Just a Geek (18 page)

It was a good time to have this realization, because my acting career, which hadn't really gone anywhere for years, was about to crash right into a brick wall.

Chapter 9. Alone Again, Or . . .

ON APRIL 5TH, 2002
, as Anne and I were packing for a Spring Break trip to Lake Tahoe with Ryan and Nolan for a much-needed change of scenery, I received a phone call from my manager. It was the end of pilot season—a period at the beginning of each year when studios cast for their new fall television shows. Most actors, myself included, hope to get a job on a pilot each year, because it means financial security and a chance to be on the next
Friends
or
West Wing
. During pilot season, most actors have several auditions each week, and it's a hectic but exciting time. The pilot season that had just ended was the fourth in a row where I'd had fewer than 10 auditions, all of them failures.

"Is your fax machine on?" my manager said.

"Yeah."

"Good. I'm sending you two appointment sheets for next week."

"Oh crap," I said. "I can't go. It's Spring break for the kids, and Anne and I are taking them up to Lake Tahoe."

"When do you leave?"

"In about 20 minutes. When are the auditions?"

"You've got an independent film on Tuesday, and at least one, possibly two pilots on Wednesday. Callbacks will be Thursday or Friday."

"What do you think I should do?"

"I can't make that decision for you. Talk it over with Anne and call me right back."

I hung up the phone.

"I know how you feel about your family, but this is our last shot at pilot season,"
said a familiar voice.

"This is stupid, Prove To Everyone,"
I replied.
"You and I both know I'm not going to book these jobs, and we're all looking forward to this vacation. We're packing up the car, for fuck's sake."

"What the fuck is wrong with you?! You've had ONE audition in months, and you're going to pass on THREE OF THEM in one week? Do you want to be an actor or not?!"

"I'm not so sure I do."

"Oh, you think you're going to be a big writer because you write a stupid weblog?"
we were joined by The Voice of Self Doubt.

"I thought you guys were gone,"
I said.

"We were just waiting for you to call on us again. You know that fear you feel right now? That fear that you may be letting a golden opportunity slip through your fingers, and you'll regret it for the rest of your life? We felt it too."
Prove To Everyone was right. The Fear hadn't completely gone away. I'd just managed to keep it hidden for a few months.

"If you blow off this opportunity, you will live the rest of your life as That Washed Up Has Been Who Used To Be An Actor When He Was A Kid,"
he said.

I stammered something about April Fool's and how I'd redefined myself.

"That's bullshit. Anyone can write a bunch of drivel on the Internet,"
said The Voice of Self Doubt.

"No, Wil's right. If he passes on these auditions, he can always sign autographs at a
Star Trek
convention for a few more years until he digs himself out of debt,"
Prove To Everyone said.
"And there's always
Celebrity Boxing
to get that career going again."

I walked out to the car and told Anne that I had to stay home.

A few minutes later, we called the kids over to the dining room table.

"You guys, I just got a call from Chris," I said, "and I have two auditions next week."

"Did you tell him that we're going on vacation?" Nolan said.

I couldn't look him in the eye. "I told him that we had that planned, but I have to stay here and go on these auditions."

"Why?! We're getting ready to leave!" Ryan said.

I looked to Anne. Her eyes were welling up, but she said nothing.

"I'm really sorry, you guys. I haven't had any good opportunities for work in months, and I have to take these chances when they come along."

It was silent in our house. A car drove by outside. Nolan said, "Well, can you drive up and meet us?"

I shook my head. "It's eight hours there and back, Nolan. If I get a callback, I'd just have to turn right around and come home."

"This sucks," he said.

I looked at Anne again. She looked away.

"I know how much we're all looking forward to this trip," I said, "but I just can't go. Once you're there, you won't miss me at all."

