Idea in Stone (3 page)

“I’m, uh, I’m sorry, I was told not to speak to you before you go into the studio. The producer got really mad at me the other day after I talked to one of the talent. He fell out of character and had to warm up again.”

“Who did you talk to?”

“Ron Emery.”

“Figures. He does the voice-over for a goddamned
lightbulb.
There
is
no character. Certainly not the way he does it. Yeah, don’t worry about all that crap with me.”

Wendy laughed, relieved. “What do you do to get into character for Bloob?”

“I do a funny voice.”

“Yeah,” she said, “but people really respond to him. You must do something. There’s a quality to your performance that’s really special.”

“I don’t know. I brush my teeth. Have you ever been in the booth at the same time as Ron? Ugh.” He smiled at her. “Okay, seriously, I do some vocal exercises, I suck on a cough drop if I’m sick, and I goof around in front of a microphone. We had a lot of mics around when I was growing up, so I’ve always been comfortable around them.”

Wendy gestured him past a thick door with a number four and an unlit ‘Recording’ sign over it. “You’re in this booth today. Thanks very much for the talk. I appreciate it. Sheesh, and they said you were difficult.”

Stefan’s smile disappeared as she closed the door.
What?
His concentration left him completely.

The sound engineer held up a magic-marker sign to the window. “Ready?” Stefan held up a ‘one minute’ finger.
Difficult?
He pulled his sides—the dialogue he was supposed to record—from his satchel, then reached back in and rummaged around for the little figurine of his character. He found it in a corner of the bag, a blue plastic ox with a ring through its nose, standing upright in a pair of running shoes. He pulled it out, blew it clean, and sat it on the music stand in front of him. Looking at it, he cocked his head, made an adjustment in his throat, and said, “Reduce!” He shook his head, poked fingers at his throat, and tried again. “Reduce, reuse—” He smiled, then turned to the sound booth, giving a thumbs-up and nodding.

~

An hour later, the show’s producer visited the booth. “How’s it going, Stefan?” she asked.

“I don’t know, I’m a little off today,” he said. “I had this weird conversation with the new PA just bef—”

“Yeah, sorry about that, we’ve been having some problems with her.”

“No, it’s not her fault. She just said—nevermind. Look, I have issues with this week’s script.”

One of the producer’s plucked red eyebrows rose. “Really?”

“I know you don’t care what I think. I’m just a guy who’s paid ever-so-slightly above scale to do a voice-over. But, you know, I
am
Bloob’s voice, so I feel a certain responsibility for what this public figure says to children.”

The producer said nothing.

“I know, I know. It’s just a stupid kiddie show.”

The producer’s other eyebrow raised.

“What I mean is, I realise that it’s an important commercial property for you and it’s become a very popular show. But we
are
making statements about the environment here, and I think it’s important for them to be accurate.” He flipped through his script. “Like this part: ‘Kids, you are the future of the earth. Only you can save it.’” He looked at the producer. “C’mon.”

“Stefan, don’t you believe that children are the future?”

“Don’t get all Whitney on me. The show’s biggest sponsor is Porvental Chemicals. Last year the company paid no Canadian taxes and ‘accidentally’ spilled enough solvents into Lake Ontario to petrify every last zebra mussel.”

“But the mussels were growing out of control. They were a hazard to the lake’s natural ecology.”

“Yeah, so the company got an environmental grant for $11.2 million.”

“Stefan, did you ever think that the company is trying to turn their industry around by investing in projects like our show?”

“But—”

“Stefan, it’s not your concern. Don’t make trouble. Just do your day’s lines. Leave the issues to us.” She started to leave, but paused at the door. “Oh, did you happen to make a statement to Greenpeace?”

“Um, I might have.”

“Please don’t do things like that,” she said, leaving the room.

