[Glimpse; Status] An Audition
Jun 19, 2021 13:04:38 GMT -8
Krakenbox, Lucas Chevalier, and 1 more like this
Post by Oren on Jun 19, 2021 13:04:38 GMT -8
There was no question. Oren knew he was going to get this job. He could not count on his hands the number of times he had stepped into rooms, hopped up onto stages, and lobbed crumpled sides into the nearest trash bin as somebody else. Slave away at a fresh faced pilot for long enough in this city, one learns that if they could just lick the hand that feeds them, with little worry as to their reputation down the line, and with no one the wiser, they'd take the opportunity.
Oren was uniquely gifted in that way. Duds and bombs and gonzos were perfectly acceptable risks when the person walking into the room to grovel, surprise, or simply smile at the panel of producers wore a different Face every single time. This was the first one, in a long time, that he felt perfectly comfortable taking on in his own skin. He chuckled to himself, thinking of the gigs that Zelda Hartigan, Paragon of Promises, had slid down his way that he actually never truly rejected.
All in a day's work to keep up appearances, but in his heart, Oren always said yes to the dress.
Oren was uniquely gifted in that way. Duds and bombs and gonzos were perfectly acceptable risks when the person walking into the room to grovel, surprise, or simply smile at the panel of producers wore a different Face every single time. This was the first one, in a long time, that he felt perfectly comfortable taking on in his own skin. He chuckled to himself, thinking of the gigs that Zelda Hartigan, Paragon of Promises, had slid down his way that he actually never truly rejected.
All in a day's work to keep up appearances, but in his heart, Oren always said yes to the dress.
There were two of them this time. A man and a woman. Bernadette, who insisted on being called Bernie. And G.P. Gordon Phelps. The Guy From the Bus. She had a swan tattoo that Oren was quite fond of. He made sure she knew it. The other wore tortoise-shell glasses, which Oren found strange. He most definitely owned a pair just like them. Probably for a role. Definitely for a cover.
A copy of his portfolio, complete with headshots sat on the table between him, their wide eyes, their knitted fingers, and their once-crossed-over legs.
"Whenever you're ready."
"Think of it...like a conversation. Reese is chatty. He likes to fill up space. Fill up the space for us, Mr. Whittle."
Oren disappeared the minute he pulled the chair over and sat down. His face stayed the same, but that was where the similarities began and ended.
"My father and I were close. Very close. He would always say something to try and make me laugh. I think it's because he knew deep down that there was something wrong with me, and he was the type to hit nails with hammers until they went into the two-by-four..."
"...the fishing boat was on its last legs and I knew he was too. I've always been squeamish. Gutting them was the worst part. He'd hold my hand through it. Show me the right way to do it. You wouldn't believe the look of surprise on his face when I finally grew a pair and said, 'Let me do it myself'. We did that a lot growing up. Fishing, I mean. It meant we didn't have to talk, which meant coughing up blood didn't have to interrupt him every time he opened his mouth..."
"But I could always tell. He would swallow, rather than let me see him, spit it out over the side, or hack up a lung into a napkin."
"Y'know, sometimes I think it ain't so bad being dead. It's dying that's the hard part. He made it look like he was carrying the weight of the world just trying to hang on. Sometimes i wished he'd just ask, 'Reese, can I let go'? I'd tell 'em yes. Every time..."
"...And Scene."