The Elephants in My Backyard

by Rajiv Surendra

  A few days later I got up super early to pack my bags, invigorated with the excitement of being invited to read at a cornerstone of the whole Hollywood picture business, the Universal Studios lot. I was slowed only by deciding between my black shoes or the brown boots. I settled on the black, rushed out of the house, and ran for the bus to Black Creek. On the bus, I noticed my shoes needed a shine and hoped that the Moneyworth’s shoeshine stand at the airport would still be open when I arrived for my flight later that night.

  I spent the day in a daze as I mindlessly kneaded bread dough and rolled out cookies in the Halfway House. I left work early, changed out of my costume, and headed to the main entrance building, where a driver in a suit was waiting by his black sedan to take me to the airport. I wondered whether this might possibly be the last time I would ever see Pioneer Village.

  Seven hours later, I was excitedly peering out the tinted windows of another sedan, with classical music playing on the radio as the driver headed to a fancy hotel in Beverly Hills. I felt incredibly small, looking up at the palm trees, thin and so tall, dwarfing everything around them.

  The next morning, crossing through the Universal Studios security gate and entering the lot seemed like genuine magic.

  I met the director and the producers for a network test. There were two other Indian guys being considered for the part of Raja. One of them was there, and the other was someone named Jonathan. He was a kid my age, and Marcia had pointed him out as potential competition for Life of Pi when a movie named House of Sand and Fog came out. His name was Jonathan Ahdout, and I’d forgotten about him until then. When the casting director sat down and chatted with me, I casually asked her who else was reading for the role. She told me the names of the other two actors, and Jonathan Ahdout was indeed reading for the part of Raja. The other kid’s name was Kamal. But the next day at the audition, only Kamal showed up, and when I asked the casting director where Jonathan was, she said that he had decided not to read for the part as he wasn’t prepared to move away and miss a year of school. I suddenly wondered whether this might mean that he’d be free to read for Life of Pi, if it came up, while I might be stuck in the contract of this TV show.

  But now I was only up against one other guy. In the waiting room, there were two of us brown guys trying out for Raja and two white guys trying out for the role of the other lead, a sixteen-year-old kid who would end up being Raja’s best friend in the show. I was invited to read with one of the white guys, and it went well. Then they sent the white guy out and brought in the other white guy. Then they sent both of us out and asked Kamal to come in with one of the white guys. Then they sent out that white guy and brought in the other white guy. So it became clear that they wanted to see all possible combinations of the four.

  Now the four of us sat silently in the waiting room, occasionally glancing over at the closed door, in which sat the makers of our fate.

  Eventually, the casting director came out and pleasantly told Kamal he was, “free to go.” Yes! Score! Then she asked me to come in with the first actor I read with. We did our thing once, the director gave us some minor notes, and then we did it again. Then they sent the white actor out and invited in the other white actor and we went through it all again.

  It was still sunny and warm when I got back to the hotel, and the pool was completely empty so I went for a swim. Gerry called that evening and told me that I had “passed.” Which meant that I’d stay overnight in LA again, and then go into the Universal Studios lot the next day to audition for the executive producers. “Tomorrow’s the tough one, Rajiv,” Gerry said, “there’ll be about ten producers in the room and they will all have to unanimously agree that you’re the one for this part.”

  Only one of the white boys was at the audition the next day. We hadn’t talked much, outside of the actual audition, but it was strange to feel a connection to him while we were acting together. It was the revelation that this was the chemistry that the creators of the show were testing for . . . and I felt it. I liked this guy. His mom was with him. In the waiting room, the mom sat beside her son with her arm around his shoulder as he reviewed the lines of the scene. I was alone, and I couldn’t help but think of Ma. She was probably home from work about now. I secretly wished she was here, too. Or just somebody else. I was alone and this was the first time since my arrival that I really felt it. The boy’s mother looked over at me and gave me a smile. “Good luck,” she mouthed.

  “Thanks. You, too,” I whispered back. “Well, Dan, I mean,” I clarified, asking myself why I couldn’t just shut up and then, “Well, I guess you, too.”

  Dan was great. I locked eyes with him when I needed to and I got lost in the world the two of us were creating. Our banter was punctuated with laughter from the producers, and the more they laughed the more we seemed to be able to give them. The final scene ended on a sad note, teary-eyed. And Dan and I nailed it. There was applause and then we were both briefly thanked. The producers looked to each other and after they agreed they needed nothing more from us, we were dismissed.

  Back in Toronto, a few days later, Gerry called to tell me the studio had until the end of the week to decide whether or not they wanted me but they’d send us a preliminary contract to review while we waited. I started getting anxious.

  It was a busy time for Gerry, as well, as he was flying off to England shortly to be married. I offered to write up the place cards for his reception in my calligraphy, and he gave me a list of the guests.

  Details of the contract were reviewed. The deal was for six years. I was bound to the production for six years, if it got picked up every season. And that was a big if. Most pilots never see the light of day—never get picked up. It was a good deal—six years of work, thirteen episodes a year, and thirteen thousand dollars per episode. But I was bound to the studio for six years. They had exclusive rights over my performing while I was under contract with them. What if . . . I started to wonder . . . what if Pi actually comes up? Then what do I do?

