A work of fiction ongoing

Here is something I've been working on. I really wanted to experiment with the first person narrative, telling the story from the main character's point of view. I really enjoyed the way Dean Koontz wrote, in first person, in his Odd Thomas trilogy. The following is an idea I had been playing with for a bit and it simply flowed out of me. I know it needs work and I will be updating periodically, revising, editing and adding to it. It will be an ongoing project on this blog page and I hope you enjoy it, or at least enjoy the concept. Please add comments as you see fit. The dashes in between some paragraphs indicate a possible new chapter. They are, at the very least, breaks. Thank you for reading! -S-

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I often wondered what the universe had in store for me. One day, not too long ago, I was thinking about getting into the world of acting and not too long after that I bumped into some talent agent at the coffee shop. He said I had a great look and a vibe. What era were we in again? This doesn’t happen now; maybe in the 40’s but not now. And a vibe? What the fuck does that mean? Anyway, he asked me if I had a headshot and I told him I wasn’t an actor. He gave me his card and told me to send him a headshot when I decided to become one. Strange, but true.

I told my best friend Dave the other day that the universe wants me to be an actor. He just laughed and said that I certainly had a lot of drama in my life.

I threw a bagel at him.

It’s not drama. It’s just entertainment, I say. It’s what keeps us on our toes. But, Dave was right; I do have a lot of drama in my life. See, I attract attention. If drama were water, I’d be the lowest point. I’m a magnet to this shit. I don’t know why.

I slept on that business card for four straight days, wondering if the guy was full of shit or something. Maybe he does this to unsuspecting people each week just to deflate their egos. Or, he likes to get their headshots to make fun of the obviously fake poses and cheesy smiles that oblivious actor-wannabe’s have. Who knows, but whatever it was I was taking the bait.

The headshots came back two days later. My obviously fake pose and cheesy smile were more apparent than the ones in the family photos or in the snapshots posted on Match.com. The photographer said I was great to work with, that I did exceptionally well. Of course he’d say that after I paid him the money. I have to say though that he did make me look pretty snappy otherwise.

I drafted a letter of intent (more a letter saying that we bumped into each other at the coffee shop last week and that I should send a headshot) and mailed it off with my photographs.

His name was Drew Allen. One should never trust a guy that has two first names, I always said. He was your typical hotshot Hollywood agent (not that I knew what your typical hotshot Hollywood agent looked like). He wore Armani sunglasses, Canali and Armani suits (if he didn’t have them tailor-made), shoes “handcrafted” by Berluti and he probably paid more for each tie than I did for my monthly car note. He was a class act, if you were into shallow shit like that. But his clients loved him (so he says, anyway).

I visited his office in Beverly Hills where he worked for a prestigious talent agency. He had given me a call asking me to come down to discuss his plans for my future. His plans? My future? It all sounded odd to me but I was game. It’s not like being a barista at Starbucks was a superb career goal. But neither was acting. In any case, I was young and I had time to waste some of my youth. Why not give it a try? It’s not like I’d become a famous actor over night or anything. So when I sat down with Drew, we had a serious heart to heart.

“So, kid.. you wanna be an actor, huh? I can see it in you. I don’t do this all the time but I’ve found a few good ones here and there. Some have done well and the others, not so well. But who cares, right?” Drew laughed at his own funny.

Kid? Who the fuck was he calling a kid? He was probably, what, 3 or 4 years older than me? Talk about a blowhard.

“I don’t know if I want to be an actor but I was thinking about it before I bumped into you. It’s something different. I don’t have a lot of experience at it. A high school play here, a weekend with the friends in the backyard there… I dunno, it was just a thought.”

“I’m not worried about talent, son. You have a look. This is how it was done in the 30’s and 40’s…”

Yes, the 30’s and 40’s… Maybe it was a new marketing ploy or a way to use tactics so archaic that it would be laughable in any other profession. And there he went with that ‘son’ comment. Who did he think he was? George Burns? Shit!

“…Anyway, your look and my guidance and we can get you somewhere.”

“So, it doesn’t matter if I have no talent?” I just wanted to make sure I had this straight before I asked any other questions.

“Does Paris Hilton have any talent? Sure, she can suck a tennis ball through a garden hose really well, but she has the talent of a brick. You don’t need talent, kid. Talent’s for thespians and starving artists.”

Great. I'd be excited if I could muster it. Try picturing the jerk-off hand motion.

“So, how do I start? What can you do for me? Is this gonna cost me anything? Is this… a scam?”

