Outtakes Of A Walking Mistake (5 page)

Why do you want to know?

Don’t you have a script for me to read?

Dad loves mom, but I don’t.

“She travels,” I say.

“Be more specific.”

“She’s in the circus. She left when I was in kindergarten. I don’t know where she travels.” Yet, here is where my mind travels. Racing back in time, I remember being a seven year old and opening up a letter postmarked from Louisville, Kentucky. In it mom said she enjoyed eating cotton candy and making kids smile.

All I have are these letters. All I have are these letters.
The ocean’s been speaking to me again
. This is what mom writes. She’s a free spirit, dad says.

“How did her leaving make you feel?” he asks, adjusting the camera.

“Huh?”

“How did it make you feel?”

This is not my life.

I’m not here. I’m not anywhere.

“It made me feel...I don’t know...I was young.”

“Try to remember,” Mr. Dolby urges.

Remember? No way.

I don’t want to and you can’t make me.

“Remember,” he repeats.

And BOOM, I recall the day that dad dropped the bomb about mom. Half naked and wet, I had just come into the house for a glass of lemonade after running through the lawn sprinkler.

I jolt in my seat.

Inhale. Exhale. Inhale. Exhale.

I think of mom watering the vegetable garden she planted in the backyard and the day she painted the sidewalk gold. “Let’s live like we’re in The Wizard of Oz,” she told me. “There’s no place like home. There’s no place like home.”

I click my heels and I’m back in the present.

“Mr. Morris, are you all right? You’re paler than a ghost.”

“Yeah, I’m fine.”

“If you’d like to stop....”

“No,” I interrupt. Tears tickle my eyes. “You want to know how I felt? Fine, I’ll tell you.” Losing focus of the camera, I speak while gazing at the steam rising from his tea; the ghost of mom, the image of her flowing brown curls, ascends from the mist. “It made me feel…like my life wasn’t worth sticking around for. And looking at my life now, I can’t say that I blame her.”

“There you are!” Mr. Dolby exclaims, after a moment of dead silence. “That’s what I wanted! The real you!” Beaming, he turns off the camera and applauds. “Bravo, bravo!”

Me, I’m not sure what to think. Here I am dizzy and sullen from this whole mind-bending experience, this hurricane of hurried thoughts, and I’m being praised for it? The truth is out there; theater people are freaks. “I’m sorry, maybe this was a mistake,” I say, rising.

“Come again?”

“I’m leaving.”

“No, no. Wait,” Mr. Dolby urges. Darting across the room, he pulls a script from a metal filing cabinet under an elaborate, porcelain tea set. Taking a deep breath, he regains his composure, maintaining a stiff, regal demeanor. “I believe I have a part for you. The role of Felix.” With neither a smile nor frown, he lightly places the script in my hand as if it were fragile. “It’s a small role, mind you, but a very important role indeed.”

As my knees go weak, I wonder what warrants his sense of urgency. Does he find me talented? I haven’t even read lines except for the ones Jenny made me say. Is that why he’s giving me a part? Does he think I’m tragic enough to bop his brains out? “Are you sure you want me?” I ask.

“Of course,” Mr. Dolby says, before explaining the rehearsal schedule to me. “The question is, are you ready?”

Dehydrating under the golden sun while waiting on dad in the school parking lot, the ubiquitous thought of mom depletes me, draining my brain like a syringe as my neglected heart yells at me for giving a damn about her. This sucks. I should be invincible right now; I should be on top of the world. But no, I just landed my first role in a student film and all I can think about is tired old mom. Why did she leave? Where is she? Is her mind full of me? This is what I ask myself. Then attempting to clear my mind, I count to ten and fixate on a Latin-looking janitor mowing a patch of tall, spidery grass. Buzzing back and forth, he seems content with the simple, strategic duty of steering his sweet grass-chopping ride.

