Gulliver Takes Five (12 page)

My skin breaks into goose bumps.

Gulliver?

No. No way.

I zoom in on my phone, pulling closer and closer to the blue-haired dorm boy who brought Chase into the fold. I have him blown up so large that I’m able to go past the blue hair, the chinstrap, the eyebrow ring. Just his mouth, nose, and eyes.

Vomit. That’s what I’m going to do. It’s like I just took a huge gulp of milk, only to find out it’s five days past the expiration date. I zoom out and click through the other photos, checking, praying that I’m wrong. That it’s just a stressful day. That I’m being crazy.

That I’m imagining him now just like I imagined him at the piano, behind the panel of judges earlier.

But no. I’m right.

It’s Gulliver. Marty Brayden is Gulliver, bluer and punkier than when we were together. But I’d recognize him anywhere.

Thanks to the sample sixty-second video I play, I can verify my horrible hunch.

Oh, Gully.

You might be able to mask yourself in myriad ways, but your sweet voice is still exactly the same. Marty Brayden? Did you really think I wouldn’t have figured it out?

No. You must have wanted me to.

This is his way of getting back at me? Leaving me and disappearing into nothingness...to do gay porn? He expects me to be heartbroken. He assumes this will destroy me. That I’ll feel like I pushed him to this and come running to save him.

I guess he never really knew me at all. I’ve never been so disgusted.

Is it possible to feel filthy in hindsight?

To feel hours and days and weeks of worry and hope suddenly evaporate with futility? All that crying, praying, wishing, exploding like a pipe bomb.

When the dust clears, there’s Gulliver, giving away something I cherished in private to thousands and thousands of online viewers. I feel like such a tool.

And I thought Chase wasted my time.

Was Gulliver in porn while we were together? To be honest, I don’t want to find out. All that matters is he’s doing it now. Which means I dated a porn star. Some would brag about that. Me? I’m mortified. And all of this only thirty minutes after I went on a tirade against go-go boys? At least they keep a shred of clothing on! Well, gee, don’t I feel sheepish now?

No—I feel sick.

Gulliver fucked Chase. On camera. In front of thousands. Had I known during our date what I know now, I would have hurled that amazing mac and cheese straight at his stubborn go-go head. Today’s events are all too freakily connected for me to ignore. The universe can set things up for a reason. My sister always told me that, and I’ve always believed it too.

But for what purpose? What good could this disgust, this despair, possibly do?

My revulsion, manifesting itself as an anxious nausea, is actually a strange comfort, because for the first time in what feels like forever, I don’t feel like crying. What I feel like doing now is returning to Astoria and setting my Gully box on fire. In my head, I can hear the beginning notes of “Forget About the Boy,” Sutton Foster’s kick-ass number from
Thoroughly Modern Millie
:

“No canary in a cage for me / This canary’s ready to fly free...”

I’ve found Gulliver, and now he can get lost. Clearly, I saw more in us than he did. I’m just a romantic fool. Gulliver isn’t who I thought he was; he was never worth my time. I pull out my iPod and toggle to the actual song that’s playing in my head. Sutton starts and I lip-synch along. Stanford awaits. The casting director awaits. My future awaits.

Good-bye, Gulliver. For good.

Oh my gosh, is that Sutton Foster? It is. It actually is! Omigod omigod omigooooooddddd! One table away from me! She’s even prettier in real life! That long brown hair. That tiny fairylike face. Wow. Wowwwww!

I need to tell her how amazing she was in
Shrek
...that she’s the ONLY reason I saw it...that I’d follow her to any show in any state, or into space, if she’s performing there. That she’s my inspiration. My inner fanboy is throwing a fit, taking over my body. I’m ready to run up to her table like it’s the stage door and I’ve been waiting outside in the rain just to get her autograph on my crinkled
Playbill
. Such a prize would swiftly find its way to the wall above my bed, the sort of artifact I’d never part with, no matter how much money it’s worth on eBay.

