Take Two! (12 page)

“
R
is for the REINDEER that guide Santa’s special sleigh,”

“
I
is for the, uh, ICICLES that – umm, shimmer – no glimmer…”

Millicent Fleener was freaking out, flipping the placard around like she thought she was holding it upside down. Didn’t matter
– it was an
I
!

This is painful
. I fast-forwarded it.

“– the ANGELS bright,”

“And
S
is for the SNOW!” a mini-Dustin hollered.

Applause, applause. We all took an awkward bow and the other letters marched off to their places on the chorus bleachers joining
the rest of our class. But not me. I stayed put and just kept on bowing away. Beaming. Mugging.

Then it hit me. “Omigod!” I cried out, pointing at the
screen. “That’s it! The exact moment in time when I knew I wanted to be an actor! Six little words and I was hooked.”

Shelly seemed unimpressed. But I was flying high. I pressed REWIND and PLAY to see it again. “–
S
is for the SNOW!” And again, and again. What a find! A major turning point of my life caught on tape. They could play it
to embarrass me when I’m a big star promoting my latest movie on Leno and Letterman. “Oh, no!” I’ll gasp, pretending to be
mortified, but loving every minute. “Now where the heck did you dig that up?”

Dad came barging through the front door coughing, wheezing and breaking my time-travel spell. “I’m back!”

“Jack Robinson, Jack Robinson.
Whew!
Nine hundred and ninety-nine. You made it by the skin of your teeth!” He didn’t get it. “Dad, this tape is so cool. I didn’t
know you had it.”

“Don’t tell your mother – she’ll want it back.” He fell onto the couch, reeking of cigarette smoke, and stretched his legs
across me. “She just called my cell,” he said, kicking off a shoe. His big toe was poking through his sock, staring up at
me. “Said to remind you that she’ll be picking you up at the Greyhound bus station on Sunday at six sharp.”

“How can I forget? She embroidered it into the tags of all my shirts.”

My second-grade class launched into “Holly Jolly Christmas” with full arm choreography and we both zeroed in on the TV. “Oh,
look, there’s my little guy!” Dad gushed. The
camera panned in on my adorable (I have to admit) face. “Hey, did you forget the words to the song or something? Look close.
You’re not even moving your lips.”

“Which is more than I can say for you.” Okay – I didn’t really say it out loud.

“See? See? I never noticed that before.” He scooched upright to get a better view. “Maybe ventriloquism runs in the family,
huh?”

“Nope. That’s ‘cause I was a Hummingbird,” I said proudly. Dad had a question-mark look on his face. “I remember – Sternhagen
had a few of us hum along instead of singing. She called us the Hummingbirds. We were – special.”

“Oh, okay.”

As I heard myself saying the words, it dawned on me what a total goofball I’d been. My excitement fizzled. The Hummingbirds
were special all right – especially
bad
. We weren’t even allowed to sing along with the rest of the class, and they weren’t exactly the Mormon Tabernacle Choir.
I’d been duped!

What if I haven’t improved at all since then? What if I
wasn’t
just having an off day when I auditioned for the musical? What if I was born with some sort of incurable singing impairment?

“Okay, time to get off me, Pops. Your legs weigh a ton.”
What if, what if, what if?
I clicked off the TV. My hummingbird feathers were definitely ruffled.

“I gotta pee like a racehorse anyway.” He rolled to his feet
and darted toward the bathroom, calling out, “We can order some real food if you’re hungry. There’re menus on the coffee table.”

“What coffee table?”

“One man’s milk crate is another man’s coffee table. Smart aleck.”

Shuffling through the take-out menus, I kept thinking about how I’d turned out to be one of those people who
thinks
they can sing, but really can’t, and go around making gigantic goobers of themselves.
How depressing
. I caught myself humming a sad rendition of the stupid “Holly Jolly” song and bit my lip.
I’ll never be able to look another hummingbird in the beak again!

“I can’t believe I fell for it hook, line, and sinker,” I said out loud, turning to Shelly. “Uh, you can use that line in
your act if you want.”

Just when I had the restaurants narrowed down to Tex-Mex Express and Wok-the-Talk, I heard a muffled
riiing!
coming from under my left buttock.

“Hey, Dad, the couch is ringing!” I yelled, feeling between the cushions for something shaped like a phone. “It’s probably
Mom checking up on me again.”

“Well, get it!”

I almost answered a checkbook, a banana, and a statuette of the Sears Tower before I got to Dad’s cell phone.

