Free From The Dead by John Herrick Page B

“I’ve always been direct with you,
haven’t I?”
    “Of course. What’s wrong?”
    “There’s no easy way to say this, so here’s the deal:
We’ve opted to release you as a client.”
    In an instant, Jesse’s mouth filled with marbles and
his tongue rested heavy. His life continued to worsen. Desperate,
he lacked a backup plan.
    Maddy filled the awkward silence. “The agency needs
to trim its client roster so we can focus our attention in a more
strategic manner. You’re not alone; we’ve released 20 percent of
our clients.”
    Broken, Jesse tried to think on his feet. “What can I
do to avoid this?”
    “I don’t have a choice; I had to examine my roster
and make objective cuts. I wish I could keep you, but I’ve have a
hard time placing you for projects. As you know, your last audition
was the first in two years, and I—“
    “Couldn’t we give it another month?”
    Maddy listened. Throughout their professional
partnership, she had listened and understood. But today that era
had come to a halt.
    “I’d keep you on board if I could.” She paused.
“Others may not recognize your talent, Jesse, but I believe in you.
We’ve partnered together for a long time, and you’ve been a
pleasure to work with. You’re not a prima donna. You’re patient,
kindhearted. I wish I could partner with more clients like you. But
in the end, that’s just not enough.” Jesse could almost hear her
tongue in cheek as she said, “When you win your Academy Award, I’ll
cheer for you from the seats.”
    Even tender remarks could puncture a wounded
spirit.
    “Thanks,” he mumbled.
    “Good-bye, Jesse.”
    * * *
    He didn’t head straight home that evening. Though
hungry, he had no desire to eat. He cruised westbound along Ventura
Boulevard until he tired and headed back. Well past sunset, he
passed the series of manicured palm trees that poked through
shadows.
    He had fought his tears for the remainder of his
shift. But once he climbed in his car, they poured forth. And under
the guise of night, those tears were his alone, revealed only by
the illumination of streetlights that raced past him. The tears
were overdue, stifled for many months. He didn’t want his emotions
to flow, but deep down, Jesse was tenderhearted.
    Still, he had no other choice but to press
forward—even if he had no idea how to do so.
    Jada would never see the tears. Nor would anyone
else.
    It had taken Jesse years to secure an agent in Maddy.
Now that she was out of the picture, the horizon appeared bleak.
His chances of locating a role just grew slimmer—if that were
possible.
    And then, while he turned left onto Van Nuys and
headed home, it hit him: He might have another option.
    When he left for work earlier that morning, he
realized he’d miscalculated his laundry schedule and had worn
yesterday’s jeans a second day to bridge the time gap. But maybe
that wasn’t such a bad thing …
    He dried his eyes with his sleeve and cleared his
voice to hide any evidence of his emotional valley. With one hand
on the wheel, Jesse dug through his pocket in search of his trump
card. Had he gotten rid of it? Coins, mints, cell phone …
    There it was.
    He removed the crumpled piece of paper and smoothed
it against the dashboard. As he drove, he angled the paper and
tried to decipher the digits beneath the streetlights. He hated to
do this, but after eleven years in L.A., he’d grown sick of
failure.
    Five minutes. Was it such a horrible trade?
    Five minutes for a career breakthrough. He possessed
the talent to carry him in the long run; he simply needed an open
door. Wasn’t that worth five minutes?
    The call wasn’t easy. Jesse stalled for time: He
tapped his fingers on the steering wheel, calculated how many
minutes until he arrived home, counted car dealerships along the
way. At last, he tightened his jaw and grabbed his cell phone.
    He dialed the number. It rang numerous times, and
Jesse grew relieved when an answer didn’t appear forthcoming.