Prew…

I didn’t know who Roy London was. I only knew that he was recommended by my girlfreind Becca and met my standard of studying with a teacher who didn’t advertise in Dramalogue

It’s his class. I feel intimidated, embarrassed, uneducated, unsophisticated, helpless and lost. My cover, a “don’t fuck with me” attitude, is higher and thicker than the walls of Jericho and there’s no John Derek coming to save my ass. I’m in the middle of Roy’s class not getting what the fuck he means when he says, “How did you feel in the scene.” I could never feel anything let alone do so in front of a class. All I can think is that “I’m shitty. I’m a shitty actor.”

I have to show that I’m not this dirty, feral, worthless child who’s always seems to be searching for help.

“You know you’re mugging…”

We’re standing outside on the driveway that leads to his studio in Larchmont Village. A Porsche does that easy efficient Carrera acceleration behind us, its driver unknowing of how many stop signs there are on street. It’s an October night. Ten-ish. A Spielberg moon shines in the east. Roy wanted to talk with me alone. It’s an odd feeling. Why away from class? I see rage in his eyes. I’m confused as to why it’s seems so personal to Roy. He talks like he has an investment in me that I know nothing about. That I’m embarrassing him. I know I’d bombed the scene. It’s from “From Here To Eternity” I was Prew to Jessica’s Alma. I know it was bad and I know I’m trying too hard. The lawn sprinklers next to us stutter to life. I don’t know. I don’t know what he means “How did it feel?” I’m hot under my Diesel Tee and Willi Smith pants. There hand-me-downs from my brother, Peter, who looks like a model. Peter looks so cool that I want to look like him. Yeah. There’s nothing’s original about me at all.

“You don’t understand,” Roy says.

I freeze. My hands begin trembling. Shaking like they did when dad asked me to hold a piece of metal steady. My hands are trermbling. I can’t stop it. Why this singular focus, Roy? Show me a way out. Be a fucking Joe Gideon. I know my fucking limitations. In 30 years I’ll give myself credit for being the better actor now then I feel at this moment. Help me make it ten. Three. One. Fucking now. Talk to Maurice. not Morty. Ask why he’s Jericho. Why he doesn’t understand how emotion moves the scene. How it moves the fucking scene. How it moves fucking life. I’ll get it. If not with you, then on May 16, 2013, Roy, I’ll know exactly what the fuck you’re talking about. And it will feel like I’ve moved a mountain. You see, Roy, in an hour I’ll be standing out in front of Madame Wong’s West crying, devastated, and crushed that I’m so shitty. Convincing myself that I’m going to continue acting knowing I won’t, crushing myself even more. But you see, Roy? I can cry. That must mean something. And you see, Roy, even if I quit, I’m not giving up. I’ll find it. I’ll find the scene. I’ll find Prew. And I’ll want to come back.