(no subject)
Backstory: Tuesday before the open call.
-----------------------
Tuesday, 10:24am
It took a good couple of hours to get through - one’s hearing tends to be somewhat hampered when one’s head is wedged face-first between the sofa cushions - but the thing that finally dragged Elijah to full consciousness was neither his headache nor his hard-on but his beeping voicemail alert. Some form of noise came from the area where his face was buried in the upholstery; likely a statement of regret at having chosen a Blink 182 song for his ringtone. He groped blindly for the coffee table, pawing through beer bottles and condom wrappers until he grabbed the phone and held it against the available portion of his ear.
*beep*
You have - four - new messages and - one -- old message.
*beep*
Message one - Monday, 10:46pm
“Hi, Elijah? This is Josie… from the Abercrombie party? Anyway, um, I heard you were gonna be spinning tonight? And, uh, we’re all gonna be there too, so I thought, if you wanted to meet up or anything later, just text me, OK? My number is-"
*save*
*next*
Message two - Tuesday, 3:17am
“Elijah where did you go? Why aren’t you answering your phone? Jason said tonight was great and he wants to talk to you about doing a party next month. I told him you’d clear off your busy schedule of, oh yeah, nothing. Arrgh, why do I bother with you? ... Lij I swear, if I go outside I’d better not find you getting blown in the parking lot again. I don’t think my digestive system could handle it. Oh and by the way, that Josie chick has fake tits. You better call me in the morning, Brother.”
*delete*
Message three - Tuesday, 9:05am
“Elijah are you up yet? Are you hungoooooover? Does your heeeead hurrrrrt? Get your skinny ass out of bed and call me. You owe me breakfast. I love you, asshole! Bye!”
*delete*
Message four - Tuesday, 9:59am
“Eliiiijaaaaah-"
*delete*
Message five - Tuesday, 10:15am
“Hello Elijah, this is your favorite agent. I’m on my way to the airport, I’m just calling everyone but as you’re not answering your phone, I’m assuming you’re still recovering from a lovely Monday evening. Now remember I’ll be gone for two weeks but you can call the office if you need to get hold of me. Oh yeah, and the VH1 people want an answer by the end of the month on that Child Star of the 90s thing. I know you said no but… just think about it while I’m gone, OK? I really think this is the angle for you. You’ve got to use what you’ve got, sweetie. Anyway, I’ll see you in two weeks and you behave while I’m gone, young man. Bye.”
End of messages.
Elijah’s finger hovered over the delete button, but he pressed ‘save’ instead and let his arm drop.
“Uhhnnnggghh.”
His hand landed on something soft and cottony instead of hard and woodeny, and he smiled against the cushions and left the phone on the floor as he pushed himself upright. The smile ended as soon as he became vertical. When he was certain his skull was not about to fall off and roll onto the coffee table, he let go of his head and reached for his cigarettes, squinting over his crusty contacts as he lit up and took a long, steadying drag. He sighed out a white cloud and rubbed the courderoy lines on his face, then through his hair until it stood up in all directions on his head. His fingers smelled like perfume and vodka.
He stood up and stretched, naked and sleepy in the morning light with his clove dangling from the corner of his mouth. He was ankle-deep in a puddle of clothing, and he kicked his boxers aside as he stumbled to the bathroom to wrestle with his dick for a morning-after piss. There were various other garments strewn along the hall, and standing over the toilet he raised one eyebrow at the pink thong draped over his toothbrush holder.
“That can’t be sanitary,” he said around his cigarette.
Yesterday’s mail was still piled on the kitchen counter, next to a bowl that looked relatively clean. Elijah bent over in front of the fridge and sniffed at the milk carton, and if it wasn’t stronger than clove smoke than it was fine with him. He grabbed a beer with his other hand just before the fridge door shut. Propped against the tile counter, he poured himself a bowl of Froot Loops and opened his Heineken, cig balanced on the nearest ashtray as he tore the first envelope.
The sheet dropped to the floor with a incoherent comment and the envelope followed, tossed over his shoulder between bites of cereal. The next envelope was brown and addressed to Mr. Elijah J. Wood, handwritten, and Elijah’s brow furrowed over his spoon as he ripped it open.
The best thing about recycled paper was the satisfying noise it made going down a garbage disposal, helped along by a large dollop of beer.