“Hello, hello?” I said, flipping open the phone. “Uh, Grubbs residence.”

“Teddy? It’s Nadine Fleck. I’m so glad I caught you
.”

Dad was still doing up his pants when he leaned out of the bathroom asking, “Who is it, Dusty?”

“A Dean Frick?” I threw him the phone and he actually pulled off a one-handed catch.

“That’s Nadine, my agent,” he told me in a stage whisper, covering the phone. “She never calls.”

Dad was knocking over glasses, struggling to jot stuff down on a roll of paper towels during their conversation. It was over
quick, and he flipped the phone closed with a resounding “Yes!” and flew into the living room. “Well, kid, I’ve got good news
– and I’ve got
good
news.” Sunbeams were pouring out of his eye sockets. “Which do you want to hear first?”

“Umm, the good news.”

“Your father has an audition for a national television commercial tomorrow morning! Can you believe it?”

“Sweet! And the
good
news?”

“You get to tag along!”

Dad took a slow, hard drag out of his cigarette, savoring it as if he were sucking on the straw of the last chocolate milkshake
on Earth. He flicked it onto Wabash Avenue without thinking twice. And without thinking twice, I stomped on it, snatched it
up and dropped it into a nearby trash can.

“I could learn a few things from you, pal,” he said, smiling. And with our arms around each other we monkey-walked into the
glassy, green high-rise that housed McKenna Casting, Inc. The chrome elevator was rocket-ship fast and we only made one stop
on our ascent to the forty-seventh floor. I think my stomach got off with the cleaning lady on thirty-one. When the elevator
doors opened, all we saw was the Prestige Modeling Agency.

“This can’t be right.” Dad looked as confused as the super-model he was holding the elevator door open for. He didn’t
notice that I’d noticed, but he was staring at her like she was Little Red Riding Hood dipped in gravy and he was the wolf.

“Yeah, the casting office is definitely on forty-seven,” I said, pulling him away from the elevator. “Hey, Dad, did you know
most penguins mate for life?”

“Where did that come from?”

It was a cheap shot, but a kid’s gotta do what a kid’s gotta do. As we were speed-walking past Prestige, I spotted a
CLOSED FOR REMODELING
sign on their door. “Oh, look,” I said, pointing it out, “Do you think that means they’re hiring all new models – or just
fixing up the place?”

Dad didn’t react at first. Then he busted out laughing as if it were the most hilarious thing he’d ever heard. “You’re a funny
kid, Dustin. Don’t ever let anyone tell you you’re not funny.”

“I won’t.”

It turned out that McKenna Casting, Inc. was at the opposite end of the hall behind a giant glass door. Dad had to sign in
at the reception desk, where a silver-haired lady snapped his picture and handed him a large index card. “You can take a seat
over there with the others and…” she said, but her voice petered out. “You’ll be reading for the role of…”

“Excuse me?” Dad asked, leaning into her. She was one of those real soft talkers who should only be allowed to work in libraries.

“The role of Smelly Father,” she repeated. “I’ll give you your sides.”

“Sides?” I half-expected her to whip out a dish of coleslaw, fries, or creamed spinach – but she removed a few typed pages
from a file folder and handed them to Dad.

He flipped through the pages as we walked past a lineup of chairs filled with a variety of anxious-looking people devouring
their own sides. “It’s, like, the script,” Dad muttered, “I guess.”

“Smelly Father – you’re perfect for the part! I can’t believe we’re in a
real
casting agency, and you’re up for a
real
commercial. How exciting is this?”

“Exciting? Jeez, Louise, I think I’m having a coronary. I’m sure glad I got my lucky charm with me.”

“What is it, like, a rabbit’s foot or something?”

“No, it’s
you
, dum-dum. I thought my agent had crossed me off her list. You show up and –
bam!
I’m auditioning for my first national commercial.”

We took off our jackets and plopped down on two orange fuzzy chairs. Dad was filling out his information card and I noticed
that his button-down was totally wrinkled. In fact, he was way underdressed compared to his competition – and he still had
sheet marks across his cheek.
Real classy
. Maybe that would work in his favor, though, since he looked more like a smelly father than the other guys.

“Lemme see.” I grabbed the sides from him and read his
lines out loud. “‘Honey, I’m home! Rough day today. My dogs are really barkin’.’ I don’t get it. What’s this commercial for?
Pet food?”

