Chapter Three: Acting

      In Japan, they have a river monster named Kappa. He has scaly skin and a turtle shell on his back. The top of his head is a small dish that holds water, so he can breathe on land. His face looks like a monkey’s, but with a beak instead of lips.

      Deadly sumo wrestlers, Kappa monsters are very polite. If a Kappa challenges you to a fight, just bow to him. He will bow back, spill all his breathing water, and be forced to return to the river. This is a good trick to know, because Kappa is ferocious. He thinks it’s funny to pull people’s intestines out through their anuses. He also eats children.

      While children taste good to Kappa, his favorite food is cucumbers. To ensure that the Kappa won’t eat their children, Japanese parents write the children’s names on cucumbers and throw them into ponds and rivers. They watch the cucumbers float on the water, perhaps feeling a little silly. Regardless, their children don’t get eaten. It still works.

      ~

      I’m baloney, Isaac thought. Baloney.

      “Harder, baloney,” the director barked into his wholly unnecessary megaphone. “Shake it harder!”

      “It” was Isaac’s costume, a codpiece made out of real baloney. They called it a loincloth, but nobody was fooled. Isaac jangled his hips until the thing jerked and bobbed in front of him, grease smearing all over his junk, while he belted the chorus of “My Way.” Jailbait girls sang backup in string bikinis with baloney breasts and cheese slices flapping at their hips like fringe.

      “Cut,” the director said.

      The cheese slices had unwrapped themselves again in the heat from the lights on the set. The costume director rushed on set again with fresh slices and a stapler. They were now on Take Thirteen. Chaz, the director, shouted at her, “Try superglue,” waved at Isaac, and pointed at the ground in front of him.

      Isaac approached Chaz, teeth-first. “Hold this,” Chaz said and handed him a half-empty water bottle. Isaac took the bottle and Chaz made another note on his clipboard, muttering without looking up, “Frankly, I’m not feeling your commitment.” Chaz winced at his watch. “This is an important commercial. It revolves around this damn dream sequence. I need you to really”—he formed little Italian circles with both hands and shook them lightly—“embody the product.”

      “Got it.” Isaac stood straighter. “I am the baloney.”

      “That’s why we hired you, and not any of those other assholes.”

      “I’m just wondering…why we’re wearing the actual product. On our bodies.”

      “The client wants authenticity, Eraserface. Don’t you want to be authentic?”

      “Yes. Yes, of course.” Isaac cleared his throat. “Just…still wondering who might want to buy baloney if I’m wearing it on my crotch, you see.”

      “They’re marketing to women,” Chaz said and walked away, leaving Isaac with his water bottle.

      In one swift pivot, Isaac hurled the bottle against a wall.

      The bottle just made a popping noise as it bounced off the wall and rolled all the way back to Isaac’s feet. None of the people circulating around the studio even noticed.

      “Why did you do that?” Kate was standing behind him with her doll. The two of them gave Isaac the same stare with different colored eyes.

      “I thought you were waiting in the viewing area,” Isaac said. “Kids aren’t supposed to be on the set.”

      “I got bored. And hungry.”

      Isaac fetched her a sandwich from the catering table. He slumped into a chair next to her, making sure the codpiece covered everything. “Sorry this is taking so long. Your dad probably never made you wait around like this. I’m guessing this isn’t exactly fun for an eight-year-old.”

      “Almost nine,” Kate said. Then, “You smell.”

      “Yeah. I hope they don’t repackage this costume after I’m done with it.”

      Kate clutched the doll he had given her when she was little, one of those bald plastic ones that you can put in the bathtub with you. She had named it “No-Hair,” and still translated for it frequently. “No-Hair wants to see a Rated-R movie,” she said. “No-Hair hates salad.” After her father got sick, No-Hair stopped asking for anything, but rarely left Kate’s arms.

      “Why did that man call you that name?” Kate asked.

      “Eraserface? It’s just a nickname, honey.”

      “It sounds mean.”

      “Is No-Hair a mean name?”

      “No. She really doesn’t have any hair. But you have a face.”

      “Is Kate a mean name?” He tried to tickle her. She squirmed away, but didn’t laugh.

      Truth was, Isaac was grateful for his nickname, grateful for the work it brought him, especially now. Grateful that he was the only talent in the business who had a nickname. It seemed like every actor in the world was jostling to get in front of the same Vaseline-smeared lens to sell sleep medication, or jock itch cream, or food in a can. His therapist said that gratitude created serotonin, so he was awash in gratitude for a starring role in a commercial for an up-and-coming lunch meat manufacturer, right here in LA.

      Half his work was here, but he traveled constantly for acting gigs—commercials, trade shows, bit parts in direct-to-video movies. His agent croaked, “New York,” or “Chicago,” or “Houston,” and off he flew, renting an economy car, staying at a discount hotel, ordering pizza, and halfheartedly watching cable porn.

      It was a life, his. After graduating from Northwestern University armed with his MFA, his sincerity, and his acting credits (Wasn’t he Hamlet in the Northwestern production? Wasn’t he Willy Loman?), Isaac had moved to LA to break into film via commercials. Film faded, but the commercials endured. It seemed that there was an endless supply of crap that Americans had to buy, and Isaac had built himself a reputation—good looking, reliable, and willing to do almost anything, no matter how demeaning. He got corporate gigs, commercials and infomercials, training films and TV-order products. Then the jobs got more upscale—credit cards, fashion designers, car manufacturers. Soon, Isaac found that he had sunk to the top of his field.

      In fact, he was on his way to becoming a world record holder for the most TV commercials in a single career. The frenzy had begun when a casting director dubbed him “The Man with the Erasable Face,” and TV Guide did a short article on him. It was all about how Isaac could appear in multiple commercials for multiple products, but nobody ever recognized him. For every product he sold, he looked like a different person, and directors cast him over and over without exhausting his range.

      Bookings increased even more after that article came out. Isaac’s agent hired an assistant, bought a condo near the beach. Everyone was requesting “Eraserface” for airline commercials, insurance commercials, luxury vehicle commercials. Proctor & Gamble executives dialed him direct, on his cell phone.