Next to Sutton, her brother Hunter (of
Urinetown
and
Little Shop of Horrors
revival fame) laughs between bites of a stuffed mushroom. Across from him, Cheyenne Jackson is checking his
phone (probably updating his Twitter). At the bar, Josh Gad from
The Book of Mormon
and Norbert Leo Butz from
Catch Me If You Can
are waiting on their drinks.

My God, I’ve died and gone to fanboy heaven. It’s almost enough to make me forget the roiling nerves in my stomach, creeping around under my skin like a nest of spiders.

Sutton. Fucking. Foster.

I can now happily die.

“You want something from the bar, Goose?” Stanford asks me, breaking me out of my trance.

“Um. Sure. Vodka cranberry?”

“Grey Goose for my golden one, eh? Lovely choice!” Stanford shouts triumphantly. “Two of those, please, my good man,” he calls to the cute, stubbly waiter who’s putting on a silent show for our table, muscles flexed in hopes that one of us asks for a résumé. That won’t happen just yet (only two at our table are agents), so he jots the order down and leaves us for the bar.

Jeez. Everyone here is so beautiful! The guys, the girls, the waiters, the bartenders. The man by the table where all the name tents are sitting (where, might I add, I saw tents for Bernadette AND Patti, who BETTER show up). Even the hosts and hostesses at the door of the restaurant, standing perfectly at the podium in their matching all-black pants and shirts. WOW. This is without a doubt the biggest, most posh event I have ever been to.

Did it have to be tonight?

Even Stanford is more dolled up than usual—his traditional outfit of tight jeans and a V-neck, primary-colored T-shirt replaced by a tailored charcoal suit with a bright-orange tie. He doesn’t like dressing up and shows it with his aggressive readjusting, unbuttoning his collar or loosening his tie every other minute while trying to keep up with the conversation at our table of eight.

I, on the other hand, look like a Cirque du Soleil clown doing an impression of a Madison Avenue advertising executive. While Stanford and I are both slender, he’s a good six inches taller than me and has the shoulders of a linebacker, which results in his jacket looking absurdly tentlike as it drapes over my shoulders. As soon as it’s acceptable, I plan on hanging the jacket on my chair and sticking with my own striped button-down shirt and Stanford’s borrowed tie (which, by the way, clashes). I just hope everyone is too busy ogling Broadway stars to notice me.

“Marty here has been doing quite fabulously,” Stanford says, shaking my shoulder as he delivers the compliment. “Had three auditions this week alone, right, Marty?”

“Yes, sir!” I say, injecting as much excitement into my voice as I can without tipping over into the obnoxious. “They were all so exciting. Still waiting to hear back!”

I actually blew the first two, unfortunately (I leave that part out). I don’t even want to recall the forty-plus before them. Luckily, none of this matters to Stanford. God bless him. He is a good, good man. I mean, I’ve just about given up on myself, yet here he is, talking me
up like I’m Adam Chanler-Berat or Neil Patrick Harris. It’s beyond obvious that no one at this table gives half a damn about me, but Stanford knows how this industry works. Everyone must talk about themselves continuously (or, if they’re lucky, have their agent talk about them), creating a vicious, self-serving battle won by whoever speaks the loudest and fastest. Unfortunately for me, the
Wicked
casting director hasn’t arrived yet, and Stanford will probably have to repeat this whole song and dance all over again. Like any good actor.

Sitting in this room stuffed to the gills with Broadway elite, I am constantly forced to silently admit that I’m anything but one of them. These people are paid to do what they love, singing and dancing six nights a week. Then there’s me, the actor who would be starving if it weren’t for the free basket of bread in the middle of the table.

There MUST be at least one other out-of-work nobody here, right? Right? Well, if so, they fit in so well with their employed ilk that I can’t find them. Meanwhile, I’m right here in my oversized jacket, the sorest of thumbs.

The waiter returns with my vodka cranberry, and I shove the straw in my mouth, hoping Stanford will do the same and let the others at our table have a chance to brag about themselves. Sure enough, the second Stanford’s lips touch his straw, another gay man named Stefan speaks up.