Why can’t mom be like that? Why can’t she be happy with an average job that doesn’t force her to travel? Granted, lawn-maintenance may not be the most cutting-edge profession, but at least it’s more admirable than being a clown. Seriously. Kids don’t even like clowns anymore. Blame it on Hollywood; these days, clowns have become no more than psychotic killers, chopping up more people than they entertain. Seriously, why is mom on the bottom rung of the Big-Top hierarchy? Why can’t she be the sexy girl on the flying trapeze or the snake lady? “Because mom prefers to make kids smile,” dad always reminds me. But where does that leave me? I’m not smiling; I’m just stuck with a bad case of coulrophobia. And dad, he’s faked happiness for the last ten years.

Happy thoughts, happy thoughts.

Where are my happy thoughts?

Ah, here they are....

In my head I shake off the negativity and dream of adoring fans, autographing the lands, and Billy. Will he notice me now that I have a part? Will he think of me as an equal?

From a distance, I spy Billy, along with another suave male actor, trekking toward the green room for his audition. Should I wish him good luck? Why not? The more we talk, the more comfortable he’ll be with the fact that we’re dating.

“Hey Billy, can we chat?” I ask. He tries to play it smooth by double-checking the time on his watch before shaking his head no. “Come on, it’ll be quick. I need to talk. It’s about us.”

Forcing a smile, Billy bids adieu to his friend and reluctantly heads my way. “I don’t have much time. What is it?” he asks. His bright blond bangs, blinding in nature, fall like a magnificent mane over his eyes.

“Do you remember my name?”

“Tyler, right?”

He remembers! He remembers! I secretly scream inside. Then I think of sad, scary things to contain my excitement, like Sergeant Dogshit sunbathing in tight American Flag Speedos, and the time Jenny called in the middle of the night to tell me she had just seen the ghost of a pale Victorian woman playing “Candle in The Wind” on a grand piano in her living room. “The ghost, that’s not the scary part,” Jenny whispered over the phone. “The scary part is we don’t own a piano.”

“You know, you never got back to me,” I tell Billy.

“Got back to you?”

“About McDonald’s. The meal deals.” Wet with sweat, Billy’s black tee sticks to his broad chest, revealing just how defined he is below the surface. I imagine that I’d cut myself running my fingers over his razor-sharp abs. The bastard probably doesn’t even work out. “So?” I continue. His face tells me he’s threatened, like maybe the heat isn’t why he’s sweating. Like maybe it’s my fault.

“So what?”

Damn, do I have to spell it out for you?

“So when are we going?” I ask.

“Going where?”

“To dinner.”

“Uh...I haven’t thought about it.”

Great, I’ve invested all this time and energy into deciding where you can take me on a romantic date, and you haven’t thought about it. Aren’t you a regular Casanova? “Well, let me know when you decide.”

“O...k.”

Gliding into the parking lot, dad rolls up beside us in his rusty man-truck and honks the horn. I tell you, dad has awful timing.

“You about ready?” dad calls. I signal for him to give me a moment, and granting me my wish, he finger drums on the steering wheel while listening to his favorite radio station, WFART: music for those too old to know better.

Great, I think. With dad blasting the oldies, he won’t be able to hear my conversation. I could say anything. Well, maybe not anything.

“So I got a part in the film,” I tell Billy.

“You auditioned?” He acts stunned.

I ignore his insensitive side and continue rambling. “It’s a small part really, but as the saying goes, there are no small parts, just small....”

“Actors,” he finishes.

“Exactly.” One time, Jenny told me a secret: all men are attracted to a sense of humor, so I add a joke. “And getting the part was easy. All I had to do was bump uglies with Mr. Dolby.”

“What? You had sex with Mr. Dolby?” Billy takes a step back like something that nasty might be contagious.

“I’m sorry. It was just a joke.”

“Oh.”

Red alert. Billy’s going to think I’m a total sleaze bag. Quick! How can I paint myself in a positive light? Think heavenly. Think purity. Think. Think. Think. “I used to be an altar boy.”

