Whenever the struggling actor was in a quandary, he asked himself this question. The answer came quickly. 2,614 words. Illustration by Mark Fearing.
“I’m going to kill you. Gonna watch you die and enjoy it. When you leaked that evidence about me, you made a big mistake. And now you’re gonna pay.” Jonathon Levy moved the gun closer to the bald man.
The bald man’s face remained blank. “Thanks. You can go now.”
“But I got more lines.”
“I’ve heard enough.” The bald man, whose name was William Henry, wrote something down on a pad then pushed his chair toward the desk.
Levy didn’t move.
“Sir, I have other people to see.”
Levy looked around the large empty audition hall, then leaned toward Henry, his small frame tiny next to the other man’s meatier physique. “What did you think?”
“Fine.”
“I can do it another way if you like. More innocence, add in some humor, tougher. Any way you want.”
Henry blew out air. “You should go home, wait for your agent’s call.”
Levy nodded, sure the casting director gave him a signal — a signal that meant he got the part. That was good news, as he needed the money. Levy had been working in “the biz,” as he called it, for several years. He got the odd role, but not enough to keep him from being a waiter in a family restaurant. He hated the rude customers and screaming kids who often spilled ketchup and other crap on his white uniform. He hoped this would be the part that would take him to the top — perhaps getting him work with Pacino, his idol. He grinned at Henry and left.
become legitimate stars, including Academy Award winner Halle Berry. (I admire her so much that I’ve granted my husband blanket permission to sleep with her if she ever happens to ask him. I can bed Mahershala Ali.) Now it’s even better, with blazing talents like Viola Davis, Jennifer Hudson and Lupita N’yongo walking away with Oscar statuettes.
And once again, I faced an unpayable mortgage. I managed to stretch a few paltry residuals and my unemployment benefits to cover my cell bill, utilities and the minimum payments on my credit card balances. It struck me that “balance” was an interesting word to call mounting debt. What would they call it once it came tumbling down all around me? Bankruptcy, I guessed. Foreclosure.