“I did the
Wicked
tour a few years ago.” He rolls his eyes and ruffles his black hair. “Talk about a robot factory! Step here. Sashay there. And those Ozian costumes are more uncomfortable than an overheated iron maiden.”

Stanford looks at me, ready to pad the comment and keep me positive. Little does he know that now I’d go on the tour even if they DID put us in medieval torture devices every night.

“The pay’s great, sure. And the production parks in cities for three or more weeks, letting you explore and experience all the sights. But you sell your soul and your artistic integrity for that weekly check,” he continues, making a “money” sign with his thumb, pointer, and middle finger. “I’d rather do dinner theater at the Beef and Boards. Seriously.”

I want to ask,
Are there any openings at Beef and Boards?
I’ll happily have my headshot featured next to a photo of the pepper steak entrée. I hope I never get to a point in my career where I take work for granted. Work is work. Doesn’t he remember a time when he didn’t have a guaranteed paycheck?

“The thing you’re doing wrong, Stanford,” says Karen, a redheaded, heavyset agent, “if I may?”

Stanford nods. Smiling. He’s always smiling. (I imagine he’ll tell me later in the cab what she “may” actually do.)

“I wouldn’t be sending my actors to the cattle calls.” She pauses to regard a parmesan-bedazzled breadstick like it’s a precious stone before dunking it into a ramekin of marinara. “No one takes those things seriously. They’re akin to those
American Idol
casting events. Temporary, unfortunate camps of screaming boys and girls who will be good for a thirty-second clip of comic relief and nothing else. If they’re lucky.

“Now, Karen, you know they’re not that tragic.” Stanford still smiles.

Karen’s having none of it. “I’ve never once heard of an actor being cast at a cattle call, Stanford. Let’s be realistic! Send him to the private auditions. Save the energy and time. Spare him the humiliation and rejection, for Christ’s sake!”

“Marty’s still new,” Stanford replies after a moment of silence. “All the feedback has been extremely constructive. We just haven’t found the right fit yet.”

I am not going to be the one to say that I’ve also blown the few private auditions Stanford got me, which is why he’s sent me to moo with the unrepresented talent.

“And how are the rest of your kids?” Karen continues.

“Great, actually.” Stanford lights up—because he needn’t work so hard to make THEM look good. I’m the only actor Stanford represents who’s here tonight (at this dinner OR in New York City). His other four prize stallions and mares are already working and sending paycheck percentages back home to Papa. Leanne is out in California playing Katherine in an avant-garde reboot of
Pippin
. Cristiano is cross-dressing on tour with
La Cage aux Folles
, understudying one of the cagelles. Jonathan and Zachary are soaking up the Miami sun while turning out rave-reviewed performances in
Altar Boyz
.

And then there’s me, Marty Perry, forever reprising the lead in his one-man show:
The Kid Who Just Can’t Get Cast in Anything, Ever
.

“A tour de force of pity and shame!” cries Ben Brantley of the
New York Times
.

“I laughed (at him)! I cried (for him)!” writes Terry Teachout of the
Wall Street Journal
.

“Someone put this poor kid out of his misery! Aren’t there any open temp positions?” moans
Newsday
’s Linda Winer.

And yet Stanford remains confident and unstoppable. I mean, he even splurged on my ticket to this fundraiser tonight! His charity, both to me and others, is unbelievable. He seems to think having me at the same table as the casting director for the National Equity Tour of
Wicked
will get me cast, somehow. I can only hope his hunch is right.

And I do. Of course I do. More, I tell myself, than I hope for anything in the world right now. This is an amazing opportunity, and I’m beyond grateful for it. Yet I can’t help it; there are two of me at this table.

There’s the Marty who Stanford’s bitchy peers can see (if they can even be bothered to look): the starstruck, endlessly aspiring ingenue in a city full of starstruck, endlessly aspiring ingenues.

And then there’s the other Marty tucked away inside that one like a seething, wounded Russian nesting doll. The Marty who’s just gorged himself on mac and cheese with the date who, it turns out, fucked his ex-boyfriend in front of thousands of masturbating strangers for a gay porn website.