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The Monologues

How to con your way to the top

By SjlorenPublished 3 years ago 10 min read
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The Monologues
Photo by Luis Vidal on Unsplash

The role seemed simple enough.

Actor. Middle aged male. Impressive build. To play business guru. $20,000 payment.

Of course, I wasn’t male, middle aged, or of impressive build. But I was broke, on the verge of eviction and possessed the pluck that I could do anything, play anyone, be whoever I wanted. Maybe I was just another desperate actor, but from what I could tell, the only difference between guru and disciple was the guru’s ability to con everyone. And if not a con artist, what in the end was an actor?

I slipped on my little black dress and for 33 minutes rehearsed my monologues until a vomit orange Metro bus gagged before me. In the rear camped a village of homeless. Halfway down sat a white man in a popped collar Polo. Up front, Latinas on their way to bleach mansions in Beverly Hills, had taken all the seats. Forking over the fare, I found an open seat near Popped Collar and picked up a brochure on it.

Tired of making others rich? The pamphlet asked. BREAK FREE!

Spreading the brochure flat, I used it as a seat cover. I was sweating through my black dress as the bus lurched forward and I reviewed my lines.

“What you reading?” Popped Collar asked, leaning over into my bank of seats, puddles of Axe body spray glistening in his pores. “I love plays!”

Standing up, I peeled off the self-help brochure sticking to my ass and fled to the front of the bus, near the driver. The Latinas flashed me golden tooth smiles. Popped Collar picked up the brochure, sniffed it. LA’s buses were insane asylums on wheels. I steadied myself on a pole. I needed this job. Twenty grand would keep a roof over my head and the dream of hitting it big alive. Glancing at a homeless woman in back, I gripped my printout and rehearsed.

Two bus changes and an hour later, I stepped onto a sun-soaked Hollywood paradise of strip malls and gas stations. Sweat pricked my pits as I continued towards Sunset Boulevard. A pickup truck full of construction workers honked and whistled as they roared by. Within a few blocks, sweat dripped from my hairline and made my little black dress cling to my back. In addition to not being a middle aged man, I’d be a sweaty young woman to boot. A very tan white man, pecs popping out the top of his tank top, jogged towards me.

“Come on Lyfers!” he shouted at the runners behind him, leading them around a corner. “Push it! Push it!”

On Sunset the strip malls grew into glassy towers with boutiques and bistros on the ground floors, security guarding starving women picking apart salads. Stamped onto a smoked glass door: Fyt Lyfe. While double-checking the address, the door opened, the arctic air hit me.

“Come in, it’s an oven out there,” beckoned a Latina, a few years older than me, maybe 25. I followed her inside and without warning she hugged me, drowning my face in her fragrant bouquet of black curls. I’d never been to an audition like this, I though, her nails pressing into my back. “I’m Medina.”

“I’m Sol,” I said.

“OMG, you’re gorgeous,” Medina gasped, smacking together her cherry red lips, stepping back. Fyt Lyfe unfolded behind her, a nightclub mixed with a yoga studio. The runners I’d seen outside refreshed themselves with colorful drinks at a bar. Women weighed themselves on a scale and further back, in a workout alcove, men flexed in front of a mirror. Medina pinched my stomach, squeezed my thighs. “I can see where you’d want to tighten and tone. A couple weeks on the products, intermittent fasting and exercising with us you’ll have a bangin body - thigh gap and flat abs just like these.” Medina lifted her tank top, modeling her six pack. “If you want it bad enough, nothing’s out of reach.”

“Oh I’m not here for that,” I said, waving the monologue between us. “I came for the audition.”

“The audition?” On the other side of Fyt Lyfe, I spotted the actors: each buttoned into a blazer and old enough to be my grandfather, reclining on white leather couches arranged around coffee tables near a door. The tanned man I’d seen leading the runners emerged from a back room, sweat staining his tank-top. He sipped from a green water bottle, called a name. A bearded actor straightened his topcoat, disappeared into the room. Medina’s green fingernail twisted one of her black curls. “You wanna audition for the business guru?”

“Exactly.”

“But we’re casting a man,” Medina replied, the bearded man exiting the office, another actor replacing him.

“Tell me about the role.” If I could stall, maybe I could convince the director. I stepped towards the leather couches, as if to sit. “When’s the production? Is it for television? Film?”

“It’s very important,” said Medina, following me and just as I was sitting down, the door opened, the actor left. The man in the tank top eyed me.

“I’m Sol,” I introduced myself. “An actor.”

“Marcus,” he said, shanking my hand. I sucked in my stomach and stuck out my chest as he eyed me while sipping again from his green water bottle. “Don’t take this the wrong way Sol, but you don’t exactly look like a middle-aged business guru.”

“I tried explaining to her…” apologized Medina.

“Well, never hurts to make a new friend,” said Marcus, brushing Medina aside, his big hand on my back, steering me into the office. “Sol, you look like a strawberry type, am I right? Medina, be a doll and fix our new friend a strawberry Elyxir while we get to know one another.”

Inside the office, Marcus showed me a shrine. On a white pedestal stood a golden statue of a man, gazing out at the horizon. Radiating out from the statue along the wall hung pictures of the same man: on stage, at a party, an arm around Marcus and Medina, everyone in sweatshirts with a $50 grin on their face.

