“That’s awful.”
“I probably dropped it on the street or maybe somebody picked my pocket. Anyway, it was no big deal really—I only had a few dollars in it and, luckily, I had my driver’s license at home. I already called the bank and the credit card companies and they’re gonna send me new cards. The bank’s gonna Express Mail me a card this afternoon.”
“So how much do you need?”
“I don’t know. I guess fifty bucks should hold me over. It’s just for today. If my boss was around this afternoon I’d—”
“It’s no problem at all,” she said. “The thing is, I only have about twenty dollars in my pocketbook. But if you wanted to walk out together we could pass a cash machine and I can—”
“I’d really appreciate that,” I said. “I’ll pay you back tomorrow. I’ll come by your apartment if—”
“It’s all right,” she said. “You can pay me back whenever you want to.”
We left my apartment and went down to the street, holding hands. It was another freezing day, but not as windy as yesterday. We talked about the weather and about how she loved skiing. I told her how I once modeled for a ski catalog, but how I’d only gone skiing once in my life, about five years ago, and how I wasn’t very good. But I told her I’d love to go with her sometime.
We went up First Avenue to the Citibank cash machine on the corner of Sixty-eighth Street. She punched in the code and I stood behind her, memorizing the digits—4-7-6-6-3-4.
When she was about to type in the amount of money she wanted to withdraw I said, “You think you can make it a hundred instead of fifty? I mean if it’s a problem forget about it, but I needed to buy some cleaning supplies for the building. If I don’t clean today my landlord’ll get pissed off. He has this bad Greek temper and I really don’t feel like dealing with it.”
“Sure,” she said. “A hundred’s no problem.”
“Thanks,” I said. “This is really nice of you.”
I walked her to her building on York Avenue near Seventy-first Street. It was a pretty nice elevator building. I felt like shit for taking her back to my dump two dates in a row.
In front of the building we hugged and kissed.
“I had an amazing time last night,” she said.
“Me too.”
“So will I hear from you this time?”
She laughed, trying to make it into a joke, but I knew she was serious.
“You kidding?” I said. “I’m dying to go out with you again. How’s tonight sound?”
“Tonight?”
“Yeah. How about you meet me at the bar around midnight? We can hang out awhile, then, if you’re up for it, we can go out for a little bite. Maybe this time we’ll make it to the restaurant.”
We both laughed.
“Unless it’s too soon,” I said.
“No, it’s not too soon.”
“Wait, I forgot—you have to work tomorrow so maybe we should wait till Friday or Saturday.”
“It’s okay,” she said. “I can make it tonight.”
“You sure?”
“Positive. I’ll see you at midnight.”
We kissed and hugged for a while longer, then I walked away, looking back every few steps and waving. At the corner, I turned and I waved again.
I did some chores around the building—the guy in Apartment 2 had a leak in his radiator—then I cleaned the hallways and stairs, dumping out buckets of half water, half Clorox, and mopping up. My neighbors were mainly interns at New York Hospital and young college grads. They were nice enough people, but I kept to myself mostly, only talking to them if I had to do work in their apartments.
Around ten o’clock, I finished cleaning and went to a deli on First Avenue and bought a couple of bacon-and- egg sandwiches. I started eating the sandwiches on my way home and finished them in my apartment. Then I started getting ready for the audition.
When I got out of the shower I put on the outfit my manager had told me to wear—jeans and a white V-neck T-shirt. In the commercial, I was going to play an average Joe, a working-class guy who lives alone with his dog. My manager thought it would be a good idea if I looked scruffy and a little tired so I didn’t shave.
When I was dressed and ready to go, I practiced my one line in front of the mirror. I had to kneel down next to a dog and say, “He eats great and looks great, too.” I practiced saying the line as many ways as I could think of, until I thought I had it down perfectly. They’d have to be crazy not to pick me.
The audition was at a studio on Fifty-seventh Street near Seventh Avenue. I took the 6 train downtown, switching for the R at Fifty-ninth. I arrived at twelve-thirty, a half hour before I had to go on.
As usual, there were dozens of guys in the waiting area who looked like they could be my twin brothers. They were all wearing white V-necks and hadn’t shaved.
I was practicing the line in my head, still positive I was going to get the part. My turn came. I went into the room where the director, producer, and a few other guys—probably the writers and ad execs—were sitting behind a long desk. There was also a woman with curly brown hair, holding a golden retriever on a leash.
“Tommy Russo,” the director said. He was a thin guy with short blond hair and glasses. He was wearing a black turtleneck.
“That’s me,” I said.
“Thank you for coming down,” he said.
“My pleasure,” I said.
“If you could just stand right over there,” he said, pointing toward a piece of masking tape on the floor, about ten yards in front of the desk.
I went to the spot and the woman came toward me with the dog. But as soon as she tried to take off the leash, the dog started barking, going nuts. She tried to calm it down, saying “Easy” and “It’s okay,” but nothing helped.
“I’m sorry,” the woman said to me. “She’s usually not like this.”
At first, the guys at the table were laughing, like they thought it was a big joke. But after a few minutes went by and the dog was still barking, trying to come after me, they started checking their watches and whispering to each other.
“Maybe you should take her out of here!” the director finally yelled to the woman so she could hear him over the crazy dog.
The woman started to walk away, but the dog kept pulling her back, scratching the floor, trying to come after me. Finally, the woman and the dog left the room, but I could still hear the dog barking somewhere.
“I guess I must’ve put on the dog-biscuit cologne this morning,” I said. Nobody laughed.
“I’m very sorry about this,” the director said.
“It’s not your fault,” I said. “I mean blame the dog, right?”
“We’ll contact your manager or agent if any other roles come along.”
I stood there for a couple of seconds before it set in, but then I still couldn’t believe it.
“I don’t get it,” I said. “Don’t you want to hear me read the line?”
“I don’t think that’ll be necessary,” the director said.
Again I stared at him, then I said, “Why not?”
“Because you’re not getting along with Molly.”
“Who’s Molly?”
“Molly is the dog.”
“So bring Molly back in here. Maybe she’ll calm down.”
“I’m sorry, Mr. Russo, but we have to see the next actor now.”
“I’m sorry, too,” I said, “because I don’t think this is fair. I came all the way down here, I practiced for this part. The least you could let me do—”
“Please leave, Mr. Russo.”
“I just want to read my line,” I said. “If you’d just sit back for a second you’d see—”
