AllFreeNovel
Share Us
ChapterOne
IFYOUAREN’Tfrom Boston, good luck trying to mimic the accent. Sure, you can drop your Rs, but the pronunciation goes well beyond pahking the cah in the Havahd yahd. The distinctive characteristic of that accent lies in the level of difficulty it presents for outsiders attempting to use it.
I grew up in a small town west of Bean Town, so who better to audition for the role of a Boston cop in the 1970s? I could embody Officer Sullivan like no one else in Tinseltown. Besides, I had played cops numerous times before. Hell, I was the go-to casting choice for your run-of-the-mill gruff officer, soldier, or special agent. No one, and I meanno one, could nail that role like Connor Clarke.
I finished reciting my line with a flourish, really leaning into the last word, “fahthah.” The room remained silent for a beat, and I scanned the faces regarding me. Two appreciative nods that likely recognized the flawless accent. Two vacant expressions on people who looked like they had each taken a handful of Klonopin. Three indifferent faces from the ones who mattered—the casting director, show creator, and a producer.
A too-thin woman wearing a red pantsuit folded her script closed and grew a placating smile on her lips, the false joy failing to reach her eyes. She extended her hand not to shake mine, but as a clear dismissal to exit the room.
I opened my mouth to elicit any type of response but let out a resigned sigh instead. I gave them one of those “passing a coworker in the hallway” smiles, nodded my head, and put the view of downtown Studio City from the windowed wall to my back. A casting assistant, the woman who enjoyed my performance of Officer Sullivan, followed me with doe eyes as if she regretted my leaving.
The hallway door opened and shut with the finality of a shovelful of dirt hitting the top of my casket. Once the flimsy piece of hollow wood separated me from them, I spun and pressed my back into the white-painted wall. Blessedly, this was a closed audition, and the plastic interlinking chairs lining the hallway remained empty. Above me, the air vent blew out a low whisper as the system kicked on. I sniffed and closed my eyes. Failing—especially whenknowingyou really didn’t—never got easier.
I was halfway down the nondescript, tiled hallway when the casting room door opened. A man politely closed the door with a softclick, then ambled the gap between us. His loafers made a soft pitter-patter and his face mirrored my own when I had left. He stopped just a few feet away and stuffed his hands into his pockets. Wedged into his armpit was a black leather folio.
At six-foot-three, I towered over the man, yet despite the rotundness of his body compared to the lean muscle on mine, he held all the power. He wore a Hollywood power suit as armor and I wore fitted jeans and an olive green V-neck t-shirt that showed off my sculpted chest. All I did these days was workout and because talent didn’t always win the day, I needed a backup plan to supplement my auditions.
“Thanks again for giving me this opportunity, Isaac. You didn’t have to,” I said. No longer “on,” as they say, I defaulted to the normal all-American accent I had adopted later in life. The gravel I put into my voice when acting had dissolved into a smooth baritone.
Isaac let out a little sigh and rocked forward on his feet. “Listen, kid, you’re perfect for the role. Really, I mean that. But the second the other director saw your name on today’s list…” He let his voice trail off as he averted his eyes from mine and shook his head. He swallowed, then snapped his gaze back to mine. “I need to formally tell you that you won’t be considered.”
He removed the folio from under his arm and opened the folder to reveal my headshot. A more content man stared back at me. Early thirties, dark brown hair coiffed just right in a side part, short beard trimmed to a shade longer than stubble. The lighting helped bring out the copper undertone of my hazel eyes. I wore a white shirt, the top two buttons undone to reveal a dusting of dark chest hair.
I scrunched my toes inside my sneakers as I took the photo back and folded it up. A litany of unarguable defenses panned through my mind’s eye like credits in a movie, starting with mytwo Emmy nominationsfor roles just like Officer Sullivan. Instead of listing those, I went with the most juvenile. “Come on, Isaac, it’s beentwo years, man. Two!” I looked around after shouting the last word, as if the ghosts of casting rejects haunting these halls would manifest and drag me into the unbookable abyss with them.
He stuck out his hands and shrugged his shoulders. “What can I say, Connor? This town has a long memory. Once you’ve been blacklisted…” There he went again, letting his voice trail off, as if he couldn’t commit. His brow rose, creating a book’s side of wrinkles on his forehead. “You know, maybe if you started off your audition with a sincere, blanket apology? That could win some of them over.”
I blinked as my rational arguments vacuumed from my skull. “Apologize? Isaac, for what? I didn’t do anything.”
Another sigh, this one terse. “It doesn’t matter if you’re innocent or not, Connor. It was her word against yours, and the public sided with her.”
Her. Winnie Bridgewater, my accuser. (Born Karen Lewis, by the way.) Two years ago, she had been my closest friend in this city and then, completely out of nowhere, she publicly accused me of sexual harassment. It never went to court, never went further than a few interviews with some choice networks. But that was it. My career tanked overnight and my PR team had no idea how to react.
But I’m gay.
Those were the only words to have crossed my mind on that day—week,really—from hell.
“Who would believe you if you came out?” one assistant on my PR team had said.
“Imagine the optics on coming out, though?” my agent had told me. “Hey everyone, no, I didn’t touch Winnie… because I like dick. Oh also, I never thought it was relevant to be brave and come out before this so I could keep getting macho roles, but I’d like to save face now and give it a shot. Can you forgive me?” He listed a few notables who had tried and failed at the same tactic in the past.
Isaac must have seen the memories play across the contortions of my face. He reached forward and clapped me on the shoulder. “I’ll keep you in mind as more roles come up. But hey, think about that apology thing, all right?” Another sad smile and he turned to pad softly down the hallway and reenter the casting room.
The walk back to my car passed thoughtlessly. I went from fluorescent lighting and chilled air to the warm sunshine of a California afternoon sun. My sleek, black Porsche Cayenne waited for me between two painted white lines and chirped merrily as I thumbed the unlock button on the key fob in my pocket. Oppressive heat squeezed me from all sides as my rump hit the ivory leather of the cushioned driver’s seat. A/C blasted the second I slammed my finger into the push-button ignition. She growled awake, then settled into a lilting purr.
My hands gripped the thick leather of the steering wheel as I stared out at an empty parking lot surrounded by California live oaks.
Give it a sec, I told myself. Let the A/C pull out all the frustration along with the heated inside air. Another failed audition, the second that month and the umpteenth in the past two years. I had been at the top of my game, one of the lead roles in a law enforcement procedural that dominated the ratings. Just like ten years ago, I would have to crawl my way back. Success didn’t always happen overnight. So I would continue to lower my expectations and audition for the bit parts until the wardens of this glitzy town approved of my return.
My phone vibrated inside my pocket, followed by a text appearing on my center console display. A gentle reminder for an appointment.
Shit. I had one hour to get home, change, and head to the dojo to teach the late afternoon judo class. Hollywood might have rejected me, but the martial arts enthusiasts at the Achilles Center didn’t care about Winnie’s false accusations. At least I had that—something to train my mind, my body, as my creative appendage shriveled up and died.
I put the car in Drive and left the casting office without a second thought.
?
Halfwayfrom Studio City to Sherman Oaks, my car rolled to a stop at a red light. I absently thumbed the button for the satellite radio and adjusted the volume. A simmering ambience would be the only thing to keep the negative thoughts at bay. I propped my chin into my hand, elbow on the windowsill, and watched a line of cars speed in front of me like a herd of zebras on the Serengeti.
