Attack of the Theater People Read Online Free Page A

know a whole note from a fried egg, and now he’s signing autographs. I resist the urge to march across the room and pull his fans off of him, screaming, “Back off, bitches, he’s
mine
!” Instead I order another shooter, wishing I could arrange for an intravenous drip.
    I turn back to the table, where Kelly’s telling everyone what it’s like to join Actor’s Equity.
    “They’ve even got a newsletter,” she says, pulling it out of her bag.
    Marcus sneers. “You carry it around with you?”
    “I brought it for Edward,” Kelly snips, then, turning to me, adds, “I figured you could use it, now that you’re…Well, it’s got a lot of great inside information.”
    I flip through pages of casting calls, obituaries, and apartment notices, all of them swirling in formation, then fold the newsletter in quarters so it’ll fit in my back pocket.
    “Fanks,” I gurgle.
    There’s an awkward silence, as silences are wont to be. A quick inventory of the participants doesn’t bode well for conversation: Marcus is in a mood, Ziba’s aloof, I’m drunk, and Willow is, well, Willow. That leaves Paula and Kelly to do the heavy lifting.
    “So where are you working this summer?” Paula asks in a cheery, talk-show tone.
    “Akron Under the Stars.”
    We all nod like we’re impressed. Kelly tries to downplay being cast as Dream Laurey in
Oklahoma!
by explaining that she looks like the woman playing the regular daytime Laurey.
Her success has nothing to do with me,
I say to myself.
    Eventually Doug struts over to our table. As usual, Paula takes charge. “Can you sit with us? Come, sit. Edward, let him sit. Pleeeze, sit, sit, sit.”
    Fine
, I think,
just stop saying “sit
.” I start to get up, a little miffed that I’m the one being asked to give up my seat, but Doug just nudges me over, sharing it with me. On the sound track in my mind, a thousand violins begin to play.
    Paula continues as hostess. “Doug, have you met My Boyfriend, Marcus?”
    If this were acting class, Marian Seldes would tell Paula she’s telegraphing the subtext: “My little bird, don’t
show
us that you’re uncomfortable introducing your current boyfriend to a well-endowed man you used to sleep with recreationally.
Be
uncomfortable.”
    Doug and Marcus each give that upward nod of the head that guy-guys do, two alpha dogs.
    “Hey.”
    “Hey.”
    Paula gestures to Willow. “And this is our roommate Willow.”
    Willow just laughs, as if someone told a joke only flakes can hear. She hands Doug a bar napkin. “Can I have your autograph?”
    Doug reaches into his back pocket, his hand brushing against my thigh, and a shiver crosses my face and down my neck, making the hair on my arms stand on end. But then he pulls a pen out of his pocket and I feel myself die a little. Having autograph seekers is one thing; being ready is another. As he signs, Willow says, “You’re a sweater.”
    Doug looks confused, a near-universal response where Willow is concerned. “I’m a what?”
    “A sweater.”
    “Ya’ mean, like a cardigan?”
    “No. Like a big, wet, sweaty mess.”
    Doug Grouchos his eyebrows at me, the Internationally Recognized Signal for “The redhead’s a freak, but I’d still bone her.” If he does, that’ll leave Marcus as the only person at the table with whom Doug hasn’t had a sexual encounter.
    I look down at the napkin, which he’s signed,
Doug Grab
.
    “Where’s the-owski?” I ask. “Ya’ need anudder napkin?”
    “Doug Grabowski sounds like a teamster,” he says. “Doug Grab is a rock star.” He looks around the table. “Whaddya guys think?”
    “It’s a bit aggressive,” Ziba says, swirling the Courvoisier in her glass. “But so’s rock ’n’ roll.”
    “I like it,” Kelly says.
    “Why don’t you just call yourself Almost Bruce?” Marcus says, biting into a chicken strip.
    Doug narrows his eyes. “’Cuz that’s not my name.”
    You can almost hear the Western showdown music.
    “I’ve got