“Stink-Zapper Insoles, you know, for the insides of your shoes. Just three lines, that’s not bad. I suppose I should memorize
them, huh?”

“Definitely! Get them cemented in your brain and then I’ll test you.”

I spotted one of the boys, roughly my age, staring a hole through my forehead. I smiled at him. He didn’t smile back. Some
of the other Smelly Fathers were mouthing their lines and gesturing to the empty air. If it didn’t say McKenna Casting, Inc.
on the door, you’d have thought we were in the waiting room at the loony bin.

“Honey, I’m home. Rough dog today –
dang it!
” Dad rehearsed, swatting the paper. “Gawd, I’m a wreck. I wish I could smoke in here.”

“Don’t,” I warned. “Take deep breaths, it’ll help you relax. And if you screw up, just launch into a joke or something. Remember,
funny never fails.”

“That advice sounds real familiar. I guess the shoe’s on the other foot now.”

“But I wouldn’t suggest the water-drinking thing. That one kind of backfired on me,” I said. “Okay, keep working on your lines,
Pop, I’ll be right back.”

I dashed over to the vending machine in the lobby and
bought a box of lemon candies. Dad smelled like an ashtray and I didn’t want the casting people holding that against him.
I popped one into my mouth on the way back. “Here ya go. My treat,” I said, dropping the box onto Dad’s lap. “Holy mackerel,
these things’re sour.”

The double doors behind the reception desk sprung open and a boy rushed out. “I totally nailed it!” he spouted, zooming over
to a woman sitting across from us.

“I’m talking painfully sour,” I stressed, sucking away.
“Sow-er!
”

“So spit it out,” Dad told me.

“But they’re also strangely addictive.”

“Sylvia, why are these agents sending us pretty boys?” a large man said, bursting through the same double doors. He had a
goatee or a Vandyke – whatever those minibeards are called. “Didn’t I say I needed quirky for this commercial? Quirky-quirky-quirky!”

“You approved every single name on the list. And I… no way of knowing…” Sylvia’s voice was fading in and out again, as Goatee
Man leaned against the doorjamb massaging his temples. “… when they show up in person.”

“But they don’t look at all like the pictures their agents faxed over!” The man put on a pair of square glasses, pushed up
the sleeves of his multicolor sweater, and peered into the waiting room. “Let’s see, how many boys do we have left? One, two
– four?”

“Just three,” Sylvia replied, checking her clipboard.

“Okay, maybe it’s my new trifocals, but I’m counting four.”

I bit into the core of the lemon drop and got a burst of sourness that sent tears squirting out my eyes. My whole head turned
into one giant pucker and I finally had to spit the darn thing out. But the damage was done: fuzzy tongue and itchy tonsils.
They should put a warning label on these things
. I wiggled a finger in my ear and was forcing air down my throat to scratch the unreachable itch. But I must’ve been grunting
too loudly because I noticed Sylvia pointing at me.

“That one’s not an actor,” I heard her say.

I object!

“But look at him – that’s Nerdy Boy!”

The Goatee Man’s eyes widened like he’d just spotted Big-foot. He scurried toward me. I almost ran.

“Hello, young man,” he chirped, looking down at me. I untwisted my face and sat up straight. “I’m Mr. Weiss. Nathan Weiss.
I’m directing the Stink-Zappers commercial. And you are?”

Freaking out!

“Mr. Grubbs. Dustin Grubbs. Uh, I’m here with my Smelly Father – uh, my dad.”

“Honey, I’m home. Rough day today. My dogs are really barkin’,” Dad recited proudly.

“Not yet. We’ll call you when it’s time,” Mr. Weiss said, never taking his eyes off yours truly. “So, Dustin, you’re exactly
the type we’re looking for. Would you by any chance be at all interesting in auditioning for our television commercial today?
That is, if it’s okay with your father.”

“Huh?”
Did he just say those words or am I dreaming?

“Okay by me,” Dad said, looking stunned. “Go for it!”

“Well?” Mr. Weiss was waiting for my answer. I couldn’t move. “Dustin? What’s it gonna be?”

“Yeah, sure!
Definitely!
”

“Fantastic. Come with me.”

“Right now?”

I sprang up to my feet so fast I got dizzy. Dad might’ve said “Break a leg, kid,” but all I could hear for sure was the blood
rushing to my head.
God, no one back home will ever believe it! I might have just been “discovered,” which Dad said never happened in reality
– just in old movie musicals. This was, like, a zillion times better than some school play – this was the real deal
.