Mid Day Anonymous
I was driving seven over the speed limit in the passing lane when the truck veered toward me. I didn’t honk my horn or swerve toward the guardrail. I did not scream. I did not gasp or clench my wheel. I did not react.
I had been on the road from Baltimore. I was visiting a woman I had been seeing. All too brief, the weekend was lovely—the kind of visit I could only have had traveling alone and the kind I needed before moving to New York City.
Since the near accident, I’ve tried to slow every good moment down, though not through epiphany or sentiment. Essentially, epiphanies are planned through thought or careful consideration. Sentiment relies too heavily on forced memories. Accidents, being aberrations, force the mind’s reaction away from memory.
In fact, I only remember scant details: only the brightest, sharpest details and afterthoughts wash over me. In retrospect, it is probably best to forget the sun being out, the hall of trees surrounding me, the line of a song blaring “What will you do now, with no one to go to,” the eighteen wheel truck, and the drive entering it’s sixth hour of no air conditioning. The details unimportant; it was the earnest thought that came just as I considered death—many have suffered, and none has thought themselves worth it. This was a line in a song I never performed, a fitting tribute to its overwrought nature. Yet the line remains a refuge. A coarse reiteration of what any 23 year old knows: I will never be important to a future generation, but should always be important to this one (even if in a small circle of friends and family).
While the sudden thoughts were validated by the piecemeal memory cycle, I couldn’t explain the stillness of my reflexes. The problem with lack of reaction is its marginalization—finality relegated to an afterthought. I didn’t have a problem with the idea, only it’s being recycled. Why leave myself defenseless? Do I really consider myself “worth the suffering?” Is that what I want my last thought to be? Many have suffered, and none have thought themselves worth it? After the truck swerved back into its lane, I questioned my “final” ideas and lack of response. A sweeping remorse came over me, and I attached myself.
I imagined my funeral at eighteen or even twenty; an affair with unsure emotions and unprepared speakers.
As I passed him later, the truck driver and I locked eyes. I apologized silently for my tactless vision—my lack of notification that he could have killed us both. He apologized for almost killing us both. I was reticent to pass him, but I was glad to experience this double confession. Freeing, the forgiveness became a manifesto of sorts. I apologized to everyone I knew for my lack of action that day, if silently: women I should have treated respectfully, family I have not trusted, friends I have scorned, and acquaintances I have ignobly offended.
Of course, I realize the dangers of living in apology, but no understanding comes without remorse, and none comes through panic. Now, I come to that understanding. Now, I slow down to react without self effacement. Now, I imagine a funeral of joined hands and otherwise happy souls reunited and reliving a suffering soul that no longer thinks to matter. I am worth the suffering, in a way, as vindicated by a trucker’s nervous nod toward a Boston cap and a sweat soaked tee shirt.
Without a car in New York, I may live longer, but I may not receive the erstwhile indulgence I received while narrowly avoiding death. I-85 never looked as lifeless as when I lived through it, yet never as vibrant as I remember it.
The Casting Call Has Been Made. Who Will Answer?
I recently attended an open casting call for extras here in New York City. What follows is an account of my visit to the offices of Casting Networks in lower Manhattan on a blustery day in February.
10am: I arrive at the office building on Broadway. As I approach the unassuming offices I notice a lengthy line of hopefuls waiting out front on the street frantically trying to keep their hair in order. I sigh to myself and take my place at the end of the line.
10:15am: Strike-up small talk with a strikingly short woman of about 27. Barbara, as she identifies herself, regales me with her storied career as an extra/acting hopeful. Moving to New York from Boston for easier access to acting seminars and classes, Barbara has been featured somewhere in the distance in upwards of twenty films and television shows.
"You should really consider joining one of the Unions. They really take care of you," says Barbara, "You have a look that will probably land you a few roles." I shudder at the consideration of sitting in a crowded cafe well behind the real actors as they shoot scenes to be a "role."
"Yeah man," chimes in Eddie a surly Latino of some weight, "All it takes is one director seeing you around on set and your made." Eddie begins recounting what seems to be his proudest moment in life, which consists of half of his face being in the right frame of a shot in John Leguizamo film. Wait, we'll say "movie," not "film."
10:25am: Begin ignoring Eddie, who has evidently changed his name from Rodrigo to the less ethnic "Eddie" at the behoovment of his agent. Yes, extras apparently have agents.
10:30am: A suspiciously well dressed, ninety pound man, about 25 years old, emerges from the front door and begins handing out personal information sheets. Eddie cracks a bad joke about making us wait in the cold. The waify guy, I later learn his name is Sean, impatiently tells him to "go ahead and leave then." I laugh at Sean's impending bald spot to myself as he awkwardly paces by in jeans that are far too tight for him.
10:45am: I question whether or not to stay. Eddie is far too social, and I keep catching Barbara looking up at me.
10:55am: They allow twelve us in to the building. On the elevator ride up an employee of Casting Networks warns us to "look out for the little gay guys running around up there." No one laughs, and we all pour out of an over-crowded elevator.
11am: We are urged to make ourselves comfortable while they enter the information from the aforementioned sheets into their computer data base. There is no where to sit. I begin noticing people have head-shots with them.
