Take Two! (13 page)

“Excuse me, sir, but will I get a chance to look over my lines first?” I asked, following Mr. Weiss through the waiting room.
It felt as if I were wading through water with hams strapped to my ankles.

“No lines,” he told me. “Just be you.”

But there are a bunch of me’s. Happy me; bummed-out me; goofball me; don’t-mess-with-me me. Which one do they want? Probably
not terrified, sick-to-my-stomach me – even though that’s the real me at the moment
. Suddenly I couldn’t swallow. Or
breathe. Just my luck I’d drop dead before I reached the audition room.

“But my Kyle is supposed to be up next!” a loud woman complained to Sylvia as we passed the reception desk. “This is outrageous.
I’ll have you know he was the spokesbaby for Li’l Darlin’ Disposable Diapers.”

“I’ll alert the media,” Mr. Weiss said dryly and ushered me through the double doors. “We’re gonna need a Polaroid of this
one, Syl. And more coffee – gallons of it.”

The next thing I knew I was facing a firing squad of three very bored looking people sitting behind a foldout table. I couldn’t
feel my tongue. I think I was having a nervous breakdown.

“Here’s our next victim, guys. Dustin Grubbs,” Mr. Weiss said, perching on the table. Everybody perked up. “He’s not on the
roster, but he’s perfect, don’t you think? He belongs to one of our Smelly Fathers.”

“Hi.” I gave them a flat wave, trying desperately to steady my trembling legs.

“Marvelous – Offbeat – Interesting,” they said at the same time. “Deliciously ordinary, but in an extraordinary way.”

“One look at that face and you immediately think –
boom
– Stink-Zapper Insoles!” the younger woman added. She was staring at me so intensely I thought for sure I had something disgusting
dangling from my nose. “So, Dustin, how old are you? Have you done any acting before?”

“Twelve – just turned. I starred in our school play last year out in Buttermilk Falls.”

Once again they were jabbering over one another. I heard the word “confident” bleed through, and “Reads younger – Very green.”
I quickly brushed my wrist across my nostrils.

The older lady asked, “Oh, so you don’t reside here in Chicago?” and pursed her bright red lips.

I probably should’ve left out the Buttermilk Falls part
.

“No, ma’am. Just visiting my dad for the weekend.”

“Do you have any experience in front of a camera – at all?” a man with a mouthful of bagel asked. He had his feet on the table
with his chair tipped back against the wall.

“Uh –”

I considered lying for a nanosecond, but I knew I wasn’t a good liar.
Wait! I don’t have to lie
.

“As a matter of fact, my brother shot some recent footage of me singing in the shower. Umm – but I’m not willing to do nude
scenes.”

“Quick – Funny – Good answer,” they said with a collective chuckle. “Sharp as a tack.”

“Okay, let’s get down to the nitty-gritty,” Mr. Weiss said, whipping off his glasses and moving to a tall director’s chair.
“The commercial spot is for Stink-Zapper Insoles.” He waggled a floppy, blue gel-filled shoe stuffer in front of him, then
tossed it onto the table with a
thwack
.

“Uh-huh, I’m familiar.” I nodded enthusiastically. “I love those things!”

“They’re not on the market yet. But I applaud your enthusiasm.”

They all got a real hoot out of that. I decided to keep my piehole shut unless absolutely necessary.

“Let me give you a quick scenario of the commercial,” Mr. Weiss went on. “Your father comes home from a hard day at work,
kicks off his shoes, and his feet really smell something awful, see? Rancid, like a stink bomb just went off. Then the camera
pans in on the flowers wilting, the dog’s ears standing straight up, and you – his son, making a hilariously funny face and
passing out on the floor. You get me?”

“I think so. Shoes, stink, face, fall.”

“And don’t be afraid to take it over the top,” he added.

Meaning?

“Right,” the young woman agreed. “You can’t go too far.”

I mulled that one over for a second.

“Uh, does that mean I’m not
allowed
to go too far,” I asked, “or, like, the farther the better? Should I –”

Mr. Weiss interrupted with, “Why don’t you start out on the stool?”

“The latter,” the lady said.

Now I was totally confused. I turned around and walked over to where they were pointing. There wasn’t any ladder,
but there was a stool, so I hopped onto it.
Shoes-face-stink-fall. That ain’t it
.

