Page 12 of All That Remains
"Hearing good stuff about theSpielbergthing, bud."
And just like that I was on to something else. The WWII miniseries I’d auditioned for.
"Already? Holy shit, that's incredible, right? To be fair, uh, I thought I fucked that up. Fuck’s sake, I wassonervous."
He laughed, scrolling through his phone which he held directly in front of his face. He refused to be examined for prescription glasses.
"They said we're still in talks. Haven’t ruled anything out yet. Said they liked you for the bit you read, but also for something else. They said—well, theyaskedabout your schedule. They’re thinking they’ll need you for all eight episodes." He grinned to himself before reading the next part. "They said:Would you consider cutting your hair if the part required?"
"What'd you tell ‘em?"
"I said:hellno! That’s a deal breaker. It’s your thing. It’s what you’re known for. Told ‘em you’d walk."
I threatened to dip my finger in his wine. "Mateeee...quit fucking with me."
"'Course I told them you'd do it. Obviously, there were no soldiers with hairthatlong."
“Still…that’d be difficult to do. I think maybe I could wear a toupee or something.”
"Yikes. That’d be horrid." He set his phone aside, keeping it unlocked for an active text thread. “Maybe it’s time to change up the look a bit? Maybe grow a beard? Mature you a little? What’re we thinking?”
“I dunno. I like being clean-shaven. The girls like it too. They call meangel-faceon the forums. I feel like my hair’s my personality at this point. Without it, who the hell even am I?”
“Tragic. That’s who.”
The salads arrived and we scarfed them down with too much bread. A few more fans approached and I began to regret diningal fresco, especially once the sunlight became direct. I followed his lead and ordered Pinot Gris with my entrée, realizing too late my stomach was still a little weak from the night before.
"What's wrong? Indigestion?" he asked through a mouthful of penne, as I pressed the top of my gut. I belched into my fist and tried to straighten up. I couldn't be sick again.
"M’good...I'm good."
"You ever gonna finish telling me about this Roman—oh, excuse me,” he snarked. “—thisRomething, or what?"
I met his eyes over my wineglass and they were almost curious, but mostly impassive. He was feigning interest on my behalf, having realized the subject was an obsession for me.Classic Johnny. He was a decent guy, that John.
"Nothing to tell really..." I feigned indifference myself. "We used to be really close, but then we weren't. And now we're here."
"And where’s‘here’exactly?”
“On speaking terms…”
“Right...‘speaking’through emails."
"Yep, speaking through emails. It’ssomething, though.”
"But wasn't he, like, a dick to you before? Am I remembering that correctly?"
"No, uh, not particularly." I chewed my top lip.
"Right,sureee. But didn't he dip without telling you guys or something? Like mid-tour? Not to put too fine a point on it, but that's...well:a dick move. Wouldn’t you agree?"
"Yeah...to put it mildly. But there's a lot more to it, y'know?"
"Like what? Moredouchebaggery?"
I let out a half-hearted chuckle. "Look, you’re a prick sometimes too, and I don’t hold it against you, alright?”
“Yeah, well, you pay me to be a dick. That’s how I get you all the good deals. What’s his excuse?” He leaned in, bracing his arms atop the table. I averted my eyes.