We all knew that wasn't true. We were having enormous problems with Anne's ex-husband, and our family desperately needed to get away from him. I really didn't want to stay home. I wanted to go with them, and play Auto Bingo and I Spy on the drive up. I wanted to play with the kids in the melting snow and roast marshmallows over the cabin's wood-burning stove.

Silence hung over the four of us, until Anne quietly said, "Why don't you two go and get your backpacks, and take them to the car."

The boys went into the back of the house, and I looked at my wife.

"I'm sorry," I said.

"I know." She wiped tears out of her eyes and left me alone at the table.

"You did the right thing,"
Prove To Everyone said.

"Fuck you,"
I said.

I sadly bid them farewell and watched them drive up our street. I stood at the end of our driveway long after they'd passed out of sight. When I walked into our silent and empty house, I sat at our dining room table, and wondered if I'd made the right decision.

05 APRIL 2002

Alone Again, Or . . .

The Big Plan for this weekend was to go up north with Anne and the kids, because it's their Spring Break, starting today.

We get the rental minivan (ugh) loaded up and ready to go, and I get a call from my manager: I have two auditions on Monday, both pilots, and I have an audition on Tuesday, for an indie. I'm also supposed to test for at least one, possibly two pilots on Wednesday.

So all of my stuff comes out of the rental beast and I go from spending the weekend with my family to spending it alone, preparing for these three auditions.

Holy crap, how things can change in an instant.

It's not a bad thing, missing the vacation, because I continue to make it down to the last handful of actors on all my auditions, (except for the call I had last week, where I got to spend all of 25 minutes with the material and the producers were taking calls on their cell phones and leaving the effing room while I was doing my audition) and the more I have the better my odds are . . . but I'd be lying if I said I wasn't going to miss them.

It's weird to be in my empty house, alone, without even Ferris to keep me company.

It's just me and the cats, just like the old bachelor days . . . except I am under pain of death to "keep the fucking house clean" from my old lady.

It should be interesting to see how I do on these three auditions, since I'll have three whole days to prepare a character and memorize the scenes, without any distractions.

What a huge, steaming pile of bullshit!
"It's not a bad thing?"
Who did I think I was fooling? Though I was desperately trying to believe that I had made the right decision, I wasn't even fooling myself. The only saving grace was the minute possibility that I could book one of these jobs. If I did, I would be able to convince myself that I'd made an acceptable sacrifice.

When we actors fight for roles (and unless you're a Big Hot Superstar, it's
always
a fight), we only control about 10% of the factors that will ultimately get us the job: our preparation and how we look. The rest of the process is completely out of our hands and includes elements such as:

• Casting Director prejudices—how excited about
  me
  is this casting director? This is about 60% of the fight.
  

• Studio pressure—do they want a big name for this part? This is about 20% of the fight.
  

• Nepotism—is one of Jimmy Kimmel's cousins available? Surprisingly, this is only about 5%.
  

• Chemistry—how do I fit in with the rest of the cast? This, too, is about 5%, but isn't even a factor until the very end of the process.
  

Since I had so much at stake, I did everything to ensure that I gave the best auditions possible. I spent lonely and silent hours in my house, creating unnecessarily complex character histories. When I finished, I memorized my lines. When my lines were memorized, I memorized the other character's lines. When that was finished, I tried different hairstyles and costumes. When I went into those auditions, I wanted to leave as little to chance as possible.

The first audition was a complete disaster.

It was at 2:30 in the afternoon, so I slept late, and then spent the morning reviewing my character notes and audition script, which actors call "sides." The second audition was to happen later in the day, and I wouldn't have time to return home between the two to change, so I carefully hung a different wardrobe in the back of my car before I left the house around 1:45, for Walt Disney Studios in Burbank.

When I was a kid, I always liked going to Disney. As far as studios go, it's actually pretty boring: no back lot like Universal or Warners, and no front lot like Fox, but standing at the corner of Mickey Mouse Avenue and Dopey Drive is pretty magical when you're a kid. Hell, it's pretty magical when you're an adult!