  Gerry left for England before we had an answer from the studio—they had asked for a week’s extension to make up their mind, but he assured me that his assistant would keep me posted. He loved the place cards I did for him; he said he’d be checking emails while he was away and told me not to hesitate to get in touch if I needed to.

  There were just a few days left until the deadline for the studio to make its decision. Then one evening, while I was doing my periodic deep scouring of the Internet for any news on Pi, there was an official-looking notice posted on the Internet movie database about Jeunet moving forward and hiring a well-known casting director in London, Lucinda Syson, to find him the star of his next film.

  At 6 a.m. the following morning, I picked up the phone and called London.

  “Casting,” a young woman’s voice answered with a British accent.

  “Hi, my name’s Rajiv Surendra,” I began. I asked about their office casting for Life of Pi and the girl elusively said that she couldn’t really confirm that. I was desperate for anything she could tell me, so I pulled out all the stops, told her I was in Mean Girls, and then did my best to sum up, in a few sentences, how much effort I had put into this part already. As I stated my case, her silence suggested that I had at least made her think twice about brushing me off.

  “My name’s Clara,” she said, with a tone that felt like she was throwing me a bone, “I’m Lucinda’s assistant. Send a package to my attention, and I’ll make sure she sees it.”

  I spun wool all morning and tried my best to remain focused while I talked about Daniel Stong. But when the house was empty, I was overcome with uneasiness. I had been working toward Pi for almost four years now, and just when there was some sign of hope on the horizon of it actually happening, sure enough, I could potentially be handcuffed to a six-year contract on a television show.

  I wondered what might happen if—if I hear back from Aliens in America, and the joyous news is that I have been cast in the show as Raja. Celebration as I pack my bag
s with my thirty-two cousins over at my house, who have come to wish me well and say goodbye before I relocate to Vancouver.

  We’re two months into shooting when Gerry calls and tells me that Pi is finally happening, and they want to see an audition tape from me. I go into a studio with a few pages of the official Pi script in my hand, which I’ve painstakingly analyzed, memorized, and internalized. I drop the recording of my audition into a Vancouver mailbox and then make a spitting noise with my mouth, three times, to ward off the evil eye.

  I try my best to forget about the Pi audition as I continue to pour myself into this wonderful TV show that I’ve been employed to work on—the bird in the hand.

  And then the inevitable happens. Jeunet wants to see me. In person. Oh my God. It’s happening.

  Gerry arranges a flight from Vancouver to Paris, with a layover in Toronto, on the few days off I have from work.

  In Montmartre, at the preproduction office for Life of Pi, my walk to the little corner studio where Jeunet is waiting becomes my own personal march to the battle grounds. Every step feels like a million little paces that have made their way to this moment. I enter the room and there he is, sitting in a cheap plastic Ikea chair, wearing all black. “Bonjour,” he says inquiringly.

  And I go at it in French; I just dive right in. He can’t believe it, “Tu parles Français?” he interrupts, incredulously.

  “Comme une vache espagnole,” I say, apologetically.

  He laughs a hearty French farmer-type laugh, claps his two large palms together as he leans back, teetering on the two rear legs of the chair, and turns to his casting director, raising his eyebrows at her, impressed. “Bah, non!” he contests turning back to face me, telling me that I shouldn’t be so humble. He leans forward in his chair, rubs his hands together excitedly, and eagerly begins, “Alors . . .”

  The next two hours flash by. I read for him as Pi, beginning with the calmer parts of the screenplay that have been chosen for the audition, and ending with the climactic gut-wrencher, the final scene of the entire film. He is moved to tears. He wipes them away and shakes his head in disbelief. He violently slaps the side of his face, to make sure he’s “not dreaming,” he says. He needs a moment to regain his composure before asking me to read again, with a few minor notes, a slightly different take on the same scene.

  I am completely wiped as I board the plane back to Vancouver. I use the last bit of energy I can muster to lift my hand, politely turning down the stewardess who has approached me with a tray of bubbling champagne flutes.

  I am back on set, at work on Aliens the following week. Gerry calls during lunch break with the news. I’ve landed the Pi part.

  But wait, he says, we need to find out whether I can get permission from my current employer for a hiatus to shoot the movie.

  Phone calls back and forth among Gerry, the studio, and me. Gerry has tried; he has pleaded and made suggestions; he has fought the battle with the sharpest weaponry of the wits. But it’s no use. I am bound to my current, six-year contract, and I am not allowed to take time off to shoot Pi. They will just have to find another Indian boy. Noooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo!

  I scream, my cellphone dropping to the ground as I lose the feeling in my legs and fall to the floor, weeping.

  “Rajiv? Rajeeeeeveeee . . .” Gerry’s voice can be heard through the abandoned cellphone, calling out for some response, but it’s no use. I am inconsolable, and by now there is a small group of production assistants around my limp body, which is curled into the fetal position on the concrete ground of the studio. Someone yells out, “We need a doctor! Goddammit, somebody call a doctor!”

