the scene. It flies, they're awake, and they're asking to see something else, the scene with the reporter. I slide into gear again, and then it happens: I step through the looking glass. On the other side, there is a reporter asking me questions about a young woman Hal knew in Grand Rapids. Katherine Sellers. Kathy. She was wearing a white nightgown that held the shadows of her thighs, and her shoulders were like small birds. Just that once, late at night, while Janice and the children slept upstairs. When she moved underneath me, I heard wings rustling. It might have been a dream. A brilliant light shines directly in my eyes and faces swim feverishly at the edges of my vision. I smile into the light, willing myself to speak slowly into the proffered microphone. 'Miss Sellers lived with our family briefly while she was attending college. She helped my wife, Janice, with the boys after Kirk was born. Miss Sellers attended our church and was a fine young Christian woman. I don't know why she would fabricate this kind of…' I feel like I'm going to puke. Some cold and predatory corner of my brain, though, is measuring the auditioners, gauging the heat of their attention. They have stepped across with me.
When the scene is over, there is a fraction of a minute before the tension snaps and we're back in the room. The playwright, Arthur Haines, grins confidentially to me. 'That was great, Dan,' as though we've known each other for years. The director nods his agreement and seems to be looking me over again, envisioning me in the role. There's a brief whispered exchange, then the casting director says, 'Good reading, Dan. Thanks.' I'm out the door. Ten minutes, tops. That's all it takes to change the direction your life is heading in.
It has stopped raining, but the air is still steamy and tropical with the smells of overripe garbage and fruit. Sun glints off water coursing down the flooded street. Like Gene Kelly, I want to stamp through the gutters, dance into those puddles, to hell with my already soggy loafers. Instead, I wait expectantly at the curb, careful not to get splashed, bouncing on my twinkle toes and waiting for the sea of traffic to part just long enough for me to dart across. I'm giddy, ready for my luck to change.
As it turns out, I didn't have to wait long. Good news was already blinking on my answering machine by the time I walked in the door this afternoon. Beep: Tribeca Rep wants to see me again in the morning. And in a when-it-rains-it-pours mode, another beep: I've been put on first refusal for the Dobbins Copier commercial. Beep, beep, beep, beep, beep.
It's premature to start counting my chickens. I know that from experience. A callback is a long way from an offer. And even a first refusal doesn't necessarily mean they'll use you. They're covering their asses. These days, there may be two or three other actors on the back burner with you.
Still, I can't stop my brain from racing on ahead without me, whizzing down the arterials, turning out at every promising side street. Part of me may be standing here at my post behind the bar, but the rest is far away, lofted into a future from which I can see this restaurant – the speckled pink walls, the framed and autographed photo of Sinatra over the cash register, the same tapes looping over and over, and even myself, the bartender zesting lemons like a zombie – all of it tinted with nostalgia.
At nine o'clock, there are three customers on the other side of the bar, a pair of nurses and, of course, Marv. Marv is the professional hazard of this job, the regular who monopolizes the TV and takes all his phone calls at the bar, dispenses unwanted advice, and generally makes himself at home. I'm his 'old buddy,' a dubious status accorded to anyone pouring out the CC and soda, and carrying with it the burden of hearing whatever thoughts are currently circulating through his sodden brain. Right now, he's holding forth on some theory he's heard concerning bats, the depletion of the bat population. It seems to have something to do with architecture and Vatican II; I've been tuning in only just often enough to nod in the right places, so I may have lost a critical thread. On the floor, it is similarly quiet, only a few couples becalmed on a sea of white tables. The ceiling fans tick lethargically, pushing dust motes through the warm air. The waiters shift from one foot to the other, scoping out their tables on the sly and then slipping out to the kitchen for a smoke. A typical Monday night, the dead shift in the week. I'm only half here, but that's more than enough.
'They slept under the eaves and in the bell tower. All those doodads served a purpose, is what he's saying, you know?' Yes, we must still be on bats.
