A Hire Love (4 page)

T
rying to become an actor should be described as the test of a man’s humility. Things I swore I would never do, I find myself willfully submitting to on my quest for stardom. An Asian lady stood over me, waxing every strand of hair growing from my torso. I squinted to avoid screaming as she ripped out the follicles. How many men would tolerate this torture?

When I walked into the casting for an underwear commercial, my question was answered. I wasn’t the only buffed, hairless Black man in the room. As I surveyed the competition, I was confident about my chances. Though I long to one day have a respectable role in a major film, it seems directors love me more the less I have on. Often I want to scream, “Damn it! Does anybody see that I really have talent?”

When I auditioned, I thought for certain I’d nailed it from the expression on the casting director’s face. Her large hazel eyes pierced through me as if she wanted to indulge in me for dessert. I sat in the waiting area for the first-round decisions. Several guys walked out with their heads hung low. As a matter of habit, I always give my competition a head nod.

When I was called into the room, I entered stoically. It will take more than rejection to destroy me. The casting director sat alone in the room. I searched for her cohorts. She chuckled and twirled her finger in her naturally curly sandy brown Afro. “It’s just me. I’m Mya.”

“Please to meet you, Mya.”

I grinned in celebration. Her face elongated and her high cheekbones protruded as she took the regretful deep breath. My confidence fizzled, before she said anything. “You will not be proceeding to the next round.”

This part always bothered me, because the constructive criticism was never constructive. It was always that you’re just not what we’re looking for. How can a man improve when no one can say what’s wrong?

After her thirty-second pause, I stood and extended my hand. She obviously had no advice. She continued, “Have a seat.”

She covered her face. “This is so embarrassing.”

Don’t tell me this lady wants to sex me up after seeing me in my underwear. She was much too slim for me, but still I smiled. “Go ahead. Say what’s on your mind.”

“Okay, I have another opportunity that you might be interested in.”

I scooted up in my chair. This was my kind of criticism. She explained, “It’s kind of out-of-the-ordinary, but it’s still acting. The pay is equivalent to the base scale for a low-budget film.”

“Really?”

“Yes, it’s a six-month contract, subject to renewal.”

“What film? What company? Tell me all the details.”

“It’s sort of like reality TV.”

“That’s cool.”

“If you were to get the part, you would be playing the boyfriend of a young lady who is tired of dating losers.”

I chuckled. “Okay. Will it be aired? What’s the object of the show?”

“Well, it’s kinda like reality TV without the cameras.”

“Get out of here.”

She shook her head and grabbed a folder. “She plans to cast sometime this week. If you’re interested, let me know and I’ll get you on the schedule. And please, do not discuss this with your agent or any other actors.” She winked. “This is a side job where you make all the money. I’ve hand-selected you, because my instincts tell me that you’re a really cool guy.”

“I appreciate this. My lips are sealed.”

This job sounded like a dream come true. Get paid for reality. Who could beat that?

When I got home and opened the folder, I flipped through the script. I was convinced that the main lady was the casting director. Had the dating scene gotten so bad that beautiful women now had to pay men to act like their man? Sadly enough, I wouldn’t know. I’d been out of the mix since my last girlfriend gave me the ultimatum of choosing her or my acting career. My mother raised me to believe that a man should take care of his woman and knowing that I wasn’t in the position to provide for a woman like I should, I let her walk. No woman should have to sit around and watch a man dream. Nor should a man sacrifice his dream to be with a woman. If he doesn’t have his stuff together, he needs to be alone.

The scenes outlined how the man should react to various situations. Most of these things should be second nature. Before I buried myself in the remainder of the script, I called Mya and told her to put me on the schedule. I said, “You can tell everyone else to stay home.”

She chuckled. “I’m sorry. I’m not at liberty to do that.”

While she gave me the details, I scanned my closet and planned for attack. She told me that the main character, Fatima, would like to be referred to as Ms. Barnes during the casting. I asked, “Is Fatima her real name?”

“Yes.”

I prayed this young lady was as cute as her name. Her adorable little comments in the script made me anxious to meet her. The thought that she felt deserving of this treatment intrigued me more.

M
ya scheduled five actors to meet me at a midtown restaurant thirty minutes apart. I sat alone reading over the portfolios of the prospects. Even I had begun to think this was a ludicrous idea, but it was too late to reconsider because Number One was about to walk on stage.

Before I pulled out my makeup compact, I took a deep breath. As I powdered my nose, I frowned at my reflection.
What the hell are you doing? He doesn’t have to find you the least bit attractive.

I gave the host a heads-up that I’d be here for awhile. While I sipped on a glass of Merlot, I drummed on the table.

When I saw the host direct Pee-Wee Herman to my table, I choked the stem of my wineglass. I ducked down and peeked over my shoulder. Is there any way I could hide out until Number Two arrives? I bit my bottom lip. Then, I realized this is no blind date where I have to sit here and smile at some poorly dressed man. My script dictates what I like my man to wear and he was out of character. By the time he reached the table, my expression should have shooed him away. He extended his hand and I scrutinized his outfit. A plastic replica Prada belt sat inches below his chest and strangled the waist of his straight-legged slacks. Dense collections of lint were scattered all over his shirt. He should have vacuumed it.

We shook hands and he raised mine and planted a kiss on it. “Please to meet you, Ms. Barnes.”

I nodded, but didn’t tell him that I was pleased as well. When we sat, I flipped through my copy of the script and ignored his icebreakers. I found the section on
Attire and Style
and turned the paper around so that he could see. “Did you read this section?”

“Yeah, I noticed you specified a stylish guy, but it says only dress shirts in the blue family or white.” He curled up his nose. “That’s not so stylish. I figured I’d break out with a little pastel. You know, embellish a little.”

Did he just pop his collar? He needed to bring it down a notch, one collar at a time. I stared through him.

“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.