Outtakes Of A Walking Mistake (4 page)

Parking on the driveway, she quickly exits her cherry red vehicle and waves a DVD in the air. She dares not approach me though. Not with Eric by my side. “Let’s go, Bub,” she calls, clad in her new bell-bottoms. Through the darkness her blonde hair shines brighter than a thousand stars.

“Be right there.”

“Now, Tyler Morris!” she demands.

Ok, Jenny’s pissed. Whenever she calls me by my first and last name it always means she’s pissed, but what the hell is her problem? I’m the one who should be mad. She’s late and I’m in the middle of entertaining a guest. Not for long though.

When Jenny stomps her way to the front porch in a fit, Eric senses the tension and chooses to make an exit. “Well, I better jet,” he says, mounting his board. “Maybe we can hang soon.”

Soon? No, I want to hang now. I want to do bad things with you, things bad boys do. Please, show me how to be a bad boy. I promise to take notes. “Uh, maybe we can do McDonald’s some night. They have this great meal deal now,” I say.

“Tight. Sounds hella crazy,” Eric says, with a wink. “Now, go on. Take care of your friend. She looks upset.”

“She’ll live,” I assure him.

Then granting me a farewell smile, he coasts into the darkness.

“Will you ever quit?” Jenny asks, as I meet up with her on the porch. “Maybe we can do McDonald’s,” she mimics, extending a limp wrist. “Jesus Christ, I’ll take you to McDonald’s when you get a new line.”

This is jealous Jenny. This is the Jenny who doesn’t want me going out with a boy she’s already screwed. It’s one of her hang-ups. She can be so damn territorial. I don’t know why. Her affairs never last very long anyway. A day and a half, that’s how long she and Eric were an item. Wait? Is that right? That sounds a bit generous. Oh, I can’t remember. Jenny was stingy with the details. All she learned from their relationship is that you should never follow a boy behind a dumpster in a 7-11 parking lot. Whatever that means.

“Why aren’t you saying anything?” Jenny asks, following me inside. “What? Are you mad at me?”

“We were just talking,” I say, throwing up my arms.

“Please, Eric Bryant doesn’t possess that skill. He’s out for one thing.” Grabbing me by the back of my shoulder, she spins me around, getting really serious. “Promise me, Bub. Promise me you’ll stay away from him. He’s shady.”

“Fine, whatever,” I say, appeasing her.

Then Jenny pats my head like I’m a good little pooch and pops
Hope Floats
in the DVD player before plopping down on the couch.

I can’t believe this. First, she takes the motherly role, advising me on what boys to watch out for, and now she’s acting like dad, hogging up the whole freaking couch and toying with the TV remote, pumping up and down the volume. I tell you, I can’t deal with this. I can’t deal with the fact that she can have any boy she wants, and I can’t deal with the fact that I can’t. Now I’m supposed to sit in front of the TV and watch Harry Connick Jr. woo Sandra Bullock? I think not. I’m too envious of their relationship, and I’m too envious of Jenny. She has no idea what it’s like to go unnoticed.

“Dear God, what’s wrong now?” Jenny says, motioning me to join her. Scrunching up my face, I feel like I might lose it, have a nervous breakdown and admit the hard truth: I’m a pathetic queer who wants a boyfriend in my life to feel validated. And yes, applause please, I hate myself for it. “Are you crying?” Jenny asks. She acts shocked. “Seriously, what’s crawled up your ass tonight?” Refusing to answer, I cover my watery eyes, refusing to let her witness my weakness. I know, I’m being petty, but God I want that warmth, that boyfriend warmth to coat my heart so much; I feel desperate enough to pay for it. “All right, enough! If you sit down, I’ll let you hold my hand,” she offers, plea-bargaining with me. Then grabbing my hand, she pulls me down on the couch, allowing me time to sulk. “You’re not still mad about Eric, are you?”

No, I’m mad that I’ve never been kissed.

I’m mad that you have.

I’m mad that I only get romanced through the television.

I’m mad that your life is better than television.

Taking the cowardly role, I wipe my eyes and lie about what is truly bothering me. “It’s stupid. I’m not mad. I’m just nervous about my audition tomorrow.”

“What? You’re auditioning for that film thing at school?”

“Yeah.”

“Awesome!” Jenny yells.

“Yeah, it would be, except I’ve never acted before.”

“Please, you act all the time. Take right now for instance. Right now you’re acting like a tart.”

“Don’t start,” I say, elbowing her as the movie fills the room with sound. Placing my head on her shoulder, I tighten my grip on her hand and whisper thanks. In return she lets out a sudden gasp, like she’s not ready for this type of intimacy, or maybe she just soiled her panties. There’s no telling what’s going on with Jenny, ever.

“OH, I GET IT. I know why you’re mad,” she announces.

I give her a curious look. “You do?”

