I’m standing in a corner office on the 16th floor overlooking the Hudson through some glass windows. I’m wearing a ridiculous outfit. I can’t tell you what, yet, for fear of breaking my confidentiality agreement (I never really read the whole thing, I just know I can’t say much about anything). Four producers and a director sit between me and the glass windows running their eyes over my body. My costume is supposed to be funny, but there’s not one smile in the room. The wardrobe supervisor is standing in the doorway. I can feel her anxiety.
“It’s not funny.”
Now that the director has weighed in, the others start commenting.
“I mean, it looks like he could be dressed this way on purpose, right? Like, ‘Look at my new style!’”
“I think the shorts should be longer.”
“Really? With those white legs? That’s funny to me. Look at those legs. The shorter the better.”
I have opinions. I have ideas that could be helpful. It doesn't matter. Nobody wants my two cents. I’m the actor.
Thank God I’m the actor. Thank God for this job. Is this a little tap on the shoulder from the Universe? Two weeks ago I decided not to accept or look for any bartending work for a month, and since then I’ve booked a TV show and a commercial. The two combined are not going to set me free financially, but does this mean I’m making the right decision? Can I let go and just Trust?
“The socks are funny…”
“Yeah the socks work, we can keep those.”
They’re still not laughing. Not even smiling. The wardrobe supervisor is practically shaking.
My eyes focus on a pier across the river. I’m looking at a soccer field but in front of the soccer field is a trapeze set up. I’m pretty sure I’ve never seen one in real life. I’ve definitely never seen one in use. There's a tiny person swinging through the air. He or she must be twenty feet off the ground and floats from one trapeze to the other. The whole contraption bends and shakes to accommodate her weight. This is amazing. If I were one of the soccer players, I’d stop playing and just watch. Nobody seems to care.
I’m standing in a corner office on the Hudson watching a trapeze artist across the river. Huh.
“Turn around for us.”
I come to.
“Turn around for us.”
Right. I turn around slowly and awkwardly.
“Yeah, see, not funny.”