Work Text:
"Hey, Andy, this is David. Great news, baby, I got great news. I just got the call, they want you for the quarterback thing. This is gonna be big, this is, this is a fuckin' movie about triumph and the human condition and shit. It's a recast, though, so they want you to start on Monday. I told 'em no problem."
*
You quit your job at the Indo-Tex-Mex fusion place in the valley where you've been picking up shifts because the shoot's gonna be for six weeks and the longest the owner will let anyone fall off the schedule is a month. This guy George talked them up to four and a half weeks when he got a three episode guest spot on this show that was on the SciFi Channel, but you don't bother because it's just a job where they serve food with an identity crisis and the owner's kind of weird.
*
You show up at the lot on Monday and they give you a uniform that's been pre-stained with dirt and grass, so you guess you're gonna start filming somewhere in the middle.
The first shoot's in a locker room, lots of extras in their pre-fab faux-stained uniforms and you know your lines but the director keeps yelling, "Cut!" because he doesn't like your delivery or something.
"Okay, great, but next time try it slower," he says.
You try it slower, o's and a's stretched out long like taffy.
"Super, alright, but maybe a little louder."
You try it a louder, and the words "game" and "champions" and "team" ring in your head like finger cymbals.
"Look, can you--" the director trails off.
You scuff your cleat. "Um, can I what?"
The director looks exasperated and you realize that "slower" and "louder" weren't actually what he wanted at all. "For Christ's sake, kid, you're supposed to be playing a fucking retard!"
You nod once, then twice. You get it now, it's just that you, like, forgot.
This is the movie where you play the part of the retarded quarterback.
*
You started acting professionally because you felt like you'd already been acting your entire life.
No.
You started acting professionally because it was easier to play other people when you didn't want to be yourself.
No.
You started acting professionally because a casting agent saw you eating cereal out of the box at a grocery store near your apartment and wanted to put you in a commercial.
Maybe.
*
"Andrew, this is your father. We got your message, but I wish you wouldn't call when you know we're going to be at temple. How are we supposed to communicate if we can never make a connection? Anyway, congratulations on your new part, your mother and I are very proud of you. I wish you would talk to us, Andrew. We just want you to be happy."
*
David, your agent, he doesn't get you very many auditions, but he gives you a new name every week: Andrew Largeman, A.G. Largeman, Andy Largeman, A. Gideon Largman, Drew Largeman. You've been every one.
You must have been Andy Largeman the week you auditioned for this movie, because that's what everyone calls you. You don't correct them, but you never remember to answer to it, either. Nobody's ever called you Andy.
Nobody calls you "Large" in Los Angeles. But you don't tell anyone to call you that, either.
*
There's this guy, Denver Danvers. He plays some guy on the team who's not the quarterback, some position, You don't really know that much about football. His real name is Willie. He told you this on the third day of filming like it's a good secret.
Denver Danvers, he plays the retarded quarterback's best friend, and he's got uniform pants distressed with mud and grass in the shapes of the state of Florida and an ice cream cone.
You shoot some scene, just you and Denver Danvers, where you go to his character's mother's funeral together and your character makes some speech about heaven and puppies that you guess a mentally handicapped person is supposed to be able to get away with. After the day's over, Denver Danvers, Willie, he says to you, "Do you want to go get a drink or something?"
This is the part you don't like, the part where there are no lines. "Um, like, I'm on this medication and stuff?" you say. "So I probably shouldn't, you know, drink." This is, like, fifty percent true. Seventy-five percent true. Maybe it's even a hundred percent true. It might be, if you knew.
Denver Danvers puts his hands in his pockets. "Do you want me to suck your dick?" he says.
Later you'll figure that it was because saying no twice in a row would have been rude. While he does it, you think about whether there are puppies in heaven or if that's just something they tell retards.
*
You start dreaming about the big game.
The way the scene's supposed to go is that the stunt guy who's doing all the retarded quarterback's actual football stuff throws the game-winning pass and then they cut to you once the helmet comes off and you jump up and down and the team, wearing their end-of-the-game pants, splattered with mud that is actually, you don't know, coffee grounds, and grass stains that are actually, like, something that's green but not grass. Anyway, the team hoists you up on their shoulders and everyone cheers. Your name in lights, maybe, but you think that part gets added in later.
