Free Attack of the Theater People by Marc Acito Page A

that.”
    “I’m glad you think so, Edward. Perhaps you won’t think it too presumptuous, then, if I ask you to pass along my demo tape to Mr. Fish.”
    I get an itchy feeling across my back, like I’ve just gotten my hair cut. I mean, I’m a nobody. A failure. A dud. Anyone coming to me for help has got to be, well, less than that. And I don’t want Mr. Lucas to be less than anything.
    “Happy to,” I say.
    He reaches in his bag and hands me a cassette, as well as a head shot and a résumé.
    “I know it isn’t necessary,” he says. “But you never know.”
    I look at the picture. Judging from the mustache and the open shirt, it’s at least ten years old.
    The intercom blares. “Alan,” Irving bleats. “My office.”
    Mr. Lucas raises an eyebrow. “Alan?”
    “Long story. Listen, I’ve got to go.”
    “Of course,” Mr. Lucas says. “Well, it’s been—”
    The intercom blares again.
“Today.”
    “Sorry,” I say, rushing out as he struggles to his feet. “Sorry.”
    I round the corner into Irving’s office.
    “What are you doing in there?” Irving snaps. “Carving the Rosetta stone?”
    “Sorry, I—”
    “What’s that in your hand?”
    I glance down and see that I’m holding Mr. Lucas’s résumé and tape.
    “Oh, this is, uh, a voice-over actor I thought you might be interested in,” I say, handing him the résumé. “As you can see, he trained at the Royal Academy of Dramatic Art in London, and worked in a number of regional houses…”
    Irving scans Mr. Lucas’s credits, then flips over the page to look at the head shot.
    “…then he had a spinal cord injury and now he’s kind of, y’know, disabled…”
    Irving picks up a Sharpie marker.
    “…but he’s got this terrific voice. Really, uh, stentorian…”
    My own voice trails off as Irving doodles a goatee and devil horns on Mr. Lucas’s face. Taking a moment to admire his handiwork, he crumples it up and tosses it in the trash can, along with any illusions I had about show business.
    “Anything else?” he says.
    Two words: I. Quit.
    C’mon, Edward, say it.
    Say it.
    “No,” I say, “nothing else.”

    The morning of my first
La Vie de la Fête
gig, I’m awoken by the phone. I squint at the digital clock, which appears to say LOSE , but, upon closer inspection, actually reads 10:58, Edward Standard Time, which means it’s…Oh, fuck, who can do math this early? I fumble for the phone while Natie makes sleepy piggy sounds in the futon below.
    “Hlllluh?” I mutter.
    “WHAT THE HELL’S GOING ON?”
    Since moving in with Natie, I’m used to people shouting on the phone. Just hearing Fran Nudelman say, “Hello,” is like removing ear wax with an electric drill. But this shouter is different. This shouter is pissed.
    This shouter is my father.
    “Uh, so solly,” I say. “This Kolean deli. You have long number.”
    “Cut the crap, kid, I know it’s you. Why haven’t you answered my calls? I’ve left you a bunch of messages.”
    “Really?” I can just picture Al, pacing the floor with gorilla menace while he jingles his pocket change. “Uh…Natie must’ve forgotten to give them to me.”
    From below Natie mutters, “Sure, blame it on the Jew.”
    “So,” Al says, “the reason I’m callin’…”
    “That’s how it started in Germany, y’know.”
    “Shut up!”
    “Whah?”
    “Not you, Pop. What did you say?”
    “I sent your tuition check to Juilliard…”
    Uh-oh.
    “…and I got a letter sayin’ you’re not enrolled.”
    Silence. Deadly, cavernous silence.
    “You wanna explain?” he says.
    No, I’d rather have a Strange Interlude:
    (fearfully)…Explain? How can I explain?…All summer long I’ve hoped that you might suffer a freak head injury while golfing, rendering you temporarily feeble-minded so that I need not explain….
    “Well,” I say, “my professors think, and I agree, that my acting would benefit from taking a year off. Y’know, to get a little