  Clunk! The spinning wheel’s whirring came to a halt, pulling me back to reality. My basket of fleece was empty.

  Just a few weeks ago I had been begging the universe to send me an acting job, wishing with all my might that I could say goodbye to Pioneer Village and embark on a full-time gig in front of the camera. But was that really what I was asking for? Or was I just asking for proof that I was worthy of a part? There were countless actors out there who would give anything to be offered a lead role on a national US television show. Was I being completely foolish even contemplating my situation, assuming that I was in a dilemma? I wondered where Gerry was, wishing that I could call him, but I realized it was now the night before his wedding day. And tomorrow, as Gerry was tying the knot in some rural part of England, the studio would be calling the agency with news of my being a part of their show.

  What do I do? It was the lone question that circled in my mind for the entire two-hour bus ride home that night.

  Sleep was the quiet I needed to settle down and make a decision. I woke up refreshed, with a clear idea of what I needed to do. Before I left for work, I sifted through the paperwork I had been given for the Aliens contract and noted down the phone number of the executive vice president of business affairs at Universal Studios—the point person in LA whom Gerry had been corresponding with, Sharon Bell. It was too early to call her, LA being three hours behind us in Toronto. I would call her on my lunch break, I decided.

  I was working in the Halfway House that day. I kept a fire going for two hours in the huge brick oven while I prepared the dough for two dozen loaves of bread, made with flour that was ground at the water-powered gristmill we had on site. I was braiding my twentieth loaf of bread, with no visitors in the huge kitchen, when two Orthodox Jewish men, about forty years old, slowly walked in. I looked to them and smiled, but said nothing. A long chain separated the kitchen into my area, where I worked, and the “viewing” area where visitors could observe safely away from the roaring fire in the brick oven behind me. The two men watched in silence for quite a while before one of them spoke up.

  “What are ya doin’ ovah there?”

  “I’m baking bread,” I said.

  A lull as they continued to watch.

  “What kinda’ bread are ya makin’?”

  I continued to look down at the floured wooden table as I braided the three strands of dough together. “Challah,” I said clearly, making sure I accurately pronounced the ch sound at the back of my throat. I looked up and turned to the men—one had turned to face the other, eyebrows raised.

  “Challah?” he asked, “You’re makin’ challah? You even know how to say that word?”

  “Yeah, impressive, isn’t it?” I asked. “I’m not just a little schwarze goy . . .” Kate and Eric had taught me the Yiddish words for “black” and “non-Jew.” The two men laughed deeply. I braided the last few loaves and placed them into the iron pans.

  One of the men piped up again, “Come ovah here a minute.”

  I wiped my hands on the towel hanging from my apron strings, and walked over to the chain where they stood. The men looked at me amusingly, smiling. They both wore black hats with big, wide brims. Two long curls framed each of their faces.

  “Tell me somethin’,” one of them asked softly, “how do you know all these things?” I couldn’t help but laugh out loud. All these things, like I had discovered the meaning of life.

  As I watched the men leave I started mixing up a batch of oatmeal cookies. All these things . . . the line echoed in my head again.

  The cookies were in the oven while I took my lunch break. I asked Wendy for permission to use the phone to make an “important long-distance call that was time sensitive,” and was relieved when she didn’t ask any questions and gave me the special code needed to dial long distance. I walked down the steps to the basement. I could feel my heart thumping underneath my three layers of linen and cotton period clothing as I made my way through dialing the sequence of numbers to make the call to LA.

  “Sharon Bell,” a woman’s voice answered. She didn’t sound too pleased when she realized who I was; I was blatantly abandoning a well-adhered-to form of protocol, calling her myself instead of communicating through my agent, but when I told her that I didn’t want to disturb Gerry, knowing that she was aware he was ou
t of the country, her response was a bit of a relief.

  “No, let’s allow Gerry to enjoy his wedding,” she said.

  I told her all about Pi and what it meant to me and that a breakdown for the role had just come out. She asked about shooting details, locations, dates. She also said my timing was strange but good, as she had just opened my file and was going to a meeting to discuss it.

  I basically told her, before we ended our conversation, that if they could not guarantee that I would be given permission to take time off to do the film, if it came up, and if I had been cast in it, then I unfortunately had to pass on Aliens. She told me that she understood where I was coming from and would relay the info to the other decision makers.

  I hung up the phone and then picked it up again and dialed my agency. Gerry’s assistant answered and I told her what I had just done.

  “Wow,” she said, “you really need to just take what’s offered to you instead of speculating. Do you realize that this part could have opened the doors to a real career before you’re too old?”

  “I just had to do this, Cindy.”

  “You know, Rajiv, you’re lucky Gerry’s your agent. If you were my client, I would have dropped you for turning this down. It doesn’t make sense to me . . .”

  I returned to my brick oven without eating anything for lunch, just in time to pull out the four trays of cookies. I usually tasted one, for quality control, but my stomach was in knots. What had I just done? Was it a huge mistake?

  There was a small slate chalkboard propped up on the pie safe that we used to advertise the baked goods we were selling. I went over to it and under “Fresh Bread” added, “Oatmeal Cookies, 75¢” with a nubby bit of chalk.