I showed my ID to the security guard and waited while they searched my car. There had been some nebulous threat against movie studios, and they were all really manic about security. Driving onto the lot at Warners was like going into an embassy, complete with concrete barriers and guys with guns, but Disney was a bit more relaxed. As long as there wasn't a box in the trunk that said "THIS IS A BOMB" in big red letters, you'd be fine.

I parked my car and checked my watch: 2:25. I looked at myself in my rearview mirror and said, "You're a good actor. Go kick their ass." It's something that I do before every audition. It started out as a practical way to steady my nerves, but over the years, it's turned into a superstitious ritual.

I walked across the parking lot, past several actors on their way out who looked exactly like me.
Was one of these "The Guy," or did I still have a chance to be "The Guy?"
Those thoughts, spoken by The Voice Of Self Doubt, lead to unemployment, so I pushed him out of my head.

I went out of my way to pass through the intersection of Mickey Mouse Avenue and Dopey Drive, and arrived at the audition one minute late. The room was empty except for a water cooler and a few chairs. A sign-in sheet sat on one of them. I picked it up, and wrote in my name, SAG number, character name, agent, and time I arrived. I looked up the list to see if there were any familiar names ahead of me, but I didn't see anyone I recognized. All the names were crossed out, and someone named David was ahead of me.

I looked around for David.

Was David the guy who was going to take my job away from me? Maybe I'd go Tonya Harding on him before he got to go in
.

"Hey, David! Nice to meet you! I'm Wil. Did you see this interesting thing on the window ledge?" Shove. "Oops. Sorry about that. Let me just cross your name off the list here . . ."

David was nowhere to be found, so I sat down and waited.

And waited.

And waited.

At 10 minutes past 3, I heard the bell chime on the elevator down the hallway. Of course! David was downstairs, plotting my destruction. I heard footsteps coming down the hallway, and glanced at the open window that was next to me. When I looked back, Sean Astin walked into the room.

My heart leapt. Sean is one of my favorite people in the world, and we really hit it off when we worked on
Toy Soldiers
together. In the months of publicity tours that followed, we became good friends, but as his career took off and mine tanked, I fell out of touch with him. All my murderous thoughts about the still-unseen David went out of my head.

"Is that Sean Astin?" I said with a huge smile.

"You look just like Wil Wheaton," he said.

I jumped out of my chair, and we embraced.

"I am so happy to see you," I said.

He picked up the sign-in sheet. "How have you been?"

Shitty
.

"I've been better, but I'm great now," I said.

"I'm sorry I couldn't come to your wedding," he said. "We were in New Zealand."

"Yeah, your assistant told us—what was that? Three years ago? Holy shit. That's a long time."

He nodded.

"Was it fun?" I said.
Fellowship of the Ring
had only been out for a few months, but it was well on its way to being a phenomenon.

"A lot of work, but also a lot of fun," he said.

I wanted to drop my sides, forget the audition, and spend the rest of the afternoon in a coffee shop, catching up.

"Hey, what are y—"

The door opened, and the casting director walked out, chatting amiably with a fairly well-known actor.
Why wasn't his name on the sign-in sheet?

". . . so we'll talk to you soon!" he said.

The well-known actor shook his hand and left. The Casting Director looked right through me and said, "Hello, Sean! Thank you for coming in!"

Sean smiled, and I did my best impression of the invisible man while they shook hands.

The Casting Director looked down at the sign-in sheet and called out, "David? Is David here?"

"Dave's not here, man!"
I thought, and stifled a giggle.

I looked around the empty room. Unless he was hiding behind the water cooler, David wasn't here. "Have you seen David?" The Casting Director said to Sean.

"No. But I think Wil is next," Sean said.

The Casting Director looked at me like I had just appeared in a puff of smoke.

"Just a second," he said, and walked to the hallway door. "David?!" he called out.

"Yes?" Came the distant reply.