Show Biz

One Friday afternoon I found myself sharing a few pints with Ron Bond and some other friends at a downtown Toronto watering hole called the Coal Bin. We went there frequently, especially at the end of the week, and we liked to arrive fairly early so we would be ready when the offices in the huge high rises, directly across the road, closed down and all the secretaries hit the bar for a quick “Thank God it’s Friday” cocktail.

We knew that, as good as their intentions might be, when the band started playing their resolve would fly out the window and hurrying home would be forgotten. It was almost impossible to get out of that place alone when the lights began flashing at closing time.

It was the era of free love and it was almost as if gratuitous sex had replaced the handshake as a form of greeting.

On this particular Friday we made an unusually early start, getting to the bar for lunch. Ron wanted to have a little extra time to build up some liquid courage before the lovelies started arriving. He hadn’t been having much luck lately and was determined, as he put it, to cut a weak one out of the herd that evening.

For my part, I was feeling down in the dumps I think I was getting tired of the whole sordid lifestyle. It was just one meaningless encounter after the other. Don’t get me wrong they were all wonderful women but there was so many of them and so little time. There had to be something else.

When the bar started to fill up and the band arrived Ron and my other friends started getting up periodically to chat up some girl and thrash around on the dance floor. I wasn’t in the mood so I kept to myself and just sat frequently refilling my mug from the large pitchers of draft that kept appearing on the table. I guess my mood was infectious because as the afternoon wore on the boys were spending less and less time on the dance floor and more and more time seated around the huge barrel that served as our table.

We had all gone to the same technical high school together and one of the guys happened to mention that he thought it strange that none of us was actually working in the field we had trained for. He made it sound as if we were all failures for not becoming the Draftsmen and Machinists we had planned to be.

I had tried to work as mechanical draftsman for a while but the only job I could find was drawing sewers for the city and I figured that that was about as low as I could go so I quit and finally ended up on the police force before starting a business of my own.  The guys pointed out that my riding school was no small achievement but I was not to be consoled, I knew something was missing in my life and the more I drank the larger the void became.

The other guys started talking about their current occupations and what they would rather be doing and it was truly surprising to listen to their previously undisclosed aspirations.

Ron Bond claimed he wanted to become an author. When I brought it to his attention that I had never seen him with a book in his hand he got all huffy and slurred “I don’t read books, I write books!”

Braving the ridicule, one by one, the rest of the guys divulged their secret hopes. When it became my turn to share, for no apparent reason, I heard myself saying, “ I have always wanted to be an actor!” I just blurted it out. For the life of me I don’t know where it came from. It wasn’t even close to being true, maybe a playbill that had been left lying on the table by a previous customer was influencing me subliminally or maybe it was pure one-upmanship. Whatever the reason I did say it and now was compelled to stick to my story.

Of course my old friend Ron led the attack on me saying, “ I’ve known you for years and you’ve never mention anything like this before, you must be drunk or crazy. I hit him with my favorite W.C. Fields quote. “I may be drunk but you’re the one who is crazy, tomorrow I’ll be sober and you’ll still be crazy!” The other guys laughed but Ron had heard me use that line too often in the past and continued his interrogation undeterred.

He could be pretty relentless when criticizing me and for the next twenty minutes or so he pulled out all the stops drawing all my shortcomings to my attention. He was getting my Irish dander up and I was just about to offer him a knuckle sandwich when he delivered a final salvo that stopped me in my tracks.

“If you were really serious about this you’d go and apply for a job as an actor right now!"
“Maybe I will, you asshole! “ I shot back at him, turning away dismissively and hoping that would be the end of the discussion.  No such luck, one of the other guys, trying to be helpful mentioned that the CBC casting office was just around the corner and that maybe that would be a good place for me to start my career. 

This was just the fresh ammunition that Ron needed and he renewed his attack on me daring me to put my money where my mouth was. I countered with an offer to go up to the casting office as soon as he finished the first chapter of the book he was planning to write but he wasn’t to be put off and I found myself swearing in front of all present that I would go for an interview that very afternoon.

The boys were not a trusting lot and shortly afterwards escorted me around the corner and watched while I entered the main foyer of the CBC building. They were still watching me through the glass doors as I inquired at the receptionists' counter then headed for the elevators.

The receptionist had informed me that the woman I needed to see was located on the third floor. Her name was Olwyne Millington and she was in charge of casting.

I could tell that the receptionist had been reluctant to admit someone in my advanced state of inebriation but I think her sense of humor had kicked in; my appearance at the casting office just might have been preceded by a warning phone call.

 The elevator doors opened to expose a large reception area where a stern looking older woman sat behind a large desk going through a pile of black and white photos. As the doors swished closed behind me she raised her head and looked at me as if I was something that had gotten stuck to the bottom of her shoe.

