The Writer's Life 9/1 - Audition

My thanks to Thirsty Dave, lead singer of country swing band Western Caravan, and his wife Candy, who donated a box full of mostly counterculture literature. Candy showed me pictures she took while the group was in Japan, where they played two sets at a musical festival on Mt. Fuji. It went so well they were invited back for next year's bash. Kudos. My thanks also to the kind folks who made purchases, especially Ira, who took a ton of weight off my hands, buying a huge pictorial of New Yorker cartoons, a compilation of famous quotes, and Trademarks of the `40s and `50s by Tyler Blik, Erik Baker and Steven Heller.

I'm a month away from resuming work on the novel I plan to self-publish in January. The title is Present and Past, and here's how it begins:

 Fred Canto?"
"Right here," said a tall, dark-haired, well-groomed man, rising.
He squeezed through the cramped space between the rows of seats, carefully lest he trample toes, inwardly amused at the irony, as the trampling of toes seemed what it was all about here
"From the top."
He climbed onto the small stage, script in hand. The sleeves of his flannel shirt were rolled up to his elbows, revealing forearms of a wiry muscular definition. He had no idea how to tackle the part. He thought the writing weak, colorless. He sensed it was comedic, but wasn't sure. The actors who’d preceded him had shed no light on the subject, nor had any of those still awaiting a turn. He'd encountered many of them at previous auditions. None seemed comfortable, although he suspected some might have been playing dumb in order to gain an edge.
He doubted the play would ever escape the tiny theater. He was kept in place by a shred of uncertainty as to its worth. He would hate himself if it turned out he'd turned his back on a work destined to become a cult classic. Besides, he'd been told by his teachers that any audition was valuable. In ten years, however, he'd yet to grasp of what value they were. He was no more comfortable now than he’d been at his first open call, but he kept at it, determined to land a role, however insignificant, before he died.
"Okay, we'll call you," said the director, scanning his notes.
"Yeah," Freddie scoffed, louder than he would have liked.
He paused, stunned at this rare loss of self-control. He'd allowed his inner voice to betray his feelings. He was averse to showing emotion to people who weren't important to him.
The director was staring at him. Freddie avoided eye contact. Several of the actors were covering their mouths, amused, pleased that a competitor had eliminated himself. How he hated them.
He stifled the urge to protest. What good would it do? He'd given his best. If three minutes was all they would allow, why should he be upset? The hour he'd spent commuting, the two wait¬ing, would have been passed in bed. He'd rather be up, doing. He didn't want to sleep his life away. There wasn't time enough anymore. What difference did it make if he didn't earn a living as an actor? He still had his classes, where he performed the work of masters, not hacks. Fame didn't matter. It often had nothing to do with excellence.
Sour grapes, he told himself, hanging his head as he reached the exit.
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