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Authors: Wendy Markham
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Tracey—this role is so me. ”
“I trust you.” So there’s obviously an open casting call for a self-absorbed drama queen cheating bastard flaming metro sexual? Talk about typecasting.
“I’m going to blow them away, Trace.”
Trace, he calls me, because we’re just that cozy.
“That’s awesome,” I say in a tone that might hint that awesome semi-rhymes with ho-hum.
“I know!” he exclaims, too caught up in this revolutionary moment in the Life of Will to catch any hint of hohumness on my part. “If I don’t get this, I’ll be shocked.”
“So will I,” I say blandly, scanning an e-mailed chain letter on the off chance that forwarding it to five hundred people in the next minute will shrink Will’s ego to the size of his—
“It’s a romantic lead,” he tells me. “That’s my thing.”
Yeah, not in my life.
“The only thing that could really put a lock on the role for me would be if it involved singing.”
“No singing?”
“No, but I’ve got the acting skills to carry it, you know?”
Naturally, he waits for me to confirm his well-rounded fabulousness. “Yeah, I know,” I say unenthusiastically.
“Fifi told me just Thursday that I’m at the top of my game.”
He’s talking about Fifi La Bouche, an eccentric Parisian choreographer friend of his. She’s about eighty and still looks great in a leotard. I know this because that’s what she’s wearing every time I’ve ever met her. She wears it everywhere, to lunch, to shop, to stroll—just a leotard under a trench coat, as if at any moment she might be asked to put together a jazzy chorus-line routine.
“That’s great,” I murmur, finding it hard to believe that I was ever an avid player in the Life of Will, starring Will, directed by Will, produced by Will.
“What film are you auditioning for?” I ask, because apparently it’s still my turn.
Dramatic pause. “It’s actually really hush-hush. I can’t really say.”
Okay, ten to one that means he’s auditioning for the role of Pizza Deliveryman or Crowd Spectator #4 in one of those Lifetime trauma-of-the-week movies, or something of that ilk.
“Well, good luck,” I tell him, methodically deleting spam without bothering to muffle the mouse clicks. “I hope you get it.”
“I’ve got a good feeling about it,” says Will, who has a good feeling about everything he’s ever done, is now doing, or will someday do. On camera, onstage, in the bedroom, even in the bathroom, because I’m certain Will honestly believes that when he takes a shit white doves fly down from heaven to bear it ceremoniously away.
There was a time when I almost believed that, too.
Thank God, thank God, thank God he dumped me.
If he hadn’t, would I have found the common sense to dump him?
Or would I still be his girlfriend?
Or, God forbid, his wife?
I’ll tell you this: I’d definitely rather be not engaged to Jack than married to Will.
The irony is that just a few years ago, I had this whole vision of our future mapped out, oblivious to the fact that all Will had mapped out was the fastest route to the bright lights of North Mannfield’s Valley Playhouse.
When he left New York and then failed to call or write, then cheated, then ultimately dumped me, I had no idea he was doing me the biggest favor of my life.
Which just goes to show you…
Well, I’m not sure exactly what it goes to show you, but it showed me that I wasn’t always the best judge of character back then.
I am now, of course.
And I’m definitely as over Will as I am My Little Pony, jelly bracelets and slumber parties.
As Will talks on about his latest audition and the hush-hush movie that he can’t discuss but it has some major stars and a famous director and if I knew I would just die, I click on through my e-mail, deleting most of it.
Until I get to the most recent one, from my friend Buckley, which just popped up.
“…and they said I absolutely have the look,” Will says, “and that
“I trust you.” So there’s obviously an open casting call for a self-absorbed drama queen cheating bastard flaming metro sexual? Talk about typecasting.
“I’m going to blow them away, Trace.”
Trace, he calls me, because we’re just that cozy.
“That’s awesome,” I say in a tone that might hint that awesome semi-rhymes with ho-hum.
“I know!” he exclaims, too caught up in this revolutionary moment in the Life of Will to catch any hint of hohumness on my part. “If I don’t get this, I’ll be shocked.”
“So will I,” I say blandly, scanning an e-mailed chain letter on the off chance that forwarding it to five hundred people in the next minute will shrink Will’s ego to the size of his—
“It’s a romantic lead,” he tells me. “That’s my thing.”
Yeah, not in my life.
“The only thing that could really put a lock on the role for me would be if it involved singing.”
“No singing?”
“No, but I’ve got the acting skills to carry it, you know?”
Naturally, he waits for me to confirm his well-rounded fabulousness. “Yeah, I know,” I say unenthusiastically.
“Fifi told me just Thursday that I’m at the top of my game.”
He’s talking about Fifi La Bouche, an eccentric Parisian choreographer friend of his. She’s about eighty and still looks great in a leotard. I know this because that’s what she’s wearing every time I’ve ever met her. She wears it everywhere, to lunch, to shop, to stroll—just a leotard under a trench coat, as if at any moment she might be asked to put together a jazzy chorus-line routine.
“That’s great,” I murmur, finding it hard to believe that I was ever an avid player in the Life of Will, starring Will, directed by Will, produced by Will.
“What film are you auditioning for?” I ask, because apparently it’s still my turn.
Dramatic pause. “It’s actually really hush-hush. I can’t really say.”
Okay, ten to one that means he’s auditioning for the role of Pizza Deliveryman or Crowd Spectator #4 in one of those Lifetime trauma-of-the-week movies, or something of that ilk.
“Well, good luck,” I tell him, methodically deleting spam without bothering to muffle the mouse clicks. “I hope you get it.”
“I’ve got a good feeling about it,” says Will, who has a good feeling about everything he’s ever done, is now doing, or will someday do. On camera, onstage, in the bedroom, even in the bathroom, because I’m certain Will honestly believes that when he takes a shit white doves fly down from heaven to bear it ceremoniously away.
There was a time when I almost believed that, too.
Thank God, thank God, thank God he dumped me.
If he hadn’t, would I have found the common sense to dump him?
Or would I still be his girlfriend?
Or, God forbid, his wife?
I’ll tell you this: I’d definitely rather be not engaged to Jack than married to Will.
The irony is that just a few years ago, I had this whole vision of our future mapped out, oblivious to the fact that all Will had mapped out was the fastest route to the bright lights of North Mannfield’s Valley Playhouse.
When he left New York and then failed to call or write, then cheated, then ultimately dumped me, I had no idea he was doing me the biggest favor of my life.
Which just goes to show you…
Well, I’m not sure exactly what it goes to show you, but it showed me that I wasn’t always the best judge of character back then.
I am now, of course.
And I’m definitely as over Will as I am My Little Pony, jelly bracelets and slumber parties.
As Will talks on about his latest audition and the hush-hush movie that he can’t discuss but it has some major stars and a famous director and if I knew I would just die, I click on through my e-mail, deleting most of it.
Until I get to the most recent one, from my friend Buckley, which just popped up.
“…and they said I absolutely have the look,” Will says, “and that
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