One Man Show (23 page)

“I’ll alert the media,” Mr. Weiss said dryly and ushered me through the double doors. “We’re gonna need a Polaroid of this
one, Syl. And more coffee - gallons of it.”

The next thing I knew I was facing a firing squad of three very bored looking people sitting behind a foldout table. I couldn’t
feel my tongue. I think I was having a nervous breakdown.

“Here’s our next victim, guys. Dustin Grubbs,” Mr. Weiss said, perching on the table. Everybody perked up. “He’s not on the
roster, but he’s perfect, don’t you think? He belongs to one of our Smelly Fathers.”

“Hi.” I gave them a flat wave, trying desperately to steady my trembling legs.

“Marvelous - Offbeat - Interesting,” they said at the same time. “Deliciously ordinary, but in an extraordinary way.”

“One look at that face and you immediately think -
boom
-Stink-Zappers Insoles!” the younger woman added. She was staring at me so intensely I thought for sure I had something
disgusting dangling from my nose. “So, Dustin, how old are you? Have you done any acting before?”

“Twelve - just turned. I starred in our school play last year out in Buttermilk Falls.”

Once again they were jabbering over one another. I heard the word “confident” bleed through, and “Reads younger -Very green.”
I quickly brushed my wrist across my nostrils.

The older lady asked, “Oh, so you don’t reside here in Chicago?” and pursed her bright red lips.

I probably should’ve left out the Buttermilk Falls part.

“No, ma’am. Just visiting my dad for the weekend.”

“Do you have any experience in front of a camera - at all?” a man with a mouthful of bagel asked. He had his feet on the table
with his chair tipped back against the wall.

“Uh -”

I considered lying for a nanosecond, but I knew I wasn’t a good liar.
Wait! I don’t have to lie.

“As a matter of fact, my brother shot some recent footage of me singing in the shower. Umm - but I’m not willing to do nude
scenes.”

“Quick - Funny - Good answer,” they said with a collective chuckle. “Sharp as a tack.”

“Okay, let’s get down to the nitty-gritty,” Mr. Weiss said, whipping off his glasses and moving to a tall director’s chair.
“The commercial spot is for Stink-Zapper Insoles.” He waggled
a floppy, blue gel-filled shoe stuffer in front of him, then tossed it onto the table with a
thwack.

“Uh-huh, I’m familiar.” I nodded enthusiastically. “I love those things!”

“They’re not on the market yet. But I applaud your enthusiasm.”

They all got a real hoot out of that. I decided to keep my piehole shut unless absolutely necessary.

“Let me give you a quick scenario of the commercial,” Mr. Weiss went on. “Your father comes home from a hard day at work,
kicks off his shoes, and his feet really smell something awful, see? Rancid, like a stink bomb just went off. Then the camera
pans in on the flowers wilting, the dog’s ears standing straight up, and you - his son, making a hilariously funny face and
passing out on the floor. You get me?”

“I think so. Shoes, stink, face, fall.”

“And don’t be afraid to take it over the top,” he added.

Meaning?

“Right,” the young woman agreed. “You can’t go too far.”

I mulled that one over for a second.

“Uh, does that mean I’m not
allowed
to go too far,” I asked, “or, like, the farther the better? Should I -”

Mr. Weiss interrupted with, “Why don’t you start out on the stool?”

“The latter,” the lady said.

Now I was totally confused. I turned around and walked over to where they were pointing. There wasn’t any ladder, but there
was a stool, so I hopped onto it.
Shoes-face-stink-fall. That ain’t it.

“Just FYI,” Mr. Weiss said, “we’re putting your audition on tape so we could review it later. Robbie, start the camera rolling.”

I could see my face bouncing around on the monitor atop a tall, metal stand against the wall. This was so cool.
Another defining milestone being captured on tape! I wonder if I could order copies.

“Whenever you’re ready,” Mr. Weiss said, leaning forward. “Eyes to camera, state your name, then show us what you’ve got.”

The big, black camera setup, complete with a long boom mic bobbing over my head, looked like something out of
Star Wars.
I stared cross-eyed at the small, red light over the camera lens and flashed my pearly whites.

“Give us your name,” Mr. Weiss reminded me.

“Oh, yeah. Umm… uh…”
Cripes!
“Don’t tell me -”

“Dustin Grubbs!” he yelled.

“Dustin Grubbs!”

“And action!”

Now what?
I folded my arms to keep my heart from lurching out of my chest. For some reason that stupid Christmas-pageant line I’d had
in second grade popped into my head:
And
S
is for the snow!
I was clearly cracking up.
Concentrate, Grubbs. Snow-shoes-face-fall. No, wait!

Luckily, Mr. Weiss started giving me direction.

“You’re lounging in your living room - your dad enters. ‘Honey, I’m home… rough day,’ blah-blah-blah… he kicks off his shoes
and you catch wind of it…”

His words distorted into distant gibberish. All I remember after that was making a goofy face and falling off the stool.

“Huh,” Mr. Weiss said with a deadpan expression. No one else uttered a word, but their eyeballs were jumping from one to the
other like Ping-Pong Balls.

I scrambled back onto the stool, expecting to take it from the top a bunch more times. But after some whispering at the table,
the bagel guy told me, “That’s all we need for today.” Not a good sign. I just wanted to make a quick exit. “Thank you for
your time,” I murmured and opened the doors to the waiting room. Sylvia immediately snapped a Polaroid picture of me and handed
me a form to fill out. My legs were wobbly as licorice sticks as I hurried over to Dad and fell into my chair in a heap.

“Well?” he asked, studying my face. “Did you knock their socks off?”

“Not exactly.” I tried blinking away the spots I was seeing from the camera flash; tried figuring out what had just happened.
“It all went by so fast.”

“Well, chalk it up to experience. You’ve got your first big,
professional audition under your belt now. Not too shabby. How many sixth-graders could say that?”

“Dad, I’m in seventh.”

I was still catching my breath from the overwhelmingness of the whole thing when the double doors flew open and Robbie, the
cameraman, sprinted over to me.

“Dustin Grubbs, right? They need to talk to you for a second.”

I locked eyes with Dad. No words were uttered but we could read each other’s thought bubbles. They both said:

“!!!”

Name:
Dustin Grubbs

Age:
II

Long-term career goal:
To change the world through my meaningful performances in movies, on television, and on the Broadway stage

Short-term career goal:
To make it through a single performance of T
HE
C
ASTLE OF THE
C
ROOKED
C
ROWNS
Without disaster striking

S
o maybe wanting to be an actor is kind of an ambitious dream for a sixth grader-but nothing can stop Dustin Grubbs! He’s snagged
the leading role in his school’s production of
The Castle of the Crooked Crowns
and is about to make his theatrical debut-until a real, live celebrity moves to Buttermilk Falls and threatens to steal the
show. Can the star of the sixth-grade play take on a heavyweight Hollywood hotshot? Here is a laugh-a-minute testament to
“The show must go on!”

John J. Bonk
has worked as a singer, tap dancer, and actor. He lives in New York City.

“Lighthearted and uproarious.”
-School Library Journal

“Quirky characters… hilarious scenes… [and] thoughtful, bittersweet moments.”
-Booklist