3. Burgers, Fries, and Comfort Milkshakes
Hudson
Well,today certainly hasn’t turned out the way I expected. I thought I’d do some surfing, hit the gym, and spend the rest of the day hanging out with Gersh and Oscar. Instead, I not only found out my career as a leading man is effectively over (and let’s face it, it is because there’s no way I’m going to pull this off), but I rode exactly zero waves. By the time Paul left, the ocean had already calmed down and the clouds had rolled in. I got out of my sweat suit (I’d be chuckling about that still if I weren’t so depressed) and took a quick shower while Gersh scanned the script and put it in Dyslexie font for me. Then the two of us read it through once, looked over the publicity package Paul included, and are now sitting staring at each other, both dumbfounded. The film is called Radio Silent, and Paul wasn’t kidding about this David Peck Todd character being complicated. He was a brilliant astronomer, an inventor, a philandering husband, and a petty thief who wound up in a mental institution. Tackling a character like this would require … well, someone who isn’t me.
Gersh tosses the package onto the coffee table. “Well, there’s only one thing we can do at a time like this.”
“In-N-Out?”
Nodding gravely, he says, “It’s burger time.”
Oscar lifts his head and gives me a hopeful look. I stand and smile down at him. “Yup, you can come.”
He springs out of his bed and over to the interior garage door, his entire body wagging. I throw on my ball cap and sunglasses, grab Oscar’s leash, and we pile into my new electric Range Rover. Pulling out of the garage, we then wait for the dark wood and black iron gate to slowly slide open. I roll to a stop at the edge of the driveway, glad there’s no paparazzi here today. After a few minutes on Pacific Coast Highway, we take a right and head north for a thirty-minute drive through the countryside to Westlake Village where a juicy cheeseburger, fries, and a chocolate shake are waiting. Well, hopefully they’re not waiting yet. That would mean the hot stuff’ll be cold and the milkshake will be warm.
“It’s been a good run,” I say, glancing over at my brother, who has Oscar on his lap. Oscar is standing on his hind legs, with his front paws pressed against the glass as he watches the world go by.
“Come on, dude, you’re just getting started.”
Shaking my head, I say, “You read the script yourself. There is no way in hell anyone is going to buy me as a genius astrologer.”
“Astronomer.”
“See? I can’t even remember the job title. There’s no way people will think I went to school for eight years to learn how to do that.”
“You’re underestimating yourself again,” Gersh tells me. “You’re so much smarter than you think.”
When I don’t answer, he says, “You know what? You seem hangry. Let’s talk about this after we eat.”
“Sure.” I let out a sigh, knowing he’s right.
He connects his phone to my truck and plays Starboy by The Weeknd. I hit the gas and let my mind wander while the music plays. I’m lucky. I really am. And I know it. I have a life most people would kill to have, and so much of it is because of my big brother.
Gershwyn is two years older than me and whizzed through school without any trouble, while I struggled to even write a sentence as a little kid. The letters just kept moving around on me and getting jumbled up. I was diagnosed with dyslexia in the second grade. But there was no way my parents were going to accept that. My father, the principal of the Manhattan private school we attended, insisted on hiding it. He couldn’t possibly admit to all the hoity-toity, Tribeca parents that his own son had a serious learning disability. Instead, he and my mom tutored me every night until well after bedtime. Sight word memorization, reading ahead in every subject so I could learn the material before I got to class the next day. The arguing, the fighting, the shame they passed on to me. It was a horrible secret and there was no way they were going to let it out, even if it nearly killed us all.
By the time I was in high school, I started to fight back. I just wouldn’t come home until late every night so I could avoid those torturous study sessions. But I still found a way to hide it. I became the class clown. I made it seem like I wasn’t working because I didn’t want to, not because I couldn’t. It was the start of my acting career, and believe me, those years gave me all the experience I needed to make it in Hollywood.
In junior year, my parents gave up on the idea that I’d ever amount to anything, but Gershwyn always knew I was going places. He’d tell me all the time that there are thousands of great jobs out there that require very little reading at all, and that I was going to find my place in the world and be a huge success someday. And he was right. I’ve gone farther and made more money than I ever thought possible. I’ve certainly done better than my parents expected. It’s all thanks to him. The best brother anyone could have asked for. My best friend. Gersh has kept my secret all these years. No one in the biz knows that I can barely read because he helps me distract and redirect people, then he helps me prepare.
I never pick up a script in front of anyone. Instead, I pretend like I’ve got far more fun and exciting things to do than to read it right now, but I’ll get to it. And as soon as we’re alone, that’s exactly what happens. He records himself reading it over and creates a copy in a font that’s easier for me to read. I listen to the recording until I have the entire thing memorized and can follow along in my version of the script for table reads. It’s a hell of a lot of work, but it lets me go on pretending I’m just as capable as everyone else in the room. And yeah, I know there are a lot of famous people who are open about being dyslexic, but for me, it’s different. Too shameful to admit out loud. And I also know technically having dyslexia doesn’t make me stupid. But honestly, what’s the first insult people go to when they want to attack someone’s intelligence? They say, “I bet he can’t even read.”
By the time we pull up in front of In-N-Out, my stomach is growling. It’s only four in the afternoon, but I was so thrown by the conversation with Paul, I forgot to eat lunch. “Nice, it looks dead in there.”
“That’s cause we’re ‘old people’ early,” Gersh answers, opening his door.
I snort laugh, then scoop up Oscar and we go inside to order. I know I’m not supposed to bring him in, but I’ll hold him the entire time, and we frequent this location enough that the staff lets us get away with it. (Okay, it’s also possibly because of the whole fame thing, but I’d rather think it’s because Oscar’s so adorable and we’re friendly.)
