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I sat on the piano. Behind me lay an object causing all my troubles. Playing music never felt so stressful; usually, it'd be how I got rid of any stresses or worries. But all the songs pouring out of me today were in minor scale, sounding sad and dreadful. Dreadful like that thing lodged in my thoughts. Shaking my head, I closed the fallboard so the keys on my lovely piano wouldn't get dust on them. My expectations for the day was dire.
Turning around, I walked as if avoiding evil. My tiny steps made sure to point away from the cursed item. It wasn't that the item had sentience. No, I was the one trying to stop myself from looking at it. The curse was in knowing it was there, not the fact that I had received it. It represented a path — a fork in the road, encompassing all my future. Taking the left path meant I had lost and proved my doubts right: I was a terrible actor. Worst of all, it would mean that I was admitting that I was weak — weak to the vices that money could buy for me.
The second path looked nice, it beckoned me in and it looked brighter than the other road. People spoke of moral high ground, path of the righteous and the holy, right way, and such. That was what that fork resembled — pain now so I could repent for my inadequacy, good things would happen after. Punishment now, rewards later. Only reward was not guaranteed. When you took a step back, you realized that no, it wasn't the path to be tread by the righteous; it was one chosen by the prideful.
Clive Price, a devout man of the church, spoke of the sin of pride. Often it was considered to be worst among the deadly sins; it opened a man to all other avenues of vice — being too blind to see your faults, loving yourself too much, or being blinded by your excellent attributes to see the flaws. I no longer believed in the existence of God, but I was a hypocrite because I found myself praying whenever things went bad. The left fork was still lingering in my mind. Wouldn't succumbing to my pride succumbing to weakness? Or were both choices rigged and I was only human to accept my weakness?
I shut my eyes and thought of new things. Happier things, brighter things. Doom floated over my head yet again before I had even made it downstairs.
"Ready?" Granddad asked me.
"Yes," I replied.
I studied my Granddad. Today he was stronger. His cheeks more colourful. Was that him or more the the weather outside? I looked out the windows — the sky was an overcast grey thing that gave no indication of the time.
"Grab your brolly!" Granddad shouted as he put on his boots.
Nain had bought something in Piccadilly — a holder for umbrellas and a bowl centered in the middle to collect all the water. Clever and simple, but I felt the item was too pretentious. Brolly could dry off anywhere else. Things would be the same if she hadn't bought it. But at least I wouldn't have to walk to another room to fetch an umbrella.
I was more of a Buddhist these days; extra things were only extra weight on my shoulders. The item that I ignored was only a burden on my soul. Handing my grandpa his brolly, I put on my boots. They were rainproof rubber boots, and they fit my mood quite well. My auditions were going so badly that I just didn't care anymore. No longer would I worry about what clothes to wear to an audition; no longer would I read sides wondering what the hell my character was meant to be.
Now my focus was to do things in the most efficient and detached way possible. Read sides and scry the mysteries of the world to piece together a character from morsels of information? Improvise and create new dialogues so I could connect with the written words to bring to life a real person, a real kid? I didn't care about any of those. Not anymore.
I had become a technocrat, a scientist of the highest order. I couldn't believe in God because there was no empirical evidence of his existence. For the same reason, I couldn't believe in my auditions until I got decent enough proof that my exaggerated acting fit for BBC children's shows or physical comedies did worse than my natural acting abilities. I needed to know!
"Let's walk today," Granddad said.
I opened my mouth to reject it — my audition clothes were in the car. But I closed it. Why even bother with it? A weight off my shoulders was a weight off my back.
Actors had a lot of stupid beliefs, one of which was that if you got a callback, you should always wear the same clothes and act the exact same way. After all, that's what got the casting director interested in the first place, and you should stick by it. I hadn't had a callback in my last dozen auditions, so that was no longer my concern. No, my concern was about removing all factors from my very scientific and extremely legitimate study. If I wore the same thing each day, it could be a grounded study without additional factors to consider. I could bin off today's data — convenience was better.