'If you want to have bats, you gotta have belfries,' I joke.
'Well, that's not exactly the point.' Marv waves it away impatiently. 'You don't want to get hung up on the bats per se. It's what's behind the thing.'
'I see.' I have no idea what the point is, but I pretend to give it my fullest consideration.
'It's a whatchamacallit.
'I don't know – a lie?'
Marv appraises me slowly, working his chin from side to side.
'You being a smart-ass or just stupid?'
His mood can flip on a dime, even in mid-sentence, and you never know what will trip the switch. Most nights, I refill his drink on the fly, making sure not to pause too long near his stool, in a pinch escaping my cage with some feigned need to restock something or other. But tonight my expansiveness extends even to Marv. So what if he insists, ridiculously, on acting the part of the neighborhood don? I feel something akin to the affection one has for the recently dead – that old dog Marvin with his scuffed white loafers and his half-baked stories about what a truly decent fellow Rocky Graziano was or the time he and Dean Martin and a bunch of the guys drove up from Atlantic City at four in the morning for corned beef sandwiches. What a character. I pour him a healthy shot on the house, and we're buddies again.
I might actually get out of here for good. Why not? The way I've got it figured, the folks at Tribeca must have put the call in to Zak before I was even out of the building. I'm perfect for the part and they knew it, didn't even wait until the end of the day to weigh their options. And they're hot. They've moved something uptown every year for the past three seasons. So, let's say the play does well, pulls in some good reviews; there's no reason it couldn't be a contender. It could move to Broadway, and I could be looking at a long-term gig.
Then there's the commercial. It's not art, it's not even acting, but it's money. Maybe even serious money. The session fee for an on-camera principal is about five hundred, but the real money is in the residuals. Depending on how long it runs and in what markets, a national commercial can snag you ten grand before it plays out. One I did five years ago still brings in a nice little chunk of change every thirteen weeks; in fact, a large percentage of the money I've made in my career can be traced directly to one day spent reaching over and over again into an ice chest and pulling out a couple of beers.
The two waiters are huddled at the service end of the bar, engaged in their own forecasting. Beneath Marv's raspy drone, I hear Yusef grimly predict that they'll be lucky to go home with forty dollars apiece tonight.
Carrie takes the pluckier view, that we still might get a late-night rush after the concert. The Philharmonic is playing up in the park, and she's pinning her hopes on a mob of hungry Schubert lovers storming Picardi's.
'Maybe people would come in to drink but not for dinner,' Yusef pronounces, shaking his head stubbornly. 'This is it.'
'I'm just saying a couple of tables.' Carrie turns to me for confirmation, bright and flirty. 'What do you think?'
'One way or the other, makes no difference to me.' She smirks.
'Well, what's gotten into you?'
'Oh, nothing much. I had a good day is all.'
Under this Gary Cooperish reticence, I'm actually itching to tell someone. I haven't even filled in Robin yet, though this is simply a matter of our paths not having crossed since this morning. Only a habitual superstition against jinxing my good fortune keeps me quiet now. I don't want to end up like one of those sad cases who's always blathering about some deal in the pipeline. Better to take everyone by surprise, walk in here one night and spring it on them. Sorry, my friends, it's been nice knowing you. Hasta la vista. Farewell.
Just as Yusef predicted, we wind down the evening nearly as poor as we started it. Before he leaves, Marv makes a point of discreetly palming a five-dollar bill to me, as though I might be embarrassed to publicly accept a tip. I lock up and am home just after eleven, eager to share my news. I come through the door calling out to Robin, who emerges from the study, her arms heaped with folded clothes. She swipes a distracted kiss past my cheek as she passes into the bedroom, her voice trailing behind.
'How was work?'
'It sucked. Now ask me if I care.'
I wait, the proverbial cat that ate the canary. But she doesn't pick up her cue, so I blunder through a garbled