Ten minutes later, we’re outside at a table noshing on our meals and sucking back milkshakes. I dip a hot fry into some ketchup and take a bite, letting all that wonderful grease soothe my nerves. “It’s not the end of the world. We can easily live on our investments, especially if we sell the house.” I pick up my burger and hold it up to my mouth. “We could move somewhere cheap, like Nebraska.”
Gershwyn’s head snaps back. “Nebraska? Are you nuts? There’s no way we’re moving there.”
“Hey, I’m just spitballing here. Trying to figure out what our next move is because clearly it’s not making this movie,” I say, taking a big bite of my double-double.
“Look, I know Paul’s got you rattled. Totally understandable. But you’re quitting before you’ve even given it a shot.” He has a sip of milkshake, then adds, “It’s a role, just like any other role. You memorize the script, you go spend a few weeks with those alien-hunting people, and you transform yourself into one of them just like you turned yourself into a bodyguard, a lifeguard, and a famous movie star.”
I give him a look, then say, “Come on, that last one wasn’t exactly a stretch.”
He shrugs. “Okay, yeah, but every other role you’ve had, you had to figure it out. There’s no reason you can’t figure this out too. You just have to put in the work.”
Wiping my mouth, I say, “Did you notice anything in common among the roles you just listed?”
“Nope.”
He does. He just doesn’t want to admit it.
“I’ve played a bodyguard, a lifeguard, a surfer?—”
“Surfing world champion.”
“Irrelevant. The point is, I’ve never played a lawyer, a doctor, a scientist, or an archaeologist. And there’s a reason for that.”
“It’s called typecasting.”
“It’s called reality,” I answer. “The reality is, I’m not one of those people. Those people were my bullies.”
“Sure, back in grade school, but they’re singing a different tune now, aren’t they?”
“Which is why I can’t do this movie,” I tell him. “I’ll be a joke, Gersh. A total joke. I won’t even last a day at that research place before some nerd sniffs out what’s really going on with me. And contrary to popular belief, nerds aren’t always these nice, gentle wallflowers waiting to be noticed. Some of them are really freaking mean.”
Gershwyn stares at me for a second. “You’re not that kid anymore, Hudson. You hold the power now. And those nerds are going to suck up to you and adore you just like every other person on this planet does. Because you’re famous and talented and you know how to make people love you. I promise, it’s going to be different than it was in school. It’s going to be easy, in fact.”
“Easy? What makes you think that?” I ask, my words coming out harsher than I intend.
“Because you’re going to have a whole team of geniuses at your disposal for six weeks. Think of how much you’ll learn. By the time you leave, you’ll practically be a radio astronomer.”
“Oh dude, don’t fall for our own hype. At the end of the day, we’re all just playing pretend on those sets.” A cute woman in a tank top and yoga pants walks by, flashing me a grin while eye-fucking me. I give her a little upward head nod and smile back. Huh, she certainly doesn’t think I’m washed up. “You know, maybe Paul’s wrong. Maybe I do have a few more years of being a leading man in me. Maybe I just tell Paul I’m taking a pass on this one and wait for something more in my wheelhouse to come in.”
I can tell by the expression in my brother’s eyes that he agrees with Paul’s assessment of the state of the union. He offers me an unconvincing smile. “That’s one way you could go, for sure.”
“But you don’t think it’s a good idea.”
“I think you’d only be putting off the inevitable. At some point, even if it’s not right now, you’re going to end up facing this exact same dilemma. This is an opportunity to get ahead of what’s coming your way,” he says. “It’s a great role, and it really could open a whole new set of doors for you. Redefine your career.”
“What if I don’t want to redefine things? What if I’m happy doing what I’ve been doing?” I ask, having another bite of my burger. I chew for a second, then swallow before saying, “I mean, look at Brad Pitt. The guy has a good twenty years on me and he’s still getting leading roles. And Tom Cruise? Hit after hit, and he’s over sixty.”
I feel someone tapping on my shoulder. “Excuse me, but are you … Hudson Finch?”
I turn to see a couple of teenage girls smiling down at me. I give them my best leading man smile. “I am.”
“Oh my God! Can we get a selfie?” one of them asks.
“Sure,” I say, standing up and positioning myself between them, careful to keep my hands in front of me so they’re in view of the camera the whole time. I make hang ten signs and grin while one of them holds her arm out (and up, always up) and snaps some pictures of us together. When she finishes, she says, “My mom is going to absolutely die when she sees this. She’s your biggest fan ever.”
Her friend nods. “She is. Like, she would totally leave her husband for you.”
Her mom is my biggest fan? My heart drops to the cement, but I keep this stupid smile plastered to my face. “That’s … so nice to hear. Tell her I said hi.”
They walk away and I sit down, suddenly not hungry anymore.
Gersh wipes his mouth with his napkin. “Don’t worry about it. I’m sure that happens to Tom Cruise all the time.”
Sighing, I say, “Yeah, probably. But I’m not Tom Cruise, am I? I just had a film shelved.”
“Well… I mean, we’re talking about Hollywood royalty here. Nobody else is Tom Cruise. Not even Tom Cruise.”
“True, yeah.”
“So…”
“So maybe I should take the job.”
Gersh nods. “Yep.”
“Pivot, right? Try something new?”
“Exactly.”
Letting my shoulders drop, I say, “This is going to suck so hard.”
And there’s a ninety-nine-percent chance I’m going to fail utterly and completely.