My feet found every puddle as we walked down the rainy London street. I conducted my own research into the splatter-to-stomp ratio of puddles — until I got bored. The black water on dark concrete, mixed with bright, colourful lights, made the puddles look like pools of oil: myriad colours within, black and gleaming otherwise. It was a simple body of water dressed up in a thousand ways to present that illusion.
With each new audition, I'd strip away another layer — no more streetlight bouncing a certain way, no more cracked pavement adding texture, and no more emotional, dramatic acting like raindrops falling on the surface.
Finding my own core — that was the plan. Then I would build from there, step by step I would add methods that I was taught. There was the real issue, wasn't there?
Drama teachers — maybe I needed one. A coach who could keep me grounded and teach new things. Steven Pimlott was my director; he had given me pointers and directions to give the best performance possible. Our show had opened, and I hadn't seen him since. Actors now ran the stage. The stage manager was the real boss, and I received no more feedback. But when I looked back on it, Steven Pimlott was a Shakespearean director, and Dolittle was so bad that it wasn't even being called a musical by critics with self respect. His direction wasn't needed.
There was that sin of pride again. No matter how bad this production turned out, I couldn't be so self-critical as to mindlessly toil over it. How many movies were made each year? How many even received a positive review? If I was to work in the entertainment industry long enough, I'd be part of many-many bad films. Accepting that would be the first thing I needed to do for my new Buddhist enlightenment.
"Watch out!" Granddad shouted.
I stopped to let a car pass. "Thanks," I answered idly.
I kicked at the water; the splash went everywhere. I couldn't help the laughter coming out of my stomach. Sometimes breaking things was the best way to move on. Break it down and built it up.
The walk was short and sweet. Not often did I go to an audition on this side of the Thames, let alone one close enough to walk to from home. The casting office was much like the places I'd become a regular in—just a regular old office setup. Only this one had more of a '70s standard, brown, heavy furniture rather than the beige plastics I saw most often. Boys and their parents occupied the waiting room; some spared a glance from their sides to look at the new arrival. Measuring the competition, I noticed a dark-haired boy glance away as if I wasn't worth his attention. But another blonde boy looked at me, his face full of recognition.
Today, I didn't care much about what others thought of me. So I just waved and smiled at the boy, making my way directly over to him.
"Joe, Joe Sowerbutts, are you not? Big fan of you!" I said,
"Y-Y-Yes. Who are you?" Joe replied.
"Ah, Joe, that'd be telling. I'm more interested in you. This is the fifth time I've seen you," I told him.
"In auditions? Are you eight? It would be weird if we didn't see each other, we're in the same age group." Joe explained.
"Right you are, I've seen everyone in here," I pointed one by one. "Kid in the Corner, TV series — I don't mean that he is literally in the corner. But that kid is, he was also in that audition and now is in a corner." I joked,
"I saw him, him, and him during auditions for Titus. Wish I got that. Anthony Hopkins was just announced in it — have you heard?" I added,
"Uhh, yes," Joe replied awkwardly.
"You, I remember you — Joe Sowerbutts! I saw you at The Turn of the Screw, Kid in the Corner, My Parents Are Aliens, Silent Witness, Last Christmas, Tea with Mussolini, and that Scottish series. I forget the name." I searched my mind.
"M-M-My Life So Far," Joe said.
"Mine too. You also have trouble remembering names? Huh," I joked.
"What?" Joe said, more confused than before.
Maybe I was being too weird and too forward, but Joe was too easy to roll over. I also couldn't take him all that seriously because of his name. Today's audition I was going to bin off — my clothes were different, it was raining. Two big factors to change people's moods and my control group in the study was broken. Who cared? Not me.
I exchanged conversation with him and found out that he'd never been in any production yet. No theatre, no commercials, no school plays. Nothing.
"Wow, your parents must be really supportive," I said.
