Original Stories Fan Fiction ❯ TYPO ❯ TYPO ( Chapter 1 )

TYPO

 

A spring morning in a London office saw the pigeons and birds clustered on the window sill, trying to avoid the driving April showers that darkened the sky and dampened the streets below. Trevor was trying to decide if the gloom outside made it a necessity to turn on the light and switch on the heating for one more day, despite all the promises he'd made that now it was April he no longer needed the extra warmth of the heater to make the office habitable. The light would be necessary, but he'd think about the other. If the temperature dropped further, then it might be necessary.

 

And then there was his client.

 

Why didn't the guy just get to the point? He'd wavered and tried to justify his position without stating what the position was. Too many sentences had commenced only to be left hanging there, open-ended and stagnating. Prospects gaped and gasped and then without support slowly suffered and died. Now, for all his training, the man was nearly stuttering as he tried once more to enunciate his purpose in being there.

 

Trevor was a busy man and knew other people were waiting outside, with appointments and lives that were on hold while this man wavered and tried to sort out his words. In future, Trevor might suggest he have his words scripted to hasten the process. He had an offer to make, but he'd have to wait until the man said what he had to say. “Okay, okay, calm down. It's not like I'm going to exterminate you,” he said, trying to lighten the mood.

 

The man stared at him, unbelievingly, blinked hard, shook his head and said, “That's exactly what I mean! That's it! That attitude!” The slight American twang he affected jarred on the ear. It was unnecessary; he'd been born in Birmingham, for Heaven's sake. The closest he'd been to the United States was dating a girl whose cousin had worked in Disneyland Paris, or possibly he'd sat next to a visiting American at a dinner party.

 

“What's it?” he'd humour the man a few more minutes before indicating that the time was up.

 

“That's exactly the sort of attitude I'm talking about. It can't go on. People don't take me seriously anymore,” his voice was rising. “How can I progress with my career if that's the mind-set? I don't want to be a laughing stock.”

 

“I don't find you amusing,” Trevor tried a different tack.

 

That made matters worse and Trevor immediately regretted opening his mouth. The man's jaw wobbled, actually wobbled, and he could have sworn the man's eyes were becoming wet. “You don't find me funny? After all the subtle comedy I've tried to inject in my parts, all the effort I've expended on shaping my voice to fit each character? Do you know how much time I've spent practicing, perfecting every syllable, every line.”

 

Trevor snorted without smiling, a trick he'd had to learn over the years. It permitted him to laugh without appearing to do so and when he coughed he winced. “Sorry. Problems with my soft palate cause occasional breathing difficulties,” he explained.

 

Coal Noix tried to look sympathetic. “That must be hard.”

 

Trevor assumed an air of brave suffering, “I'll live. It's okay.”

 

Impatiently Coal's leg jiggled as he tried to judge how long he had to pretend to care before he could return to the subject in which he was most interested: himself.

 

Deciding to give in, so this interminable interview could be over, Trevor gave in. “I know you work hard. Every director tells me that you're word perfect and never need to be reminded of your lines.”

 

Satisfied, Coal nodded and preened slightly. “It is my responsibility.”

 

Feeling his teeth ache in preparation for his next comment, Trevor ventured, “Not everyone takes their responsibility so seriously.” The smile he forced onto his lips made them feel stiff and sore.

 

The silence lengthened as each man waited for the other to speak. Coal opened his mouth just as Trevor did, and embarrassed, each of them closed their mouths again. Trevor shuffled his feet, considering what he should do next. He was desperate to use the toilet, but wanted this to be over. An impatient bladder made people feel less confident in their agent and he never made excuses to go to the toilet while with a client. Crossing his legs tightly hurt, but helped slightly.

 

“I don't mean to be impatient Coal, but I'm expecting a call any moment. Can you tell me what you wanted to see me about? If you tell me, I can give you an answer and then I want to talk to you about something that's come up.”

 

The invitation made Coal sit up straight and he began speaking. The words dismayed Trevor because nothing the man asked for was possible. Until now he'd managed to shield his client from the grim realities that were shaping his world, but he was going to be forced to do the worst thing a theatrical agent could: be honest and too often recently he had been forced into that position. He tried to prepare Coal by shaking his head gently as the man continued to speak, watching his face, but he was too intent on delivering his own message and didn't seem prepared to accept any external hints.

 

Rather than permit the man to continue embarrassing himself, Trevor held up his hand and cleared his throat. “I hear what you're saying. I truly do. And I know you think it's important that you say it, but it's the wrong time to make that change. You get steady employment in what you do. Why change it?”

 

“Because it's no longer a challenge,” Coal said urgently. “I want to take on new roles and extend my range. I'm an actor! I need to act.”