“In 1980, Chip Vaughn founded Elyxir Lyfe out of the back of his mother’s Buick,” Marcus explained, pointing to a grainy photo of a young man, Chip Vaughn I assumed, leaning against the hood of beige sedan, his long hair feathered out. Marcus stepped before a newer photo of Chip Vaughn standing beneath a jet branded with the company’s name Elyxir Lyfe. “Forty years later, we’re the number one nutrition company on earth. There’s only one Elyxir Lyfe and there’s only one Chip Vaughn, our Founder. We’re looking for someone who can become the Founder and in turn, teach me how to become the Founder. It’s the most important role of my life, which is why I’m offering $20,000 to the right person - up front.”

“You want to become the CEO of…this company?” I asked, pulling out my little black Moleskine, pretending to take notes, trying to hide my anxiety. “Of Elyxir Lyfe?”

Marcus smiled.

“Next week’s the Voice of the Founder contest,” he said, fire in his eyes. “The best impersonation wins a trip, with Chip Vaughn, to Elyxirian.”

“Elyxirian?”

“It’s the island that our company, Elyxir Lyfe, is transforming into our own independent nation,” he explained, pointing to a world map taped to the wall. Along an archipelago in the Indian Ocean, Marcus circled a spec in green highlighter. “So far, only Generals Club, our top sellers, and senior management can visit Elyxirian. That’s why this Voice of the Founder contest is so important, why I’m willing to burn through $20,000: it’s my one chance to visit Elyxirian. That’s why I’m planning to win.”

“We’re planning to win,” Medina corrected Marcus, handing me a glass fizzing with pink liquid. Now Medina pressed her talons onto my shoulder, trying to usher me out. “That’s why we’re searching for someone who can be Chip Vaughn, but thanks for stopping by.”

“Do you have any videos of Chip Vaughn?” I asked, scrambling to stick around, sensing my audition and the $20K slipping away.

“We have hours of videos of him,” said Marcus.

“But our Weyght Loss Fyt Challenge starts any minute,” added Medina, opening the door. On the white couch another actor twisted his mustache. Medina cupped at my nonexistent love handles. “Which you’re welcome to stay for of course.”

“Acting’s all essence,” I said to Marcus, pivoting away from his wife or partner or whoever Medina was. I wanted her to stop touching me. I sipped the sparkling pink drink in my hand, somehow sweet, tart and lifting all at once. I drank a little more. “Marcus, you’re not middle-aged, are you? But you plan on capturing Chip Vaughn’s essence, right? Well, I can do the same. Acting is a game and I can teach you to play.”

Medina flashed an embarrassed smile. Marcus inhaled deeply.

“Why not?” Marcus said, throwing his hands into the air.

*

A screen sank from the ceiling, the lights dimmed, Lyfers pulled out chairs. Marcus invited me to sit on one of the leather couches, passed me another glass of Elyxir, this one Kiwi green.

“The Founder’s speeches contain everything you need to grow your organization,” said Marcus, addressing the room. “They’re the tools I used to build this team.” Marcus sat beside me, close enough to squeeze a flask between our thighs. As the music played, the Elyxir Lyfe logo - a baroque cursive E wedded to an L inside a wedding ring - surfaced on screen, then a lightening bolt struck the logo and it exploded into thousands of shimmering emeralds. As the gems faded to black, grainy C-SPAN footage surfaced of a politician reeling off questions, jowls wobbling at each remark. As I watched and drank my Elyxir, Marcus whispered in my ear: “This clip shows our Founder owning the U.S. Senate in the 1980’s. I want my performance at the Voice of the Founder Contest to capture the same defiant spirit.”

The footage cut from the senator to a young Chip Vaughn. Baby faced, cheeks flushed, his hair fluffed out, chin a wrecking ball.

“Senator, now I have a question for you: how can you lecture me about nutrition when you’re so fat?” Chip Vaughn asked. Marcus mouthed the words and rattling his fist. On screen, Chip Vaughn pointed a finger at the senator, his emerald green E&L cufflink glimmering. “You oughta try my products before banning ‘em.”

Downing the remaining Elyxir, I felt dreamy, but alive. Marcus paused the video and I jumped to my feet, jammed my own finger in Marcus’s face.

“You oughta try my products before banning ‘em,” I said. I wanted to wow Marcus the same way Chip Vaughn had wowed the senators so long ago, use the spectacle of myself to convince him I was the actor for this job. Medina emerged from the back office. I repeated myself, but salted my voice with Chip Vaughn’s southern lilt. “You oughta try my products before bannin ’em.”

Medina sat on the couch, draped an arm around Marcus.

“How can you lecture me,” I said again, this time sticking my finger in her face. “About nutrition when you’re so fat?”

“Well done Sol,” Marcus said, pulling out his checkbook, scratching out $20,000 to me. Had I just conned Marcus into giving me the gig, the $20k? As I gazed at the check, the Lyfers in this health and wellness cult circled around. They cupped lit candles, the flames illuminating Elyxir Lyfe branded clothes. I felt weak and wanted water. Medina locked the front door. I slipped the check in my bra. Marcus smiled, his teeth movie star white. “Welcome to our special team, Sol. Now let’s get started.”

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Sjloren

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