by N. C. Lewis
Dr. Walden was still frowning. "But you have searched?"
Noel rubbed the hairs on the back of his hand. "Correct. There are positions available. When I think of the pay, I get excited—a big house, a fancy car, private hospital, and the best of everything. In my last job I lived the jet-set lifestyle."
"Anything else?"
Noel shifted uneasily. "When I think about the humdrum nature of investment work, I feel depressed."
"Depressed?"
"Yes," he blurted, "like I'm a square peg trying to fit into a round hole."
The psychologist's eyes narrowed. "You feel misplaced?"
"Yes," replied Noel, clenching his fists. "It's as if office life stifles creative energy."
"Tell me about your creative ideas."
Noel's face crimsoned. He felt hot all over. "Can't put a finger on it, but I don't have… a passion for investing. I have a passion for… well, I'm not sure what."
"You're not sure?"
"It's almost as if I should do something different."
"Different?" Dr. Walden's lips curved into a smile.
Noel's voice dropped to a confidential whisper. "A total change of direction… a fresh start in a new field."
Now the psychologist's eyes twinkled. "Good… good… I see, and have you mentioned this to"—he looked at his notes—"your wife, Ruby?"
"You think I should?"
"Is there a reason you shouldn't?"
Noel didn't answer.
"You know," mused Dr. Walden touching a pen to his lip. "It is common for married couples to enter disillusionment."
"Disillusionment?"
"And power struggles."
"I don’t understand."
Dr. Walden cleared his throat and took a moment. "Noel, you are playing out painful emotions generated from early in life."
"I am?"
"Unconsciously, of course. That is why you are here." He lowered his tone as if he were explaining a new winning chess strategy. "Did you move to a new house when you were a child?"
"Yes. I was only six or seven. We moved across town."
"And how did you feel about it?"
"Unhappy. I loved the old place. All of my friends were near… I guess it was the familiarity."
"So, you felt like a square peg in a round hole."
Noel stood up. "Yes, yes. I did."
"Emotions generated earlier in life often play out in adulthood."
"Ah, I see," he replied, eyes ablaze, sitting down. "I see it all now."
The timer signaled five minutes, and Dr. Walden now steered the conversation toward his end. "Then you will do something?"
Noel sighed. "I must."
"What?"
"Don't know."
Dr. Walden fell silent for a moment, his eyes focused on the timer. Only sixty seconds left. He watched the seconds ticking down and said, "Try something different."
Noel shook his head. "Like what?"
They sat in silence, facing each other as Dr. Walden considered his next move.
The timer buzzed.
Dr. Walden reached out a hand, flipping the off switch on the video recorder, his voice dropped to nearly a whisper. "Work for me."
There was a pause, Noel sat bolt upright in the chair. "What?"
"I have a part-time administrative assistant vacancy." He smashed the pen on the desk, hard like an auctioneer accepting a final bid.
"Are you serious?" Noel was wide-eyed.
"You'd be perfect for the position." Dr. Walden's hands fluttered fretfully as a sly smile crept across his face. "It doesn’t pay much, but what do you say?"
"Are you sure?" replied Noel tentatively.
"Want to continue to be a square peg in a round hole?"
Now Noel's hands were fluttering. "No."
"Imagine how…"—again Dr. Walden consulted his notes—"Ruby will feel when she finds out you have a new job?"
"But it's not an investment position."
"Tell Ruby it's temporary, while you sort yourself out. It will delight her; I guarantee it."
Chapter 9
It was a Wednesday afternoon, and Amy sipped an iced tea on the shaded deck of her Gaston Avenue home. She'd planned to use the afternoon to go over the booking schedule for Studio Shoal Seven, her staging company. The only problem was she was enjoying relaxing on the deck gazing out into the garden, watching hummingbirds flit this way and that. A few days earlier she'd hung two hummingbird feeders on a branch, and somehow the birds just seemed to appear.
She watched them now, hovering almost mysteriously as they fed, then darting off at an impossible speed to disappear into the high branches. As long as she kept still, they didn't appear to notice or care about her. Amy chuckled to herself. Hummingbirds live life at high speed. Not like me, I prefer a gentle amble.
