Unique is the new Common
Auditions. They ruin your sense of individuality. Sometimes in a good way.
There are one hundred and sixty-eight talent agencies in this city. They all have a stable of actors that suit most occasions. The call goes out for ‘handsome African-American male, mid-fifties, glasses and a suit’ and the agencies rush to supply the need.
This time, the call was for ‘extremely tall white male, very skinny, missing right arm, eyepatch, scarring, tattoos and a pronounced speech impediment’.
That’s me.
I got a job with the talent agency in the hopes that I could possibly play some hideous mutants or circus freaks and make some extra cash. This is a movie town, after all. I’ve heard it said “If you can’t hide it, decorate it.” and that’s what I’ve done. I have tattoos. I stand up straight. I take my shirt off at rock concerts regardless of my scars and prosthetic arm.
It was a logging accident when I was a teenager. A petrol can exploded and threw me against the bucket of a bulldozer, slicing off my arm. I lay there burning while my co-workers tried to beat out the gasoline fire with blankets. They didn’t realize that they were only fanning the flames. It took one of the older guys to realize that wrapping me in the blankets was the only way to put them out. We were out in the deep forest. There was no way anyone could get me to a hospital quickly.
I also lost my right eye and part of my jaw as well which gives me a lisp that I still haven’t been able to get rid of, even with speech therapy.
Mostly, I get by with a smile. I look terrifying which is pretty cool in most situations. It’s not too cool when I’m trying to pick up a girl or make a new friend. A lot of people say hi to me and invite me to parties because I’m local colour. I’m a freaky feather in the cap of most popular people.
They don’t hang out with me, though, and that’s the rub. I’m a bartender in a dingy bar and for the most part, I like it that way. I chat to most of the regulars and my ‘right hook’ pours the pints just fine. It leaves my days free for auditions and watching movies. I don’t go out in daylight unless I have to.
So I figure I’m pretty unique. This is a big city, though, and I know there are a lot of freaks.
Even knowing that, it didn’t lessen my shock to see the waiting room for the audition.
There must have been around eighty versions of me there. Eighty tall, skinny guys missing their right arms. They all had scarring. Some from burns, some from blades. They were all tattooed. Some with full-body sleeves, some with just a little ink on their arms. It was like a pirate convention there with the eye patches. There were a lot of glass eyes as well. The whir of servomotors in the arms was a constant insectile buzz.
It was a little like heaven. I was prepared to be the only one. I was prepared for the audition to be a formality.
Instead, I made eighty new friends. We talked about the pros and cons of the different prosthetic arms on the market. We talked about the pain of skin grafts. We admired each other’s tattoos. There was a lot of phone-number swapping and promises of future meetings.
We’re thinking of forming a club that meets once a month at my bar. I can’t wait.
tags
There are one hundred and sixty-eight talent agencies in this city. They all have a stable of actors that suit most occasions. The call goes out for ‘handsome African-American male, mid-fifties, glasses and a suit’ and the agencies rush to supply the need.
This time, the call was for ‘extremely tall white male, very skinny, missing right arm, eyepatch, scarring, tattoos and a pronounced speech impediment’.
That’s me.
I got a job with the talent agency in the hopes that I could possibly play some hideous mutants or circus freaks and make some extra cash. This is a movie town, after all. I’ve heard it said “If you can’t hide it, decorate it.” and that’s what I’ve done. I have tattoos. I stand up straight. I take my shirt off at rock concerts regardless of my scars and prosthetic arm.
It was a logging accident when I was a teenager. A petrol can exploded and threw me against the bucket of a bulldozer, slicing off my arm. I lay there burning while my co-workers tried to beat out the gasoline fire with blankets. They didn’t realize that they were only fanning the flames. It took one of the older guys to realize that wrapping me in the blankets was the only way to put them out. We were out in the deep forest. There was no way anyone could get me to a hospital quickly.
I also lost my right eye and part of my jaw as well which gives me a lisp that I still haven’t been able to get rid of, even with speech therapy.
Mostly, I get by with a smile. I look terrifying which is pretty cool in most situations. It’s not too cool when I’m trying to pick up a girl or make a new friend. A lot of people say hi to me and invite me to parties because I’m local colour. I’m a freaky feather in the cap of most popular people.
They don’t hang out with me, though, and that’s the rub. I’m a bartender in a dingy bar and for the most part, I like it that way. I chat to most of the regulars and my ‘right hook’ pours the pints just fine. It leaves my days free for auditions and watching movies. I don’t go out in daylight unless I have to.
So I figure I’m pretty unique. This is a big city, though, and I know there are a lot of freaks.
Even knowing that, it didn’t lessen my shock to see the waiting room for the audition.
There must have been around eighty versions of me there. Eighty tall, skinny guys missing their right arms. They all had scarring. Some from burns, some from blades. They were all tattooed. Some with full-body sleeves, some with just a little ink on their arms. It was like a pirate convention there with the eye patches. There were a lot of glass eyes as well. The whir of servomotors in the arms was a constant insectile buzz.
It was a little like heaven. I was prepared to be the only one. I was prepared for the audition to be a formality.
Instead, I made eighty new friends. We talked about the pros and cons of the different prosthetic arms on the market. We talked about the pain of skin grafts. We admired each other’s tattoos. There was a lot of phone-number swapping and promises of future meetings.
We’re thinking of forming a club that meets once a month at my bar. I can’t wait.
tags