Up to the Ship the next morning, couple of Mike’s Hard Lemonade. Me audition wasnt till eleven. It wasnt so much that I was nervous, just anxious to pass the time. I was startin to like the Ship in the mornings, not as dark and closed in as the Hatchet, there’s more floor space and tables and you can have eggs and bacon and toast and there’s not as many hardcore drinkers. So I’m less inclined to let meself get carried away. I called Iz from the pay phone and had a little chat. She wasnt too pleased with me for leavin her on her own the night before, but she let it go cause she was after gettin a call-back from that casting director first thing in the morning. Delighted with herself, her hopes sky-high all over again. She told me not to tell no one. She said she’d meant to give me this thing called The Audition Tip Checklist that highlighted all the dos and donts. I had to laugh at that though. I mean, it was only the one fuckin line.
—Call me as soon as you finish your audition. Okay?
—Okay.
—Or better yet, why dont you just come over?
—I could do that, yeah.
—Well, I’ll be waiting.
Bit of a crowd outside the entrance to the LSPU Hall. Everybody got scripts. Philip Lahey and that Clyde Whelan cunt are here, they got scripts. They nods at me. I gets a smoke off this blond missus named Charlene who’s been hangin around the Hatchet again lately. She talks through her nose. I hear she’s balls-deep into the crack and even started hookin. Social Services took her little girl or something. She’s here to audition too. Keith storms outta the Hall and bangs the heavy steel door behind him. Thought he’d skipped town again, but maybe not. Or maybe he’s already gone and back again? He crumples up his script and fires it on the ground, sorta shoulders me outta the way when he goes past. I lets it go, but I makes up me mind to call him on it some night in the not-so-distant future.
A crisp band poster tacked to the balcony. The Cold Shoulder, ONE NIGHT ONLY!! The Green Room on George Street. A blurry picture of the band. It turns me stomach and I wants to rip it down but I figure that’d look too petty, even though no one could know my connection with them. I dont mean to, but I makes a mental note of the date.
I finishes me smoke and goes inside cause I cant concentrate with everybody yakkin. There’s another crowd inside. One fella got a full fuckin ambulance outfit on and I curses meself cause I got this dandy old RNC shirt down in me closet that I coulda worn, if I’da thought on it. Some fellas must be about forty odd years old and I has glance at one of their scripts and it’s the same role I’m supposed to get. Dont make no sense. Then there’s one young fella who looks to be about fourteen. Not too many women around. Trish is here, Isadora’s girlfriend. She smiles at me. Havent laid eyes on her since that night I ahhh…that night I done the acid with Brent. Trish. Yeah. Her and Iz went to school together and what roles one dont get the other always seems to. I reckon there’s a bit of a rivalry there. Some fuckin rivalry though if Isadora finds out about…Ahh fuck sure, you gotta be allowed to mess shit up a bit when you’re first startin off with someone. What good would it do at this point to lay all that on Iz? We’re gone way beyond that stage now.
First time I met Trish was this night when I was workin at the Hatchet and Isadora was workin up at the Ship. Busy night for me, but slow for Iz. Brent was playin pool at the Hatchet, half in the bag. He was just after movin into the apartment that week and so no one even knew who he was. The phone rings and it’s Iz and she’s bawlin. Some fella up at the Ship named John Hibbs was givin her shit. He’s some kinda theatre director who gives acting classes too, so he thinks his shit dont stink. He was there with Trish and there was no one else in the bar. I didnt know him, only that he was a snide and loud-mouthed blowhard a couple of times at the Hatchet and he owed Mike Quinn a huge bar tab. I spied him a couple of times too, hangin around the edges of the Table of Death at the Ship. Anyhow, he was after sayin everything to Izzy, called her a little bitch and a fuckin cocktease, just cause she wouldnt let him have happy hour prices. He banged his fist on the bar and screamed at her that he’d been comin to the Ship for twenty-five years and that he’d seen dozens and dozens of little princesses just like her behind that very bar and that he was after spendin enough money in there over the years that he was entitled to happy hour prices. She wouldnt give in to ’im though, God love ’er. But she was some upset that she hadda take that kinda shit when all she wanted to be doin was actin and paintin. I was fuckin vicious. I asked her what she wanted me to do but she wouldnt let me go up. I couldnt anyhow, cause the Hatchet was hoppin and if I left me post Mike woulda had me head. So I called Brent over from the pool table and described that scrawny fuckin Hibbs prick to him and told him what was after goin on at the Ship with Isadora. Brent’d only met Iz a few days before. He’d wandered into the Ship and she was there loaded and they got talkin and he asked her if she knew me, and of course she did. She figured out who he was then, where I was after tellin ’er about him movin in with me, and she turned on him and tossed her full beer in his face, accused him of bein up at the Ship spyin on her for me. Brent didnt give a fuck, hardly the first beer he’s after havin slopped in his face. She came down to the apartment a couple of hours later and went into his bedroom and jumped on him and forced him to accept her apology. What’s she like atall? And I reckon he did forgive her too cause he wasnt long marchin up to the Ship when I told him what was goin on with that Hibbs cocksucker. Or maybe he was just bored, I dont know.