“A scam?” he laughed. “No, kid, this isn’t a scam. Scam artists don’t work in one of the biggest talent agencies in the world. Did you see all the hot chicks working outside my office? If this were a scam, they’d be sitting in this office, not you. And, believe me; they’re all wet in the panties hoping for that chance.” His eyes gleamed with the idea that those girls, working for close to minimum wage and doing his dirty work, would do almost anything to just sit on this chair hoping he’d give them a mindfuck and a chance to suck his cock or something. What a prick. “So what’s it gonna cost you?” he asked. “I’ll have a contract drawn up. I know that, with my work and your good looks, I can get you far fast. Standard rate for an agent is forty percent but for you, I’ll take thirty-five, plus expenses and all of that other crap.”

Thirty-five percent. Yeah, like that wasn’t excessive. I later found out that the standard rate was around 10 to 15 percent. Talk about taking advantage.

“Cool, cos I don’t want to get screwed in the end, you know?” I was trying to play coy but I think he knew it.

“Sure, kid. If anyone’s gonna get screwed it’s me. I’m taking a chance in making you a star. Remember that there’s something more important than money. And that’s image and people’s perception of you. If they think you’re full of shit, you’re not gonna get shit. Remember that.”

---

I was sitting in front of the TV playing Halo 3 on the Xbox. I don’t know but there’s something totally Zen about blowing shit up on a video game. It’s even more Zen that you’re blowing other people’s shit up all over the world. I thought it was meditative and enlightening, though most would certainly disagree. Dave let himself in through the front door and sat beside me on the couch. Taking the second controller, he joined in on the fragging that was currently in progress.

“This game so rocks.” Dave was a master of the English language. “If it weren’t for your Xbox, I’d probably never come over.”

“I’ll be sure to get rid of it straight away then.”

“Fuck off.” He slapped me upside my head and proceeded to frag my ass off the map. Afterwards, he brought his character over mine and did multiple crouches over my face. Gamers would call this teabagging. I called it a display of childish domination.

“When are you going to stop doing that? It’s fucking stupid.”

“When you stop dying like a little pussy bitch. You know I’ll always own you. You’re such a newb!”

I’m such a newb? I’m the one that taught him how to play the fucking game. Just because I don’t sleep with my game console doesn’t mean I’m a newb. He might as well change his home address to mine, he’s here so much.

As Dave tapped the controller, his face seemed concentrated on the fast-paced action on the screen. I threw my controller onto the table in front of me and watched for a second. Then I told him about my day with my new agent.

“So you think you’re gonna be a movie star?” he asked.

“I dunno. I mean, he seemed like he knew what he was talking about, though he was talking out of his ass. He said the chicks in his office were wet with wanting him to make them stars. And he kept calling me 'kid'. The dude’s probably 26 and he thinks he knows everything. Whatever. I just want to see what happens.” I pointed to the screen at the guy who was about to shoot him from the rocks above him. His character jumped from one platform onto another where he picked up a grenade and threw it at his would-be killer.

“Fuck you dickwad! Eat that shit!”

Did I mention he has a great command of the English language?

“So he’s writing up the contracts and says he’s taking thirty-five percent from whatever I make.”

“Is that a lot?”

“I dunno. Maybe. But, if he can get me into the business... It’s not about the money, right?”

“Bullshit it’s not! If you make a million bucks, this guy takes 300 geez. That’s a lot of fucking dough, dude.”

Sometimes, his intelligence amazes me. He was right. That was a lot of money. But who said I was going to make a million bucks? I certainly didn’t expect it.

Dave got up and went to the kitchen. “Hey, tell your mom to buy more beer!” he yelled.

“Tell your mom to buy beer and bring it over. What do you think this place is the fucking pub?”

---

It was a week before I heard from Drew. He had an affinity for making things a bigger deal than what they really were. He had a talent, that’s for sure.

“Hey, Matt! How’s it going?”

Yeah, my name is Matt, by the way. I’m 22 years old, six foot one, 190 pounds. I have brown hair and blue eyes and I think I’m in pretty good shape. I used to surf, play water polo and I like long walks on short piers. Anyway, I’ve been told I could be a model. What kind of model, I don’t know but if I had the choice I’d want to be one of those 1970’s Trans Am’s that Burt Reynolds drove in Smokey and the Bandit.

"Everything's good. I've been promoted to head barista. It's.. well, it's cool." Yeah, I was stoked. Not.

"Sounds wonderful. Hey, I've been in all of these meetings, shopping you around, getting some feedback. Everything's been fucking great, man. You're making a great impression! People like you. Anyway, I sent you your resume. I took the liberty."

He took the liberty? Great. I can't wait to see what talents I possess. It'll probably say that I can speak in several non-essential accents, I'm great with kids, I can ride a mountain bike - down hill - and that I've been trained by some top-notch acting coach. I'll have to wait and see. Of course, it doesn't matter if one has talent or not, right? Right.

"Great, thanks for looking out. I can't wait to see it. So, where do we go from here?

"I'll let you know. But things are looking good for you kid. Things are looking good."

Fucking aye, I need to tell him to stop calling me kid!