Thinking back on it, this kid must've been auditioning for half a year. I remembered seeing him when I was auditioning for Children of the New Forest. That was ages ago.
"I am," a beautiful blonde woman replied.
I hadn't even noticed her or my Granddad who had joined me at some point.
"Hi! Wilfred." I extended my hand.
She was taken aback by my attempt at shaking hands but shook it anyway. I learned it from Nicholas Hoult and his family; a week had passed since that audition. Nicholas got the job — I was sure of it. Even though I wasn't cast in the two-episode BBC gig that I originally came for, I had come out richer from the encounter. When Nick's full name was read off by the receptionist, I received a revelation about the kid. He would become quite famous in the future. But my particular interest was the movie About a Boy. Whether I got Harry Potter or not, I was planing to be in that movie.
Everything I had auditioned for so far had no help from my future memories. But About a Boy was something I was the right age for and could channel the final film's memory to draw inspiration from. That was a cheat ability if there ever was one. One of the hardest challenges for me as an actor was finding a character and connecting with them. What if I could see the whole environment, the world, and the rest of the cast—along with the character I played—all ahead of time? All in the final product? I could be the exact person the director was looking for during the audition.
Except, that was the problem. Casting directors chose who they recommended. Directors chose from that shortlist. If I was too good but nepotism reared its ugly head, they could recommend a bunch of bad actors that would make a nepo baby like Nicholas look better and be chosen.
Was that the pride speaking? An answer more likely than that was me just being a terrible actor.
"Joe has just been booked for his first job, actually," the blonde bombshell next to Joe said.
"Mum, stop." Joe shook his head, eyeing the kids and parents nearby.
"Oh? Which one did he book?" I asked.
"The—" she started, but Joe held his hands to her mouth.
"Oh, good idea. Joe!" I shook him, gently. "Guessing game, always loved those. Hmm," I said, bringing up my fingers to my temples so I could think.
"I think you're too shy to be in Kid on the Corner.My Parents Are Aliens is cast with this kid called Alex Kew. That's what my Grandma says, she's usually right with those…" I rattled out.
"She is always right," Granddad agreed.
I looked around to check if she was around and if that's why Clive felt the need to agree to the statement. But no, Gladys had trained Clive well, and he would speak well for his wife anytime, anywhere.
"Silent Witness, I think this other kid got it," I said with narrowed eyes, thinking of the Hoults. "Tea with Mussolini, maybe. But it's been almost a month, so probably not that one."
I closed my eyes and made a face of consternation.
"I got it! It's got to be The Turn of the Screw!" I announced.
"What? How did you know?" Joe asked, perplexed.
"Simple, logic stated that there were only two options—My Life So Far or The Turn of the Screw. Your mum blurted out the word 'The,' and only one of those has that in the title," I said with a smile full of pride.
"Thanks, Mum!" Joe complained.
"No, it was all you, Joe. You're going to be a big star!" She smiled beautifully.
"Congratulations!" I replied wholeheartedly. Our conversations continued as usual after that.
When we ran out of topics, my smile faltered off my face. Pride was an emotion not so far away from my surface. I acted like I was Sherlock for guessing something correctly. How obnoxious would I be if I got Harry Potter and became famous? I needed to get ahead of it and curb it, because that would be a problem even if I failed to get the Harry Potter role. If my pride was left unchecked, I would live the rest of my life thinking about my failures. That was a terrifying thought. Revelation would turn from an advantage unlike anything else into a torture device overnight. Failure to take advantage of something like that… it would eat me up. I couldn't bear to think about it.
There was something else I could channel my Sherlock into, something that was much more relevant.
"Sorry. Mrs. Sowerbutts?" I let out.
"Yes, Wilfred?" she answered.
"Are you an actress?"
"No, not at all." She laughed. "Why? What made you think that?"
"Oh, because you're very beautiful. Look at you." I gestured.
"Hehe, thank you!" she said, fluttering her eyelashes and teasing Joe about how good his Mum looked.