I got three versions of the story later that night, from Isadora and Trish and Brent, but basically they were all the same, just that everybody had their own details to offer up.
Brent met John Hibbs and Trish when they were on their way outta the Ship. He gave Hibbs a shove.
—Are you John Hibbs?
Hibbs was flustered, to say the least. None of them old downtown theatre arts fuckers ever gets called on anything. They thinks they’re above it all. But they’re not.
—Y-yes, of course. And who might you be?
—You stole my fuckin b’yfriend!
Brent grabbed Hibbs by the jacket and pushed him up against the door.
—I-I’m sorry, I have no idea—
—Dont lie to me, fucker. You stole my fuckin b’yfriend!
Hibbs got all embarrassed then, with Trish standin there. He was prob’ly hopin to take her home and fuck ’er, as is the way with amateur acting teachers. He tried to shove past, but Brent slammed him against the wall again. Isadora poked her head out through the door when she heard the racket, but she had the good sense not to say Brent’s name out loud. She didnt wanna be associated with what was goin on I s’pose. Slick enough aint she?
—But, but I’m not even gay.
—No b’y. Look at yourself sure.
—Who’s your boyfriend?
—You fuckin well knows who he is, you fucked him! And look here…
Brent bashed the bottom of his beer bottle off the wall of the building and held the jagged end up to John Hibbs’s face.
—…if you ever come near him again, and I means ever, I’ll cut your fuckin cock off. How’s that sound?
—Shut your fuckin face!
Brent smashed the rest of the bottle at Hibbs’s feet and took off up over the steps towards Duckworth. I thought that was pretty smooth, takin off in the other direction like that. Hibbs and Trish went back inside and Isadora said later that he was so shook up he couldnt even talk. He called a cab while Iz locked up the bar and then he had the two of the girls wait on the street with him till the cab showed up.
Brent came back to the Hatchet, all outta breath and laughin his head off. Ten minutes later Isadora and Trish walked in. Trish got pretty freaked out when she saw Brent, so we had to explain the whole thing to her. She was good buddies with Hibbs and didnt find it near as funny as the rest of us. But in the end she warmed up. I mean, Hibbs only got what was comin to him, tormenting my fuckin missus like that. He’s lucky it wasnt me wavin a broken bottle in his face.
Trish smooths out her top and starts to say something to me, but before she can get it out, that casting director woman comes and shouts out her name. Pomeroy, that’s right. I knew she had a real townie name. That casting director missus looks at me and smiles and says:
—Hello Clayton.
I takes it as a good sign, that she remembered me name. Trish jumps up and follows her down the corridor. All hands are sittin around mumblin their lines, so I wanders into the art gallery where I can be alone. I still got the lemonade with me and I’m startin to feel a bit flushed in the face, bit of a heartburn. Strong stuff. I glances at me script and says me line out loud a few times.
I wanders around the gallery and looks at all the different paintings. I coulda painted half of ’em meself. Couple of nice ones there though. One huge oil one called Sneaking Around that shows two pickup trucks in the dark meetin each other in some remote, wooded area. I likes that one. Reminds me of home. There’s another one called Anti-Christ that I’m after readin about in the paper earlier in the week. Some Catholic priest issued a statement about the depraved nature of the arts. It stirred up quite a bit of shit too, and I can see why. The painting shows an altar boy on his knees and a pair of some man’s black pants and shoes pressed dangerously close to him. You cant see the boy’s head, but it’s obviously level with the man’s crotch. There’s a set of rosary beads dangling from the man’s pocket and a big stained-glass window with a crucifixion scene in the background. Pretty obvious, what’s goin on there. If I had the money I’d buy it for Isadora. She’s always goin on about how she’s got no religion no more, how she useta feel “watched over” but that now, when she goes to say a prayer or whatever, that she dont feel no “presence” anymore. I argues with her that it’s all propaganda anyhow, all that Catholic shit. It’s all one big guilt trip, and that’s prob’ly all she’s feeling. And if she came clean with herself she’d prob’ly be relieved to admit she didnt really believe any of it in the first fuckin place. There’s nothing and no one watchin over us. There’s no fuckin God. If there was, you think he’d be lettin priests get away with all the shit they been gettin away with for so long? I dont fuckin think so, unless he’s some kinda perverted fuckhead himself, which would make a whole lot more sense, when you takes a good hard look at the world.