“Just FYI,” Mr. Weiss said, “we’re putting your audition on tape so we could review it later. Robbie, start the camera rolling.”

I could see my face bouncing around on the monitor atop a tall, metal stand against the wall. This was so cool.
Another defining milestone being captured on tape! I wonder if I could order copies
.

“Whenever you’re ready,” Mr. Weiss said, leaning forward. “Eyes to camera, state your name, then show us what you’ve got.”

The big, black camera setup, complete with a long boom mic bobbing over my head, looked like something out of
Star Wars
. I stared cross-eyed at the small, red light over the camera lens and flashed my pearly whites.

“Give us your name,” Mr. Weiss reminded me.

“Oh, yeah. Umm… uh…”
Cripes!
“Don’t tell me –”

“Dustin Grubbs!” he yelled.

“Dustin Grubbs!”

“And action!”

Now what?
I folded my arms to keep my heart from lurching out of my chest. For some reason that stupid Christmas-pageant line I’d had
in second grade popped into my head:
And
S
is for the snow!
I was clearly cracking up.
Concentrate, Grubbs. Snow-shoes-face-fall. No, wait!

Luckily, Mr. Weiss started giving me direction.

“You’re lounging in your living room – your dad enters. ‘Honey, I’m home… rough day,’ blah-blah-blah… he kicks off his shoes
and you catch wind of it…”

His words distorted into distant gibberish. All I remember after that was making a goofy face and falling off the stool.

“Huh,” Mr. Weiss said with a deadpan expression. No one else uttered a word, but their eyeballs were jumping from one to the
other like Ping-Pong Balls.

I scrambled back onto the stool, expecting to take it from the top a bunch more times. (An actor rarely gets it right on the
first take.) But after some whispering at the table, the bagel guy told me, “That’s all we need for today.” The same exact
words I got from Miss Honeywell after my
Oliver!
audition. Not a good sign. I just wanted to make a quick exit. “Thank you for your time,” I murmured and opened the doors
to the waiting room. Sylvia immediately snapped a Polaroid picture of me and handed me a form to fill out. My legs were wobbly
as licorice sticks as I hurried over to Dad and fell into my chair in a heap.

“Well?” he asked, studying my face. “Did you knock their socks off?”

“Not exactly.” I tried blinking away the spots I was seeing from the camera flash; tried figuring out what had just happened.
“It all went by so fast.”

“Well, chalk it up to experience. You’ve got your first big,
professional audition under your belt now. Not too shabby. How many sixth-graders could say that?”

“Dad, I’m in seventh.”

I was still catching my breath from the overwhelmingness of the whole thing when the double doors flew open and Robbie, the
cameraman, sprinted over to me.

“Dustin Grubbs, right? They need to talk to you for a second.”

I locked eyes with Dad. No words were uttered but we could read each other’s thought bubbles. They both said:

“!!!”

I followed Robbie back into the audition room and stood in exactly the same spot I was three minutes earlier. The casting
team was staring at me with Shelly-the-Mermaid’s unblinking eyes. Heart clattering. Stomach mooing like a sick cow. My body
was making such a racket, I moved right up to the table so I wouldn’t miss a word.

“First off,” Mr. Weiss, said, “all of us agree that you gave a dynamite audition. I just wanted to let you know that. There’s
something real special about you – charm, charisma, whatever you wanna call it. And the camera just loves you.”

“Thanks,” I squeaked, totally flabbergasted. “I love it right back.”

Okay, cut to the chase – where do I sign? Quick, before I pass out
.

“That being said, McKenna Casting, Inc. has certain policies and procedures we must adhere to. And this is a highly
unusual situation – what with you having no experience, no representation, and being in town for just a few days.”

Uh-oh!

“And so, Dustin, under the circumstances…”

Don’t bust out crying when he finishes that sentence
.

“… we’d like to schedule a callback for you on the spot.”

“Beg pardon?”

“Do you think you can arrange to be back in Chicago on October eighth? All the top execs from Stink-Zappers will be here to
make the final cuts. I think it falls on a Saturday.”

“But I clean out my fish tank on Saturdays,” I almost said just as a joke. I decided not to risk it. “Yeah, sure. Absolutely.
Count on it!”

Fireworks were going off inside me. I’m talking bottle rockets, M80s, Roman candles. I was surprised my ears weren’t smoking.