11:10am: My information is keyed in by Sean's "friend" Patrick. Patrick is alarmed at the fact that I am not a union member and have no experience with being an extra.
"Why are you here then? You're totally unprepared for this," Patrick queries.
"I had nothing else to do today. Do I need my own headshot for this?" I asked.
"No, no we'll take a digital photo for you. Stand over by that wall and we'll take it."
11:15am: It is becoming apparent that I am the only one who needs a headshot taken today. Sean approaches me and asks me if I want to check my hair before he takes the photo. I tell him no, "Maybe someone is looking for an unkempt, gloomy guy." He doesn't laugh.
11:16am: I am standing on a large white block in front of a camera.
"I'm going to need a big smile now Tedd," says Sean, sounding like Carson from Queer Eye. I muster something I think looks like a smile.
"Oh c'mon now silly, you look like someone took the cheese off your macaroni."
"What?" is all I could respond with as the flash goes off.
"You just look confused in this one, let's try again," Sean says looking flustered.
11:17am: After repeated camera malfunctions and odd stares from other people in the room Sean finally gets my picture:
"You'll be getting a call if any of the directors are interested," Sean lisps at me, "You leave the same way you came in."
11:18am: Safely back on the elevator the gay-joke guy asks me how it went.
"I don't know, good, whatever," I tell him.
"See what I meant about the faggy kids?" he asks.
"Whatever." I walk off the elevator and back onto Broadway and head for 23rd Street.
11:20am: I stop at a street vendor and purchase a delicous hotdog. Sean, evidently now on some kind of break, walks past and says something regarding my meal choice and the caloric intake of such. I decide that I do not like Sean.
As of yet I have not been contacted. In a city full of the suicidally beautiful and eternally hopeful it doesn't exactly pay-off to have physically banal attributes or be rational I suppose. At least it's not LA.
"Can You Take Me Hire Enough?"
Tedd Wood
23-50 31st Ave. Apt. 2
Astoria, NY 11106
My name is Tedd Wood and I am applying for the full-time position available. I must say my interest was aroused by your online classified ad because of the challenging light in which you portray your office environment. Your advertisement’s careful manner of alluding to the deadline based work, and the high-profile clientele your agency serves, only made me the more adamant about there being a place for me in your offices.
First I would like to drop my guard for a moment and put it out there that I in fact have no experience in this field. However there are many intellectual aspects of my person, not to mention stunning physical attributes, that I feel provide any prospective employer with the impetus to bring me on board.
To begin with I am capable of maintaining a tasteful amount of facial stubble on a consistent basis--nothing over board here, just gloriously sub-five o'clock shadowing (which can be sculpted if that's what you're into) year round. I can automatically provide a Simpson’s quote to fit any given work/socially related conundrum in order to lighten the figurative blow to your ego. I do not perspire. I am not afraid to "roll three buttons deep" when wearing a button-up shirt. When I smoke I look VERY cool. I can beat any rival company bigwigs in a drinking contest. I am well aware of the food pyramid guidelines. I won't steal toilet paper from the bathroom unless my roommates and I really need it. I do not watch movies; I watch films. I am familiar with the works of Patrick O'Brian. I can define the word "topography" and use it liberally. I am kind to dogs and small children are amused by me. My fade-away jump shot is nearly un-defendable. I actually think about veterans on Veteran's Day. I use Q-tips regularly. I found the wizard's key and escaped the dungeon in Dragon Warrior II. I own a Powerpad for the Nintendo Entertainment System. I know what MLA stands for, and scoff at the Chicago Style. I find the "Ariel" font to be "fruity" in appearance. I enjoy spelling the word "color" like this: colour.
I will be calling you in the coming days in order to follow up on the status of application and hope to schedule a meeting with you so we can further discuss my eligibility for the position and I can inspect the water pressure of the Men's restroom sink to insure that it meets my standards. Thank you for your time and consideration.
Sincerely,
Tedd Wood
"Three Feet Hire and Rising."
Tedd and I have decided to post our cover letters here, in case any employers randomly come upon our site. Here's mine:
Jeff Laughlin
2350 31st Avenue Astoria New York 11106
(917) 202-2271
Dear Sir or Madam:
My name is Jeff Laughlin. Your Company has evidently become desperate enough to place a plea for workers on the internet. Loneliness is a curable disease. When hired, I will serve to fill the void Your Company now feels in its hollow hallways, underused break rooms and oversized bathrooms. I will run my fingers sinuously over yr wood paneling; answering the heeded calls of yr dour, scientific appeal for “2-3 years experience.”
Oh, I have experience. When hired, I will service yr needs professionally and reliably. I will layer and texture yr offices with my inbox maneuvering; manipulating yr grant statements with the care of a matriarch even during the high paced business day. I will read yr proofs—lick at yr tender words with my long red pen—and mark them ever so gently until you decide it is enough. Then I will discharge the day’s mail.