Trish walks out the door to the upstairs theatre with a big grin on her face. She hooks her finger into the breast pocket of me shirt and gives it a little tug when she’s passin by. It kinda takes me off balance a bit, where me foot is fucked, but I manages not to tumble.
—Break a leg Clayton!
—Yeah, I’d be good and fucked then wouldnt I?
—Oh my God. Sorry. I forgot.
—Ahhh, it’s nothing girl. Just tryna be funny.
—Where’s Izzy?
I thinks about that then, before I answers, I dont know why. Maybe you shouldnt speak right now. I loves Isadora and everything, I mean, I fuckin adores her, and I have no more intentions of fuckin her around, cause she’s been fucked around enough in her days, but it’s like I cant turn off that part of meself that wants to be on the hunt, like I have this need to keep me options open, just in case the shit hits the fan. Trish’s big old jugs. Forbidden fruit.
—I have no fuckin clue.
—Oh? Are you still together?
—Yeah. I s’pose.
—Well, I’ll see you then.
She sorta blows me a kiss and twirls around and disappears. I feels like shit and starts to panic and I wants to run after her and set her straight on me and Iz’s situation, that we’re fine and in love and un-fuckin-stoppable, that I’d never dream of hurtin her like that. Again. That it’d all been a big messy fuck-up in the first place. That night. And I mean, what if Trish was just settin me up, to see what I’d say? Never know with these artsy types. What if Isadora put her up to it? What if she already knows everything? Fuck.
The door busts open and that casting director missus sees me standin in the gallery.
—OK Clayton. You can come up now, if you’re ready.
I tosses me script into the garbage as I’m walkin up the steps behind her. She got on a little short skirt and I can see the thick blue veins on the backs of her legs. She prob’ly thinks I’m tryna get a gawk at ’er hole or something, which I kinda am.
—I’m Yolanda by the way.
I offers her me hand but she dont turn around, goes into the theatre without noticing. I gotta sign me name and leave me phone number and make note of the time. I leaves the number to the Hatchet and squeezes a little note into the margin that I mightnt be there but to leave a message. I turns around and Yolanda takes a Polaroid picture of me that leaves a big blue blotch in front of me eyes.
—You can stand in the centre there please Clayton.
She walks away, flappin the Polaroid in her hand behind her. I walks into the centre of the stage. It’s all I can do to cover up me limp. There’s a camera on a stand off to the side and a guy fiddlin with it. I nods at him but he dont nod back. The front row, where the audience usually sits, has about seven or eight people. Some’re talkin to each other and one’s talkin into a cell phone, takin notes. Yolanda presents me:
—This is Clayton Reeves, he’ll be reading for the role of—
—Reid.
—Excuse me?
—It’s Clayton Reid, not Reeves. You got me mixed up with Superman.
Nobody laughs. I feels like a stick of shit. Cold room. Yolanda clears her throat.
—Clayton will be reading for Ambulance Guy Number One. Clayton, this is Francis Crane, our director.
Francis fuckin Crane hey? Well fuck me. This is the guy who had Iz bouncin in his lap that night I walked into the Ship on acid. This is that same crowd who were gathered around him gigglin after his every word. Isadora’s comin bread and butter, if she gets the part she’s lookin for. And how far will she go to get it I wonder? How much lap dancing did she do on camera to get that call-back? Fuck me anyhow. Here I am. And I can tell neither one of ’em even remembers me. Fuck the lot of ’em.
I takes a step ahead and sticks out me hand and Crane just looks at it and nods at me. I feels like a much bigger stick of shit, one that’s startin to stink bad.
—Slate please.
—What?
—Slate.
—I’m sorry, I dont…
Yolanda comes to me rescue.
—Just look into the camera and say your name and the role you’re reading for.
I looks straight into the camera and does what she told me to do.
—And begin when you’re ready please.
I looks at Mr. Director, Francis Crane. He’s scribblin something into his notebook. He leans over to the girl sittin next to him and whispers something and she giggles. I clears me throat. Yolanda:
—Just begin when you’re ready Clayton.
I keeps starin at Crane. I’m fully prepared to stand here all day. Finally he looks up, sees that I’m waitin on him to be quiet, sits up right straight in his seat with his two hands flat on his legs and gives me a big exaggerated nod.
—Maybe you shouldnt talk right now.
As soon as I got the line out Crane starts whispering to the girl again. She’s tryin not to laugh out loud and her face is gettin red. Yolanda smiles at me.
—Could you try it with a little more urgency maybe? And it’s “speak.” Maybe you shouldnt speak right now.
