Short Story: 'Role of a Lifetime'

I’ve been in this green room so many times I can’t tell you. They keep you waiting in here in case an audition comes up. It’s not so much the waiting (waiting… and waiting) that I mind, it’s those occasionally flutters of hope that drain the soul.

The room itself doesn’t inspire much in the way of confidence. The waxy plant in the corner has given up the ghost, I can see little clouds of dust in the soil. And the biscuit selection is not what it used to be. Oh we’d have two plates - Jammie-Dodgers and pink wafers - even the occasional chocolatey finger. Now we’re left with Rich Tea chucked on a plate like loose change. Very dry. Still, I don’t complain.

Unlike him.

Zeb hasn’t touched his tea. He’s looking a bit beat-up by life these days. He still has that thin scarf thrown around his neck with theatrical flair. Still those horn-rimmed glasses he so loves to whip off and chew on and glower over. Still has that air of resolute dignity. But he does look tired. The eyes are soft and watery. We’re both getting older.

I’ve finished all my mags. Zeb wasn’t in the mood to hear any stories from them today. Well, he never has been and today was no different. He can be a grumpy old sod. Some of those stories, well you wouldn’t believe what people get up to -

“You haven’t touched your tea,” I say.

“I don’t want the tea,” he huffs, “Alma you know I won’t touch the tea they make here. Once you’ve tasted the tea I had in India…”

“Oh India! Excuse us, it did give you delusions of grandeur didn’t it?”

“I beg your pardon! There’s nothing grand about me my dear.” He crosses his arms. I roll my eyes to the walls and feel their silent agreement.

I twiddle my feet a bit. Then swing them beneath me. Then stretch to see if they could reach the table. Zeb places a firm hand on my thigh. I put my feet back on the floor.

“Never did India myself,” I say, “Australia once. But that’s quite different isn’t it?”

“Your problem Alma is this incessant need to fill silence. Let’s us just…” His hands, held out in front, descend gently -

“Be quiet?”

“Yes, Alma be - “

A young woman comes in. I jump. Zeb straightens himself with a cough. Is it a casting director? No, just another poor soul fishing for a job.

“Hello,” she squeaks, “Is this the right place?”. She’s full of enthusiasm this one, bouncing on her heels. It’s nice to see - I suppose.

“Yes dear it is,” I say. Zeb’s eyeing her carefully, suspiciously.

It’s what you do in this game. You meet someone and without even thinking too much you can immediately size up what they’d be cast as and if that means they’re competition. She’s no threat at all. More’s the pity. Nobody in their right mind would put the two of us up for the same role. Not any more.

I offer her a Rich Tea. She doesn’t want one. A lemon sherbet? (I keep some in my handbag just in case). She doesn’t want one. Funny looking girl. Pretty I suppose, in that obvious way you get these days. In my day you really had to search for the beauty. It was earned.

“What do they call you then?” I ask.

“Marla,” she beams with a wide fake smile, “pleased to meet you.”

“I imagine you are,” sighs Zeb grandly. I nudge him. She’ll think we’re a pair of bitter old luvvies if he lets on like that. And you don’t want an impression like that getting back to the casting directors. No, you’ve got to keep positive. And relevant. That’s the other buzzword they like so much these days. ‘Stay relevant Alma!’ they say.

“Are you nervous dear?” I ask.

“Yes a little,“ she says with a practised giggle.

“It can be nerve-racking when you’re starting out,” I say while fishing out another sherbet lemon for myself, “though frankly it’s a struggle for us to remember that far back!”

“I remember my first role clearly,” said Zeb firmly, “It was acclaimed - a classic. Greek. Parmenides the philosopher. They still speak of it.”

“Of course they do dear,” I said patting his leg.

“I’m hoping for my second role actually,” said Marla - “The first went well, I think - hard to know really - but everything went as expected.”

“Hmm - you’ll never make an impression that way my dear,” said Zeb idly cleaning his glasses with a corner of his shirt, “History does not remember the expected.”

“Oh don’t mind him,” I say, “It’s the smaller roles that keep you going my dear - You don’t want a big one early on and then fade to nothing. No, no trust me - keep plugging along with the quiet ones.”

“If only you knew how to play small Alma. One of the most shameless scene-stealers I’ve ever worked with,” says Zeb holding his glasses up to the light, looking for smears..

“He’s a little tetchy,” I explain, “Been a while since he - “

“I’ve been resting,” says Zeb, “I’m just waiting for the right role. There’s so few good ones these days. I was offered an American President. They begged me for it. ‘You’re the only one who can do it justice!’ they said. But I had to turn it down. All that sex just felt gratuitous. And anyway the whole thing is bloody ridiculous these days. No art or finesse to it at all. No respect for the craft. I despair, I truly despair.” Zeb pounds the armrest with his fist.

Marla’s eyes widen with awkward alarm.

“I’m resting too,” I say. Marla smiles politely.

“Being rested more like. Causes a bloody uprising on every job she gets this one!” Zeb chuckles slightly, then stiffly corrects himself with a cough, “But really Alma, you need to calm down my girl, you do get the whole company rattled.”

I wiggle my feet a little and feel my cheeks glowing with pride. I suppose I always was a bit of a trouble-maker - a rabble-rouser they used to say.

Marla watches us both carefully then asks -

“Are either of you thinking of giving it up soon?”

Bloody cheek.

“Absolutely not!” I say with a smile so fixed it pinches, “There’s no retirement in this game. No, you keep going until you - get retired. Isn’t that right Zeb dear?”

I pat Zeb’s leg but he has a far-away look on his face. I know it well. He’s hiding his hurt.

The casting director comes in.

“Hello Sue!” I muster as much enthusiasm as one can for an immortal enemy. Sue doesn’t look up from her clipboard. She never does. The cow.