“What?”

“I used to attend church. I still do sometimes.”

“O…K.”

“The priest is hot.”

“What?”

“I mean, cold. I mean, cool.”

“What are you talking about?”

I haven’t a clue. An altar boy? How do I come up with this stuff? Oh, I hope God isn’t taking notes. And if he is, may hell be no hotter than Southwest Florida. “I’m sorry. I just want you to know that I do good things. Like you mentor kids at Becker Elementary after school, right? You do good things too. See, we have a connection.”

No need for the sun burning like a stove overhead, Billy’s brain seems fried by my logic. “Listen man, I have to blaze. I need to audition.”

“Oh yeah, right,” I reply. Still, I can’t lose him, not this time. Reel him in, hook, line, and sinker. “Well, what about after the audition,” I say. “What are your plans?”

Huffing in disgust, Billy impatiently turns and walks away. “You seem to know my schedule. Why don’t you tell me?”

“Uh…uh…uh,” I stutter, like a total tard. Then I plant the thought of a way to rally, to come back from this, in my head, forming a brilliant idea.

I know! I’ll take Billy’s words as a challenge! Yes, I’ll set his schedule for him, ensuring our ‘date’ is the first event to be penciled in!

What a wondrous thought!

Still first, I need to get rid of dad.

Peeking into dad’s truck, I quickly urge him to turn down some song with an old man singing “I will get by” over and over and over again. Dad’s searching through his CD case while sipping his afternoon latte. “Hello. Focus,” I tell him, as he kills the radio.

“What’s the delay? Get in.”

“Hold on. I have a problem.”

“What problem?”

“Now, don’t get mad. I know that I told you to pick me up, but I need more time. I have a community service project that I forgot about. Billy just reminded me. You know I need community service hours to graduate. Is it ok if Billy drives me home?”

“Who’s Billy?” He acts a tad suspicious, and I can understand why. At one point in time – believe it or not – dad was a boy himself. Therefore, he is fully aware of how easy it is for a friendship to blossom into something more. That’s the way he landed his first date with mom in high school, by feigning interest in the marine science club just so he could work his way into her life. Dad, he brakes for manatees. Me, I brake for men to tease.

“Billy is the guy I was just talking to,” I explain. “He has to complete service hours too. Just listen. If I have any problems, I’ll call you.”

Dad stalls, appearing a tad peeved. “You have your cell?”

“Ugh. Yes.”

“And you’ll be home before dark?”

“Come on, dad. Please. Let me grow up.”

And he does, granting me permission, but not without a short lecture first in regard to trust, and the way in which it is earned in small increments. If I don’t get into any trouble, and if I keep him informed the entire time I’m with Billy, he promises that he’ll give me extra breathing room in the future. On the flip side, if I screw up, he promises to choke me.

No need for help with that though. Waiting for Billy to finish up with his audition, my mouth goes dry, and I can’t swallow. I press my tongue to the roof of my mouth for moisture as I lean on the red brick wall outside of the green room. Heavy in thought, I ponder how to approach Billy.

Unfortunately, I draw a blank.

Why does dating have to be difficult? Why can’t boys just come to me? I’ve always planned for my Prince Charming to lay the groundwork, to mount his noble steed and slay the fire-breathing dragon in order to wake me from this nightmare known as my life.

Yet, here I remain, the pursuer, clinging to the miniscule hope that Billy will like me, and therefore, won’t think I’m a psycho for following him around and scheduling myself into his life.

“Billy!” I call, as the door opens, and he appears. In a rush, he barely acknowledges me, shooting me an annoyed, disgruntled look and acting like I must have him confused with another person. And he’s a really good actor, because he almost has me convinced that there’s two of him, and this is just his evil twin: the one too stupid to realize we’re an item. “Hey, how did your audition go?” I say, catching up to him.