She mutes the TV with the controller. “Of course! I might be blonde, but I’m not retarded. The answer is yes, I’ll help you.”

Help, who said anything about help?

“But....”

“Oh hush. I’ll go with you to your audition tomorrow. You don’t have to ask twice.” Ask twice? I don’t remember asking once. “That’s what best friends are for!”

This is Jenny’s idea of help….

The next day, minutes prior to my audition after school, she shows up to inform me that she has a belly full of cheap wine and a body made for sin. “Getting drunk brings out my creative side,” she laughs. “Don’t be mad.”

Me, I can’t believe she’s doing this. Right when I need her most she’s spiraling out of control, but this is my typical Jenny: mixing alcohol with her meds just so she can soak up the spotlight. “What? Are you ignoring me?” she asks. We’re seated side by side on a raggedy black velvet couch in the theater green room and she wants to know if I’m ignoring her. For the love of god, I wish I could! “You need to be nice to me. I’m just here to help.” Purring, she blows hot air in my ear. “Now be honest, Bub. Do you really want a part?” Sliding her hand under my butt, she pinches me.

“Jenny, stop!”

“Listen, as an actor, you need to take risks,” she says. I’m scared to ask what type of risks she means. The last time Jenny spoke of risks she told me about the night she played Spin The Bottle with some girlfriends and her dad. “Well, do you want a part or not?” she says, clawing my butt with her nails.

I let out a yelp. “Jenny!”

“Well, don’t yell at me. It’s your fault I’m drunk.”

“Huh?”

“I stole the wine out of your fridge last night. And you shouldn’t keep alcohol lying around. It could be dangerous.”

“That wine is for dad’s secret sauce.”

“Well, I guess the secret’s out.” She giggles, kicking the artsy-fartsy magazines off the brown beanbag she’s using as a footrest. “Oops!”

I’m so mad I get up and pace around the room. I’m nervous enough about the audition; the last thing I need is having Jenny mess things up. Yet then again, I’m the moron who granted her permission to be here, so I suppose I asked for this.

In an attempt to reduce my blood pressure, I avoid eye contact with Jenny by eyeing a stack of cardboard boxes overflowing with Victorian-era wigs, dirty wing-tipped shoes, and other props used for past shows. On the far side of the room, beyond a dusty desk covered with hammers and nails, I notice a broken soda vending machine laced with punk rock stickers and anime. The concrete walls are lined with movie posters based on plays like
Mama Mia
,
Hairspray
, and
Rent
and in the background Jenny’s telling me how things really work in Hollywood. How things really, really work. “If you want a part,” she slurs, “you have to sleep with Mr. Dolby.”

“What? Are you crazy? Ew.”

“Well, that’s how it works in Hollywood.”

“But he’s married,” I whisper.

“So? You can still flirt with him. And why are you whispering?”

“Because he’s in the next room,” I say, pointing to Mr. Dolby’s white office door.

“Oops.”

Here I am. I have zero, zilch, nada, no acting experience, and my best friend wants me to sleep with Mr. Dolby. I wonder what his wife, Assistant Principal Dolby, would think. Sure, she’s married to a man who is one tiara short of entering the Miss Universe Pageant but that hasn’t stopped her from proudly wearing her wedding ring on campus. She must love him, I guess.

Oh, I’m destined for failure I tell myself as Jenny begins dishing out her Three Famous Flawless Flirting guidelines. “Listen closely. You must do exactly what I say,” she tells me.

1. Keep a safe distance. Men only want things they can’t reach.

2. Speak in a whisper. Make him really focus on what you’re saying.

3. Use innuendo. Men like the subtle approach.

“And if that doesn’t work?” I ask.

“Then add flatter to the batter. No man can resist a good ego stroke, especially if he’s gay.”

As Mr. Dolby opens his office door I kick Jenny in the leg and tell her to hush. True, Mr. Dolby may like men but I don’t think he’s cool enough to act on it. “Mr. Morris,” he states in a faux British accent. “It’s time.”

“Be right in,” I smile.

Flinging a purple scarf over his shoulder, Mr. Dolby pauses to lift his double chin, casting a weary eye on Jenny before heading back in his office. Me, I can’t help but smile, noticing how his small body comes full circle with a round penguin ass.

“So, do you promise to take my advice?” Jenny asks. Standing upright, she wobbles a tad, grabbing the tie-dyed shade of a floor lamp.

“Promise.”

“Cool beans. Then I’m headed to the mall. Shopping calls,” she says, jiggling her keys. Mall? Driving? No. Bad idea....

Very bad idea....

Not that Jenny agrees. The minute I tell her no, that I don’t want her behind the wheel, she flashes me her sheer white bra and stumbles out of the room, telling me that I only wish I had tits. And this is the girl I’m about to take advice from? Oh Lord, I need help. I need help in a bad way.