After another careful sip from her glass, she picked up her business planner. She was old school and used a hardbound weekly journal rather than a digital calendar. "What's that?" her friend and employee Danielle had laughed the first time she had seen Amy with the oversized journal. "Paper is so last century!" But Amy preferred to write her appointments down in a journal. It worked for her, and she was happy with it.
As she scanned the staging business appointments, she smiled. Although her business was new, bookings were healthy. She paused for a moment at an event booked at the Bullock Texas State History Museum. "That looks like fun," she muttered, then flipped to another page—a staging on Lady Bird Lake.
An urgent clanging of her cell phone on the table scattered the hummingbirds. It buzzed and rang like the lunch bell in a middle school. The ringtone told her it wasn't from her husband Nick, Ruby, Noel nor Danielle. She picked up the phone, peering at the number. She didn't recognize it.
"Hello," she said cheerfully.
"Amy King?" came the question from a raspy, male voice.
"Yes, and who is this?"
"Miles Block, a friend of Stan Sanchez, Danielle's husband. I'm calling about the Danny Fontane relaunch party. I believe you are attending?"
"Yes."
"Well… I am the host and want to welcome you. It will be a fun evening, and our local acting superstar, Danny Fontane, will be at the center of it all."
"That is so kind of you. I've never met Danny and am looking forward to it."
His voice filled with excitement. "Did you know there will also be a photo shoot?"
"No."
"Of Danny's relaunch… and…"
"Yes."
He paused as if about to ask a big favor. "Danielle mentioned you run a staging company. I wondered if we might hire you to do your magic—arrange the furniture… I know it might be a challenge to be a guest and—"
"That's okay," Amy interrupted, excited at another booking for Studio Shoal Seven. "That's a splendid idea. I'm happy to accept."
For several minutes more they discussed details. Amy made notes, adding the date to her planner. Satisfied, she hung up and glanced toward the hummingbird feeders. A tiny bird hovered, its wings beating furiously, buzzing like a giant fly. She took a thimbleful of iced tea. A good sign. A very good sign indeed.
Then she panicked.
There were one hundred and one things to prepare—and at short notice! She needed to book the furniture, arrange delivery of flowers—and she'd need help. In a smooth movement she reached for the cell phone, activated speed dial, and selected Danielle's number.
Danielle picked up on the first ring.
"Amy girl, what’s up?"
"Oh, nothing much." She stared out toward the hummingbird feeders. Another tiny bird hummed contentedly.
"Can’t fool me."
Amy rolled her eyes and examined her nails. "Am I that transparent?"
"Yes."
"Just got another booking."
"Woo hoo! Your business is kicking butt. I'm in. When is it?"
Amy told her.
"Oh no!" Danielle's voice rose with concern. "That's the day of Danny Fontane's party! We're suppos
ed to be going together, right?"
"Right."
"So… the booking is in the morning?"
"Not exactly. It's at the party. Danny will have a photo shoot, and they have asked Studio Shoal Seven to perform the staging."
"That's amazing. Amy girl, I'm all over it. Count me in." She hesitated for a fraction of a second. "But we'll need some extra help."
"Agreed. But who?"
They fell silent for a long moment. Eventually, Danielle spoke up. "What about Ruby and Noel?"
"No can do. Ruby and Noel are attending, but it's part of their date night."
"Hubby Nick?"
"Nope. I don't want him getting stressed, not after his heart attack. He'll want to help to lift and to pull things; you know how that goes. Anyway, he's meeting an old friend for drinks."
There was another long silence. Amy gazed out into the yard; the hummingbirds had gone. Then Danielle spoke up. "What about… what's her name… the waitress we ran into at Hansel's House?"
"Megan Finney?" Amy quizzed, recalling the name instantly.
"That's her. What about calling her?"
Amy didn’t answer immediately, reflecting on the meal at Hansel's House then said cautiously. "She seemed a little odd."