 

The man was sincere; he'd have to give him that. But the sincerity wasn't worth a fig in the harsh world in which they both worked. Twisting the facts slightly, Trevor tried to put a different slant on what he wanted to say. “Too many actors are trying to do that at the moment. Instead of solidifying their skills, they keep moving on and forgetting all the things they've learnt. People respect your work. When ever they think of the parts you've played, they think of you. You've become the part. Don't throw it away,” he advised firmly.

 

Coal was now frowning unhappily and he shook his head. “I've made my decision and as my agent it is your responsibility to follow my direction.”

 

Trevor felt a cold chill run down his spine. It had been a long time since he'd ended a relationship with a client over this type of difference of opinion, but there was no choice. The other's he had talked to had backed down gracefully when he'd shown them what they would lose because while they might want more fame, they also enjoyed eating. Coal wouldn't get the roles he thought he deserved and would take out his dissatisfaction on his agent. Now was the time to hand out the unpalatable truth.

 

“If you insist then I'll have to terminate your contract with me,” Trevor tried to keep his tone light, to remove most of the threat, but he could see his words had an effect.

 

“What? You wouldn't! I bring in good money,” his client spluttered in disbelief.

 

“Yes, you bring in good money. But that's from doing what you do now.” Trevor said, not allowing himself to be swayed. He looked over Coal's shoulder at the picture of a recent Science Fiction convention. Coal had been a big hit there, one of the main draws. A pity he was going to blow it.

 

A harsh intake of breath indicated that the man was upset. This was going badly, worse than Trevor had anticipated. He began to worry that his client, normally not emotional, was going to lose it and cry.

 

The next sound, a sob, proved him correct. “But, but, I'm scared,” the actor said in a frenzied whisper.

 

Scared? That was unexpected. What could the man be scared about? He only played a certain range of roles, none of them really terrifying. He should be used to them by now. “What are you scared of, Coal?” he asked, trying to infuse concern in his voice.

 

Coal said a word, but his voice was so faint that Trevor could only capture a portion of the word. It sounded like `Typo' to him and made no sense.

 

“Typos? Don't worry about inconsistencies in the scripts. You know enough about the characters you play so you hardly need the dialogue,” he reassured the man.

 

Coal, his eyes brimming with tears looked up and said, “Not typo's. Typecasting. I'm scared of being typecast.”

 

Refusing to give in to his impulse to laugh, Trevor sank back in his seat and pondered what to do next. He didn't see why people in the profession had such trouble with typecasting. It meant consistent work, tours, merchandising, money, book sales, public appearances and all sorts of other goodies. Yet he'd heard so many of them bleat on about their fear of typecasting as they quit a well paying and significant role. It was all about being true to their acting abilities.

 

Not everyone was Dame Judy Dench or Morgan Freeman. He could list so many actors who quit a role and then faded into insignificance after the proposed movie offers were withdrawn and the projected television series were shelved. He knew it wasn't a new phenomenon. Actors had been complaining about typecasting back in the time of Shakespeare. He wondered if Sophocles had trouble trying to persuade the main actor that appearing as Oedipus in parts 1 and 2 of his trilogy didn't mean he couldn't play the role of Orestes as well.

 

It was time for the little speech, the one he'd made 5 times in the last month, but he knew that Coal was driven by fear and might not listen.

 

“Coal, I'll be honest with you. You get steady work. Every fortnight you're offered well paying parts that keeps you in the public eye. You're good at what you do,” he began.

 

“Why haven't you told me about other parts I've been offered. I know Anthony was offered something different recently, a part in a musical. And Minching was bragging about the role of deeply suicidal mortician he's auditioning for. I could do that. Listen, `Life is a swamp and these bodies that surround me seem happy. They have no further hopes or dreams',” Coal said in his `acting' voice.

 

Trevor shuddered at the delivery. But he put on his brave face and said, “Minching looks the part. Even when he's happy he looks like he has nothing to live for.”

 

Coal thought about it for a few minutes and nodded his agreement. “But I haven't been offered anything really new since the pantomime at Christmas.”

 

“You were the front part of a donkey. It wasn't a challenging part,” Trevor said quickly, hoping that they wouldn't have to talk about this yet again.

 

“But I spoke. The donkey had some of the best lines,” Coal persisted. “And after I got food poisoning during the first week of the run, I was replaced by the understudy. They didn't let me return, even after I got better. I don't know why I was the only one who got sick. Not a sign of food poisoning amongst the rest of the cast,” a look of revelation came over his face, “unless the understudy poisoned me out of jealousy. I want that investigated, right away. I want justice!”