“Take a seat,” Mr. Dolby says, as I enter his spacious office. The space smells hospital-clean with blood red walls and a Persian rug spread in the center of the floor. And me, I can’t believe I’m about to flirt with this bald, pudgy man.

“Is this where you want me?” I ask, referring to a folding chair placed on the Persian rug. I speak using a sugar-like tone.

“That will do,” Mr. Dolby replies. At the far end of the room, he peers into a small video camera resting on a tripod beside his cherry wood desk. “But talk louder, dear boy. The camera needs to hear you.”

“Sorry.”

“No need for an apology. Just grant me a moment to focus.” With Mr. Dolby busily tinkering with the buttons on his camera, I bide my time by surveying the room.

Talk about bizarre. His choice of feminine décor makes his workplace seem like the bedroom of a pre-adolescent girl obsessed with tea parties and cartoon princesses. Overhead the ceiling is painted blue with a magic carpet soaring through a bed of puffy, white clouds. And in each corner, hang white wicker baskets of bright, pink and yellow flowers, complete with long, green vines that twirl like gift box ribbons. But that’s not the weird part. The weird part is that along each wall, tiara-wearing china dolls sit motionless, hidden amongst the many shelves of thick books and fake green plants. The thing about the dolls, each seems to be strategically positioned based on the color of its dress. For example, the white fluffy-dressed dolls begin at the left side of the room, and then one by one, each doll’s dress becomes a darker shade as you glance clockwise.

White, off-white, light pink, pink.

You get the picture.

The dolls at the far right of the room look like sophisti-slut demons in black gothic death gowns.

For some reason, I imagine tension between the dolls. Like they try to act like friends by breaking into “It’s A Small World” every so often, but then argue over whether the song should sound sugar-poppy or punk rock. Next, I imagine Mr. Dolby extinguishing the argument by promising to knit each doll a perfect new dress.

And speaking of perfect, not one shred of paper on Mr. Dolby’s desk is slanted or out of place. Not one. Plus, his pens are lined in order from light ink to dark ink just like the dolls. His picture frames, they’re much the same; each colored coded in a different shade of love.

A photo of his wife is sealed in a white heart.

A pink heart for his Dalmatian....

A red heart for Celine Dion....

“All right, ready,” Mr. Dolby begins, ensuring the camera is properly balanced on its tripod. Adjusting the purple scarf around his neck, he looks through the lens of the camera. “Please state your full name.”

“Tyler Morris,” I whisper, in my sexiest voice. “That is, until I become a star. Then I’ll need a new one.”

“Very well,” Mr. Dolby says, unaffected. “What are your hobbies?”

“Well,” I begin softly. “I love to bask in the sun for hours. You know, absorb its heat and just melt far, far away.” To accompany my performance, I finger-tickle my left knee and nibble my lower lip like I’m totally turned on. I swear; nothing is going to stop me from landing a part — NOTHING. “Tanning naked is one my favorite pastimes,” I reveal. “Who knows? I guess I’m a sucker for that sweaty hot, candy ‘round the collar feeling.”

Ceasing all operations, Mr. Dolby groans, turning off the camera and folding his arms. “Pray tell, what are your doing?”

“Making love to the camera.”

“Well don’t,” he snaps. “Dear boy, you have to be natural.”

“I’m trying.”

“The camera isn’t seeing that.”

The greatest stars are always misunderstood.

“I’m sorry. I’ll be real this time, honest.”

“You must. I won’t allow anything but authenticity for my film.”

“But I need you to mold me,” I begin, angelically. “I mean, I’m certain someone with your expertise has the tools and knowledge to shape such raw talent as myself.”

Radiating with importance, Mr. Dolby flicks a speck of dust from the shoulder of his gray button-down shirt and takes a sip of hot herbal tea from the tiniest purple cup. His pinky is up, up and away.

“Can we try it again?” I ask.

Like an inflated monarch, Mr. Dolby appears equally stiff in his chair as he is smug in the face. “I suppose.” He politely sets down his tea. “But this time, answer with honesty. Otherwise, I’ll have no choice but to ask you to leave.”

“I promise.”

“All the icons of the past — Marilyn Monroe, James Dean, Marlon Brando — they all created extraordinary characters because they weren’t afraid to reveal their inner truth.”

You want the truth? I’m gay. You’re gay. Guess that makes us related. Now, how about giving your brother a part?

“Let’s move right along, shall we?” he says, taking a long, exaggerated breath. “Tell me about your family.”

Feeling a tad uneasy, I fidget my hands and shift in my seat, sensing that something seems wrong. What does this have to do with the audition? Shouldn’t I be reciting lines or disrobing? I mean, why does he have to know about my private life? I have my limits. “My family? Well, there’s not much to say. Dad’s a cop. He’s strict, but he’s cool.”

“And your mother?”

“She’s not around.”

“Where is she?”