“Bring any biscuits Sue?” growls Zeb.

Sue sighs - “No. But I do have a nice role for… you”. She turns to Marla. Marla bounces on her seat and claps like a seal. “Now it may look fairly run of the mill - but there’s potential for a few twists…”

Sue looks up at us. She might sense we’re not overflowing with goodwill and joy so decides to talk to Marla outside. Marla leaves with a slight wave and a condescending tilt of the head -

“Good luck you guys!” She crosses both her fingers. The door shuts behind her.

“What an insufferably twit,” says Zeb.

“Agreed. That’s not her natural hair either. But that’s what they want these days. Eager new ones to rush in and shake things up.” I feel the lemon sherbet rattle in my teeth, “I used to shake things up. I remember my first notices. One to watch! they said.”

“More likely ‘one to monitor’ considering all the trouble you caused,” says Zeb allowing himself a slight smile.

“Well it was fun,” I say as I snuggle into the memory, “The swords, the conquering, the cries of battle, the desperate pleas from the enemies. Good times.”

“Now it’s all the rock n roll set,” says Zeb.

“Oh no it’s not that anymore, they’ve changed it.”

“Have they?” said Zeb idly. “It all goes so fast now…”

Silence settles a moment. We both drift away on freshly stirred memories of lives gone by.

“I remember Crete,” says Zeb - almost to himself, “The fields that rolled from our vila to the shore, that golden sun whispering through the corn - the bold fresh sea. I can smell it. My son’s little hand in mine. Papa one day I’ll be the greatest warrior and make you proud he said. I squeezed his hand back - I wanted to tell him I was already so proud. He drowned while playing with friends near the cliffs. It was his eleventh birthday.

… And then a different time, far north, a few centuries later perhaps. Snow piled against the hut - covered in animal skin you know - my wife singing by the hearth, flames crackling, the children at her feet. What was that melody?”

Zeb hums a light tune then looses it. He straightens himself - “It’s funny the things you remember isn’t it?”

“You know you’re not meant to get attached to the memories,” I pick up and put down my mug of tea, it’s cold and grey now.

“Well, I do get attached. I hang onto them all. Dearly.” Then he turns and looks at me directly for the first time in ages - “I must tell you Alma old friend, I’m finished. Done. I know when to exit the stage…”

“Don’t talk daft, you’ve got plenty of lives in you yet. Besides, God knows what happens to us when we’re retired…”

“Whatever it is - it’s time.”

“Daft talk. That’s all that is. And you’re not to speak like that around here. They’ll hear you and think you’ve lost the spirit. You’ve got to keep the eagerness up. That’s what they want. Eagerness - and ‘relevance’ whatever that means. - but mostly eagerness."

“Oh they can stick the eagerness. I’m an old soul. I’ve seen and done it all too many times. I’m too knowing to throw myself into the sex and the drugs and whatever rock and roll is called these days. I can’t be doing with all that. No. Time to take a final bow old friend. We’ve seen some good times together eh?”

“Yes, yes we have - “

My hands twiddle on my lap. I want to stop him. To slap him. To hug him. To hold and keep him in this moment before it all changes - but with a firm nod, he pulls himself away -

“No bloody tissues in here either,” the tickle of tears catching in Zeb’s throat, “They used to have in the old days.”

“Standards slipping.” I say.

“Yes! haha yes. Indeed. Excuse me a moment dear.”

Zeb stiffly steps out of the room.

I’m left alone.

***

Sue comes back in and leans on the door with a sigh

“He’s just stepped out for a tissue - “

“Who?” Sue doesn’t look up from her clipboard. The cow. “Okay we may have something for you.”

I straighten and wipe my face.

“I’m as surprised as you are - but desperate times… New York, Italian-American family - needs to be vivacious, determined, funny - you have done some comedy have you?”

“I was Queen Elizabeth’s favourite jester you know Sue.”

“Yes well, comedy changes… Okay, there’s a lot to play with in the second half so you will need to use those improv skills.”

“Not a worry, I love improv. The more I can make a role my own the better - ”

“That’s the concern. We know you like to go 'off script’ quite a bit. There’s absolutely not to be any bloodshed or conquering this time.”

“I will absolutely try to resist that.”

Sue marks this down. I’m finally getting back out there. Oh and to think that Zeb said I wouldn’t work again! He will be so jealous - I look at his empty chair and I -

“Hang about, actually why not try Zeb for this one?”

“Oh no. Let’s not go there. Between you and me, he’s not got the energy for it anymore. We’re phasing out a lot of the more - ‘classically trained’ ones - quietly retiring them we call it.”

“But you shouldn’t throw us lot away. All that talent, that wisdom. You can’t replace that. These young ones don’t appreciate the texture of life, the little moments, they just run through it all so quickly - “

“The old souls don’t test well. They tend to do nothing but read books, pet cats, and write to newspapers. No zest for change. Are you taking this role or not?”

I swallow stiffly. Cheeks flushing.

“No. Listen to me. I’ve never asked much from you Sue - besides a better range of biscuits - but I’m asking just this once. You can’t lose Zeb. You just can’t - yes, he’s difficult and rude and stuck in his ways and has an over-inflated sense of importance and…” I see I’m losing her, “Well, forget all that, because he’s gentle and kind and decent too. And loves life. He does. I’m making a stand here. You have to give him one last chance. Please Sue.”

Sue’s pen hovers. She eyes me carefully. She sighs. “There is perhaps one option we could try…"

***

Birth announcements

Michelle and Tony Russo are delighted to announce the birth of their twins, Angelo and Grace. The pair arrived as a welcome surprise to their parents on Tuesday 16th March…

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I’m on Twitter @TheRoryJohn