Then I asked follow-up questions about their family background. Her husband ran a plumbing business, and she was a hairstylist. And I asked if she worked Hair and Makeup gigs—surprisingly, she hadn't. I recommended that she should get into it, but she denied it, saying she was happy with her current salon.
Learning about Joe's family made me realise that Joe had no connection to the industry. Nicholas' mum was an actress—not a famous or a successful one, but she was an actress, and had connections. Joe was much like me, maybe better off than my family in terms of economic background. Plumbing paid better than general contractor, I think. Not to mention, his dad owned his own company. Sure Joe was from a well off family, but he had booked his first role by his own talent. Best of all, he'd booked a movie. An actual movie where he was an important role. The script itself was weak, but he'd be on screen often.
His success proved me wrong. Talent could get you jobs.
Maybe pride was affecting me in other ways—it was making me blame the industry rather than myself. Accepting that I wasn't good enough was hurt. Joe, the boy sitting next to me, had gotten a callback, then booked the movie. I, Wilfred, hadn't even gotten a callback and we had both auditioned for the same role. Now, I wanted to see Joe's auditions. Now, it became personal to me.
I had knowledge of the future. Acting lessons my parents had to sacrifice paying bills for me to attend. Parents who worked hard to send me to London. I couldn't lose to a kid that randomly decided to start auditioning for everything because of a mother chasing fame. A mother who failed to break into the industry and now lived through her child.
Pride.
Again, I was blaming others instead of myself. I could just be happy for Joe like I was when he first told me. Stop thinking bad thoughts, brain!
Image flashed in my mind, the haunted piece on my desk.
Now I was thinking about only the bad things—thank you, brain! I wanted to avoid the haunted piece, avoid looking at it or even thinking about it. But Joe's news made me consider it even more. To accept the first fork, to accept that I was weak and not suited for acting.
"Wilfred Price!" a blonde lady called out.
There were so many blonde people in the room, and all casting directors were always women. For some reason, always blonde women.
"Let's go, Granddad," I sighed. "Bye, Joe." I waved.
"Good luck, Wilfred!" Joe said.
I held up my sigh and smiled at Joe.
I hadn't touched the folder where I kept the script. It had water droplets on it from me splashing around on the way here. Thankfully, the script inside was dry.
"Come in," the casting director said and held up the door for me.
"Granddad!" I urged my grandpa.
He didn't like being inside the audition room. I had made it a habit to have him inside for my scientific study. Ah, who was I kidding? I liked my grandparents inside because it gave me comfort.
"Take a seat!" the blonde lady said. I noticed that she was a different blonde lady.
"Maureen," she explained.
"I'm Gail," the other one introduced herself.
"Wilfred Price… I mean, you know that, sorry." I laughed awkwardly.
"Whenever you're ready," Gail said.
I looked down at the chair—a black chair so common in all those audition rooms. It was one of the only constant things during an audition. It was the rock of many actors—an item to ground themselves by, kick away the nervousness, and enter the character they wanted to portray.
I tried to remember the boy I was supposed to play—Pip was his name. But I couldn't remember much else. Taking a deep breath, I glanced at my script. Gilles had told me to never read the book.
"Off ze book acting! You must show you 'ave paid it attention, given it ze respect!" Gilles exclaimed, wagging a finger. "Why would ze casting directors pay respect to you if you do not, hein? Zey won't, mon petit!"
But I needed a refresher.
MRS JOE: Where have you been, you little monkey! Wearing me out with fret and worry! I said, where have you been!
Just reading that line made the whole scene come into my mind. Handing off my script, I looked up from my ritual and nodded at Gail and Maureen.
She read the line exactly as writers wrote it.
Script also described the action of the scene:
She charges at PIP, wielding her cane, 'Tickler'. JOE does his best to shield PIP behind his large leg, but MRS JOE simply beats him too.
I did my best at acting the boy being beaten. Today, I threw away my theatrical acting where I would display exaggeration of all kinds. The experiment was abandoned for the day in favor of my own natural acting.