Then, in a true admission of my character, I will languidly lay over yr desk and mini kitchens caressing you with conversational hi jinx and inimitable extroversion until the hour of parting comes. Yr office parties will quiver in ecstasy with my arrival. With an enigmatic and realistic approach to Your Company’s emotions, I will tickle yr tender yet turbulent traumas and reminiscences with regard and whimsy—tactfully and artfully undressing the inner-being that lies within the mainframe of Your Company’s soul.
Your Company and I are admittedly rife for change and right for each other. End this, the sorrowful separation of our being, once and for all. Surrender your objectivity and succumb to the urges that ravage yr internal being. When hired, my proficiency to Excel through Word will reign down from the heavens like manna lavished upon the faithful. Your Company can ill afford to waste any more precious time—no matter the precociousness or timeliness of my reply. Oh, to be within Your Company’s demanding businesslike atmosphere—engrossed in the woebegone hierarchy of love!
I am proficient with HTML.
With Best Regards,
Jeff Laughlin
Retrospecticus
I grew up in the suburbs of Washington DC. I played Little League; my parents did a tremendous job of raising me. I stopped playing baseball and began earnestly hating my youth. I went to a public high school situated next to my neighborhood. I began listening to “Alternative Music.” I began hating everyone around me and wanting nothing but their acceptance all at the same time. I started smoking cigarettes. I drank coffee. These things stunted my growth. I went days with talking only with my eyes. I got a driver’s license and drove into the city. I felt at home. I totaled my mother’s Taurus coming back from the psychiatrist. I went to military school. I suffered from crippling panic attacks. I traveled to Europe and kissed a girl on the mouth for the first time in a Parisian hotel. I was 17. I read James Joyce’s Ulysses and feel like I understood it. I shook Clarence Thomas’ hand before I was given my diploma. I went to college in the mountains where the scenery is drinkable. I made good friends. I fell in love with someone who couldn’t love me back. I reread Catcher in the Rye and Franny and Zooey. I joined a fraternity because it was something I swore I’d never do. I left the mountains of Virginia to live in my parent’s basement for the pending fall. I peddled music. I played in a band. The band stopped. The World Trade Center towers were knocked down. I drove past a gapping hole in the Pentagon on my way to a show. I relocated to North Carolina in the winter of the year of the palindrome. Amazing people accepted me. I played shows. Many shows. I bought vinyl records. Lots of records. I fell in love with someone who loved me back. I played more shows in more bands. I went on tour twice. I graduated college. I worked at a laundry-mat/bar. I like blue-collar people. The person who loved me back stopped doing that. I drank more than I ate. I walked around a lot and listened to an old Walkman. I realized how much I love my friends. I became promiscuous. I hated it. I moved to Richmond, Virginia. My bands broke up. I became jaded. I felt like I was getting up to walk to high school every morning. I met someone who liked me but I wasn’t capable of letting anyone like me. I drove to my friends every weekend. I put color on bathroom signs for money. I enjoyed eating chicken wings with Harp beer once a week in the company of transplanted soccer hooligans. I left the south. Now I make bed in New York City.
--TW
Theatrical Blather: So It Begins
I've always considered myself more of an idea man—someone with realistic approaches to writing originally. For instance, around a year ago I wrote a series of want-ads. They weren’t grounded in any sort of romanticism or directed to anyone in particular. Instead, they featured one inanimate object or idea speaking to their idea of an ideal life—a nail speaking to its ideal board or an evicted house searching for the right inhabitants. I was going to send these to certain high end periodicals and have them put in their “looking for…” sections, thus making me a “published” author in each of these magazines. Devious, but brilliant, this idea never came to fruition.
Instead, I’ve lost those ads. I searched through my “Old Shitty Writing” box, and old files to no avail. The old stories I found were predicated not on characters, plot or the standards of good story telling. Rather, they showed the desperate pleas of an incapable talent. I’ve come to realize that an idea man’s last resorts come early. Desperation set in by the time I was twenty three. Quite possibly, I am not cut out for solicited writing. With ideas like these, who needs publication? The question poses an oversimplified answer of “no one, obviously,” and that can be perturbing—a “so it goes” stratagem with which I have been all too familiar.
The idea man is one that constantly grapples with horribly contrived plots such as the want-ads. The variable is to construct these into the normal writing structure—essays, stories, poems and the like. In the last year, I have continually believed that the worst idea would be to contribute reckless ideas with absurd explanations to a general public. The danger of pretentiousness becomes too apparent, followed by the perils of an uncultivated audience (or lack thereof, for that matter). Though reticent to commit to randomness, I am clearly not committing to complacency either.
Therefore, I present Absurdist Media. An idea that once branched out to include a number of friends that I thought believed in their talents, now it dwindles to two (with guest hosting possibilities). Presumably, the blogging culture does not bode well for aspirations of grandeur. A website is in the works—at least it should be. For now, this is a blogspot-centric operation. Future plans involve the blogspot site being the random outlet for conversation about the website or honing the craft, if you will.
In a sense, this is ultimately giving up. The idea man is fine with that, and in fact welcomes this version of his favorite national pastime. If giving up becomes an expressive form, I should be pretty good at it. Realism, in effect, becomes a haggard form of quitting as well, especially when considered in any way original. Essentially, all the idea man is ever left with is quitting and those damn ideas.