In the dream, all that stuff with the game-winning pass happens, but you're sitting on the sidelines, and you're doing a crossword puzzle. You wake up not even caring that you couldn't think of a four-letter world for anesthetized.
*
In the morning, in the make-up chair, getting your matte foundation healthy glow, your oil slick rogue bright cheeks, your football player grease paint that's actually drawn on with an eyeliner pencil, the girl who does your make-up touches your elbow. She says, "Here, this bruise, what did you do there? It looks like it hurts."
You shrug because you don't know. She smoothes over it with matte foundation on a sponge, because she makes you up every day but her fingers never touch your face. That part hurts.
*
You don't know what to do about Denver Danvers. He wants to, like, date you. Or maybe just give you another blow job. On Thursday, you tried it like this:
"Um, see, the thing is, you're, uh, you're really nice? But I'm not gay, so."
Denver Danvers, Willie, he doesn't believe you, you don't think, because he says something about how you're one cold piece of ass.
You're still not sure why he wanted to do it in the first place, and you figure if you can't figure that out, it doesn't matter why you let him. You wonder if he thinks that your characters in the movie are gay together, but since your character is a retard, that would probably be really wrong.
*
"Hello, Andrew, this is your mother. I'm just calling to say hello. You can probably tell I have a little bit of a cold, uh, your Aunt Silvia, she says I should go to the doctor, just in case, but I told her not to worry. Are you still doing your -- your baseball movie? Anyway, give us a call, I'll be here all day. Goodbye."
*
The shoot's almost over and you know about as much about football as you did when you started, which isn't very much. The entirety of your experience with the sport prior to being cast as the retarded quarterback is time spent sitting under the bleachers with Mark and Kenny and a bunch of guys, getting stoned during games or sometimes just practices. Whatever. You didn't really pay attention.
Mark used to say, about football, that it was like modern-day evidence of a feudal system. "We're lucky the quarterback doesn't have the right to sleep with our girlfriends on prom night if he wants to," he said.
Which, okay. But none of you had girlfriends.
*
On Tuesday, on the way home from filming, you go to the pharmacy.
Curtis, the pharmacist, he waves when he sees you walking toward the back of the store through the feminine hygiene aisle. "Andrew, my man, what's shakin'?"
Actually, every Tuesday, you go to the pharmacy.
"Hey, Curtis," you say. "How was Sophie's game?" Curtis is thirty-four. He has dreds that make his head look like a pineapple and a little gold ring in each ear. He's married, his daughter just started t-ball.
"Excellent," he says, tapping away at the keyboard, because he has your name, date of birth and social security number memorized, and all your prescriptions are phoned in with refills until three Tuesdays after you're dead. "Three runs, two RBIs! How you doin', you still filming that, uh, that quarterback movie?"
You nod, lightly tapping your fingers on the counter. Sometimes, if you're not working, Curtis is the only person you talk to all week.
*
The movie wraps. There's a wrap party.
People seem happy. You unconsciously crumple a paper cup. You think you forget to make an excuse when you leave.
*
"Drew, hey, it's David. Look, I got some great auditions for you next week. We got a concert pianist who writes his greatest symphony after he's been in a car accident and he has, like, brain damage. It's a feature, totally indie, but there's also a guest spot on some soap thing, somebody's retarded younger cousin. But hey, there's apparently a love scene, so give me a call, and I'll send the scripts over."
*
A couple months after the movie comes out, you're standing at the counter at Starbucks, waiting for your coffee. The coffee is, well, coffee, until it's just foam. Behind you, someone says, "Oh my god, are you the retarded quarterback?"
You turn around. It's a girl and she's, you know, a girl. White teeth. Blond hair. She has breasts. They look like they might actually be shiny apples.
"Um. Yeah."
She puts her hand on her chest so that her fingers are touching the hollow of her throat. It's confusing. "Oh my god," she says. "Wow. You were really great. I thought you were great."
"Uh, hey, thanks." You crane your head back toward the counter, but your coffee's not ready yet. You look back, and she's smiling. She's smiling, and she's a girl, and her hand is at her throat and her breasts are like hard shiny apples and she says the movie was great but the movie was bad. It's all adding up to something, but you can't figure out what. You look over your shoulder for your coffee again. You look back. She's gone.