"The churchyard! As it was Christmas—" I shouted, gasping in between words either to draw breath or hiss at the imaginary pain of getting beat by a cane.
"The churchyard! If it weren't for me you'd've been to the churchyard years ago, and stayed there! Who brought you up by hand?" Maureen read.
"You—You did!" I exclaimed.
"And why did I do it, I should like to know!" Maureen kept on.
"I don't know!" I cried out, portraying the boy wanting to stop the pain, the beating.
I had added the exclamations and emotions to the script—stuttering and hissed-out breathing. Those seemed natural for a boy being abused. Gilles had told me not to veer off the script, but today I didn't care. He had also taught me improvisations in character to learn more about a role. What was so wrong about bringing the improvisation into the audition?
"Okay, let's do the next scene, the one with the Magwitch," Gail said.
She read Magwitch's line—a convict that Pip had found. Whistle Down the Wind had the same story about a child finding a convict and building a friendship with them. Charles Dickens and whoever wrote Whistle Down the Wind were not giving sound life advice. I wouldn't want to be near a convict, not alone anyway. But I played it without showing it, instead portraying a curious yet scared boy.
I studied the faces of Maureen and Gail as we exchanged dialogues. There was no way to tell how the two blonde women felt about it. Their faces gave nothing away; they were true professionals. My enthusiasm died down a bit as we finished a third scene where I had to act out of breath and show some scared faces. This seemed another audition doomed for failure.
"Thank you, Wilfred," Maureen said.
"That'll be all," Gail added, both with neutral expressions and tones.
I sighed and reached to grab my script and put it back in the folder. I must've been dragging my feet because my Granddad patted my shoulder.
"Paid a chodi pais wedi pisio," Granddad said.
My Welsh was getting along poorly. When there were three people who could teach it to me at any point, I didn't want to hurry it along. But if I was right, that meant, "Don't lift your skirt after you've pissed in it." Literal translation wasn't great there—a similar idiom in English would be "Don't cry over spilt milk."
He had a point—no need to show the defeated look or think about another failed audition. I had attempted it and I could only look forward.
"Sorry?" Maureen stopped us from leaving.
"Yes?" Granddad said, a bit annoyed.
"Was that Welsh, by any chance?" Maureen asked. She had a gentle smile on her face instead of the neutral mask that she wore.
"What's it to you?" Granddad asked.
"Well, uhh—" Maureen started.
"Price, that's a Welsh surname. Are you Welsh as well?" Gail asked me.
"Um, yeah," I said.
"Wonderful!" Maureen said, taking notes even as she smiled.
"Thank you, we'll contact your agent if you are successful," Gail said, dismissing us.
"What was that about? They don't like us or what?" Granddad asked stupidly.
I thought about it for a moment before a smile burst onto my face. I waved goodbye to Joe before dragging my Grandpa outside and away. As soon as we were out, I grabbed onto my Granddad.
"The story has an Older Pip! The main character, it's got to be a Welsh actor! That explains everything," I told him, gleefully.
"That would do it, that would," Granddad said, happy mostly because I was happy.
"Wow, who knew being Welsh would come in handy," I said in wonder.
"Being Welsh is always handy."
"Heh, can't argue with that," I agreed.
The walk back home was almost the same, only I jumped into more puddles than before, and my splashes went almost as far as the water pushed out by speeding cars. I'd just auditioned for a show called Great Expectations—the millionth adaptation of a Charles Dickens novel. My day had started with terrible expectations, but now it had turned all the way around.
I felt great now, I had Great Expectations. Literally!
When I came back to the house and entered the piano room, I didn't even glance at the letter on the desk. It had been hanging over me all day, but now I had forgotten about it. No, I was thinking about my second gig on TV—a role with a much more prominent screen time. A role to put me on the map for stardom. It could be exactly what I needed to get out of my rut. Songs poured out of me, all bright and happy rather than the sad and slow pieces of the morning.