There were two pieces of junk mail -- an insert from Walgreens (Summer Snack Savings! Two Days Only!) and a postcard from West Hollywood BMW (Best Deals of the Year! This Weekend!) -- his copy of The Hollywood Reporter; and a small gray envelope that made Elijah swallow his mouthful and set down his beer before he opened it.
He held the letterhead between his hands, blinking. His headache returned with a single sick throb, and he was suddenly in danger of losing his Froot Loops. Elijah closed his eyes and let the wave pass, and when it had gone he opened them to see the letter crushed inside one closed fist. He opened his hand and watched it fall, stared at it for a moment, and then drank the rest of his beer and reached for his cigarette.
He flipped straight to the back of the Reporter, as he always did. Nothing much this time of year, not quite time for the summer work yet. A few commercial calls, a couple of model searches, extras wanted for the summer blockbusters. He scanned the pages quickly, practiced despite his hangover. Nothing. And then, at the bottom corner of the back page, a large square of color caught his eye.
Now there’s a job for me, he thought, chuckling out a puff of smoke, and his fingers had the page halfway closed when the second thought followed: Well, why not? He stopped, one eyebrow arching, and found himself flattening out the paper again and reading the ad a second time. And then a third.
You’re batshit, Elwood. Are you actually entertaining the idea auditioning for a fucking porn studio? I mean, granted, it’s about as far away from Timmy Anderson as you could go, and it would certainly catch everyone off-guard, but - fucking porno? You’d end up in a fake mustache and tube socks, fucking some skank named Candi with more collagen than Courtney Love while some greasy gangster films you with a Super8. A brilliant career strategy. Very Danny Bonaduce. Dumbass.
He wasn’t sure whether he was more disquieted by what he was considering, or at the fact that his internal monologue was beginning to sound disturbingly like his sister. He shook his head and closed the paper, chuckling as he stabbed out his cig - and then stopped.
What a minute.
His DVD collection was in a carefully arranged order on the floor beside the TV. It only looked like a big dusty pile to the untrained eye. Elijah squatted by the Playstation and dug through the stacks, tossing cases aside to get to the back. Past the Aqua Teen Hunger Force boxed set, behind A Conversation with Kevin Smith… ah, yes. There beside a stack of three homemade videos (“Jason’s Bachelor Party”, “Christmas 2002”, “Alias reruns”) was the case he was looking for. He held it up to read the title: Nightly Pursuits, Volume 10. And underneath: A DBY Production.
Fucking hell.
He rummaged through the rest of his collection until he had separated them into two sections on the floor between his feet: DBY and Not DBY. He looked from one (Desert Paradise; Pirate’s Treasure; and six volumes of the Nightly Pursuits collection) to the other (Girls Gone Wild, Doggy Style; Catholic School Sluts 13; Star Whores: A New Blow).
Exhibit B, skank named Candi. Exhibit A, Keira fucking Nightly. Fucking Keira Nightly, actually, he thought, and there went that internal monologue again.
Stop thinking with your dick, Elwood. You’d never be on top again. Never.
Actually I bet I’d be on top quite frequently.
And what if they reject you? Bottom of the fucking barrel, man.
The way he saw it, you only needed two things to be a porn star: being good in front of the camera and being good at fucking. The Emmys on his bookshelf filled one requirement; the pink thong on his toothbrush holder filled the other. How hard could it be? He glanced down between his squatting legs, and grinned.
“They won’t,” he said aloud.
His phone buzzed, rattling on the floor in time with his message alert and he really needed to change that stupid fucking Blink182 song. He scooted over to the sofa and swiped up the phone, squinting at the display.
Text Message from: Hannabanana
WHERE R U BROTHER? COME BUY ME LUNCH!!
Elijah laughed as he stood, digging around on the coffee table until he found his trusty bottle of Excedrin. He went back into the kitchen and swallowed two with the leftover milk in his bowl, now a lovely and fruitilicious pink. His bare foot stepped on something sharp and he looked down to see the crumpled ball of SAG letterhead under his foot. After a moment, he scooped it up with his foot and flipped it into the trash can.
The Reporter was still on the counter, folded back to the last page. There was a phone number below the ad, with instructions to call for directions. Elijah ripped out the entire page and stuck it on the refrigerator with his Speed Racer magnet. There was plenty of time between now and Thursday. Right now, he needed a shower, and some clothes would be nice too.
On the way down the hall to the bathroom, Elijah reread the two saved messages on his voicemail, and deleted them both before he changed the ringtone.
