Initially this was to be a journal of the making of an independent film shot in Portland, Oregon. Unfortunately, I got sidetracked (derailed is more like it) and, for a change, it wasn’t my fault. I have no qualms whatsoever to point an indignant finger of fate at the one person who is to blame for the idiotic turn of events I found myself in when I took a high dive into the shallow end of the talent pool.

 

J’accuse: Billy the Boy Blunder.

 

The saga begins at the turn of the century. Yes, this century. Don’t be an ageist asshole.

 

In the year and a half after I first moved to the Portland area, I had been, to put it ever so mildly, lackadaisical about jump-starting my acting career once again. I say career only in the pejorative sense, since I’ve never made a living wage off my “art”. The fact that I had done nothing since my arrival in the Great Northwest had diminished it even further, almost to the point of non-existence. In other words, I ain’t done squat ‘bout it. While Portland is not New York or L.A. or even Seattle, it is a more happening area than where I came from, the sprawling megalopolis known as Stockton, California. However, at least there I exerted myself and had a good long twenty year run on Stockton area stages as well putting a couple of films under my belt. Maybe no one would consider the movies I appeared in of any real note, but there were enough to get me a listing on IMDB, so nyah on your snide ass. Once I got to Oregon, there were comparably countless opportunities to be had and, true to form, I took my sweet ass time taking advantage of any of them.

 

Part of the reason was the adjustment of California to Oregon, a culture shock to my system I found myself ill prepared to embrace. I always wanted to leave Stockton, but once I finally accomplished that deed, I didn’t know how to cope with it. For better or worse-or rather better and worse, Stockton had been my home. More to the point, I was part of an acting community with what I believe to be a fairly credible reputation. Therefore, I had a comfort zone, a security blanket that it easy to wrap one’s self in without effort. Here, I had to start everything over again from scratch. I had no job waiting for me when we moved to Oregon, the plan of transferring with the company I worked for in California falling through. In a panicked state, I scrambled to find work as soon as I possibly could which I fortunately accomplished within two weeks of my arrival, some kind of miracle if one considers my lack of any mad skills. . That anxiety attack rankled me to no end and the thought of plotting a return to acting from the very bottom as well suddenly didn’t hold much appeal, especially at my age. In other words, fear ruled the roost. Everything soon became could’a, would’a, should’a, the easiest trap to fall into for a lifelong dreamer and fulltime procrastinator like myself, a path that leads to nothing but regret and despair.

 

But the flame, while only a pilot light now, still flickered and I continued to scour the area for auditions of any size, shape or form. I couldn’t help myself. I knew along time ago that I was an addict. I not only wanted to act again-I needed it more desperately than I could fathom. It became inconceivable that I could really lose the desire to perform altogether and join the list of endangered species.

 

I managed to throw together a rather feeble resume as well as a ten year old publicity photo from my stand-up days (complete with cheesy late 1980s moustache) and proceeded to test the waters, albeit timidly, one toe at a time. I shied away from any stage work at first for reasons that baffle me to this very day. Instead I turned my attention to the notices from some independent film productions that would be shooting in the area. These appealed to me more than theater, at least at this particular juncture. This was the jump-off point where I decided to re-enter the wonderful world of the Show Business. I sent off my resume to the first one that caught my eye, a company looking for actors within my age range for a film entitled Cambodian Dreams. (What the hell was that, a sequel to Cheech and Chong’s classic Nice Dreams?) Lo and behold, they took the bait. Auditions were to be held at the offices of International Film and Video in downtown Portland and the scene sides were faxed to my work.

 

This all occurred right in the middle of an extremely stressful apartment move, causing my old trepidations started to wield their ugly heads, giving me temporary pause. I shook it off and went for it anyway. Oh, what balls I had. The juices had begun to flow again, well, trickle perhaps. Regardless of the amount of said juice, it was necessary toddy for the body and I began to feel like myself again.

 

I read the sides knowing that the character they wanted me to read was the part of Marty, an expatriate burn-out case living in Cambodia, something I perceived to be an unplugged version of Dennis Hopper in Apocalypse Now. Oh, baby. This sounded good. I could play a burn-out. I had a lot of practice..

 

On a crystal clear Friday morning in July, I drove into Portland’s Pearl District to International Film and Video’s offices. The director and his crew could not have been any more professional or gracious, explaining everything I needed to know about the project. Filming was to take place entirely on location in Cambodia near the end of the year just before Thanksgiving. They anticipated a six-week shot in all. My mind spun like an out of control Ferris wheel. I’d have to take a leave of absence from work. NO PROBLEMO! Can I start today? On the other hand, I had never been separated from my wife for more than just a few days since we had been together, going on eight years at that point, that on top of the fact that it would indeed be the Holiday Season. Still this was a sacrifice I had to make. I could only hope she would understand.

