So Bitter and So Sweet: Adam and the Aragorn Curse Part II

[idahophoenix]

Part II: January 2009

Monday

Adam woke the next morning with a sense of unreality as he looked around the hotel room. Unfuckingbelievable. He didn't even have a suite, but it was still the most luxurious place he'd ever stayed. Two cozy arm chairs, a panoramic view of the city, some kind of antiquey-style wallpaper and chairs, and lots of muted ivories and reds. Brad would have known the names for all of it. Somehow Brad had a complete interior design vocabulary. How did a boy from Texas do that?

Well, that did it. Back to reality. Fucking Brad.

Adam had spent half the flight from L.A. with scenes from the life of Brad and Adam running through his mind-remembering how fabulous they'd looked in their matching costumes for the big party at Cassidy's; the afternoon they'd both put on mini-skirts and went bowling; the day Brad had talked Adam into going from ginger to black; the evening Adam had found Brad at home, crying on the floor after his grandfather died; the expression on Brad's face the first time he heard Adam sing; Brad in his tangerine harem pants wielding a sword in the fight with Plaid Boy at Thunder Dome; and, oh God, their first break up scene at Burning Man. Not to mention how Brad knew every inch of Adam's body; the soft sounds of outrage and want Brad made when Adam bent him over his knees and warmed that lovely ass with the sharp slap of a leather-gloved hand; how Brad took nothing seriously enough and everything just a little too seriously; and, above all, the way Brad just seemed to get Adam in a way no one else ever had.

They'd had all of that, but it was never enough for Brad. Somewhere over Indiana, Adam stopped himself and noticed he wasn't feeling much of anything at all. He'd done all this before. How many times could he be broken apart? As far as he was concerned, numb was good.

By some miracle, Adam scored an entire row of seats to himself. Picking up his script, he spent the second half of the flight sounding out names and words in Elvish. Adam loved the sounds of the words and didn't care that the flight attendant was staring at him, apparently assessing whether Adam was a threat to national security. Mithrandir, Ellesar, Arwen Undomiel, Nauthannen i ned ôl reniannen. Renich i beth i pennen, Le annon veleth nín, and finally, Ellesar, Ellesar, Ellesar. I am Ellesar-Elf Stone, I am Strider of the Rangers, I am Aragorn, he whispered like an incantation, a promise held out for the week to come.

But at 6 a.m. on Monday morning, the week-long audition was staring him in the face. Thankfully, he wasn't due at the theater until 10; he needed the time to prepare. Stretching exercises and vocal warm ups completed, he meditated, in a twitchy, distracted sort of way, for about 20 minutes. As he dressed, he contemplated whether to put on his eyeliner. After a moment, he thought, Fuck yeah-he would either get the part being fully himself, or not. It was in Fate's hand.

By mid-morning, Adam found himself center stage under the scrutiny of Tim Burton and Sir Ian McKellen. Seats had been removed in the front few rows and replaced with a work area, complete with a long table, folding chairs, and green accountant lights that gave their faces a rather ghostly hue.

To Adam's surprise, Sir Ian was clean-shaven, his white-grey hair worn short, and dressed in a simple black turtle neck and jeans. He looked nothing like Gandalf and didn't bother to greet Adam, seeming more interested in taking notes and talking on his cell phone. By contrast, Tim Burton walked right up on stage and welcomed Adam with a handshake. Adam took in Tim's curly mop of dark, graying hair, unruly beard and infectious smile, and decided that he liked him.

"I'm going to spend the morning just getting a visual feel for you," Tim explained. "I know it's not the way things usually go with a musical, but I am who I am. I see the world in pictures. There's a visual through-line I'm following. First, I'm going to get a sense of how you hold the stage by yourself. Then we'll call in other cast members. Francois here will be taking photos." As if magically conjured from thin air, a balding, rather surly man (looking nothing like a Francois) appeared on stage lugging lights and a camera.

Adam was more confused by what Ian McKellen was doing sitting in the house watching Adam with the cool confidence of a cobra eyeing its prey. Adam had been looking forward to meeting his Royal Sirness-famous for his brilliant acting, outspoken gay advocacy, and generosity with younger actors. He'd hoped there'd be at least a little bit of that unspoken frisson of sexual recognition that so often happened when two queers met, but apparently not.

It was unusual for an actor to be actively involved with casting, but maybe being a knight had its privileges. Well, at least he wouldn't have to deal with any homophobic bullshit. Adam had been through too many auditions to worry much. The good news here was that Tim was actually taking the time to fill him in on what was going on. Adam had been dismissed before he'd even opened his mouth at too many auditions to get hung up on the details. He just knew that looking like he was trying too hard was certain death. Of course, so was looking like he didn't care.