"We all do."
"Even me?"
"Yes."
"Point taken."
Danielle lowered her voice. "We need help. So, you'll call Megan?"
"Guess so," Amy replied with hesitation staring out toward the now empty hummingbird feeders. "But it is only a temporary trial, nothing more."
Chapter 10
Charles Goulart stepped off the metro bus into the noonday heat on Chicon Street. As the bus pulled away beads of perspiration formed on his forehead. He was hot in his cheap polyester suit that clung to his thin body like plastic wrapping, and he was late—the audition began at noon.
As a struggling forty-something actor he knew the routine: first in, first out. Now there would be a hoard of wannabes in line ahead of him. The last thing he wanted was to be late for his afternoon shift at Moonies Burger Bar. The owner paid cash at the end of each shift. Charles needed the money.
His acting coach, Josh Mallard, had told him about this audition, encouraged him to apply, said the extra hours of coaching fees he paid Josh would eventually pay off. They'd practiced for hours visualizing success, vocalizing roles, and acting out scenes from imaginary movies.
"You're a lion, Charles," Josh had said. "An acting lion who devours all they see."
Then he had Charles play the role of a ferocious lion on the plains of the Serengeti, while Josh acted out the role of a hunter.
"You are ready now," Josh had said at the last coaching session. "Go knock 'em dead. Your destiny awaits."
Charles sighed, glanced back over his shoulder at the disappearing bus, took off his jacket, slung it over his arm, and hurried along Chicon Street.
"Hey you!" a voice called from behind.
Charles spun around to face a uniformed police officer wearing dark shades.
"Yes?" he said cautiously, hoping it wasn't about nonexistent alimony payments to his ex-wife. "Officer, I'm in a hurry for a meeting."
"Is that so?" the officer replied lifting the shades. "Important meeting, eh?"
"Supposed to be there at noon, and the bus was running late today."
The officer nodded as if he understood. "Well, I won't keep you long. You dropped these." He held up a set of keys and a wad of papers.
Charles checked his jacket pocket. "They must have fallen out. Thank you."
He took the keys, stuffing them into his trouser pocket and grasped the packet of papers in one hand. They contained the contents of his mailbox. He'd planned to read them while waiting.
"Don't forget this one, looks important," said the officer, handing over a black envelope with gold lettering.
Charles peered at the envelope which had his name and address handwritten in exquisite cursive. He flipped it over. Someone printed the sender's name in gold on the back.
Danny Fontane
A vein pulsated in Charles's neck, his eyes narrowed, and his lip curled in disgust.
"Are you all right, sir?" asked the officer.
"Yeah," he said, turning away. "I've never felt better."
But Charles wasn't all right, and he had felt better—much better.
As he hurried away from the police officer, his mind wandered back to a better time, a time when optimism filled his veins, a time when he was young.
He and his old acting buddy Danny Fontane met at an Institution Theatre's improvisation class. They became good friends sharing ideas, tips, and tricks. One day, Danny told Charles about an upcoming role in a new movie. Danny wasn't interested in movies, preferring the stage.
Auditions are a lonely place, so Charles bribed Danny to join him, promising lunch at Torchy's Taco Shack. Danny not only attended, but he auditioned for the lead role and got it. The movie, Alistair's Blanket, was a critical success rocketing Danny's career. It was little consolation that the director had told Charles he was their second pick for the lead role.
Charles ended up as an extra in a scene that never made it into the final movie.
It was a bitter memory.
A memory Danny delighted in rubbing Charles's nose in at every opportunity.
Charles slipped the envelope into the inside jacket pocket and continued walking. It had obviously been delivered by messenger, and he knew it contained another chance for Danny to gloat. He plucked a worn handkerchief from his jacket pocket, wiped his brow, picking up his pace.
At College Row, a narrow lane lined by tiny, pier-and-beam wooden houses, Charles stopped to check the address. It didn’t look like a place for acting auditions.
Then he saw them.
Hundreds! It was a cattle call.
