One Last Class. Karen Mueller Bryson
“I'm Zak.”
The young man snickered. “You're Zak? I think there's been a mistake. We're looking for somebody a little more, um, youthful.”
“But…”
“Maybe ten years ago we could have used you but not now. Sorry, no can do.”
“Can you just read me while I'm here?”
“No.”
“Please.”
The casting manager pushed Zak toward the door. “Thanks for coming in.”
Zak jumped into his Mini Cooper convertible and sped away from the audition. He’d never been so angry and humiliated in his life. Since when is 32 considered old, he thought. Only in Hollywood. Zak grabbed his cell phone as he headed down the highway. He dialed his agent.
“Maurice, the audition was a disaster. What were you thinking sending me for House of Hot Wax 3 in 3D?”
On the other end of town, Maurice, a fastidious Black man, talked on his speaker phone. “You begged me for an audition.”
As Zak barreled around a bend, he said, “There has to be something out there that's more appropriate for my—”
“Age?” Maurice ventured as he examined a fingernail.
Zak raced down the highway. “I was going to say stage in life.”
Maurice studied his thumbnail more closely. “I'm sorry, Zak. That was the best I could do.”
Zak weaved through traffic. “Really?”
Maurice filed his thumbnail. “Making the transition to mature roles is difficult for a lot of actors, who found success at a young age. Do you want my advice? Do something else with your life. Have you thought about real estate?
Zak slowed to a halt in traffic. “Acting is all I've ever done.”
“No one wants to hire a former Malibu Boy. It's just so—”
“Last decade?”
“Exactly.”
Zak was now stuck in a traffic jam. “Are you saying I'm washed up?”
“I'll let you know if I get a casting call for the Maytag Man.”
“Thanks for being straight with me.”
“As straight as a gay man can be.”
Lying on his couch, Zak was so depressed, so utterly and completely demoralized, he could barely lift the remote to change the television station. But when The Malibu Boys theme song started to play, Zak had to act fast. That reggae/ Beach Boys sound grated on his nerves. Zak lifted his head and caught a glimpse of the young stud he used to be. As the fake boy-band performed, a youthful Zak, still filled with promises of a bright future, pretended to sing. As The Malibu Boys music softened, an announcer’s voice played over the tune. “Surfin' all day, jammin' all night, they are Zak, Josh and Chay, the Malibu Boys.”
Elvis, who was lying on the floor next to his master, buried his nose under his paws and cried. Zak zapped the television with the remote and stared at the ceiling. Elvis stared at Zak. The two seemed frozen in time and space until there was a knock at the door. Elvis perked up but Zak didn’t move.
Chay Robinson, also 32, barged in carrying a case of beer. Unlike Zak, Chay was still the carefree surfer-boy of his youth.
“Hey, Dude. What's going on?” Chay said as he sprawled at the end of the couch.
Zak didn’t budge.
Elvis heaved a heavy sigh and went to sleep.
“I had another audition today,” Zak said. “No job. And I'm being evicted.”
“My band's not playing tonight. I stopped by to see if you want to hang out, hoist a few, whatever.”
“My life is over.”
Chay glanced around the apartment. “Do you have any pretzels, Bro? I can't drink beer without munchies.”
“I've never done anything but act.”
“Do you have any chips?”
“I don't know what I'm going to do.”
“I'll settle for some Doritos, Man.”
Zak finally sat up and stared at Chay. “Are you listening to a word I'm saying?”
“Dude, I'm starving.”
“You have your band. You surf. You never really cared about acting.”
Chay handed Zak a beer. “It's all about attitude, Man. Stop whining and start downing the brew.”
After several hours of heavy drinking, Zak and Chay were both now sprawled out on the couch. Empty beer cans and snack food containers were strewn everywhere. One empty beer even sat atop Elvis's head.
“Is this all there is?” Zak wondered aloud.
“We can get another case, Man.”
“To life,” Zak added.
Chay jumped up from the couch. “Dude, you should join my band. It'll be like old times. Where's your guitar?”
“I don't actually play the guitar, Chay. The Malibu Boys wasn't a real band, remember? You were the only one of us who could really sing and play an instrument. My voice was so bad they had to overdub all of my vocals.”
Zak grabbed the beer can from Elvis's head and the sleeping dog let out an ungodly sound.
Chay jumped away from the hound. “Man, what was that noise? Is your dog possessed?”
“It’s a snowl.”
Chay looked puzzled.
“It’s a cross between a snore and a growl,” Zak explained.
Chay went back to the matter at hand. “With you in my band, we could really score with the babes. The dudes I've got in the band right now are butt ugly. It's a real horror show.”
“Thanks for the offer but I don't think joining your band is the answer,” Zak said as he picked up litter around the room.
“I heard the Kit Kat Club is looking for a bartender for the midnight to 6am shift. With you at the bar, I could score free drinks.”
“I don't think so.”
“Have you thought about real estate?”
Zak gave Chay a dirty look. When he spotted a nearly empty bag of Doritos on the floor and reached for it, Chay snatched the chip remains from his clutches. “I want those.”
“There's nothing left but crumbs.”
“They're still good.” As Chay poured Dorito crumbs into his pie-hole, he mumbled, “WadayadooborMaboobu?”
“What? Didn’t anyone ever tell you not to speak with your mouth full?”
Chay swallowed and repeated, “What did you do before you became a Malibu Boy?”
“I was a college student. I dropped out of my last class senior year.”
“That was dumb,” Chay said as he emptied the remaining crumbs into his mouth.
“Leaving school to become a television star seemed like a good idea at the time.”
“Why don't you go back to school? College chicks are hot.”
Zak contemplated the idea for a moment.
Chay continued, “Plus they have dorms, Dude. That would solve your eviction problem.”
“Maybe, I can finally finish what I started.” Zak said thoughtfully.
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