Stefan went back to the music stand and picked up his figurine. “Hey kids,” he said in the character’s voice, “do you know that your mommy’s makeup contains poisonous chemicals called phthalates?” He turned the figurine’s head back and forth. “Hey kids, did you know that my ass is completely for sale?” Stefan tried to make the head nod, but it wouldn’t, so he picked up a pencil and poked it into the ox’s chest repeatedly. He looked up to see the sound technician laughing and holding up a sign that said “Lunch”.

Stefan left the booth, and Wendy ran up beside him. “Jean said that I upset you this morning. I’m really sorry, I don’t know how I—”

“It’s okay,” said Stefan, “it’s not your fault. It’s between me and her. Well, me, her, a multinational chemical company, and some zebra mussels.”

“Oh, good. Here,” she said, handing him a slip of paper, “you got a phone message from someone while you were in the booth. It sounded like he said his name was Ellen.”

“Do you suppose it might have been ‘Allen’?”

“No, I don’t think so. Sounded like Ellen.”

“Right, okay. Thanks.” He left her, banking off down a hallway toward the commissary where he bought his lunch. Although it was November, the weather was still warm, so he ate outside in a concrete park sheltered between skyscrapers, looking at a phone booth all the while. When he finished, he crumpled up the packaging, napkin, and bag from his lunch and threw it into a waste-bin, thinking what an awful amount of garbage it was.
I sound like Mom
. Then he marched to the phone booth.

He dropped a quarter into the phone, dialled the number he’d been given, and braced himself. “Hello, Lewis
bus
, Trafford
walk
, and Lemire
fish
. How can I help you
buttie
?” Stefan struggled to filter out the second voice.

“Hi, could I please speak to Allen Hoffstand, please?” asked Stefan, realising that he’d said ‘please’ twice. He wasn’t good at business-speak.

“One moment,” said the receptionist.

Allen answered a moment later. Aware of Stefan’s trouble with the phone, he communicated the evening’s plans slowly. The guys and he were meeting for coffee, maybe dinner, and wanted Stefan along. Stefan said he was up for an evening away from home, as the connubial bliss between his mother and her girlfriend was still at a toxic level.

“I have to go,” said Allen. “I’m in discussions
stay
this afternoon about a big
kip
estate in Forest Hill, a bunch of siblings all
doon
fighting over this property. Should be fun
day
.”

“I’m off to explain in a funny voice why not having an atmosphere will be a good thing,” said Stefan. “I’ll see you tonight.” They said their goodbyes. Stefan was suitably convinced Allen had no idea he’d be walking into a surprise party this evening. Allen’s partner of five years hadn’t been invited for a strategic reason: they wanted to have fun.

Back in the booth, Stefan recorded several minutes of Bloob-speak. The sound engineer gave him the thumbs up. Then he made the “Okay, let’s move on” signal they’d worked out. Stefan had some bit parts to record, characters whose preliminary sketches he’d seen. His job now was to give sensitive, nuanced line readings for a leaky lawn sprinkler and a toaster with a knife stuck in it that was supposed to look surprised but looked more like it had been murdered.

The technician poked angrily at his sound board and his computer. He shook his head and made a throat-cutting gesture, then held up an open ‘Take five’ hand. Stefan nodded, picked up his sides from the music stand, and left the booth. He went to the producer’s office, knocked on her door, and opened it.

“Yes?” she asked.

“Uh,” said Stefan.

“What?”

“I’m supposed to record this toaster dialogue this afternoon. Isn’t that a bit outside the show’s scope? I mean, I thought we were supposed to be doing environmental topics, not safety tips.”

“Stefan,” she said, putting down her pen and turning to face him, “did you know that Ron Emery came in here the other day and did the most perfect impression of Bloob?”

“Oh,” said Stefan. He nodded and left. Rather than head back to the booth, he went to the sound-stage where they taped the live-action
Super Fantastic Window
show (in English and French). He made his way across the stage by the illumination of a bare-bulb work light on an iron stand, past the big gold window frame with its green-screen panes, past the bulbous coat-rack with its fun-fur coats, and dropped with a sigh onto the same puffy green couch that he’d seen on the show as a child. He unbuttoned his hemp trousers and masturbated.

