Jim Hussen—a veteran actor and media darling. The man has more experience in his little finger than half of Hollywood combined. Sam and Josh have regaled me with stories of his demands, including the need for total immersion in his character.
“You and Sam have both told me Jim’s an ass. I doubt it’s the first time he’s threatened to walk.”
“You’d be correct. Jim is?—”
“Wait!” the driver interrupts us. “I know you!” He waggles a finger in the rearview mirror. “You’re Josh Greenfeld.” His thick Boston accent is unmistakable.
“Guilty.” Josh offers a smile. To anyone else, it looks genuine. To me, it sits brittle and jaded on his face.
I frown.
“You wrote?—”
“Yep.”
“And won?—”
“That was me.” Josh leans forward. “You want me to sign something or…?”
“I want to audition for your next movie!” The driver declares stopping at a set of lights. He twists in his seat. “You want to hear a monologue now?”
“That’s okay, how about I give you the number of our casting?—”
“Mislike me not for my complexion! The shadow’d livery of the burnish’d sun, to whom I am a neighbor and near bred. Bring me the fairest creature northward born! Where Phoebus’—“
“Is that Othello?” I whisper, watching as the driver weaves in and out of traffic, one hand gesturing in time to his words, which are delivered in a thick Boston drawl. If he’s attempting a British or Astipan accent, it isn’t apparent.
“Merchant of Venice.”
“Ah. At least he’s original.”
The car pulls to a stop out the front of the New Start Community Center just as he winds up.
“So.” The driver twists in his seat, face eager. “Thoughts?”
“Don’t try Shakespeare. Go for something modern. Your appearance and accent lend more to action trope—try auditioning for some gangster roles, crime mob, action heroes. If you like comedy and have the timing, try that too. Start at the bottom, take any role you can get, work on your pitch and diction. Give my casting director a call in six months.” Josh pulls a card from his wallet. “Good luck.”
“Thank you!” The driver cradles the card like he would a newborn. “You have no idea how much this means to me!”
“We all start somewhere.” Josh claps the guy on the shoulder before opening the door and hauling himself out. He turns back, offering me a hand.
“Bye, Josh Greenfeld!”
Josh lifts a hand in farewell. We watch as the driver takes off, once again gesturing rudely at the oncoming traffic as he merges.
“That was really nice of you,” I say, watching Josh out of the corner of my eye.
He shrugs. “Doesn’t cost anything to be a decent human being. If the guy is serious, he’ll take on the advice, look foropportunities, work hard to get what he wants. Who knows, he could be the next Mark Wahlberg.”
I grin. “Do you really believe that?”
He smiles back, this one genuine. “I can hope. He seemed like a decent guy.” He looks over his shoulder at the center. “We going in?”
I lead the way. The wind picks up, battering us as we walk the short way to the entrance. “What do you know about the center?”
“Only what Sam tells me. So, nothing.”
I grin, picking up my pace. “The kids here are wonderful. The staff too. The center caters to a variety of needs but mostly low-socio economic families who need some help. They run programs for the little kids, afterschool care, single parents—particularly teens—and a bunch of other supports. It’s become a hub for the neighborhood.” I push open the heavy door, leading him inside.