-----------------------
Tuesday, 10:24am
It took a good couple of hours to get through - one’s hearing tends to be somewhat hampered when one’s head is wedged face-first between the sofa cushions - but the thing that finally dragged Elijah to full consciousness was neither his headache nor his hard-on but his beeping voicemail alert. Some form of noise came from the area where his face was buried in the upholstery; likely a statement of regret at having chosen a Blink 182 song for his ringtone. He groped blindly for the coffee table, pawing through beer bottles and condom wrappers until he grabbed the phone and held it against the available portion of his ear.
*beep*
You have - four - new messages and - one -- old message.
*beep*
Message one - Monday, 10:46pm
“Hi, Elijah? This is Josie… from the Abercrombie party? Anyway, um, I heard you were gonna be spinning tonight? And, uh, we’re all gonna be there too, so I thought, if you wanted to meet up or anything later, just text me, OK? My number is-"
*save*
*next*
Message two - Tuesday, 3:17am
“Elijah where did you go? Why aren’t you answering your phone? Jason said tonight was great and he wants to talk to you about doing a party next month. I told him you’d clear off your busy schedule of, oh yeah, nothing. Arrgh, why do I bother with you? ... Lij I swear, if I go outside I’d better not find you getting blown in the parking lot again. I don’t think my digestive system could handle it. Oh and by the way, that Josie chick has fake tits. You better call me in the morning, Brother.”
*delete*
Message three - Tuesday, 9:05am
“Elijah are you up yet? Are you hungoooooover? Does your heeeead hurrrrrt? Get your skinny ass out of bed and call me. You owe me breakfast. I love you, asshole! Bye!”
*delete*
Message four - Tuesday, 9:59am
“Eliiiijaaaaah-"
*delete*
Message five - Tuesday, 10:15am
“Hello Elijah, this is your favorite agent. I’m on my way to the airport, I’m just calling everyone but as you’re not answering your phone, I’m assuming you’re still recovering from a lovely Monday evening. Now remember I’ll be gone for two weeks but you can call the office if you need to get hold of me. Oh yeah, and the VH1 people want an answer by the end of the month on that Child Star of the 90s thing. I know you said no but… just think about it while I’m gone, OK? I really think this is the angle for you. You’ve got to use what you’ve got, sweetie. Anyway, I’ll see you in two weeks and you behave while I’m gone, young man. Bye.”
End of messages.
Elijah’s finger hovered over the delete button, but he pressed ‘save’ instead and let his arm drop.
“Uhhnnnggghh.”
His hand landed on something soft and cottony instead of hard and woodeny, and he smiled against the cushions and left the phone on the floor as he pushed himself upright. The smile ended as soon as he became vertical. When he was certain his skull was not about to fall off and roll onto the coffee table, he let go of his head and reached for his cigarettes, squinting over his crusty contacts as he lit up and took a long, steadying drag. He sighed out a white cloud and rubbed the courderoy lines on his face, then through his hair until it stood up in all directions on his head. His fingers smelled like perfume and vodka.
He stood up and stretched, naked and sleepy in the morning light with his clove dangling from the corner of his mouth. He was ankle-deep in a puddle of clothing, and he kicked his boxers aside as he stumbled to the bathroom to wrestle with his dick for a morning-after piss. There were various other garments strewn along the hall, and standing over the toilet he raised one eyebrow at the pink thong draped over his toothbrush holder.
“That can’t be sanitary,” he said around his cigarette.
Yesterday’s mail was still piled on the kitchen counter, next to a bowl that looked relatively clean. Elijah bent over in front of the fridge and sniffed at the milk carton, and if it wasn’t stronger than clove smoke than it was fine with him. He grabbed a beer with his other hand just before the fridge door shut. Propped against the tile counter, he poured himself a bowl of Froot Loops and opened his Heineken, cig balanced on the nearest ashtray as he tore the first envelope.
The sheet dropped to the floor with a incoherent comment and the envelope followed, tossed over his shoulder between bites of cereal. The next envelope was brown and addressed to Mr. Elijah J. Wood, handwritten, and Elijah’s brow furrowed over his spoon as he ripped it open.
The best thing about recycled paper was the satisfying noise it made going down a garbage disposal, helped along by a large dollop of beer.