 

But good golly, Miss Molly, the very thought of traveling clear around the world to Cambodia for my very first featured role in a film not produced by one of my friends just energized me to no end. It’s not that I was all hot to trot to visit Pol Pot’s old stomping grounds, the infamous Killing Fields of yore, though I hear they’re quite lovely in December. It was the potential adventure of it all that overtook me. I suppose in the those few seconds that the director told me about the film, I was having my own Cambodian Dream and the anticipation of actually being a contender for this part took me back into familiar territory…the Bay of Hope. This would be the beginning of total wish fulfillment, the fantasy at last becoming the reality it was meant to be. What I had always perceived to be my true destiny seemed just within my grasp and soon all the pieces would fall into place.

 

Now all I had to do was read for the part.

 

I didn’t nail it. I didn’t even put a pushpin in it. Honestly, I was only adequate; at least that was my assessment. I didn’t embarrass myself, but surely I was rusty around the edges. Too much time had passed since my last audition and I’m sure my awkwardness was quite apparent. Still I think I gave it a pretty good shot. My nerves didn’t lock me up, turning me into a somnambulant zombie. I actually felt rather loose and relaxed during the entire process. But once I heard the word “Cut!”, I had an inkling that I hadn’t popped one into the bleachers or even garnered a base hit. Somehow, one just knows…The director and I exchanged salutations and I walked out, feeling rather proud of myself, to tell you the honest to God truth. I know I could have done much better, but I didn’t. I was pleased as punch for myself for just giving it a go and an honorable go at that.

 

Well, I didn’t get the part and it didn’t really matter. This was a sensational chance right out of the chute. I suppose one of the reasons was that I was too baby faced to play Marty, even though I was the right age. Damn my youthful genes! Another reason? Hey, maybe I sucked ass more than I realized and I was in denial like every other actor in the world. So what? I may have lost Cambodian Dreams but I gained so much more. I earned back my self-respect and the desire to give it another shot as soon as I could. Oh yeah. I was hooked again.

 

Not long afterward, I answered another notice for a film, this time, this time asking for someone, again within my age bracket, who was also “Eastern European”. Well, how’s Hungarian? Does that work? (That’s what I am, don’t ya know) This time I just called the number provided in the newspaper for information and reached what I gathered to be an ad agency. I left a voicemail message with someone named Billy.

 

Billy. He sounded like a Billy, kind of like Butters from South Parktrying in vain to use his grown up voice.

 

“This is Billy. Jeepers, I’m not here right now, so why don’tcha leave a message or somethin’ huh? That would be swell! Jiminy Crickets, here come the beep!”

 

Promptly returning my call, Billy, in that Spanky-ish demeanor of his, cut right to the chase and asked if I could come by his office the next day at 4:30 for an audition. Answering in the affirmative, I took down his address and told him I looked forward to meeting him. After hanging up the phone, I tried to figure out my next move, namely:

How the hell was I going to get there?

 

At the time, my wife and I shared a car. The first year we landed in Oregon, I had a job and therefore, I had the car. Year two, she joined the Oregon workforce and we made a compromise. The car was at her disposal since I had become fairly Portland savvy enough to use public transportation, in this case the Max, the light rail system here in the Portland area. The nearest station was right in front of our apartment building and deposited me three blocks from my place of business. Now that was convenient.

 

But Ye Olde Max train couldn’t help me with Billy’s office. While it was just on the other side of the Willamette River on the Southeast side of town, I felt like I couldn’t just walk there and I was too unfamiliar with the bus system to figure it out. But I did another idea. A friend of mine at work had actually given me his bicycle, which he had ridden maybe twice. He couldn’t keep it in his apartment because, well, he lived in a shoebox and would have to sleep outside if he stored it at home. All I had to do was fill the tires and I would be on my merry way. Back in the day, I used to ride a bike everywhere. In fact, I didn’t start driving until my late twenties, biking over hill, down dale and pissing my friends off every time I needed a ride in a car. But mostly, it was me and my bike, so this was right up my old alley…at least the seat was. (Ba-dump-bump!) The thing was   wasn’t “back in the day”. A lot of years passed since then, but this is what I had planned and damned if my instinct didn’t tell me that this was the right thing to do. At all costs. Do whatever it takes. Take a damn chance.