"Okay. Just let me know what you need." Adam looked Tim in the eye and smiled. Okey dokey, he was going to play fashion model this morning. Oh well, that could be fun. In fact, he and Brad had made kind of a thing of being photographed. As soon as Brad came into his mind, Adam felt himself tense. Cut it out! he told himself sternly. Think Aragorny thoughts.

And so Adam did. With bits of dialog-in English and Elvish, thank you very much-tumbling through his mind, Adam stood and let himself be looked at. All the meditation and yoga seemed to be paying off. Adam felt relaxed, even confident. He posed with and without a sword. He flung on an Elven cloak, "loped" across the stage, and looked stage left at, as Tim explained, the statues of Isildur and Anárion that guard the passage of the Great River Anduin.

During this last scene, Sir Ian stood up and walked on stage.

"Do you see them?" he asked, without any kind of a 'how do you do.'

Adam almost answered yes; he was supposed to be able to see them, right? But instead, he answered honestly: "Well, not really over there. But if I close my eyes, I might be able to."

Sir Ian stood right beside Adam. "Well then, close your damn eyes."

So Adam closed his eyes, and gradually the image of the two mighty statues emerging from the river formed in his mind's eye. He tilted his head up and opened his eyes, ready to strike a more effective pose, one worthy of the sight. There, about an inch in front of him was Sir Ian, peering intently into his face and, before he could stop himself, Adam startled and stepped back. Without a comment but a small half-smile, Sir Ian left the stage.

Sounding amused, Tim announced that it was time for Adam to take a break before working with the other cast members.

First up was Hal Greer, the actor cast as Boromir. He was a brawny, dish-water blond, all muscle and self-confidence, slightly taller than Adam. He walked up to Adam and gave him a business-like shake of the hand. Tim had them pose, standing back to back, swords held aloft. He then had Hal kneel before Adam. Adam looked down and thought he'd rarely been less interested in a man in this position.

Next up was Elijah Wood. Elijah walked onto the stage with a lithe, self-confidence. He nodded at Adam in a friendly manner before turning his attention to Tim and Sir Ian.

"Ian!" Elijah exclaimed with delight. "I didn't know you were here already. I didn't expect you until next week."

"Surprise!" Sir Ian replied with a twinkle in his eyes that hadn't been there before Elijah arrived. "I'm here for the duration now."

"And glad I am of it." Tim sketched a slight bow towards Sir Ian. "Elijah, I don't know if you've heard; Ian signed on as a co-producer over the holidays."

Elijah apparently hadn't heard. He leapt off the stage and gave Sir Ian a huge hug. The two immediately fell into what was clearly a familiar banter while the photographer on stage impatiently fussed with lights and grumbled under his breath about the delay. Tim seemed intensely interested in the byplay between Elijah and Sir Ian, and no one seemed to remember Adam at all.

Patience. Adam tried to stand at his ease, stopping himself by sheer willpower from anxiously fiddling with his cloak and shifting his weight from leg to leg.

Finally, Elijah ran back up on stage. Sir Ian settled back into his seat, all of the hale fellow well-met friendliness dropped from his manner, and he again stared up at Adam with a stern, slightly disapproving expression. Adam groaned to himself. So, this is how it's going to be. No special pass for being Family-maybe even a higher bar to cross. Crap!

And then Elijah was next to him, his eyes sparkling, a little breathless and apologetic. "Sorry about the delay. But God, Ian as a producer? How awesome is that?" Adam smiled politely. Elijah continued, "Well, I'm glad to meet you. I'm Elijah, and you, of course, are the mysterious Adam. One of the two hand-picked guys auditioning to be Aragorn."

Two? That was news to Adam.

"Glad to see you haven't been scared off by the Aragorn Curse. You'd be surprised at some of the big names who have been. We need to get this production moving forward again, and Aragorn is such a lynchpin to the whole story." Elijah paused, and before Adam could reply, he continued, "Honestly, I can't believe I'm going to get to be Frodo again! It must be kind of weird for you to step into the middle of all this. Tim and his photo shoots-kind of crazy, yeah? But there's a method to his madness. So let's just have fun with it. I'll be all hobbit, and you be all noble, and no matter what happens, we'll get some gorgeous pictures out of the day. Okay."

With that, Elijah touched Adam's arm and gave him a blatantly flirtatious smile. Adam wasn't up for flirting; at the moment he was just done with men. But he couldn't help noticing that Elijah was just his type: petite, elf-like, stunning big blue eyes, and, whoa that's odd, a funny little smile.

And then, in a moment that would live in infamy, Adam finally had a chance to speak. "What small teeth you have." SHIT!!!!!! "Um, I mean I'm really glad to meet you."

Without missing a beat, Elijah replied, "Said the Big Bad Wolf." And they both cracked up. This was going to be okay. The two of them fell into an easy 'getting to know another actor' conversation as Tim gave complicated directions regarding positioning and cameras to Francois and his crew.