There were two pieces of junk mail -- an insert from Walgreens (Summer Snack Savings! Two Days Only!) and a postcard from West Hollywood BMW (Best Deals of the Year! This Weekend!) -- his copy of The Hollywood Reporter; and a small gray envelope that made Elijah swallow his mouthful and set down his beer before he opened it.
He held the letterhead between his hands, blinking. His headache returned with a single sick throb, and he was suddenly in danger of losing his Froot Loops. Elijah closed his eyes and let the wave pass, and when it had gone he opened them to see the letter crushed inside one closed fist. He opened his hand and watched it fall, stared at it for a moment, and then drank the rest of his beer and reached for his cigarette.
He flipped straight to the back of the Reporter, as he always did. Nothing much this time of year, not quite time for the summer work yet. A few commercial calls, a couple of model searches, extras wanted for the summer blockbusters. He scanned the pages quickly, practiced despite his hangover. Nothing. And then, at the bottom corner of the back page, a large square of color caught his eye.
Now there’s a job for me, he thought, chuckling out a puff of smoke, and his fingers had the page halfway closed when the second thought followed: Well, why not? He stopped, one eyebrow arching, and found himself flattening out the paper again and reading the ad a second time. And then a third.
You’re batshit, Elwood. Are you actually entertaining the idea auditioning for a fucking porn studio? I mean, granted, it’s about as far away from Timmy Anderson as you could go, and it would certainly catch everyone off-guard, but - fucking porno? You’d end up in a fake mustache and tube socks, fucking some skank named Candi with more collagen than Courtney Love while some greasy gangster films you with a Super8. A brilliant career strategy. Very Danny Bonaduce. Dumbass.
He wasn’t sure whether he was more disquieted by what he was considering, or at the fact that his internal monologue was beginning to sound disturbingly like his sister. He shook his head and closed the paper, chuckling as he stabbed out his cig - and then stopped.
What a minute.
His DVD collection was in a carefully arranged order on the floor beside the TV. It only looked like a big dusty pile to the untrained eye. Elijah squatted by the Playstation and dug through the stacks, tossing cases aside to get to the back. Past the Aqua Teen Hunger Force boxed set, behind A Conversation with Kevin Smith… ah, yes. There beside a stack of three homemade videos (“Jason’s Bachelor Party”, “Christmas 2002”, “Alias reruns”) was the case he was looking for. He held it up to read the title: Nightly Pursuits, Volume 10. And underneath: A DBY Production.
Fucking hell.
He rummaged through the rest of his collection until he had separated them into two sections on the floor between his feet: DBY and Not DBY. He looked from one (Desert Paradise; Pirate’s Treasure; and six volumes of the Nightly Pursuits collection) to the other (Girls Gone Wild, Doggy Style; Catholic School Sluts 13; Star Whores: A New Blow).
Exhibit B, skank named Candi. Exhibit A, Keira fucking Nightly. Fucking Keira Nightly, actually, he thought, and there went that internal monologue again.
Stop thinking with your dick, Elwood. You’d never be on top again. Never.
Actually I bet I’d be on top quite frequently.
And what if they reject you? Bottom of the fucking barrel, man.
The way he saw it, you only needed two things to be a porn star: being good in front of the camera and being good at fucking. The Emmys on his bookshelf filled one requirement; the pink thong on his toothbrush holder filled the other. How hard could it be? He glanced down between his squatting legs, and grinned.
“They won’t,” he said aloud.
His phone buzzed, rattling on the floor in time with his message alert and he really needed to change that stupid fucking Blink182 song. He scooted over to the sofa and swiped up the phone, squinting at the display.
Text Message from: Hannabanana
WHERE R U BROTHER? COME BUY ME LUNCH!!
Elijah laughed as he stood, digging around on the coffee table until he found his trusty bottle of Excedrin. He went back into the kitchen and swallowed two with the leftover milk in his bowl, now a lovely and fruitilicious pink. His bare foot stepped on something sharp and he looked down to see the crumpled ball of SAG letterhead under his foot. After a moment, he scooped it up with his foot and flipped it into the trash can.
The Reporter was still on the counter, folded back to the last page. There was a phone number below the ad, with instructions to call for directions. Elijah ripped out the entire page and stuck it on the refrigerator with his Speed Racer magnet. There was plenty of time between now and Thursday. Right now, he needed a shower, and some clothes would be nice too.
On the way down the hall to the bathroom, Elijah reread the two saved messages on his voicemail, and deleted them both before he changed the ringtone.