the secret of her bloomA Story by Philip GaberI auditioned for an off-off-Broadway production entitled "A
Widow from Montclair," written by a sixty-four-year-old dentist, recently
retired, who was now pursuing a career as a playwright. When I finished reading
my prepared monologue, the director whispered something to the dentist, who
nodded approvingly. I couldn't quite grasp the fact that the guy was a
playwright, so in my mind, I kept referring to him as "The Dentist." "We'd like you to read with the male lead," the director said, looking around. "Where's Dennis?" "He went to Starbucks. He said he'd be right back,"
said a voice from the theater's rear. The director sighed. It sounded like he muttered, "Jesus
Christ," but I wasn't sure. He removed his glasses, rubbed his face with
his hands, shook his head, and muttered again. Then the dentist whispered
something to the director, who snickered as if someone had included him in a
very obscene joke. "Dennis is back!" said the voice from the rear. Dennis walked in, sipping something hot from Starbucks. He was
wearing khaki shorts, an unbuttoned Hawaiian shirt over a white t-shirt, and
leather flip-flops. He looked to be in his mid-to-late thirties. His receding
hair was in a ponytail. "Yo!" Dennis said. "Dennis, want you to read with Molly," the director
said. "Absolutely!" "Act two, scene four…" "Solid!" Dennis motioned for the stage manager to toss him a copy of the
script, which he immediately dropped as soon as it reached him. "I can do
this," he said, bending over to pick up the script. "I am a
professional…" As Dennis approached me, he winked, half-smiled, and made one of
those noises people sometimes make when giving orders to a horse. "Hey, Molly, Dennis Filcher, a pleasure to meet you. Let's
do this sucker… when you're ready…" I turned to Act Two, Scene Four. Dennis had the first line. The
scene called for him to be smoking, so he pantomimed smoking a cigarette. "'My ex-wife was always off in Limbo, occupied," he
said. "She was always vulnerable, always in a fish bowl…'" "'Hmm, my ex liked to take a drink every now and then. He
liked to come home, relax, and have a glass of wine. The wine became
vodka…'" "'I watched her take sixty laxatives in two nights…from
that time on, things went steadily downhill…'" "'I was a little too free for my own good. I wanted to have
a baby at the age of seventeen. I thought I'd never be lonely again. I won't be
alone…" Dennis tossed the imaginary cigarette on the ground, stamped it
out with his foot, and then dropped to the floor for a series of one-arm
push-ups. "'Well, I think your scars are profound, Maggie. I believe in
healing. I think that you're doing fine. But, I think, periodically, things
creep up, insecurities. I think it's… I think it's a case of, if the dog hadn't
stopped to pee, he might have caught the rabbit…'" I let out a big sigh because that's what the stage directions
said to do, but I really wasn't feeling the character. I was about to say the
hell with the whole thing and get my a*s out of there when the director
suddenly lurched out of his chair and shouted, "Yesss! Yesss! That's brilliant! That is exactly what I'm
looking for!" I just looked blankly at him. "You have such an incredibly angry, suppressed, sort of,
totally tragic cheekiness about you, which I find absolutely
irresistible…" "Thank you," I said, adding, "I think…" "Who did you study with?" "Uhm…myself?" The director laughed manically. "Girl, you're a trip…
You've got the part. Congratulations…" "Thanks," I said, sort of blasé. Dennis made that horrible horse noise again and extended his
hand. "Great job, Molly," he said. "You rocked the hell out of
that thang." I shook his hand and bowed my head for some stupid reason.
Ordinarily, I do not like bowing my head whenever somebody compliments me. In
fact, it was the first time I'd ever bowed my head to anyone in my life. It was
incredibly upsetting that I did it to a schmuck like Dennis, who was so totally
undeserving of a head bow to begin with. "How 'bout we do dinner later?" he said. "I can't. I have bible study tonight." "Oooh, bible study," he said with a subtle sneer.