~

Wendy opened the door of the beige Green Room. “Oh there you are,” she said. “Chuck fixed the mixer.” Stefan stood and followed her again.

“What’s BSE?” she asked as she opened the booth’s door for him.

“Huh? I think it stands for Bovine Spongiform Ecephalo-something. Mad Cow disease. Why?”

“Oh, nothing,” she said. “I just heard Jean talking about it on the phone with one of the writers, and I didn’t know what it meant.” She shut the door as she left.

Stefan stared at his little figurine.

~

“Hey guys,” said Stefan, coming up the stairs to the coffee-shop’s second floor. He placed his foamed soy milk spiced tea drink on the table, took off his coat, and plopped down into one of the deep chairs.

“Hey Stef,” said Allen. Stefan noted that Allen, as could be expected, had already been home, changed out of his business suit, redone his hair (and put on a touch of make-up? or was that fake tan?), and changed into queer gear, since he was going to be seen in the gay ghetto. He was in a relationship, but he still wanted to be wanted. Tonight he wore tight black jeans and a white T-shirt that clung to his gym-enhanced frame. The T-shirt was printed with black letters: “Read my lisp: Equality now!”

To Stefan’s left was Paulo, with arresting dark eyes, wavy black hair, and skin that was dark enough to look like a golden tan, not quite dark enough to be considered ‘ethnic’—except by casting directors. His acting talent was considerable, but success in film or television eluded him, and he scraped by working for a repertory theatre company. Paulo was the handsomest person Stefan knew, yet he was so uncomfortable about his looks, his race, or something, that Stefan thought of him as an “ugly beautiful person”. No matter how much adulation Stefan and the others gave him, he seemed set on his unhappiness. The group figured that somehow people picked up on this, which explained his perpetual singledom. After the blind date where they met, Stefan reported, “He’s a beautiful prince you kiss who turns into a poisonous frog”. Their early mutual disinterest made it easy to slip immediately into friendship.

“Where’s Rick?” asked Stefan. Rick rounded out Stefan’s triumvirate of friends.

“He called Allen’s cell about ten minutes ago to say he’d be a bit late,” said Paulo. “He just finished up a contract on Bay Street.”

“Holy crap,” said Stefan, “not one of those big bank buildings.”

“Yeah,” replied Allen, “he got the contract for the tower I work in.”

“Oh yeah. Did you have anything to do with that?” asked Stefan.

“Well, I told him it was up for renewal. But he won the bid on his own.”

“Can you imagine hanging up there on one of those little platforms?” asked Paulo. “And where do they get the water from?”

The three of them sat in silence, trying to figure it out. Allen gave up first, and asked how the others’ days went. Paulo described a workshop he was participating in, then Stefan recapped his day at the studio. “I think they’re going to can me,” he said. Not knowing how to respond, Allen went on to describe his day with a group of estate inheritors bickering over their shares. Allen didn’t mind, he said, because he got paid out of the estate for every moment they spent arguing with each other.

“Hey guys,” said Rick, coming up the stairs, “how’s it going?” They greeted him as he slumped down into a chair. “That was the hardest day I’ve spent since I started doing this,” he said, sipping on a paper coffee cup the size of a sandcastle bucket. “I don’t know if I can keep this contract. It’s just too much work.”

“Why don’t you hire some other people to work for you?” Allen often harangued Rick on this point whenever Rick took on a tone of nobility about being overworked. “It’s your business, and as long as you do all the work it will never get any bigger than you.”

“If I pay extra people, there won’t be enough of a profit left over.”

Allen flipped up his
Okay, nevermind
hands.

“Hey, Stef,” said Rick, “I wrote another song last night.”

“That’s great.”

“What’s it about?” asked Paulo.

“Oh, well, it’s—it’s kind of hard to explain. I mean, it’s kind of reductive to take something as personal as a song and, you know, sum it up.”

“Okay,” said Allen, “so what kind of song is it?”