“Charles NOT in Charge” Part 1
*Story contains some Strong Language
The payphone box stunk of urine and oily sweat. Garbage lay reeking on the street. Seemed like the City Garbage Union was on strike again.
Yellow cab drivers screamed at each other and blared their horns at slow-moving pedestrians.
All in all, it was a typical miserable summer day in the Big Apple.
Dropping a quarter in the coin slot, I punched in the number to my answering service.
The line rang weakly three times like a dying man gasping for breath before being answered.
“Balls are hanging,” said the voice brightly.
I stared at the payphone receiver stunned.
“Uh… is this my answering service?”
“Bells are Ringing. This is Jeff, may I help you?”
“Hi Jeff, this is Charles, box number one o’ six. Any messages?”
“Let me check, Sweetheart,” said Jeff. “Barry! BarriEEE!!”
“WHAAAT?!” screamed a voice in the background.
“Any messages for Charles, Box one o’ six?”
“I’m on break for Christ’s sake.”
“Put your cigarette down for a second, baby, and check for me.”
Stomping of feet and subdued swearing in the background.
“Nothing! Oh wait…there’s an overdue notice in his box. Balance due $14.99.”
“Tisk. Tisk. Tisk. I’m sorry, Charles, you have no messages but please pay your balance – so you can continue receiving answering service from Bells,” said Jeff.
“Can I mail it in this week or do I need to drop off a check at the…?”
“Just mail it in whenever Charles…no one around here gives a shit anyway.”
“Okay, thanks, Jeff. I’ll get it out later in the week and you guys should get it in a…”
Dial tone. Jeff had already hung up.
“Goddammit,” I said, slamming the receiver back on the hook. “Crap, this fucking thing” I grumbled as I struggled to get out of the phone booth. The folding door stuck part way so I had to squeeze out of the booth sideways. The door sheared off a couple of shirt buttons in the process.
Looking at my ruined work shirt confirmed my worst suspicions that things were definitely not going the way I thought they would.
Yep, it was the Summer of 1983 in New York City and already it seemed like my acting career was dead on arrival.
I didn’t get it.
I thought for sure I’d be in Hollywood or on Broadway by now.
The stunning indifference by the entertainment industry cut me off at the knees. Hell, no one in acting school had prepared me for this kind of shit.
Just get out there and act had been the school’s parting advice. Well, I was acting alright…acting like a schmo who couldn’t get an acting job.
A quick subway ride later and I was back downtown to start my bartending shift at Cucarachas, a trendy Tex-Mex restaurant on Third Street and Broadway.
Much to my chagrin, the restaurant had a delivery so I had to schlep several cases of cheap bar hootch up two flights of stairs to the bar by myself.
“I need help. Where the heck is Ben?” I asked the night manager.
“He’s just got a part on “The Young and Agitated, so he’s gonna be out for a while…might not be coming back at all,” said Maggie, the restaurant night manager slouching at the hostess stand.
“What?! Ben? The Busboy? He got a part on a Soap?”
“Yeah.”
“Really?”
“Yeah,” said my manager, taking a drag on her cigarette and looking up from the New York Post crossword puzzle. “He’s playing a gangbanger kid with a heart of gold on the show. I guess ethnic is in. A casting director saw him at lunch yesterday bussing tables and thought he’d be perfect for an episode and….Jeezus Christ! What happened to your shirt, Charlie? You can’t go out on the floor looking like that!”
Maggie gave me a look that reminded me of a disgruntled rabbit sizing up an anemic carrot.
“Yeah, yeah…I’ll put a vest over it,” I said, waving away her sour look.
“See that you do. I’ll get Jorge to come down with a handcart to help you out.”
“Thanks,” I said, walking away feeling depressed.
As I went back to pick up another case from the restaurant basement I couldn’t help muttering “Ben? On a Soap? The guys practically a midget. I can’t believe it. What the fuck am I doing wrong?”
*
I awoke around ten the next morning feeling hungover and miserable.
Too many after-work beers hadn’t improved my mood at all.
I just couldn’t believe a short kid who could barely speak English scored an acting gig without even auditioning. And here I was busting my tail trying to get a career off the ground.
I dragged my conflicted ass out of the sack. My body felt beat up from sleeping on the futon that doubled as a bed. Once dressed, I decided to check in with my answering service.
“Bells. This is (yawn) Barry. How can I help you?”
“This Charles, box one o’ six. Are there any messages for me?”
“Who’s this?” said Barry.
“Charles, box one o’ six! I said louder.
“Who?”
“Charles!”
“Who?!”
IT’S CHARLES! BOX ONE O’-SIX!” I screamed into the receiver. My voice struggled to compete with the sound of large trucks blasting their horns nearby on the busy street.
“Yeah, yeah hold on, I think ya got somethin.’ There’s no need to yell by the way…geez. Ahem, the message says…Goddammit, it’s hard to read. I think Jeffrey had another fight with his boyfriend. It looks like the bitch dried her tears with this one,” said Barry.
“Okay, it says,” said Barry, beginning again – “umm ‘Anna Marie… from No Life to Give wants to…uh freak you… ahh…for a casting something or other. Her number is 212-778-06…shit…3…’ uh I think the last number is either three or eight …the damn message is smudged.”
“Can’t you tell?” I said.
“I think it’s a three…no, maybe it’s an eight? Damn…could be another three. Wait a sec…yeah, the second to the last number is a three…not sure about the very last one though.”
“Oh, for God’s sake, Barry, this is important. I need the right number,” I said, beyond exasperated.
“The last two numbers could be three and eight…or a three and three or even eight and frickin’ eight! Fuck me man try them all – one of them is bound to work,” said, Barry hanging up abruptly.
“Gotta get me an answering machine,” I muttered, slamming the phone back in its cradle before exiting the phone booth.
End of Part 1
To be continued…