 

Late afternoon the next day, I left work riding a bicycle for the first time in probably ten years-and on the streets of downtown Portland no less. The only real way to get around this town is to walk. The streets do not really welcome vehicles of any kind, from buses to skate boards. It’s all so compact. Sure people travel on these roads, but not without great difficulty. And here I was, huffing and puffing, pumping my legs like the old days though a bit sluggishly. But I persevered, riding over sidewalks, heading the wrong direction down one-way streets and avoiding pedestrians and vehicles as much as I possibly could. At last, I reached the Burnside Bridge. Wheezing, I struggled to the very middle and rested momentarily, hoping for a major coronary to strike at any given moment. Then I continued, downhill all the way, thank Christ and reached my destination with several minutes to spare. I had allowed for a full hour of traveling time. Okay, I overestimated, but I honestly didn’t have a clue where I was going. I made it in fifteen minutes flat. What can I say? I’m a stud. I spent the next forty-five minutes walking around the neighborhood, composing myself and collecting my thoughts before heading inside Billy’s office. On top of that, I had to cool down a bit from my bike ride, which I’m sure made me look like a stroke victim once I dismounted my trusty steed.

 

Finally I rode the elevator in this renovated building housing an ad agency that was way too cool for school only to be greeted by The Boy Blunder himself. Billy was exactly as he sounded, just a proverbial young upstart in a young start-up. Obviously in his early twenties, he had the boyish charm and looks of well, a boy. He was extremely friendly and our initial interview went very well. I surprised myself by how frank and downright charming I was. Where the hell did that came from? Perhaps I was a bit verbose and I am my own worst critic, but at that moment, I would have kissed myself if I had a chance.

 

Billy told me about his film entitled Open Mike. The story revolved around various characters that performed at open mike nights at a local club. I was to read the role of one of the supporting characters, that of a bartender of questionable European origin. I had developed a quasi accent in the last twenty-four hours, starting with a bad Schwarzzenger, mercifully evolving into a gardener who worked for a friend of mine. I tried my damndest not to go into Yakov Smirnoff. I could never live with myself if that happened, so I suppressed with every fiber of my being. Die, Yakov! Die! Eventually, I came up with a hybrid that I found acceptable as a jumping off point.

 

Billy sat behind his desk with his video camera set on a tripod as I read my scenes seated in a beanbag chair, not the finest conditions in which to work. There was no room to stand so I did the best I could with what I had to cope with. As a result, I was okay. The accent was a bit shaky at times, but not wretched. Billy allowed me several takes but damn it was difficult to adjust to that setting. Once he said for the last time, I had that sinking feeling again that this wasn’t meant to be. BUT…it didn’t sink me entirely. No, I was stronger now. I would survive. Thank you, Nietzsche.

 

After about an hour, Billy told me he had what he needed and that he’d call me one way or the other. We shook hands and I stepped out into the world. Back on my bicycle, I headed back in the direction I came. Again, I wasn’t depressed. I was just the opposite. I was JAZZED. Suddenly I was twenty years old again. This was the kind of stuff I used to do, the person I used to be. This was the kid who hopped on Greyhound bus in 1974 and auditioned for a play in San Francisco without telling a single soul. This was taking a necessary risk for the sake of my very soul and it was just like a shot of pure adrenaline. I felt exactly like I had after the Cambodian Dreams audition, only more so. Goddamn it, I was ALIVE.

 

Riding my bike through what was then downtown rush hour traffic, I began dodging vehicles left and right, because that’s how they drive here. I followed some fellow cyclists, thinking the angry motorists couldn’t kill us as a group. When they turned off, I began to panic a bit. “Okay, I’m alive now! Don’t kill me!” Recklessly I angled my way through traffic and began to smile from ear to ear like a madman. I halfway expected to start laughing uncontrollably at any moment. I may have lost my mind at that point and now I could possibly lose my life. Oh well. At least I would be going to go out on a high note.

 

Alas, my high didn’t last, though it did have some positive after-effects on me. I noticed this when Billy didn’t call back. I assumed I didn’t get the role and left it at that. It’s not as if I didn’t try. That’s how the process works. (My, what a mature attitude to take.) I put auditioning on hold for a spell, reluctantly returning to what had become my “normal” life, though still scanning the Tuesday Oregonians for something to whet my appetite.

 

About a month had passed when the phone rang one night. Just hopping out of the shower, my wife told me that it was someone named Billy.

 

Son of a gun.

 

“Hi, Billy. I didn’t expect to hear from you.”

 

“Gee, I told you I would.”

 

Billy said he cast someone else as the bartender but he had something else in mind for me if I was interested. He wanted to shoot me stapling up flyers for the open mike night as I passed by the lead character. Additionally, he had another sequence in mind of me at my regular day job as a juxtaposition of the two. Then I was to be involved somehow at the open mike night itself. Even though this was to be a non-speaking role, I would at least be featured. Billy liked the idea of shooting at the warehouse where I worked and wondered if it was possible to secure it for a location. I assured him that it could be arranged. We discussed shooting dates which would be around Halloween and that he would get back to me way before hand at the beginning of October.