Wannabe actors, all suited, snaked like a dry riverbed zigzagging from a little iron gate to the front door of a tiny shack of a house. "You've got to be kidding me," Charles said out loud, his lip curling in annoyance.
A beefcake of a man in a baseball cap and mirrored glasses stood by the gate. His black sweat-stained T-shirt had SECURITY emblazoned in huge white letters.
"Here for the audition," Charles said in a cheery voice.
"Get in line," the security guard barked, waving him through the gate.
"How long's the wait?" Charles inquired. "I start work in a couple of hours."
"Beats me," the security guard grunted. "Join the line or get out."
Charles joined the line.
The short, stubby man with a balding head and stooped shoulders in front of him appeared familiar. Charles peered at him then realized, as the individual half turned to look back, who it was.
"Josh Mallard!" he said, unable to hide the shock in his voice.
"Charles, my man… didn't expect… to see you… not with all the crowds." His head hung a little as he spoke, and his sheepish eyes stared without blinking.
"So… Josh… you're auditioning as well… for the main role?" A vein pulsated in Charles's neck.
"Got to keep my hand in. Don't expect much. I'm sure the director will pick you, Charles. Remember the positive visualization techniques I taught you. You’re a lion, Charles, a lion!"
Charles stared at Josh, then at the line of humanity that snaked out in front of him, all hopeful for the lead-role spot. And then, after all these years, it hit him. It hit him hard like a rock thrown against a plate-glass window, and it hurt. He'd never make it as an actor. His one big chance had come and gone to Danny Fontane.
Trembling at the new revelation, he reached into his jacket pocket, pulled out the envelope and tore it open.
Dear Charles,
As a fellow thespian, you, of all people, can appreciate what a wonder-filled life I have led. While other actors toil on stony ground, success seems to have come with ease. Hollywood, Broadway, the West End in London, I've done it all. Now, I'd like to invite you to my Back to Austin relaunch party. Come de
ar friend and celebrate with me.
Charles stuffed the letter back into his jacket pocket.
"I'm sorry, sir, but you'll have to leave." The beefcake security guard had a hand on Charles's shoulder.
"Whoa, what?"
"The director's assistant is eyeballing candidates ahead of performance." He nodded toward a slender woman wearing thick glasses, a business suit, with a clipboard in her hand. "Saves the director time. You didn’t make the cut."
"I haven't had a chance to—"
The beefcake's face turned ugly. "You must leave, now."
"The luck of the draw," Josh said with a smirk. "Maybe next time."
Charles made as if to protest further, then his shoulders slumped. Another humiliating rejection.
As Charles shuffled back along College Row, he fumed. Alistair's Blanket was his biggest break, the only time he had a real shot at acting success. Danny Fontane snatched it from his fingertips. Now, at forty-eight, was he too old?
If Danny hadn't stolen the lead role from him all those years ago, he, Charles Goulart, would be hosting celebration parties instead of flipping patties at Moonies Burger Bar. "Yes," he shouted out loud. "I'll attend Danny's party." Then, as a wicked grin twisted his lips, he whispered, "It'll be my chance to silence Danny Fontane for good."
Chapter 11
Amy King couldn't believe her good luck. The arrangements for the staging at Danny Fontane's Austin relaunch party had gone perfectly. The photo shoot was over, and Danny Fontane had praised her stylish furniture selection and arrangement. "I want your firm to do all my future events," he had said, taking her business card before Vinny Snyder whisked him away.
Now it was over, Amy could relax and enjoy the party.
"He's not as tall as I imagined," she confided in Danielle.
"Nor as young," Danielle added.
"I guess..." said Amy reflectively, "we think of him as the image on the cinema screen. His biggest hit was over a decade ago. I know I look older than I did back then, despite what Nick says."
"Suppose so," laughed Danielle. "But I like to think of my heroes in their prime. It's a little disappointing to see them close up and realize they are only human." Danielle glanced around the room. Workers were already busy dismantling furniture, the photographer was packing up her equipment, and two waiters carried in refreshments and snacks which they placed on a large, long table. "What did you think of Megan?"