"Interesting… I'd really like to sit down with you sometime and talk about
your process…" "My process?" "Your approach to the craft…" "Ahh, my approach. Well, my approach is very simple. Just
say the lines and don't bump into the furniture." Dennis laughed. He had one of those loud, embarrassing laughs
that made you never want to say anything funny to him again. He didn't even
realize I had borrowed the bump into the furniture line from Spencer Tracy,
which meant I was forced to take major cool points away from him, which left
him with a really negative rating. "Boy, you're gonna be a blast to work with," he said. "I'm really looking forward to this," I lied. Then he leaned forward and whispered, "Listen, don't let
Mark intimidate you…This is his first stage production. He's been directing
some kid's shows on Nickelodeon or the Disney Channel or some s**t for the last
five years. He's not used to working with real actors." "Thanks," I said. "That helps me a whole
lot." "Dennis! I need you!" the director shouted. "Coming, coming! Always coming!" He patted me on the
shoulder and winked. "And I do mean, always coming…" I waited for him to do the horse noise again, but thank God he
didn't. As I walked out of the theater, I thought, what the hell am I
about to sign on for here? Two weeks before the show was supposed to open, Dennis withdrew
for personal reasons, and the role couldn't be reassigned so late in the
rehearsal process, so they had to cancel the production. I was so furious with
him that I called him. "Dennis, what the hell is wrong with you?" "I just feel like I'm surrounded by people totally
unconcerned with my spiritual well-being," he said. I slammed the phone down and screamed. Thirty seconds later, the phone rang. "Hello?" I said. It was Dennis. "Man, you're a lot of work," he said. I slammed the phone down again, taking it off the hook. I had
such a volatile cocktail of emotions raging inside of me that I began to scream
wildly, pounding the arm of the couch with my closed, hard fists until some of
my knuckles were bruised and bloody. I would never forgive Dennis for what he
did to me! To us! Granted, the play was astoundingly neurotic, self-indulgent,
and imperfectly written, but it was work! Now I'd have to schlep down to the
unemployment office and play that fecocta game again! Christ, I've been
"surrounded by people who were totally unconcerned with my spiritual
well-being" my entire life! You don't see me "withdrawing for
personal reasons" two weeks before the f*****g show opens! I sunk into the couch and closed my eyes. I was in such a
paralyzing stupor that I just sat there for the next two and a half hours
staring at all the paint runs, bumps, dents, and grit on my walls. The sun's light was on my face when I finally fell asleep. Later that day, I went to my gynecologist. I told her I thought
I might be depressed. "It can be just that, your progestin levels, your hormones
get out of whack," she said. "and then it sucks your cortisol level,
and then your cortisol level makes you puffy and fat, so you're depressed.
Simple as that." "Is it really as simple as that?" I asked her. She smiled and nodded. "You're fine." I noticed a cactus sitting in a pot on the counter next to the
sink. It looked like it was beginning to rot and seemed to be melting into the
dirt. "Your cactus is dying," I said. "Mm hm," she said, reviewing my records. "Maybe you can take some cuttings and root them…" "Mm-hmm…" She scribbled something in my records, closed my file, stood up,
and extended her hand. "Everything looks great," she said. "Great," I said, shaking her hand, and I left. When I returned to my apartment, Dennis had a message on the
answering machine apologizing for his self-indulgent behavior. He went on to
say that he thought he might be battling with undiagnosed cases of
attention-deficit hyperactivity disorder, panic disorder, and manic depression,
and maybe it was time he finally confronted his demons and entered into
therapy. "My life just feels like a lot of effort with zero
payoff," he said. "Guess it's time to reassess my life mission…" That's when the answering machine cut him off. I envisioned Dennis, drunk on wine coolers, totally oblivious to
having just been disconnected, still talking into the phone four hours later,
disclosing all of his psychic scars. "Just don't turn psycho stalker on me, brother," I
said. I erased his message, grabbed a Bud Lite from the fridge, sat on
the couch, turned on Home and Garden TV, and got comfortably buzzed. I was fast asleep before the program host could fully explain
how to propagate roses. © 2024 Philip Gaber |
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4 Reviews Added on August 8, 2024 Last Updated on August 8, 2024 AuthorPhilip GaberCharlotte, NCAboutI hate writing biographies. I was one of those kids who rode a banana seat bike and watched Saturday morning cartoons and Soul Train. But my mother would never buy any of those sugary cereals for us k.. more..Writing
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