The elevator had been stuffy and I was feeling a bit groggy so when she asked in a haughty tone, “What can I do for you?",  I simply blurted out; “I want to be an actor” then pursing my lips in a “so there!"  fashion took a step backwards, lost my balance and almost fell down.

It was certainly stuffy in that old office and it was making me dizzy, the secretary was starting to look blurry but I found that if I closed one eye her face cleared up and I could concentrate on what she was saying.

“Do you have a portfolio and head shots?” she asked.  I didn’t know what she was talking about but I told her I didn’t have any of that at the moment but that I was sure that I could get some in the near future. She rattled on for some time about other requirements necessary for applicants and then finished by scolding me and telling me to come back when I was sober and serious.

I found her attitude offensive and was just about to tell her so when her intercom buzzed and she was summoned into the next room. By the time she returned I had already pushed the down button on the elevator consol and was preparing to leave. I was a bit hurt by the reception I had been given and was consoling myself with the knowledge that I had been thrown out of better joints than this.

Then I heard a voice behind me. “One moment Sir!” she said, ” Ms. Millington would like to speak with you.”

I gave her my “Of course she wants to see me!” look while she escorted me into the inner office where a small woman in her early forties sat smoking behind a large desk littered with dog eared scripts. She nodded in my direction and in a lovely soothing British accent said "Sit, please.”

She said that she had overheard what was occurring in the reception area and was curious to know more. After quizzing me about what I did for a living she asked me if I had much acting experience. I thought that a little humor was in order so I told her that, once, I had been a tree in a school play. She was not amused but neither was she deterred because she handed me one of the scripts, indicated a character and a page and ask me to read the lines saying she would cue me. I wasn’t adverse to kinky stuff but this cueing put me off a bit and I told her so, she just laughed and said get on with it.

I closed one eye so that I could read then gave it my best effort. When we finished a couple of pages she asked me to stop and then lit a fresh cigarette and sat and stared at me for what seemed like a long time.

I broke the silence, “So how did I do?" I asked. She threw her head back, inhaled deeply on her cigarette then launched a perfect smoke ring and said, “You were fucking terrible!” Then after a short pause she said, “However that’s just what I need. Are you available tomorrow morning?"

I was a little surprised by her proposal and not wanting to appear anxious or easy I slurred, “Let me check my schedule,” then began fumbling in my in my pockets for a little calendar notebook I sometimes carried to keep track of my mares' gestation periods.

I think she realized that I was bluffing because by the time I finished digging through my pockets and looked up she was standing in front of me and tucking a piece of paper in the breast pocket of my shirt.

“That’s the address, the time and the contact person. Don’t be late.”  She said in a stern motherly tone.

“So that’s it?" I said, stalling and eyeing the big leather couch against the back wall of her office. I guess she had seen some of the same movies about the Hollywood star system that I had because she gave me that ‘You are a naughty boy’ look and spun me around and gently shoved me out her office door saying “I mean it. Don’t be late!”

And so began my acting career.

I wasn’t feeling all that robust when I woke up the next morning. I’d been having nightmares and strange dreams. At least I thought they were dreams until I found the slip of paper Ms. Millington had given me on my bedside table and realized what I had done.

I read the instructions and checked my watch. If I hurried I could still make the appointment on time. But God, my head hurt, and what if it was just a practical joke?  They might be trying to get even with me for showing up at the casting office in the condition I was in. "Maybe I shouldn’t go",  I thought.  It would serve her right for doing business with drunks. Who was I kidding, I had to find out if it was real or not, so I had a quick shower and shave and headed for the downtown location I had been given.

           As it turned out Ms. Millington was pretty good at her job.  She had type cast me as a dumb cop. The wardrobe people got me suited up in a winter motorcycle uniform, slapped some makeup on my face and showed me the couple of lines I would be required to say. The TV series they were shooting was called Wojeck. It starred an actor called John Vernon and was based loosely on the true-life exploits of a Toronto coroner called Morton Schulman. Of course I was too hungover to appreciate what was going on and I wouldn’t have known John Vernon from Adam.

Before we started shooting Vernon asked me to cue him his lines. I was nervous and after I messed up several times he accused me of being flippant and stormed off to the other side of the set. “Screw him,” I thought to myself. "Who needs him anyway".

Then I found out who he was and that the couple of lines I had to say were to be delivered to him. As I shared the shot with him I felt cowed, humble and unsure of myself. As it turned out my tentative approach was just what the director was looking for. The scene called for the overbearing Wojeck to give hell to a dozy incompetent cop at a crime scene. I was perfect for the part.