Posing with Elijah was sick-they had an immediate rapport that Adam knew would translate well on film. At one point, Tim stopped them and said, "We need a bigger height difference between Frodo and Aragorn. I can only do so much with lighting. Let's try the boots." A stage assistant brought a pair of awesome black platform boots. Feeling a little like Cinderella, Adam tried them on; they fit perfectly.

"Can you move well in them?" Tim asked. Adam grinned. The wonderfully familiar sense of toppiness in the boots made him feel more like Aragorn already. He walked the stage for Tim, who beamed back, looking pleased.

After a few more photos with Elijah, it was time for another break.

"We'll finish up with Arwen and you. In the afternoon, I'd like you to work with our choreographer and fencing master in our rehearsal space. Ian will observe, but I have other business to attend to." Just great. Tim was probably going to do his photo thing with the other Aragorn. Before Adam could dwell too long on that, Tim was calling in his Arwen. "Ms. Cleopatra Jones! You're needed stage center. Don't make me wait again, darlin'."

"I'm right here, Tim," she answered mildly from stage left. "Just waiting my turn." And onto the stage, adorned in a simple white dress that swept to the floor, walked one of the most gorgeous women Adam had ever laid eyes on. Six feet of willowy grace, big brown eyes slanted upward in a decidedly elvish manner, gorgeous long dreds, and arms with muscle tone that Adam immediately envied. She reminded him a little of Iman, who, being David Bowie's wife and all, was one of Adam's fashion icons.

"Well, hello, Maybe-Aragorn," Cleopatra Jones greeted him warmly.

Adam couldn't help himself, he stepped forward and bowed to her.

She gravely nodded her head in acknowledgement, then, laughing, held out her hand. "Please, call me Cleo." Raising her voice so Tim couldn't miss her next words, she added, "No one calls me Cleopatra except my mama. And she's earned the right!"

After a couple of awkward mis-starts, Adam and Cleo found a rhythm with one another, striking a series of poses: back to back; gazing into one another's eyes; arms draped around each other's waists; Cleo's head on Adam's shoulder. And finally, Adam was the one to find himself on his knees. He didn't even need to manufacture the look of wonder on his face as he took in the beauty of the goddess standing regally above him.

"Okay. That's a wrap for the morning," announced Tim. "Cleo, you'll be needed back here at 3. Adam, there's lunch in the green room. Brooke will meet you in the Smithson rehearsal space at 1:30 and teach you some of the choreography. I'll expect you back here tomorrow at 10 for your singing audition."

Cleo explained she was running off to pick up her niece from daycare, but invited Adam to join her for dinner at a Japanese restaurant close to the theater. He gladly accepted. As she left, she whispered conspiratorially in Adam's ear, "Just beware of lounging Bagel Boys, and you'll be all right."

The afternoon went by swiftly. Brooke, it turned out, was an assistant to the choreographer-and an expert fencer as well. She spent an hour coaching Adam on stage fighting basics and seemed satisfied with his progress. Explaining to Adam that casting for dancers was still underway, Brooke called in about 20 hopeful-looking dancers to learn the choreography, along with Adam, for the "Strange Meetings at the Dancing Pony" and "Rivendell Revelations" scenes. Adam was glad he was in decent shape. With a secret plan to eventually convince Monte to glam up Citizen Vein performances, he had been taking dance classes twice a week since quitting Wicked.

The choreographer, a whip thin woman with a pony tail of silvery hair by the name of Natalia Banks, entered the room, followed by Sir Ian. To Adam's relief, she didn't ask him to dance alone, but simply wanted to see all the dancers working together. Sir Ian sat on a high stool, legs crossed, back straight as a yoga teacher, and watched the audition with a critical concentration, occasionally scribbling notes in a battered old lab notebook. Twice, he called Natalia over and whispered something in her ear. Adam noticed he wasn't the only one who glanced nervously at the cloud of disapprobation that seemed to hang over the man.

At the end of the day, Natalia pulled out six dancers and announced that they had made the cut and would start rehearsal on Friday. She dismissed the rest.

"And you, young man, of course will stay for singing tomorrow. Clearly dancing's not your first love, but that's to be expected. You do listen, and you certainly can move, and that's far better than many they've sent my way. We may well see each other again." With those words, Natalia, Brooke and Sir Ian left the room.

***

That night, Cleo and Adam fell deeply in-like over sushi and sashimi. Cleo was not in the least bit ethereal in real life; she ate her food with gusto and had a deep, wonderful laugh that made Adam curious to hear her sing.

Adam started the conversation by asking her what she thought of Sir Ian McKellen.

"I'm kind of in awe of him," she answered. "We don't really have many scenes together, so I just watch him from a distance. I noticed he seemed a bit off today. He's usually quite the charmer, you know."

So Adam kept hearing.