—What? That’s…well what did I say?
—You said “talk.”
One fuckin line and I fucks it up, first go. Off to a grand start anyways.
Urgency, urgency.
—Maybe you shouldnt speak right now.
—OK, now, how about bringing it down a little, like perhaps the person you’re talking to could be a good friend that you care about?
I pictures poor old Nathan from the script, gettin wheeled away to the hospital with his face all bust up, after gettin struck down or shot or whatever. I imagines Isadora and then Val in the same situation. I thinks about me mother, all them years ago, her body broken in bits after rollin her truck twenty times just past the Ferryland graveyard. A lump comes to me throat. I takes a deep breath, lets the line bounce around in me head. I opens me mouth. The girl next to Francis Crane suddenly busts out laughin, then catches herself and walks outta the room as fast as she can. What the fuck is goin on here? Crane stands up and looks right at me.
—My apologies Christopher, please continue.
—It’s fuckin Clayton, alright? I aint Christopher fuckin Reeves.
He sits down then and looks around at his entourage and smirks. A nervous ripple goes through the row of bodies, everybody readjusting themselves in their seats and wipin their eyeglasses or reachin into the black leather bags at their feet. No one lets Crane meet their eye and I realizes that maybe nobody else in the room actually likes him. Yolanda dont miss a beat:
—OK Clayton, whenever you’re ready?
I looks straight at Francis fuckin Crane.
—Maybe you shouldnt speak right now.
Yolanda:
—And once more please? Maybe this time with a little more presence, and not so surly?
Surly? I’ll give ya fuckin surly. Buncha spoiled fuckin herbal-tea-swillin moneyed mutts. Holy sweet fuck. One goddamn line. Presence? I looked right into the camera for the last one.
—Maybe, you shouldnt speak right now.
Crane stands up and starts clappin his hands. I cant tell if he’s mockin me or not. The girl who’d been laughin comes back in with a cup of tea on a saucer and gives it to him.
—So tell me then, have you done much acting?
—Well I bartends. That takes a lot of bullshit.
—Yes, well, I see, but never any paid acting work?
He slurps at his tea and sort of waves his other hand in a circle to make me answer faster.
—No.
—I see. Well then, sir. Thank you very much.
Yolanda interrupts him.
—We’ve been having some people read for another role today too Clayton. Just a dry read, right off the page. Should we hear him read that one Frank?
Crane looks at my boots and then lets his eyes climb up my body till he’s taken in every inch of me. Fuckin creepy.
—No, no. Thank you Yolanda, I think we’ve seen all we need to see. Is there anything you’d like to add Clayton?
I can add the print of me fist to the back of your throat, subtract a few of them pearly-white store-bought teeth. Spindly, cunty-balled, soul-less wanker.
—No.
—Very well. Thank you for your time. We will be in touch.
I turns to go then, not the way I came up, but instead towards the EXIT that leads out to the wheelchair ramp, just to show the bastards that I knows me way around, that I’m on me own turf and coulda slain the works of ’em if I wanted to. Yolanda wont look up from some little beepy gadget she’s playin with. Then someone says:
—How did you hurt your foot, by the way?
—Stompin some fuckin arsehole’s head in.
I dont know why I said it, it just came out.
I walks out into the blinding sun and lights up a smoke. The sour stench of thawing dogshit on the wind. First true sign of spring in Newfoundland.
I realizes then that I still got the Mike’s Hard Lemonade in me hand. The whole time. Trish is sittin down on the bandstand above the steps that lead down to Duckworth. Waitin for me. There’s a Cold Shoulder poster on the ground near her foot, another one stapled to the beam near her head. Fuck.
She jumps up when she sees me comin.
—How did it go?
—Oh, pretty good. Not much to it.
She links her arm around mine and we walks down over the steps.
—Will we go for a drink then? Celebrate?
Isadora, home detoxing, sweatin her demons out and dyin to be havin a drink, not wantin to be alone and worried about God and money. I so wants to just shuffle on up the road and go flop down beside her and bury me face in her and maybe even have a good bawl for meself. I wonder would that be close enough for her, me bawlin in her arms.
But I’m more in the mood for a drink. I’ll have a couple and then grab a cab to Iz’s and crash. I starts to cross the road towards the Ship, but Trish pulls me back onto the sidewalk. I reaches out to balance meself and accidentally sets me hand on her big sturdy left breast. I feels the nipple, hard under the padding in her bra. She giggles.
—No. Let’s not do the Ship Clay. Let’s go somewhere new. I’m sick of all those seedy bars.
I just nods and sorta leans me weight against her and fills me lungs with the smell of her hair as we walks up the street.
I’m pretty fuckin sick of them seedy bars too.