30 #3
“Understood. I can appreciate that. And I also appreciate your candor. But I’m very used to chaos sir, on the road and onstage.
Getting mobbed by fans and chased through the street by paparazzi.
And I’ve been training physically for many years now, rigorous cardio and strength training regiments, as it’s the only thing that gives me the stamina to complete huge shows night after night.
And I know that stamina will easily transfer to filming.
I’m quite accustomed to working long hours.
I’m also a voracious reader, so I’m prepared to spend many days studying and memorizing the lines, as well as any other material you assign to me. ”
“Wonderful, son. Good to hear,” he winked, opening his script to the first page. “Sounds promising.”
I would be emailed the accompanying details and a tentative schedule later in the week.
He told me to get a trim before the table reads began, and even passed me an inspiration photo of an infantry platoon officer.
It wasn’t altogether terrible. Tapered on the sides, with about 3-4 inches on top that could be parted and styled or allowed to fall naturally.
He wanted me to look the part well before I assumed the part. It was time for a big chop.
Between my agent and my manager who later joined me, we had no shortage of things to discuss, so the meeting ran overlong.
I kept a stringent eye on the clock behind the desk and nearly excused myself to check my phone a few times, but decided it would give my new boss a horrible impression.
I needed him to know how honored I was to be chosen for this role, and that he had my undivided attention for the next six months at least.
Yet, while I should have been celebrating, my heart was in knots. I was itching to get out of there and get back to the only one who truly mattered to me, no matter how badly I wanted to pretend to be invested in this new project.
"Pleasure to see you again, Ralph," Spielberg said, rising and reaching across the desk. He insisted I read a few titles by Stephen E. Ambrose, then invited me to his Pacific Palisades home someday to tour his ever-growing war memorabilia. Like the jacket from his father’s old uniform, maps, enemy flags, and other battlefield souvenirs.
"Absolutely, sir. I’m so pumped! I’ll be taking you up on that offer very soon. And I’m so looking forward to working with you. Over the moon, really." I shook his hand firmly like my dad taught me. It was the easiest way to show you meant business.
Outside, I ran to check the meter which had nearly timed out.
I'd driven myself so that I'd have a reason to decline lunch with the others.
After a brief back and forth with John where I begged for a raincheck, I beelined it back home to him.
When I arrived, he was still sleeping, so I backed out of the room and decided to leave him be.
***
It was early evening and I knew he'd be hungry when he awakened, so I ordered something light—soup, salad, and bread. I'd bring it up to him at the first signs of life. In the meantime, I studied the script and became familiar with my character.
Michael. That was it. No surname, no backstory, just Michael.
And damn, Michael seemed to be a self-serving, egotistical prick.
A Machiavellian type. The role grew on me since he was the sort of person I sometimes wished I had the balls to be.
He became my alter ego, endowing me with the exact brand of hostility needed to survive this Mila situation.
After assessing everything for the hundredth time, I decided I wanted to remove her from the equation by any means necessary—barring physical violence of course.
Too often I thought of reaching out to a P.I.
to dig up dirt on her entire family, in hopes of leveling the playing field.
There had to be some sort of bombshell involving the Hearsts just waiting to be unearthed, and I would be just the man to uncover it.
They were far too wealthy and entrenched in Hollywood to be completely innocent.
Mummy Hearst was the apparent ringmaster; someone I struggled to perceive as the brains of the operation.
The neurotic, fame-hungry matriarch who lived vicariously through her daughters and had a militant, Jenner-esque style of parenting.
Utterly overbearing from what I'd heard, and calculating to the point of sinister.
She was a PR juggernaut and would do anything in her power to suppress the family dirt and ensure her kids got ahead in any industry of her choosing, not theirs.
Inasmuch, they’d all been forced into modeling at a young age, and had been given a directive to attach themselves to massively successful musicians for social mobility, just like mummy dearest had in her second marriage to a renowned producer and composer.
And fuck if it hadn’t worked. One of the three Hearst children managed to go viral every other week, thanks to these highly calculated tabloid-worthy pairings.
Now Rome was caught in the crossfire, and I too had become collateral damage.
I attempted some of Michael’s lines and they fit too well.
They felt good rolling off the tongue. Many of them I recalled from the audition, but now knowing the role was mine helped me deliver them with more gall.
Upon flipping back to the beginning to read the script in its entirety, I was fast asleep by page two.
I’d accidentally pulled an all-nighter in my vigil over Rome the day before.