After sharing edamame and sake, Cleo gave Adam a snapshot version of her life, worthy of a first date. Born and raised in Greenwich Village, she was living again with her parents to help them raise her niece, Akima, while Akima's mom was in the "hard knocks recovery program sometimes called prison."

Cleo had been in a number of shows on and off Broadway, and even done a stint as the understudy for Elphaba in one of the touring productions of Wicked. Adam was delighted by this common thread to their experiences, and they spent a half hour trading Wicked stories.

"But Arwen's my first leading role. You could have knocked me over with a feather when my agent called and told me I had the part. Best damn thing that's ever happened to me."

"Your agent?" Adam gave her an inquiring look. "He isn't by any chance the not-so-charming Neil Mecklan, is he?"

"Nope. Never heard of that guy. I work with Gracie Lum. She's just the kind of pushy bitch you want to have your back. Don't you have an agent?"

"No. I did for a while, but lately I've been working with a band and, unfortunately, we haven't exactly needed one." Adam took a sip of green tea and leaned forward. "Soooo, Elijah said there's someone else they're considering for Aragorn-and that makes sense. I mean, I'm no one, really. I can't even quite believe all of this is happening. But I've gotta ask…do you know who it is?"

Cleo nodded. "It's s'posed to be a big secret, but I hate secrets. They probably won't put him through all the paces you're going through because he seems to be more of a known entity. Neither Hugh nor Johnny even auditioned, you know. Rumor has it that this guy's been on some cable TV show. Let's see, his name is Nathan…something. I forget the last name, but I think it starts with an F and sounds like a pony or horse-"

Adam nearly choked on his Maguro. "You don't mean Nathan Fillion, do you?"

"Yeah. That sounds right. Why, do you know him?"

No, Adam didn't know him, but Brad had made him watch every episode of Firefly, and they both loved Dr. Horrible's Sing Along Blog. In fact, Brad always pointed to Dr. Horrible as evidence that he was perfectly justified in his conviction that Go-Cheeks-Go was on the verge of world domination through social media.

"Cleo! Nathan Fillion is…" Adam ran through a long list of adjectives in his brain and finally settled on, "depressingly awesome. Smart, funny, good looking, and he already has a totally dedicated fan base." Adam grimly popped a piece of Cleo's tempura shrimp into his mouth.

"Don't worry yourself. There's always someone we're up against in this business. I bet you'll be fine. I mean, I'm already rooting for you, and I have excellent taste," Cleo said, in what Adam was sure was meant to be a reassuring tone.

Both were silent for a moment.

"I can totally picture him as Aragorn," Adam couldn't help whining a little. "He's got the whole sorrowful hero thing down pat. And he sings." Adam played idly with his chopsticks thinking about his competition. Suddenly, he smiled. "Well, he does sing. He's not bad at all. But me-I can sing. If it comes down to the music, I'll be okay."

"Good." Cleo nodded her approval. "Just know who you are and the Way will open. I have a feeling about you and me and the big bright lights of Broadway." Cleo glanced at her watch. "Speaking of which, we better get home and get some beauty sleep."

Outside the restaurant, Adam waited with Cleo for her taxi.

Just a little tipsy, she looked earnestly at Adam, sighing, "Damn you're fine!"

"You're pretty gorgeous yourself," Adam replied.

Cleo took a step closer to Adam, looked into his eyes, and laughed. "Alas, I fear, you are not for me."

Adam wryly nodded his agreement.

"I bet you break all the boy's hearts," she teased.

"Oh, no, not really. Not lately." Adam rubbed his eyes tiredly. It had been a long day. Cleo must have caught something in his expression, because she reached her hand out to lightly touch his cheek.

"Aw baby," she said softly. "So it's like that."

Adam shrugged. A taxi pulled up, and Cleo headed back to the Village, blowing a kiss as she left.

Adam headed for the subway and his oh-so-comfortable bed at the Waldorf Astoria.

Tuesday

Back at the theater at 10 a.m. sharp, Adam was greeted with instructions to meet with the scholar Ryszard Derdzinski in the Little Room, where apparently he was to be tutored in Elvish. Who knew there were actual Elf scholars? Oh, Monte. Yep. Monte probably knew.

Adam found Cleo in a room about the size of a walk-in closet, talking with a man she affectionately introduced as Rizzie, the Professor Of All Things Elven. Adam thought he looked rather more like a garden gnome than an elf, but kept this insight to himself.

"There's some Elvish in the duet we're singing today. Of course I've already learned it, but I always enjoy a session with Rizzie, so I thought I'd come along to help out," Cleo explained.

Upon request, Adam tried out the string of Elvish words and phrases he had memorized.

"That's a pleasant surprise. It's amazing how many people don't even know a single word. I don't know what they teach anymore." Rizzie appeared quite serious about this point. "The fact that you have some rudimentary words and phrases will help tremendously as we develop your pronunciation-which by the way, needs a lot of work. It is fortunate that Aragorn isn't an elf, so an unusual accent is to be expected."