“Super. See Sylvia at the front desk and she’ll set up a time and give you the necessary info.” Mr. Weiss finished. I’d floated
halfway out the door, but he waved me back into the room. “Listen, son,” he said in a half-whisper, “we realize your father
is auditioning for this thing too, and that can get a bit awkward. So we’ll try to get back to his agent with a yea or nay
ASAP. And we’ll see you on October eighth. Deal?”

“Deal! Thank you so much!” I gushed, pumping his hand, and worked my way down the table. “And
you
… and
you
… and
you
…”

Dad was totally blown away when I told him the news. Couldn’t even speak at first. Then a “Wow!” blurted out of him and he
smothered me in a bear hug. “I’m so proud of you, kid!”

“You’re cutting off my air supply!”

He backed off for a second, then hugged me again. “That means we’ll get to spend another weekend together. That’s what they
call a win-win situation.”

“Hey, Dad, what if we
both
get cast?” I asked, settling down in my chair. “It could happen! I mean it’d make sense. They’re looking for a father and
son, and we’re a
real
father and son. We could make a whole series of commercials, then tour the country promoting Stink-Zappers. How cool would
that be?”

Dad sat back and gave me an arched eyebrow for his answer. The same eyebrow I used to get whenever I asked stupid questions
like, “If Santa sets off the burglar alarm, they can’t throw him in prison for breaking and entering, can they?”

He popped another lemon torture-drop into his mouth and said he needed a few quiet moments so he could get himself together
before they called him in. I was too excited to sit still. Granny always said if she could bottle my excess energy, she’d
sell it and make a fortune. At the moment I could fill a ten-ton drum and still have enough steam to cartwheel my way back
to Buttermilk Falls.

I completed the McKenna Casting, Inc. form and handed it back to Sylvia. On my way back to my seat I picked up
the
Highlights
magazine just as she called out, “Theodore Grubbs… up next… and follow me.” But before I could spot the teapot in the pumpkin
patch, Dad’s audition was over.

“Quick and painless,” he muttered, grabbing his jacket off the chair next to me. “C’mon, kid, let’s make like a tree and leave.”

Dad was totally convinced that he’d screwed up his audition, so I couldn’t exactly be kicking up my heels in front of him,
celebrating my incredible news. Not unless his agent called with some incredible news of his own. We traipsed around Marshall
Field’s Department Store for a while devouring obscene amounts of Frango Mints, but Dad’s cell phone didn’t ring once. We
took in two centuries’ worth of paintings at the Art Institute, but Dad’s cell phone didn’t ring once. We stuffed our faces
with four courses of Chinese food, but – okay, halfway through our Happy Family on a Sizzling Plate he got a wrong number,
but other than that, the lousy phone didn’t ring once. I was a pupu platter of emotions during the rest of dinner. And when
our fortune cookies came (I was “born with shining star above head”; Dad’s was blank) – let’s just say our dinner at Shanghai
Five didn’t exactly end in high fives.

Early the next morning, Dad and I awoke to the long-awaited ring. Finally! But by the time he’d found the phone
and answered it, his agent had already hung up, having left the following message:

“Teddy? Hi, it’s Nadine Fleck. I heard back from the McKenna Casting people – unfortunately, they’re gonna pass. No callback,
sorry. Get this, they said you weren’t believable as a father! Craziness, right? Personally, I think they were looking for
a different type altogether. I understand they’re really interested in your son, though, so I guess it wasn’t a complete loss.
Listen, maybe you’d like to bring him by the office sometime –
”

Dad was supposed to drop me off at the Greyhound bus station in his cab, but he must’ve really needed the company because
he decided he’d drive me all the way to Buttermilk Falls instead. That meant suppressing my joy bubbles for almost two hours
– which would probably cause permanent damage to my spleen or something, but it was the least I could do. He was so bummed
out. “Not believable as a father” – that had to sting.

“I’m really sorry,” I said, “about – you know.”

“Par for the course. But I’m bustin’ with pride about my boy. Really. I am.” Dad lit up a cigarette and cracked his window
open for the smoke to escape. “Yeah, my stand-up career hasn’t exactly been – a career, if you catch my drift.” I caught it.
I also caught a lungful of cigarette smoke and started hacking big time. “Oh, for the love of –” He rolled the window all
the way down and flicked out his cigarette; then reached over and pulled the zipper of my jacket all the way up.