Loose Takes
A THESPIAN LEAP.
For years he had been a professional actor, but now jobs were drying up. The harder he worked at whatever role he auditioned for, the more he failed. He left a part of himself at each one of them, and though he was willing to exchange his very being for the character, his intensity was not what they wanted. A voice told him to say, “Take this role and shove it,” so he did — one too many times. Now the troubled thespian no longer knew who he was, and desperately needed a role. The hell with the Actor’s Guild — he’d work for free.
John Losel was a large man with a sonorous voice. He woke up in a clichéd hell. “I have the world’s worst hangover!” said John. Like a bad script, he fumbled around for his alarm clock, even as a voice was telling him to do it again. Next it told him to look in the mirror, scowl at his world-weary face, and brush his teeth four or five times. Soon he had to leave his sordid apartment and drive to work. Grab your winter coat and put it on. Something wasn’t right. Put it on again — not easy, with that bloated hangover and all. He was hot and getting hotter, waiting inside in his outside coat. Finally the car was ready, so he climbed in and started the engine. Nothing doing. Get out, and try again. After another wait, the car started moving around like someone was bouncing it. John felt miserable, and looked worse. Wouldn’t you — nothing coming from the radio you were supposed to listen to, and a headache to boot? Driving to work was way too long.
But now he was there, trudging through the office door. “Good morning,” said John with a cloud over his head. His boss replied like a rehearsed robot. “Good morning, Mr. Losel. I am sorry, but you will have to pick up your time.” Excuse me? “Pick up your time. You are fired.” There was a pause. The voice told John to answer with a line so clichéd he blew it: “Take this job and SHOVEL it,” flubbed John. He was tired, and really didn’t give a shit what his supposed job was, or anything else. “Take this job and SHOVE it!” he reiterated, with an exclamation mark. His boss came to life: “Get out, get out, get out, get out…” but John was already gone.
In fact John was long gone, back to his apartment. A letter was slid under the door, and he was compelled to read it aloud. “Dear John,” it began, “This hurts me as much as you.” On cue, he sat and continued: “I have met someone else, and though I still love you, I’m… like… it’s over?” If his girlfriend was as unoriginal as the letter, why should he care? Though he had to read the letter again to be convincing, he still couldn’t conjure up the requisite tears. Too bad. The whole act that was his life was so crushingly formulaic, John couldn’t feel a thing. He didn’t have to pretend, yet he was directed to look more ‘alienated.’ It was that voice in his head again, and now it commanded him up to the roof of his 13-story apartment building.
Other people were there, as if on suicide watch. He was trapped in a narrative so terrible he wanted out — or rather, off. The intervention was quick: they managed to snatch the big man away from the precipice, pulling off his winter coat in the process. Then they stuffed it with pillows and sent John’s likeness flying off the roof. The thing spiralled oddly to earth, hitting the ground without the slightest bounce — like a pillow, which it was. John’s despair deepened, his final act usurped by a pathetic effigy bearing no resemblance to himself. Whoever he was died there, in that final bird off the 13th floor. Indeed, his memory of being anyone before the opening hangover was gone too.
John wandered in his morass for months. He was having trouble remembering where he had been — even forgetting his name. His family urged him to seek medical help, but he wasn’t having any of it. He was just temporarily disoriented — not really himself. It was decided he needed some laughter to kickstart his old personality, so friends took him to an amusing event. The student film festival took place annually at John’s alma mater, but he couldn’t remember when he was last there, in the theatre program — studying Shakespeare. The opening films assaulted his senses with black leader punched randomly with blinding holes, then strobing colours and scratched footage from old documentaries. “Camera-less films!” boasted the program. Next came the narrative offerings. Was it John’s imagination, or did they all start with some guy groping around for an alarm clock? One film came up with the main actor’s credit at the beginning: WELTSCHMERZ, it was called, “Staring (sic) DUSTER SEATON.” This iteration was different. When it came to the scene of the guy driving to work, something was actually coming from the radio — a news broadcast listing every murder that had taken place overnight, then on to stories of world hunger, global warming and a new pandemic.
A wave of angst broke over John Losel’s body like a tsunami, and he suddenly recalled the slings and arrows of having to act in a student film. His wooden boss and cardboard girlfriend must be there too, awaiting his demise. When it got to the dear John letter, he couldn’t take any more outrageous misfortune. He suddenly arose, and with Shakespearean pomp, bellowed over the hushed crowd: “That actor is an imposter! DUSTER SEATON is an IMPOSTER!” People tried to grab hold, but it was too late. Duster Seaton had become John Losel, the character he was playing. The bardic madman ran up on stage, casting his imposing shadow on the screen, in time for the suicide scene. “This time you’re not substituting my EFFIGY!” he thundered theatrically, above the film’s head-banger guitar riffs. “Jump! JUMP!” urged the jeering audience. As the camera view tilted down from the 13th floor, he leapt. But it wasn’t a slapstick dream from a silent movie. The screen was a solid object, and he ricocheted with such violence the whole elaborate erection, Dolby speakers and all, crashed to the stage with a sonic boom heard clear across campus. Seaton lay motionless, covered in the cinematic apparatus. It was Duster’s last stand. The professional thespian had given — pro bono — the performance of his life.
© July 2022 by Richard Hancox