Cleo, sitting behind Rizzie, sent a mischievous grin Adam's way.

Despite his dismay at the general lack of Elvish literacy, Rizzy proved to be a kind and patient teacher. Still, Adam found he was having some trouble getting the words to flow smoothly.

Cleo jumped in with a suggestion. "Let's try singing the lines from our song. I always do better when there's music." Thus it was, tucked away in that little room far from the rest of the world, Adam discovered for the first time the sheer joy of singing with the phenomenal Cleopatra Jones.

At the end of the duet, Rizzie stood and vigorously applauded. "That was lovely, just lovely! And Adam, Cleo's instincts, as usual, are right. Once music is added, your Elvish is almost flawless."

With the sweet glow of success, Adam headed back to the Smithson room where he spent the rest of the morning working with the assistant to the musical director, reviewing the songs for the afternoon audition. After a light lunch and a cup of tea, Adam was back at center stage.

Sitting in the house were Tim, Sir Ian, and Andrew Lloyd Weber. Adam had a momentary sense of giddy unreality. He hadn't known that the man himself, king of the Broadway musical, would be there. He looked around for a moment, wondering if David Bowie was also somewhere in the theater…but no. Bowie was nowhere to be seen. Adam supposed that was a good thing, because talk about distracting. Adam wasn't sure he'd be able to stop himself from acting like a crushed-out fanboy if Bowie appeared before him.

A piano was on the stage, and the piano player, Matt, from the morning's practice sat ready to accompany Adam.

Tim gave a brief, unnecessary introduction. "Adam, this is Andrew Lloyd Weber." The legend nodded to Adam. "We'd like you to start with Aragorn's Theme," Tim instructed. "After that, we'll see how your voice works with some of the other players'."

And so it began. Adam sang the words written so long ago by Tolkien himself, set to a haunting melody:

All that is gold does not glitter,
Not all those who wander are lost;
The old that is strong does not wither,
Deep roots are not reached by the frost.
From the ashes a fire shall be woken,
A light from the shadows shall spring;
Renewed shall be blade that was broken,
The crownless again shall be king.

"Good. That's good." Andrew Lloyd Weber stood up. "Now try the version sung in the final battle scene. Matt, you know which one I'm talking about. It has more of a rock edge to it."
 With the ease of a river following its natural course, Adam sang for the rest of the afternoon, moving from one style to another, one song to the next, with other actors and alone. By late afternoon, Andrew and Tim were talking with one another in low, excited voices. But, damn it, Sir Ian sat with eyes closed through half of Adam's numbers, only occasionally glancing up at the stage.

The last song of the day was the Lay of Aragorn and Arwen. Cleo joined him on stage, an almost shy smile on her face.

"You are magnificent!" she whispered in Adam's ear.

"Let's blow them away," he whispered back. And in English and Elvish, singing low and high, they did just that.

As they finished the song, Tim, Andrew, and even Sir Ian, gave the pair a quick round of applause.

Andrew Lloyd Weber stood up. "Well, a most interesting afternoon. That last was very well done indeed! But you've also made me see some issues with the composition and libretto. I must skype David right away-we have some things to work through." He rose and walked up the aisle and out of the theater.

"Well, that's a first," Cleo gushed. "They never applaud."

Adam tried to suppress the thrill of hope that ran through him. You just never knew with auditions.

"Go home, Cleo, and give your sweet Akima a kiss," said Tim. "Be back here at 11 tomorrow. We'll have you and Adam run through Act IV, Scene III." Clearly dismissed, Cleo gave Adam a brief, fierce hug and left the stage.

"It's all about the acting tomorrow, young man," Sir Ian spoke up. Adam had almost forgotten the man could talk. "I believe you were sent some of the key scenes before you arrived in New York. Take another look at them tonight, and we shall see what we shall see."

"To be a little more specific and less mysterious," Tim gave Sir Ian a rather puzzled look, "I'll be having you run through a bit at the Prancing Pony, Gandalf's fall to the Balrog, Boromir's death and, of course, the scene where you urge Arwen to leave for the Grey Havens. I need you here by 9. Get yourself a good night's sleep."

Adam politely bade Tim and Sir Ian a good evening. He left the theater, wondering how he was supposed to review all of those scenes and get a good night's sleep, too.

***

Back at the hotel, Adam ordered room service and caught up on text messages. For the first time since Adam left L.A., Brad had checked in.

Message 1: Sorry for abrupt goodbye. U know I luv u bb.

Adam hit delete.

Message 2: Aragorn is a beautiful man w/big sword. U r made for the part.

Adam hit delete again.

Message 3: Don't doubt yourself.

Delete.

Message 4: Deep roots are not reached by the frost.

Shit, Brad. Way to reach right in and twist his heart. Since when did Brad quote Tolkien, anyways? And what the fuck was that supposed to mean?

