SQUAWK BOX
She
asked God to help her make career choices that would lead to work in theater or
TV. She felt she had the talent to play
certain characters that everybody could recognize B not
leads but best friends and similar supporting parts. God didn=t disagree.
When at bedtime she knelt by her bed as she had done since she was a
little child and asked for his approval, he was even encouraging. She ought to move to the city, he said; there
was no way she was going to make a career anywhere around here.
She
moved to an artsy neighborhood in a fair-sized city where she knew one or two
people who were connected in this way or that to theater or improv groups, and
she did get some bits, and thought that God had seen the right way for her,
though it might take a while.
I
don=t seem
to be getting very far, though, she told God.
I=m not
making my nut here.
You
should consider ancillary work, God said.
Maybe try getting some voice-over work.
Really?
She said. It wasn=t
something she=d considered.
Sure,
God said. You have a very pleasing voice.
You take your chances, and I=ll see what I can do. Off-shot, so to speak.
She
did begin to go to agencies and got some auditions, but not much showed up for
a long while. Then, like forgotten seeds
springing in warm weather, she began to get a thing here and there C a
public-service announcement, a commercial C and build a Abook@.
Kneeling
by her bed at night, she thanked God.
Mostly
your own doing, God said in his warmest way.
She
didn=t say
that she wasn=t landing any real acting jobs. That would have seemed ungrateful.
It
was a little lonely, doing voice-overs.
She sat alone in the booth with the large mike hanging over her head,
and spoke into it, separated from it by the pop screen C it
kept her p=s and
t=s from
going plosive. The voices of the
engineer or the producer in the studio would cut in on the squawk box nearby
and tell her to do another take or speak more slowly or more forcefully,
pronounce some word differently or emphasize something she didn=t
necessarily think ought to be emphasized.
Some gigs went smoothly, over and done in minutes; others went longer.
Today=s was
a political commercial for a local candidate, and it was little aggressive,
which she didn=t mind.
As she read on C there had hardly been any rehearsal, it was
a busy shop C she
saw a word she didn=t know how to pronounce. She=d never seen it before.
She
stopped and said. Hey, Bob.
It=s
Eric, said the squawk box.
Eric. What=s this word in the third line? I don=t know it.
What
word?
It=s
spelled p-f-u-i. What=s
that?
You
can=t read
it?
I
don=t know
what it means.
Well
just read it.
How
can I read it when I don=t know what it means? APuh-foo-eye?@
Another
voice broke in (the people in the studio couldn=t talk to her when she was talking to them)
and she heard Just a different spelling.
What?
It=s phooey,
the other voice said C the producer, she thought, or the
client. Just an old spelling.
Oh,
she said, feeling stupid. Huh.
Somehow
it took her several takes to get the thing right, in their opinion. They didn=t want
phooey, they wanted pfui, kind of dismissive or snarky, a noise
not a word. Finally they said okay, that=s a
wrap, we=ll
patch it, thanks. And she got her coat
and bag and went home.
I
feel like I=m not
getting anywhere, she told God that night. I know I have talent. You told me
so, didn=t you?
God
took a while to answer. She was about to
repeat the question, but she knew not to.
You=re
doing the right thing, God said at last.
Be patient and be aware.
Yes,
she said. I will.
What
else could she say? Under the covers in
the lumpy bed she said thank you without saying words. She turned one way, then the other. A car alarm went off in the street below, and
then stopped. Frost was forming on the
window. She thought of God=s
face.
Pfui. That was the sound they wanted, a sort of
who-gives-a-shit sort of noise. She hadn=t been
able to make it. Now she could. Pfui.
A Nero Wolfe fan!
ReplyDelete