 

The next day, I cleared the whole thing with my boss and began to tell everyone I knew that, yes indeedy, I was going to be in a movie. Yee-hah.

 

The first of October came…and went. Silence. Not a word did I hear from Billy Boy. I left him several messages at the ad agency, the only number I had for him. Nothing. Nada. Zippity-doo-doo. Gee, I’m sure glad I told everyone I was going to be in a movie. Gosh, after that, I was going to be an astronaut and blast off to Uranus. As time passed, my old bitterness rose to the surface and shared shelf space with my embarrassment. By Thanksgiving, I had given up. Even if Billy called by then, I seriously considered taking a pass on the whole thing. But the stupid truth was that I really wanted to do this film. It would have capped off the year just right for me. But soon that faded away as well.

 

The first of October had become the middle of December when who do you think rang me up?

 

“Hi, Scott, this is Billy. We’re ready to shoot your scene now.”

 

Excuse me?

 

“Uhhh, gee, Billy, when I didn’t hear from you, I figured you didn’t want me.”

 

“What made you think that? So, are you ready?”

 

Hold the phone there, sunshine.

 

Trying not to be indignant about the whole thing, I restrained myself and said, “I don’t know, Billy. A lot has happened since then. My schedule’s changed.”

 

This was unfortunately true . My life had altered in the two months waiting for this jasper’s phone call. Responsibilities at work had increased for me and I had made other plans, this being the holiday season and all. I wasn’t sure I could drop everything to appease Orson Welles Lite here. Besides my desire to do this particular project had certainly dwindled as the cold weather had set in. Shrinkage, don’t ya know.

 

“So, Billy, where were you all this time?”

 

“Well, gee, I’ve got a job. I’ve got a family”

 

What the hell did I have…rickets? Something about his manner just…irked me.

 

“What about the location I got for you? Remember the warehouse where I work?”

 

“Oh, we don’t need that now.”

 

I should have hung up. I hung on instead.

 

“What are you asking, Billy?”

 

“Well, how about Friday? We could shoot you putting up flyers and then Monday night at the club, we’ll have a professional costumer! There’ll be food…and we can improvise some dialogue for you.”

 

I didn’t say yes, only that I’d have to think about it and get back to him the next day.

 

So I sat and chewed on it for a spell. I already felt that this lil’ pud had jerked me around but maybe he just was flaky in an artistic sort of way and I was just too damn anxious about it all. The added inducement of dialogue, improvised or not, helped seal the deal and I was back on board. Call me a schmuck, call me irresponsible but once again, I was going to give Billy Budd the benefit of the doubt, but with reservations.

 

For one thing, we had to make a firm time commitment. I had a doctor’s appointment Friday afternoon that I could not cancel. I said he could have me the entire morning, right up until about 2 o’clock. Then, I had to go…period. No problem, he said. All he required from me was a single exterior shot that could be shot within a two-hour window he had set aside for me. I was to meet him at 10 am at a Starbucks in Portland’s Hawthorne district on the other side of my world. That seemed to be cutting it close, but this what we agreed on. Growing more suspicious as time passes, I couldn’t shake the feeling that the whole enterprise seemed a bit hincky.

 

My skepticism grew hair when the night before filming, Billy told me there might be a problem meeting me at 10. It might be 11, but he would confirm this the next morning since he was shooting first thing in the morning at 7 am. I told him that if I didn’t hear from him, I would be at Starbucks at 10 as we originally planned.

 

Friday morning, no call came my way. I tried his cell phone twice but it apparently hadn’t been turned on. I left messages and then headed toward to the Hawthorne Starbucks for the designated 10:00 meeting. He did not show, nor did anyone else. I stayed until 11:15 then called home at the first phone I could find. My wife, having taken the day off herself to accompany me to the doctor, informed me that Billy just tried to get a hold of me. She wasn’t very happy, especially since he not only unapologetic about not meeting me where we said, but also sounded like a complete dork, and a completely rude dork at that.

 

I in turn called Bilbo myself. What do you know? His phone had been turned on.

 

“Billy?”

 

“Scott! Where are you?”

 

“I’m heading back to Beaverton.”

 

“Well, we can shoot you now.”

 

Enough was enough.

 

“No. Forget it. It’s not going to work out. I went to Starbucks at 10 o’clock and stayed until 11:15. You skunked me.”

 

“That’s not when we were meeting.”