Adam saved the message, but didn't reply.

Instead, he took the crumpled wad of paper that had once been Brad's round trip ticket to New York from the top of his bureau and threw it at the waste basket. It landed on the floor, and Adam left it there.

Adam called Dani; she did a little happy dance over the phone when he described his day. And then she ran lines with him, like they'd done for so many other shows. Dani was his go-to person for memorization help, and he saw no reason why a couple thousand miles should get in their way.

An hour into the conversation, Adam found himself stumbling over lines he'd known by heart just yesterday and uncharacteristically snappish when Dani corrected him.

Near midnight, Dani finally stopped him. "Adam. You're no good like this. For my sake and yours, get some sleep."

Adam ended the call. Climbing into bed, he placed the cell phone on his pillow. He scrolled down to the text message from Brad and touched his finger to the screen before turning the phone off for the night.

Exhausted, he fell into a night of troubled dreams.

Wednesday

Standing in the wings, Adam looked down ruefully at his jean-clad legs. No costumes today-more's the pity, because Adam had a huge and unfashionable rip in one knee and was spattered with slush and mud from the wintery streets outside.

On the way in that morning, he'd received one more text from Brad.

Message: G'mornin Sunshine. Break a leg.

And he almost had. Because just as he'd looked down to read the text, a bicycle messenger boy had careened into him, and they'd fallen together onto the busy Manhattan sidewalk, a tangle of legs and bike and manila envelopes. After colorfully cursing, the messenger boy was full of apologies. Although once he was assured that Adam was more or less in one piece, he bicycled away, leaving Adam to limp the rest of the way to the theater.

Besides the disreputable state of his jeans and the wound to his dignity, Adam had a huge goose egg on his knee and he felt generally bruised and battered as he joined Elijah on stage to run through their meeting at the Prancing Pony. No new actors joined Elijah and Adam on stage, instead a stage assistant read lines for the other hobbits. It seemed Tim was once again only interested in seeing the interplay between Adam and a few key actors.

Adam had all the music for this section down pat, but Tim told him, "We'll skip over the songs today. I just want to hear Strider explaining himself to the hobbits. When you're ready…."

Adam had the first line, and Elijah, no, Frodo, responded on cue. They got through about half the scene, but Adam knew he sounded tense and probably looked like he was trying too hard to remember the words. By contrast, Elijah seemed to slip on the character of Frodo like a comfortable old sweater.

"Stop for a moment," this from Ian who, as usual, was seated at the desk with Tim. Ian bent towards Tim and they engaged in an extended exchange of hushed voices.

Elijah sat down on the stage and gestured for Adam to join him. "Hey. I think you need to slow down and breathe a little. I know they can kind of be intimidating." Oh shit, not good when Frodo was comforting Aragorn. "I temporarily went speechless the first time I met Ian. And I nearly puked before singing for David."

"Oh, so you've sung for Bowie?" Adam attempted a tone of nonchalance that must have failed utterly because Elijah clapped his hands together in a positively hobbit-like manner.

"I know. Isn't it the coolest thing ever? I mean, Bowie, he's a fuckin' god, right? And it turns out a helluva nice guy, too-in a kind of opinionated, artsy British sort of way. Definitely more thin-white-duke than Ziggy Stardust in real life."

Before Adam could respond, Tim was calling them back to attention. Adam was relieved to realize that during this brief break, his shoulders had relaxed, his throat had unclenched, and some of his familiar stage-ease had returned to his body.

Tim stood and said, "Adam, we'd like you to take it from the top."

"And don't move your hands so much," Ian added. "You're a Ranger. Cool, contained, mysterious. Use your script if you need it."

With some of his nerves settled, Adam didn't need it. He and Elijah ran through the scene, and Adam felt it had gone relatively well, until near the end Tim interrupted him and asked, "Is your speaking voice always that high?"

Adam's heart sank, but he was damned if was going to let it show. Standing tall and loose, he raised an eyebrow at Tim and replied in a lower timber, "No, it isn't. I'll keep it in this range, if you'd like."

"Yes, that would be a better choice," Tim said. "Take 15 and we'll run through Boromir's death scene. Elijah, go meet with Andrew the rest of the morning. He wants to rework the Mt. Doom fugue with you and Michael."

Elijah nodded and gave Adam a brief, encouraging smile before leaving the stage.

In the bathroom, Adam examined himself in the mirror. He'd kept the make-up muted today-just a little foundation and a hint of eyeliner. He'd let his hair grow out and put just enough product in to be sure that it framed his face without falling into his eyes. He looked at himself and thought about Boromir's death and felt…irritated. He attempted a sorrowful expression, eyes slightly widened, lips drawn. Well, that made him look like shit. What was the deal with Boromir-greedy for power, self-important, and a bully-he reminded Adam of half the men he met in L.A. Why should Aragorn grieve for him? Adam sure as hell wouldn't.

