Free The Actor by Maya Brooks Page A

floor to make room for himself and sunk down on
the hard sofa. He couldn’t focus his eyes on either of them.
    Lawrence rubbed
his forehead.
    Neither man
spoke until Marc asked, “What do you want?”
    Bill tucked his
hands in his pockets.
    “I think this
is an intervention. You need rehab.”
    The very word
filled Marc with a dark rage he couldn’t explain, and he got to his feet,
fueled by adrenaline.
    “That’s it. Get
out of my house.”
    Afterwards he’d
only have a faint memory of pushing them through the hallway. He threw them
both out, but they would be back. No doubt about it.
    The way back to
the living room seemed longer than ever, and he paused several times, leaning
against the wall. He wanted to sink down on the floor and wallow in
self-pity, but it could wait until he reached a chair.
    Maybe Bill
and Lawrence are right. Maybe they’re my only friends, telling me the truth and
not just what I want to hear. Fuck that, I’m not going to rehab.
    Sure a few days
disappeared every now and then, or a week, but that was normal, right?
    There had to be something to drink in the house, something to help him feel better. He
found a bottle of scotch and an almost clean glass in the kitchen, and when he
returned to the chair tiny beads of sweat formed on his forehead, rolling into
his eyes.
    A small voice
of sanity deep inside him spoke up.
    What do you
want? Are you trying to kill yourself on purpose?
    He jumped at
hearing his own voice when he answered aloud, “I want Laura.”
    Really? I
do?
    He turned the
thought around, examining it from all sides. He had always been happy with her,
and she claimed to love him. Many women said that, of course, but she was the
first one he believed.
    I think I
love her too.
    As he sat there,
sipping the strong alcohol, fighting down waves of nausea and shivers, his
imagination painted out a happy life. He saw images of fulfillment, where
working went well and he didn’t get fired from crappy shows.
    Could there be a
world where his children no longer despised him?
    A world where
home was truly a home, a good place to return to after a long day, and where he
was loved?
    Laura loves
me for me, not for one of the make-believe versions of me.
    Even with the
prospect of a wonderful life free from hangovers and humiliation so tauntingly
close, he didn’t call her at once. He couldn’t remember her number, not even
her last name, and he couldn’t find his cell. It took almost half an hour of
retracing his steps before he went to the fridge to get some ice for his new
drink.
    Why did I put
the phone in the glass holder?
    He grabbed it
with a triumphant look on his face.
    “Eureka! There
you are, you little bastard.”
    The irritating
little piece of technology must have been hiding on purpose, conspiring to keep
him from the happiness he now knew waited for him, only a phone call
away.
    Sighing, he
brought the phone and his new drink, with ice, back to the chair.
    She loves me.
    They spent
countless hours on the phone when he was fairly sober, and he must have called
her many times too drunk or high to remember. Now, he didn’t know what to say.
His mouth was dry and his mind blank, and everything he could think of seemed
idiotic.
    Leaning back in
the chair, fighting down an urge to vomit on the rug, he finally made his mind
up.
    I can ask her
if she wants to come over on a vacation. That doesn’t sound too needy. She was
sad when I left, I know she was.
    It wasn’t a
brilliant plan, but it was the best he could come up with.
    Try not to
sound like a wreck. Well, what kind of actor would I be if I can’t pull that
off?
    His hands shook
so badly he had problems browsing through the contact list to her name. The
phone was much more than an emotionless piece of technology. It seemed to be a
living, thinking obstacle, intent of keeping him from reaching salvation. The
need to reach Laura was the only thing preventing him from throwing it against
the wall and crushing it to