 

“You didn’t call me like you said so that what we had set up. I tried to get a hold of you but your phone wasn’t on.”

 

“Well, I was home.”

 

Holy crap. I was getting angry. He wasn’t being flaky in any sense other than he was just being a fucking flake.

 

“You were supposed to shooting in your own words the first thing this morning.”

 

“I didn’t say that.”

 

It was the Monty Python Argument Sketch. “Yes, you did.” “No, I didn’t.”

 

I knew reason was suddenly out of the question. I sighed, “Regardless…”

 

“Well, regardless! Huh!”

 

There was that rude dorky tone my wife detected. The deal had just been completely unsealed.

 

“Billy, that’s it. We go our separate ways. Good luck with your project. I…want…out. You can’t treat people this way, especially not for free. You’re trying to do everything yourself and you’re just not up to it. You’re a little overwhelmed, Billy. You need an assistant. I suggest you get one.”

 

“Oh, I do, do I?”

 

“You do. Goodbye and good luck.”

 

“I’m sorry it didn’t work out.”

 

“So am I.”

 

With that, I ended my relationship with Billy the Boy Blunder.

 

I don’t take quitting lightly. I’ve done so only twice in my life. The first was in grammar school when I was to play Oscar the Onion in a class play. I hadn’t made my onion costume and was afraid. The other time happened at junior college when I decided to abandon a reader’s theater production for stupidly ethical reasons that seem like so much youthful arrogance now. On the other hand, I have been involved in several fiascoes that I know damn well I should have walked right out the door and not given it a second thought. I regret a couple of instances when staying was the worst thing I could have done. But I consider myself to be a stand-up guy in a world that tries to knock me down on a daily basis. In the game of life, I’m just another bowling pin. But as I said, I try to take responsibility for my actions and honor my commitments. I wouldn’t have it any other way.

 

This time, however, I had to take a powder. Since that summer, I had built up a modicum of self-esteem, which had been lacking in my diet since I left California. By putting me on hold in this fashion and pulling on my dog collar at his whim, Billy had begun to take away whatever gusto I had built up. He even tried to dangle the remote possibility of supposed improvised dialogue in front of my nose to spark my waning interest. Swallowing my pride one more time in order to appease this bunny rabbit with a digital camera just didn’t sit well with me and I might have thrown myself up. Did I expect him to try to get me to stay by kissing my ass and making me feel that my involvement in his little video actually meant something? Frankly… Yes! Half a year had slipped away on absolutely nothing. As I’ve gotten older, time has become a precious commodity and shouldn’t be trifled with, especially when dealing with not only artistic temperaments, but with artists that are volunteering their services. A professional gig, no matter how small the fee, makes one a bit more tolerant of the bullshit. Billy’s film had become a case of art for art’s sake and, at this stage of my life; my dues were paid up in that department. Therefore, with a portion of dignity intact, exit stage right.

 

The pursuit of my acting fell to a series of sputters and spurts after this incident. I gave up the notion of movies and turned my attention toward whatever stage projects had caught my eye. Coming up empty-handed, I grew weary and decided postpone that part of my life once more. Whatever energy boost I received in the summer of 2000 had long since depleted. The Boy Blunder affair tripped me up a little more than I had realized. It wasn’t the fact I hadn’t been in the movie. I actually would have been better off if Billy never called me back at all. I guess what it boiled down to was that Billy just flat out disappointed me. This added to the general disillusionment I had been feeling with the whole process and unfortunately, illusions were the only things that were keeping me going. It’s not that I don’t blame Billy for everything, but he certainly contributed. Billy and I were just two dinghies passing each other in the night. I guess we never were headed in the right direction after all.

 

***********************************************************************

 

Cambodian Dreams underwent a few title changes over the years. First it became Butterfly Man, then Monsoon Wife, probably the best of the three. For the DVD, however, it grew a subtitle, now known as Monsoon Wife: Return to the Kama Sutra. Oh well. Whatever sells.According to the website, it was the first film to be completely shot in Cambodia since Lord Jim with Peter O’Toole in the early 1960s. Wife has been shown at various film festivals and even picked up a couple of awards. An actor named Steve Boss played the part of Marty.

 

Walking past the historic Hollywood Theatre in Portland a couple of years ago, I saw a flyer in the box office window for a one-night showing of Open Mike. Billy had finally completed his film. Admittedly, I was a little taken aback by this. Though I was glad that he finished it, I didn’t bother to attend the screening. That was the last and only time I ever heard of either Billy or his film.

 

In 2002, I finally accepted a stage role in a community theater production of One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest, playing the part of Cheswick. I had the time of my life.

 

Seems the pilot light is still lit.