I thank the kind folks who bought books on this blustery day, and also those at MySurvey.com for the 10,000 bonus points ($100), which will help refill the Paypal coffers after I purchase copies of Killing. And thanks to the woman who stopped to tell me how much she enjoyed A Hitch in Twilight. Unfortunately, she's not a fan of football, so Adjustments didn't interest her, but she said she would return in a few weeks to check out Killing.
Here's an excerpt from one of my few remaining unpublished stories, Mysteries, written circa 1990:
Maybe it was the light in his eyes and not the light emanating from her being that lit up the stage. Maybe it was just loneliness reaching out, or the longing for a dream come true. Hadn't he fantasized about meeting a struggling fellow artist? Wasn't it the primary reason he attended these productions other than the honoring of a childhood friend? Wasn't this off-off-Broadway setting the equivalent of the magazine of no consequence in which he'd scored his only success?
There were approximately 50 seats, folding chairs, in the cramped "theater," a room on the sixth floor of an old office building in midtown. The atmosphere was dreary and stuffy. The stage was elevated only two feet and was so small that the area before it had to be utilized. 8th Avenue was below. Several XXX theaters, including an all-male, were in the vicinity.
She was pale, auburn-haired, and sculpted as if she exercised religiously. Her sensuality leapt from the stage. He grew queasy, fearful he wouldn't be able to match it. The temptation Paul said he'd suffered was understandable. Her bosom was ample and proud and in wonderful proportion to her athletic frame. How Paul maintained professionalism when she threw herself atop the bed and rubbed against him in an effort to rouse him from a deep "sleep," he did not know.
Yeah, you actors got it tough, he was tempted to shout, wondering what Andie, Paul's wife, thought of it. She wasn't present. Maybe she had similar scenes in her own work. He wasn't sure he would be able to handle such a situation himself. He was already jealous - and he hadn't even met the woman.
She employed a terrible Hispanic accent. Figures, he thought, amazed at the coincidences, the connections that continually occurred in life. Was everything really one - or was it just illusion, a desperate desire for a unity that would prove life had meaning? He was certain Yvette, the 19-year-old he loved, and Marissa, his 31-year old confidante, would find the portrayal insulting. The slash in the tacky hosiery was especially offensive, if erotic. Soon, however, it was apparent that the play was farce, which justified the accent and attire. He was relieved, having feared she was grossly untalented. On the contrary, she aroused considerable laughter, as did Paul, whose character awoke late in the play and mumbled his "lines" unintelligibly. The script instructed the actor to "improvise."
It was with trepidation that he attended these productions, fearful that Paul, whom he loved as one would a little brother, would not give a good account of himself. He was no judge of acting, but Paul seemed equally adept at comedy or drama. He was filled with hope as he noted a woman in the front row taking notes, smiling as she gazed at photographs of the principals. The audiences were usually comprised of friends, relatives, and other struggling actors.
After the show he waited in a hall amongst others lingering to offer congratulations. To pass time he studied photographs of the cast, which were displayed on a wall. Each seemed to have been shot by the same photographer. Everyone looked handsome and fit, even the character who'd had an eating problem. She hadn't been wearing padding. He'd craned his neck above the heads before him and noted the thick ankles, which would not lie. He wondered how a casting agent would react to the vast difference between the photograph and actuality. Paul seemed even handsomer, the dimness of his teeth entirely absent.
He was suddenly chagrined, realizing his emphasis on appearance. The young woman was talented, blessed with a wonderful, booming voice and glowing presence. She would never be a leading lady but seemed ideally suited to the role of kookie neighbor on a situation comedy.
He studied Sonya's photograph. Curiously, unlike those of the others, it did not do her justice. Her hair seemed darker, straighter, without life. He suspected the pictures were shot in black and white to minimize flaws. She'd seemed flawless, at least from a distance. He cautioned himself, recalling the diva who had seemed so beautiful on the stage of the auditorium of a high school at which he'd once subbed.
He read the profile of her that appeared in the photocopied Playbill. He'd never heard of any of the independent films in which she'd appeared. She'd done theater in L.A. and was a founding member of The Nuclear Family Co., which had staged tonight's play. He was skeptical of the credits, as Paul's were also extensive, although his appearances in films were fleeting, without dialogue. He wondered if he should exaggerate in his own queries to agents and publishers. Maybe honesty was foolish.
Read Vic's stories, free:
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