An Actor Has First Right of Refusal

Working for a talent agency can be a strange and wonderful thing. Actors are funny, goofy, entertaining, and at times insecure, neurotic and almost always, warm human beings. Agents are not. But if the downside of the biz is cranky, acrid agents, the upside is attractive, flirtatious actors.

Once, back in the day of Canadian productions “Counterstrike” and “Katts and Dog”, a client wished me happy birthday, then sealed it with a prolonged French kiss. I was embarrassed, but only because I’d been mooning over his headshot.

This was a talent agency—not your average office environment; this place was leggings and Doc Martens casual—with clients dropping by to pick up script “sides” and drop off demo reels. As I pulled and assembled headshots and resumes (an actor’s job application) for casting directors, I was often treated to performers humming show tunes, reciting Shakespearean lines, or rehearsing monologues.

One of the 8×10 glossy photographs our senior agent submitted frequently was a dark-featured actor in a brooding, bad-boy pose specific for film/tv roles, was also one of my favourites. I was new to the business then, but I’d learned rather quickly that performers seldom look like their photographs; hair, makeup, and lighting can really work wonders.

So, when this guy walked in the office for the first time I was surprised how closely he resembled his photo.

As the year moved on, if I wasn’t at the reception area when he swaggered in, I immediately recognized the clomping of his boots, which he usually wore with jeans and a well-worn black leather jacket with buckles. And oh, on that day, he was a living version of his headshot.

This was no peck-on-the-cheek. It was a long, passionate kiss. Then again, he was an actor. He was practised at faking it. I wasn’t. I was breathless, speechless, but busied myself with invented paperwork.

Imagine then my horror, when, weeks later, he stood on my doorstep with a pizza box in hand. I knew that he worked at his parent’s Leaside restaurant not far from my apartment, because long before cell phones and Blackberries, actors needed several contact phone numbers for auditions. It was my then live-in boyfriend’s favourite delivery and take-out pizza joint and we ordered from it often.

I answered the doorbell wearing my best couch potato outfit: sweat pants and bangs pulled into a fountain of greasy hair. I stared at the good-looking Greek staring back at me from the stoop of my rented flat. Despite his profession, clearly, he was unable to mask disbelief.

I pretended not to recognize him when he questioned my identity. He probably said, “Val?” but I heard “YIKES!” and in one, swift motion, I grabbed the pizza and stuffed a bunch of bills into his palm, then pushed the door close.

After witnessing the real thing, there were no forthcoming birthday wishes—French, or otherwise.