The Fourth Wall

Edgar aspired to being known as the go-to theatrical agent for oddballs. He represented the bit players, the scruffy walk-ons who deliver a line or two and then exit stage right. The acting profession being notoriously cruel and capricious, Edgar championed the brave souls who would never land a supporting role, much less a starring one, but who still sought the audition.

Perhaps because for many years, Edgar had labored among them. He moved from one regional theater to another, supplementing his income with rent-a-clown gigs. That’s right, birthday parties. If you can’t beat ‘em, join ‘em. Thus, his descent into agenting.

Age lines and graying hair and the occasional necktie made him look slightly more respectable. He even had an office now, thanks to a lucrative TV deal. He had landed a client in a popular Netflix series that had recently been green-lighted for another two seasons. Edgar’s top floor space, basic and simple, a waiting room and consulting room, looked out over a par-three golf course. A plate-glass sliding door opened onto a balcony. It was lined with potted plants, mostly African violets. Though not a golfer, Edgar enjoyed observing the antics below. Some of the golfers carried booze bottles and bongs in their hefty bags. The vibe was pleasant and made Edgar feel like he had finally arrived. The only problem being that people knew where to find him.

This particular morning it was Marty Cruz, his breakthrough Netflix client. No appointment, no advance call. Maybe stardom had gone to his head. Marty barged in and plopped down in armchair facing Edgar’s desk. He covered his puffy face with his hands and sobbed. A few stuttered, barely comprehensible words emerged, having something to do with “enough is enough.”

Edgar waited and finally said, “I’m guessing you didn’t come to chat about the weather.” The forecast called for more rain and colder temperatures, unseasonably cold. It would be bad for the golf and his plants. Everything was out of whack, which begs the question, what does it mean to be ‘in whack’? These were the thoughts running through Edgar’s brain as he waited for his client to gather himself. He heard a noise in the distance that was either a gunshot or a delivery truck backfiring.

“I want to be written out,” Marty said. “Tell the producer to figure a way to write me out. I’ll be patient and hang in for a few more episodes. Just come up with a way to get me out of this. It shouldn’t be hard. Have the guy violate his parole. Have him steal money from the front desk and get sent back to jail.”

“Excuse me? Please remember, you’re a big hit, Marty. The ratings keep going up. Everybody loves you.”

“They love the fact that I’m a brazen jerk without a conscience. I’ll spout the awful stuff they wouldn’t dare, insult the hotel guests and humiliate the staff.”

“Yeah, it’s a homage to John Cleese in Fawlty Towers.”

“That’s what the publicity Departments claims, but everybody knows who this is really about.”

Marty’s character in the series was a mouthy, former luxury hotelier who had become a successful politician, and quickly got caught taking bribes from lobbyists. He was sent to prison, released on probation, and was now working as a night manager at a Holiday Inn at an exit just off the interstate. He appeared for fifteen seconds in the middle of each episode, pinching bottoms and blithely saying the un-sayable.

“Marty, it’s just a TV sitcom. What’s the problem? You’re making good money. Your career is launched.”

“I am not that person. It’s just not me,” Marty said, “and I can’t go anywhere in public now without being recognized. Except, wrong, it’s not me that’s being recognized. It’s him.”

“Okay, but these are the problems we actors like to have,” Edgar said.

“I am not a heartless asshole,” Marty stated again.

“Of course not. You’re a Midwestern vacuum cleaner salesman with a dry sense of humor who miraculously discovered his inner ham after his wife died.”

Martin Cruz slapped the side of his head and confessed, “The truth is I am starting to act like a jerk. This being in-character thing is taking over. The other day at the grocery store, the cashier screwed things up and overcharged me and I went off on her. I feel terrible about it.”

“Buddy, we’re getting a little out of my bailiwick,” Edgar said, “maybe you should talk to a therapist.”

Marty shook his head. “No, I spent too much time in therapist offices after Phyllis died.”