 

It felt like his stomach was trying to crawl down his leg and out of his toes. Trevor had really hoped that Coal would have forgotten the short lived role as the wise-cracking donkey from the wildly popular Prince of Persia pantomime, based on the game released in 2008. There wasn't a precedent for the Prince of Persia pantomime, but due to the popularity of these computer games, some bright spark had the idea of basing pantomimes on them. Next Christmas meant he'd be searching for people to play the roles of Zoras, Kokiri's, Stalfos and whatever for the Zelda pantomime. As a sop he might be able to find a suitable part for Coal, but he wasn't certain. The guy had a limited range.

 

Casting him as the donkey had been a major error.

 

“You can't do that,” his voice emerged as a croak. “The understudy is innocent. I know.”

 

Coal, possibly not the brightest actor he'd ever met, was still capable of hearing nuances in other people's voices, when it suited him. Pulling himself straight in the chair his gaze level, he nodded at his agent. “You know the understudy is innocent. Then you know it wasn't an accident and who is responsible.” Never one to throw away a theatrical effect he paused dramatically before asking in a compelling voice, with a resonance not unlike a Dalek's asked, “Who was it?”

 

Clearing his throat only bought him a few seconds. The next thing he said would change everything. “Well, you see, it's like this. Donkey's can have Scottish or Welsh accents. They can even be Irish or Spanish. Any European accent would be fine, or South American and in some cases Asian.”

 

His eyes narrowing, Coal was clearly adding one to one. “You???”

 

“No, not me,” Trevor assured him. “Well, not directly.”

 

With an obvious effort Coal remained seated. “What was wrong with my interpretation of the donkey?” He sounded like a normal wounded actor, full of arrogance and pride when it was implied that their acting was not up to standard.

 

“Donkey's don't normally sound like Daleks,” Trevor said in a rush and added, “Or Cybermen, or robots, or maniacal computers, or people who've had the electronic voice boxes fitted,” he continued naming all the roles which kept Coal in work. He waited, aware that he was going to have to answer more questions.

 

“Why didn't anyone mention it during rehearsal?” Coal said calmly.

 

“They did, Coal. You just didn't listen,” Trevor said. “We thought it might work, but the audience hated it. It scared the kiddies.”

 

“So I was poisoned, on purpose?” Coal counter accused.

 

“That was a bit of luck. You do enjoy eating kebabs and I told you that place was dodgy,” was the semi truthful answer. Why explain that he already knew the health inspector was closing the place down? He'd warned the man and Coal had ignored the warning, as he'd anticipated. It was his own fault.

 

Outraged, Coal shrieked, “Luck? Luck that I was vomiting the whole night and almost ended up in hospital due to dehydration? Luck that I was removed from the most popular role in a pantomime that won awards.”

 

“But that's the point. The understudy had been well prepared to see how it worked. You were going to be sacked if you hadn't gotten sick.”

 

Coal slumped in his chair looking crushed. “Sacked? Me? I've never….”

 

“Because I've always been careful about the roles I've selected for you. You insisted on going for the part of the donkey, despite my advice. Face it. You're lucky. You can still make a good living. Remember how at the last Sci Fi Convention your class on how to move and talk like a Cyberman and Dalek sold out within minutes? It was packed. Stick to what you do well.” Trevor hoped that was the end of it. His nerves were rubbed raw by having to explain the facts. Then he offered the clincher. “You know there's talk of a ring tone deal?”

 

Coal didn't seem to hear him. His head was in his hands and he was mumbling about never being free of computers.

 

Raising his voice, Trevor said, “Ring tone deal. Those things can earn a fortune,” he told the man.

 

Lacklustre eyes met his. “Ring tone? What are you talking about?”

 

“Crazy frog. Mad cow. Those stupid annoying ring tones that get so popular. They want you to do a Dalek one,” Trevor finally said.

 

He watched as the suggestion sank in. The change of expression on Coal's face proved he'd been right to mention it.

 

“A ring tone? That would make me famous! My own ring tone. I'll do it, but on one condition,” Coal said.

 

“What's that?” Trevor asked, hiding the sigh he felt building inside.

 

“You try to get me a recording deal. Those ring tones usually end up on CD and I have an idea for a two CD deal,” Coal was positively panting over the idea.

 

Trevor stood up and extended his hand, trying to indicate the meeting was over. “I'll see what I can do, Coal,” he said as he shook his client's hand.

 

“And Coal,” he added as the man was nearly at the door.

 

“Yeah?”

 

“Keep away from the kebabs,” Trevor said, a small smile on his mouth.

 

Disclaimer:

This is a work of fiction and any resemblance to any person living or dead is coincidental.

Prince of Persia is owned by Ubisoft.

Zelda is owned by Nintendo.

Daleks, Cybermen, Dr Who are owned by the BBC.