Back on stage, Adam kneeled awkwardly over Hal, his injured knee humming with pain. Adam was having a hard time thinking of him as anything but Hal the Workout Guy, because he looked just like Brad's personal trainer at the gym back home.

Get it together here, Lambert. Think tragic, noble thoughts.

Adam and Hal recited the lines.

The script was great here, although it veered away from both the movie and the book. Back in California, Monte had been horrified when Adam first shared the scene, exclaiming, "Aragorn does not drive his freakin' sword into Boromir. That just doesn't make sense!"

But Adam had disagreed, "Sure it does. Boromir is mortally injured, but who knows how long it would take him to die? Aragorn's saving him from being picked over by the Orcs-it's the ultimate symbol of the trust and love that's grown between the two of them."

"You shouldn't fuck with the original," Monte had grumbled.

"But it's a rock-musical, Monte! There's got to be some adaptation. Besides, the song Aragorn sings after killing Boromir is AMAZING!" Adam had sung a few lines to Monte, who'd settled back, looking thoughtful.

Adam knew there was magic in the dialog between Boromir and Aragorn, but he just couldn't connect to it anymore. He genuinely tried to go there, but between reminding himself to keep his voice deep, containing his natural tendency to talk with his hands, and the musty smell emitting from his still slightly soggy jeans, a bravura performance just wasn't in the cards.

Hal didn't help much, reciting his lines in a wooden manner and treating Adam with a formal, stiff politeness.

Somewhat unnervingly, neither Tim nor Ian said a word during the scene.

"Okay, Hal. That's all we'll need from you today." Tim raised his voice, "Cleo, honey, you're up."

Cleo was dressed in a brown leotard, tights and a fierce wrap-around skirt in burnt orange and browns. Ian and Tim were again ensconced in conversation, so Cleo was free to greet Adam with a warm hug and a blazing, infectious smile. Adam felt warmed to the core and smiled right back at her.

"You look a little the worse for wear, baby. What happened to your knee?" She poked gently at the hole in his jeans.

Adam shook his head and said, "Just another way the stars haven't been aligned for me today. But you're here again, so the Evening Star is in its right place now, and all should be well."

"Oh, you, how you do go on!" Cleo replied in a broad southern accent.

"Enough chit chat up there!" Tim said to Cleo. "We have an audition to complete here. We're ready when you are."

Cleo and Adam each took a few moments to center themselves. This was the scene Adam knew best-interlaced as it was with Elvish, he'd spent hours learning the words and trying to find the emotion behind them. But when the scene began, the thing that even people who aren't actors have nightmares about happened: he couldn't remember his lines. Or rather, he remembered some of them, but the words were jumbled and in the wrong order. It was as if he'd suddenly acquired a kind of verbal dyslexia.

Cleo tried to help him, patiently repeating her lines and even quoting some of his lines under her breath. But nothing seemed to be working.
Adam looked out and saw Tim scribbling notes with a small frown, and Sir Ian gazing right at him. Then Sir Ian did something odd: he nodded gravely at Adam and put his hand across his heart.

Adam didn't know what to make of this, but it gave him courage to do the unthinkable, in the middle of the most important audition in his life, for a part which he now saw he didn't have a prayer of getting, a part which actual famous people were lined up to take: he asked the director and producer if he could take a 15 minute break and try again.

Tim looked at Sir Ian, who raised his eyebrow in some kind of silent communication, then nodded briefly. "Yes, go ahead."

Adam walked stiff-legged off stage and out the back door of the theater. He leaned back against the brick wall of the theater and breathed in the cold winter air.

"Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck FUCK!" Adam wondered if maybe the Aragorn curse was getting him after all. He hadn't screwed up an audition like this since…well, really, ever. "FUUUUUCCCCKKK!"

"Don't wear the word out, dude," an amused voice interrupted. Adam opened his eyes, and there standing next to him was a blonde-haired, mascara-wearing goth boy, holding a pink bakers box and wearing a baseball cap with the words "Bagel Delivery Boy" emblazoned across the front.

"I must be fuckin' dreaming." The last time Adam had felt this way, he'd been tripping on mushrooms at Burning Man.

"There you go with the fuck again." Bagel Boy gave a mock look of disapproval. "Dude, it might be time for you to expand your vocabulary."

"I think fuck is serving me quite well, thank you very much." Adam was in no mood for banter.

"Well, I gotta tell you, you don't look like you're doing so well."

"Well, it's been a shit day, start to finish," Adam almost snarled.

"See now. Shit. That's a perfectly good word. It's good for variety." The Bagel Boy gave Adam an friendly grin and pulled a cigarette out of his pocket and lit it. "Do you wanna talk about it?"

"No. I don't want to talk about it. Not now. Not ever," Adam said through gritted teeth.

