough. If I didn’t account for his tardiness, twenty minutes was too soon, though it was long enough for me to decide that he would likely be my leading man.
Smiling, I said, “That’s good to know. I’m quite impressed. I’ll give you a call to let you know my decision.”
He gazed into my eyes. “And you didn’t even allow me to get into character.”
“Yeah, I understand, but I have more auditions.”
“Really? I thought for sure you’d found your guy.”
We both chuckled. He smirked and noted, “Confidence was in bold print.”
“I know. You clearly have that mastered.”
“Do you promise to call?”
My heart fluttered and I paused before I spoke: “Yes, I promise.”
“And I promise you that I’m the man for this job.”
When he stood, he delicately gripped my fingertips. As he kissed my hand, his eyes pierced through me and summoned me to stand. Just hire him Fatima!
“Thanks so much. We’ll talk soon.”
He smiled. “I’m holding my breath, so don’t take too long.”
His chest inflated with air and mine deflated. He was clever, funny, handsome, and the guy for the job. I pulled out my cell phone to get Mya’s input on my selection. When I looked up, Number Five strutted in, and I slowly closed my phone. A platinum chain hung from his neck. His plaid Polo shirt was unbuttoned all the way, exposing the seven-inch crucifix dangling on his white T-shirt. Aside from the flamboyant jewelry, I couldn’t have created him better from scratch. He made me hold my breath. While I disregarded his attire, I absorbed him. He was at least six feet four. Caramel brown. Dark features and a fabulous smile. His pec muscles reached out to me as he approached. I squirmed in my chair. Hmmm. My mouth watered when, unlike the rest of the actors, he reached for a hug. Awkwardly, I stood. My, my, my! I felt protected.
My interview questions escaped me. As I cleared my throat, he smiled at me. “Would you like some water?”
“No, actually, I’m okay.” His concern flattered me as I confirmed, “I’m good.”
He grabbed the pitcher on the table and began to pour water into my half-full glass. A triple-tier platinum bracelet dangled from his wrist. Though his looks and appeal had me floating, those jewels were sinking the odds. Finally, I sipped the water and smiled.
“See, I knew you needed water.”
“So, how long have you been an actor?”
He shrugged his broad shoulders. “Acting actually came to me. I started out as a model.”
His defined bone structure was definitely what I wanted to see on the cover of a magazine. I took a deep breath. Unconsciously, my head nodded.
He smiled back. “Yeah, so I got a few acting gigs and found this to be more lucrative.”
As I critically examined the bling he flossed, I teased, “I can tell.”
He didn’t catch the joke. If he is hired, I’ll stress the dress code then. For now, I decided to get acquainted with his personality. Sike. Not really, it was one of those instances when attraction defeats intellect, because I heard nothing this man said.
He was funny. I think. He was clever. I guess. Just as I was about to say cut, he said, “I bought tickets to the Alvin Ailey performance tomorrow, would you like to go?”
I had to decline be
cause Mya and I had tickets for tonight. “Did you already have the tickets or did you purchase them because the script said that I never miss the company when they’re performing?”
“The latter.”
“How’d you get tickets so late?”
“eBay.”
I asked, “eBay dot com?”
“Yes.”
Hmmm. He’s fine and computer-literate. Every thug needs a lady. Okay, okay. I interrupted whatever he was saying, “I should be making a decision soon, so I’ll give you a call.”
“We’re done?”
“Yeah, I’ve had a long day, but thanks so much for coming out.”
His head bowed. “Thank you.”
I sat there alone and sipped more of the wine that Number Four had bought. How could I not be sure if I wanted Four or Five? I was physically attracted to both, but something about Five connected with my body. Then, on the other hand, Four had it all, but he also seemed too arrogant to become fully immersed in the script. Since this script was about me, I needed someone that I could mold, like Number Five.
Mya called as I compared their pros and cons. While I tried to explain the dilemma, she interrupted me, “Duh? Have another audition.”
I huffed. “When do I have the time to do this?”
“Have them meet us at Lotus after the show.”
“Tonight?”
“No, next week.”
I laughed. “Okay, I’ll give them an hour apiece.”
“It sounds like a plan. See you at six.”
“Thanks, Mya.”
“Don’t mention it.”
Mya would never understand my rationale for wanting Number Five. So, I planned to have him arrive at eleven and have Four come at twelve. Maybe she would be slightly convinced by the time Number Four got there.
Scene 7
RASHAD
When I walked into the restaurant, my mouth nearly hit the floor as I realized that Fatima was the Fatima Barnes that I had found on the Internet, the widow of the ex-CEO of Droppin’ Dimes magazine. After Mya confirmed her name, I figured I should do a little research, like I would any other leading lady.
When I entered her name, tons of pictures appeared under the Images tab. She had the same cheerful expression on each photo. I was immediately captivated by her beauty and not to mention her thin-but-thick body. She glowed on the pictures and even more in person. Idle emotions were resurrected in me, as I smiled at her smile and translated her antics. She questioned by batting her long lashes. Her button nose wrinkled when she was uncertain of what to say next. If she doubted what I said, she sucked her cheeks in and pursed her full lips in an adorable juvenile-like manner. Her evenly arched eyebrows rippled when I didn’t respond expeditiously. She was something special and something in her resonated with me. It could have been the humble undertone to her surface-level confidence, but whatever it was I had all the inspiration I needed to fight for this job.