Jo Walker got The Storymatic over the holidays. She writes:

“I’m a Designer who lives in the NYC burbs. I’m working on some other writing projects. Storymatic was by far the coolest gift I got this Christmas. It rocks! Here’s my first Storymatic short story.”

AUDITION

“This must be the thousandth line I’ve waited in,” Nate muttered through clenched teeth while tugging his damp socks up from his slush-soaked loafers. He pulled his stocking cap even further down over his ears and hunched his shoulders way up into his army surplus overcoat. In the bedroom mirror that morning he thought he projected just the right New York hip rundown street chic but before he’d switched off the laptop he’d neglected to check the weather. As bad luck would have it, after what seemed like endless waiting for his turn to audition, the grey sky had erupted in a deluge of torrential, cold, sloppy, most-hated sleet. Of course he hadn’t dressed for wet.

Two hours in and he’d only made it halfway up the ridiculous line. Every other freezing minute or so he’d determine it was time to bail out on the whole idea of a bit part in another terrible Off-Off Broadway musical, but he badly needed the work. He hadn’t actually been on a stage in over five years, so he really, really wanted this part – or ANY part if it came to that – so he breathed deep, set his resolve, and tried to figure out how to keep dry. It wasn’t easy. And it wasn’t working.

He’d heard that the show was something about kittens and street people and aliens which made no sense to him at all but if he was honest with himself really it didn’t matter to him in the least what the show was about. When you need to put some cash in the bank who gives a damn about artistic integrity? He thought he was at least a good enough actor to feign delighted interest in learning to sing “Meowing to Mars” or some crap like that. And face it: if Meryl Streep could subject herself to singing ABBA on screen, then who was he to object to anything?

The Variety ad was a cattle call for an actor/singer/dancer with some kind of deformity – an unusual call to be sure but he guessed that on a shoestring production budget they were probably trying to save money on effects make-up. On a normal day he’d never leave the apartment without a wig on, but today he’d closed the front door bareheaded, with a knit cap firmly in place to hide the massive scar that covered the right side of his head. “Deformity, for sure;” he thought to himself; “unusual, I’d say so” – the scar was shaped and colored like a t-bone steak, with the bottom part of it ending in his mangled ear. He wore his “hair” long enough to hide it, and with an Oscar Wilde-like swagger he’d transformed the wig into his personal flamboyant signature style. He’d discovered that if you were flagrant enough you could get away with almost anything. And this was Manhattan after all. Who cared if you wore different hair every day? The few friends and occasional lovers who had seen him without his hair were too shocked – and too polite – to ask how he’d come by it: some even thought maybe it was something he’d had all his life. No one he’d known for a very long time knew the truth of it, and he planned to keep it that way. He was still trying hard to put that time behind him; instead, every morning as he put on his public face, the whole thing replayed in his mind on fast forward. It was maddening. Hard as he tried he couldn’t not think about it. Even the noise from his freezing cold chattering teeth didn’t keep the movie from running in his head.

First off, he should have been home getting his beauty rest that night but then again a pint out was always a fine idea and passing time with good mates was hard, ok, impossible, to resist. So he’d met the boys at their local pub on the night before a call back audition for a part he knew could make his career. It was a West End musical, with name-brand talent on top of the marquee, and he wanted it badly, probably too badly. At the other end of the bar, rhapsodizing about his excellent, almost in the bag chances of getting this part at a call back tomorrow in a West End musical with top stars in the cast, stood a brilliant, talented, film star handsome actor he recognized as the guy third or fourth in line behind him in last week’s all day auditions. The guy was actually perfect for the part.

Second off, he probably shouldn’t have had quite so much to drink.

And third off, maybe following him out the door of the pub wasn’t such a great idea. He’d bid his mates goodnight and followed Mr. Handsome till they neared a deserted alley then proceeded to beat the bejeesus out of him. Mr. Handsome had landed a few himself – and had managed to grab onto a huge fistful of Nate’s shoulder-length hair and pull it straight out, right to the scalp, leaving the side of his head raw and bloody. He’d also caught Nate’s earring and yanked, hard: it felt like his ear and maybe half his head along with it had been torn off. Nate was surprised that such a pretty boy had that much fight in him.

And fourth off, he still wondered if it was wise to have left him knocked out and bloody beside a mountain of Indian take-out kitchen trash in that side alley. To this day he had no idea if he’d lived, died, or whatever else you might call it in between.

He’d run like hell, all bloody himself – and he when he finally calmed down a bit he realized that not only had he made sure that Mr. Handsome wouldn’t make the audition in the morning, but he couldn’t show up now, either: so much for that career-making part. He found his way home, cleaned up as best he could, and packed up for what he told friends next morning was a needed holiday to lick his wounded ego since he hadn’t gotten the part. Three days later he was standing in a transit lounge at Malpensa Airport, queuing for a flight to New York. He boarded the plane and never looked back.

The sleet had stopped. Nate lifted his eyes from his reverie as he heard “Next!” and realized it was his turn to audition. He’d actually made it to the front of the line. As he stepped into the small, empty theater and walked toward the spotlight, he handed the pianist his sheet music: a song from Area 51, The Musical. Somehow it was the only thing he could think of to sing that might be appropriate. Maybe “The Impossible Dream” might have been better, he thought to himself, given how crazy the idea of this show was. Shedding his coat and cap onto a folding chair at the side of the stage, he looked out to the four dark figures sitting in the middle of the house: “Director,” he thought, “Writer, maybe; Producer for sure, and Choreographer? Lyricist?”

Soaking wet, and trying his best to project upbeat, energetic and disfigured, Nate approached center stage. His scar glowed brilliant red against his cold, pale white skin. His hand reached for the microphone as he opened his mouth to sing. The lights flickered as the current surged through Nate, immediately drying his wet socks, singeing his brow, and locking his mouth into a perfect, shocked, permanent O.

“Next!” shouted the brilliant, talented, film star handsome Stage Manager.

###

Cards: person who did something bad a long, long time ago; person with a scar; empty theater; help is not offered.

I’m gonna get me my very own Storymatic!