"Ok. Maybe you'd like a bagel instead." And the boy opened the box, and held out a sesame seed bagel. Adam was just about to refuse, when he realized that in fact he was hungry. So what if bagels were totally full of carbs; that just didn't seem to matter much right now.

"Sure. Yeah. Thanks." Adam took the bagel and breathed in the deep, yeasty aroma, then took a bite and chewed it thoughtfully. It tasted good, and Adam had an odd feeling that eating that bagel was pulling all of his molecules back together. "Wow, so I guess it's true. Bagels really are better in New York."

"So they say," Bagel Boy replied, exhaling a cloud of smoke.

"Um, do you mind if I ask…. Are you The Bagel Boy-the one that broke Hugh Jackman's leg and started the Aragorn curse?"

"That would be me." The boy had a certain pride of ownership in his tone.

"So, do they even let you in the theater anymore?" Adam had to ask.

"Oh no. It's strictly off limits. I'm just on my way to another delivery and thought I'd stop and have a smoke. And you? Are you an actor?"

Adam snorted a laugh. "That's debatable at the moment, but I am trying out for Aragorn."

"Awesome. Then being all tortured and upset should work well for you. You know, Aragorn carries a heavy destiny."

Holy Hell! Was everyone in the world an LOTR nerd?

"Well, nice talking, but I've gotta jet. Deliveries and all." And Bagel Boy strode away down the alley.

Five minutes later, Adam was back on stage feeling more collected. At Tim's nod, he and Cleo started the scene again. This time the words came back to Adam. He knew he wasn't brilliant, but at least it wasn't a full-on humiliation, and by the end, he was holding his hand softly on Cleo's cheek, in a gesture that felt just right.

Tim and Sir Ian entered into another one of their urgent conversations. Sir Ian seemed to be getting quite agitated. Adam could just make out disconnected words and phrases like smile, work in progress, balancing elements, and-did he hear that right?-fruity habits. Finally, Tim seemed to concede a point and called Adam to come down to talk with them. Cleo left, with a small wave to Adam.

Tim was all business. "Adam. As I'm sure you've heard, we have at least one other serious contender for the part of Aragorn and we need to see him today and tomorrow. I think you know that today wasn't great. But yesterday was a very good day indeed. Ian and I would like you to come back Friday morning for one final hour of audition. Then I'll make a decision."

"Ok. I want to thank you for this opportunity." Adam knew this was a delicate moment. He had to express his willingness to grow, while conveying confidence in his current abilities. "I  know that I can bring Aragorn to life for you and I can already tell that there's some good chemistry between me and the other actors. But I also need to continue growing as an actor and I want you to know that I take direction well." Adam ignored the slight clearing of the throat from Sir Ian at that last comment. "Is there anything you'd like me to work on for Friday?"

"No. Get some rest," Tim said. "Go enjoy New York City. Hell, see a show on Broadway. I'll see you at 10 on Friday." Adam shook Tim's hand, and then Sir Ian's, and left the building.

He spent a miserable afternoon replaying each moment of the morning over and over in his head. By 5 p.m. he'd decided that he needed a drink, and had stumbled into a corner bar, where he sat morosely nursing a vodka martini. He'd intentionally picked a dumpy little neighborhood bar, with a pool table and crowd of heavy drinkers. He played a couple of games of pick-up pool and headed back to the hotel with a slight buzz, but no sense of relief.

This is when he usually would have picked up the phone and called Brad. Brad knew how to get him through these moments, when the whole world came tumbling down, and Adam remembered that he was really just a wanna be rock-star, with a load of debt and a bad complexion. Adam could call Dani…but she'd be too sympathetic, and he might even end up comforting her. And his brother, well, Neil would listen for a bit, then tell him to stop being an emo-dumb ass, try to distract him with some story on Fox News, and, if all that failed, counsel him to go get laid.

Instead, Adam turned on the TV, switched to a gay porn movie, set it on mute, and watched other men joylessly fuck.

He almost missed the buzz of his phone telling him that he had a text message. He was so over Brad's texts. But he looked anyways.

Message: Prep Arwen love scene and Boromir death. I'll be at your room at 10 a.m. Ian.

What the hell? His Royal Knightness had barely spoken to Adam for the last few days, and he seemed like kind of a jerk, despite all the good press. Maybe this confirmed it-practicing a love scene alone in Adam's hotel room? Sure, the appointment was for 10 a.m., but still…Adam had no intention of sleeping his way into this part. Friggin' Brad would probably be over the moon about a private meeting with Gandalf. But Adam had made his decision about this kind of scenario long ago: he was too talented, not to mention just not into older men, to put up with this kind of crap.

And yet. Sir Ian McKellen was one of the greatest actors in the world.

Adam turned off the porn and began to rehearse.

Part 3 Aragorn Curse

Part 1 Aragorn Curse