Alright, let me set the scene here. I got co-opted into helping produce this play. It's this stupid little thing based on a story by an old friend. Somehow, he decided I was the only person who was perfect to do the casting as well as direct and produce. Oh well, at least I'm getting paid. Emily, the coffee and miniskirt girl, is sitting next to me, looking at her watch impatiently. For a first date, this one is starting bad.I have sixteen more people to listen and judge on. I look at the headshot and call the next guy. He's alright. I've heard better, though. He might be right for the chorus.
I'm making notes in the margin when Emily leans over and whispers that she's not wearing any underwear. I glance at her and smile then squeeze her knee and call for the next singer/actor.
His song is interminably long but he isn't bad. I tell him I'll call him soon. He nods and leaves.
So far, I've been lucky. No effeminate wishy-washy queerish types. Not that I have anything against them, but this play isn't geared towards that. It's dark, violent, brutal. Everything I love in the world aside from pussy.
Emily's moved behind me and is torturing me by whispering things she might do to me if we ever get out of here and I'm debating just chucking it all, killing the rest of the actors, and shagging her rotten right on the stage, blood streaming down around us like a cascade of crimson rain sheeting down a wall of cedar trim.
We take a short break and I toss off the last of my now ice-cold coffee and walk with Emily to a nearby Allan Bros which I happen to own. As we wait for the overly tattooed and pierced barista, and he's a real barista, to finish our drinks. He adds them to my ledger and we walk out, her hand wrapping into mine. I grin as she gives me a peck on my whiskery cheek. We head back and walk into the theater.
Finally, we're getting to the last of them.
This one's doing a duet with a cute girl I'm wishing I could take home with Emily and I. A threesome sounds like a perfect cap to a rotten day but I'm not even gonna try asking. Just yet.
Second to last person and I start day dreaming about taking some mescaline and fucking Emily. I wonder if she'd be interested and continue thinking about it, half listening for the worst rendition of Streets of Laredo to end as I wonder if Emily's shaved or trimmed.
Finally he's done and the last singer comes up. A sturdy looking, two meter tall dude stands in the center and says his name and I nod. He begins to sing and for a moment, I enjoy it. He's good. But after a few moments, it starts to bug me. He's some white kid singing....
I stand, outraged.
“What the fuck? You come into my theater, wearing your preppy bullshit clothes, a rolex on your fucking wrist and dare to sing that? What the fuck kind of nuts do you have? Do you even listen to music? Don't you know what that song is about? Jesus fucking christ, I'm not even that fucking clueless when it comes to talking with a doctor about illnesses and I haven't touched a medical text in years. What kind of numbnut motherfucking white boy steps up on a stage and belts out Old Man River?”
I'm on the stage, in his face, my time in the Corps taking over, I'm close enough for the brim of my hat to be touching his forehead but nothing else of my body is touching him.
“Yeah, this was written by white people but so fucking what? Ever seen a white man perform this without looking like an asshole? I haven't. Son of a bitch, I'm looking at the lowest slug I've ever fucking seen, boy. A song about a black man's troubles as he works the only job he can get, hard manual labor and you come up in here, wearing a fucking Rolex and try to say you can feel yourself in that role?”
I shake my head and turn. “Get the fuck out. You're fucking blackballed. Move. You'll never work in this state again.” It's the truth. I can do it and I will.