cathedral for a while

I entered the sun room where he sat on the white sofa, hands politely folded, his black marble eyes fixed on me. I moved to the leather armchair across the table and sat. He ogled me. It was uncomfortable.

“Donny,” I said – that’s what he called himself, Donny – “Let me start off by saying that you are an exceptional, and I don’t use that word lightly, you are an exceptional actor.”

I paused for effect then I forced a smile and nodded appreciatively. Donny’s eyes did not change. They registered no inflection. I wondered if there were any gears of any kind ticking behind his avalanched brow.

“Our agency has reviewed your portfolio. Your experience is…” My eyes drifted to the manila file folder in my hands; it was worn and felt like flannel, and it looked like it had been chewed on. The pages were torn and the ink smudged. Whoever took his head shot made no attempt to mask the tenuous, dough-like flesh of Donny’s face.

“Your experience is…” I wanted to be polite. “What we’re looking for is an actor with a comprehensive portfolio.”

The bulk of Donny’s career consisted of theatrical renditions of “Frankenstein,” which required neither speaking lines nor sudden movement. Recently he had been reduced to Geico commercials. Outside of that he’d done a few bit TV parts, and ballet.

That last bit conjured disturbing imagery. Ballet? God, an eight and a half foot green man, flesh barely clinging to his bones, body frame like a chimney, undulating to the music of Stravinsky and wearing a tutu? Children would have nightmares for the rest of their lives.

My production was a ballet. It called for a Green Giant at the beginning of act II and my casting agency had originally considered him for the part. The only responsibility would be to stand motionless holding a teacup poodle. And let’s be honest, who could be more perfect for the part? But the cards weren’t in it for Donny. We’d found someone else a few days earlier – made for the part, according to my boss. But Donny’s interview was already set up, so I had to go through with the formalities.
I closed the folder and drew a breath, “However…”

I watched him, no feedback.

“We don’t, um, feel that you’re quite what we’re looking for. At this time.” I took his lack of movement and speech as an indication that he did not fully understand what I was saying.
“We’ve decided to pass on you.”

Stoic Donny.

“We wish you the best of luck in your career – all good things.”

I wanted to get out of there. If I walked out would he understand?

“Listen, it’s always been our policy to encourage budding actors to resubmit portfolios. Maybe we’ll be able to plug you into a future production.”

I stood and extended my hand. Donny’s eyes followed me, but he did not move.

“Thanks for your time,” I said.

His weight hefted forward and he rose to stand. His shoulders touched the ceiling and his head hung low. I felt like a kid. A bully. He delicately took my outstretched hand and shook it. His back scraped the ceiling as he slogged toward the door.

His portfolio was still in my hand. “Donny?” I offered it out to him. He looked at it for a moment, as though in thought. Then he looked at me, he looked through me. “Don’t you want it?” I asked. He turned and crawled out the door.

Once he was outside he stood, but he still looked confined. He walked away, heavy as if thoroughly soaked by an unseen thundercloud.

I walked to the open door and pulled it shut. As I watched him go I idly thumbed through the file folder in my hand. On the last page, under the bold print that said OBJECTIVE Donny had written, “donny not good, he know, but acting he love. only thing he love.”

My agency wouldn’t book him in a million years. He was too creepy. He wasn’t saleable. No matter how hard he tries he’ll only ever be a monster.

He didn’t need his portfolio anymore. He’d given up. This was his last interview, his last attempt.
I watched Donny trudge off into the woods, and through the double paneled glass sun room windows, I heard him cry.