Monkey Mirrors

If self-hate was a drug, then I was a bottom-feeding gutter slut in high school. Combine that with a chronic need of being loved by every pair of eyes that looks or has yet to look upon me, then you have a recipe for, not disaster, but, me.

     And since my brain was the resident junkie, none of my friends could see its regular shakes and worried looks to surround me for an intervention. So, instead of going to rehab, I fiended over a stronger drug.

     I spent more time calculating my responses to the seniors I looked up to than in my often ignored algebra homework. Sure, I was little junior Nate Caudill who knew their way around both a quick match of Super Smash Bros. and a bottle of Malibu (and only occasionally threw up); but more than anything, high school teaches you that perception is fragile. No matter how likable you were, or seemed, adoration had to be ensured. Eyes tickled and crept around every step you took, rating you on a scale of 1-10. And nothing spells “adoration” quite like snagging the lead in the upcoming spring musical, Tarzan.

     Everybody and their mother knew that big senior Chris, Mr. Hot Stuff himself, would land the lead role. People were so sure, they started saying he was sleeping with the director. “Come on, no one could land all those leads without at least a little backstage magic!” Chris downed salads with no dressing like they were candy and built an ab-line so thick you could swipe a damn credit card through it (he often did that in the dressing room mirror). He breathed pure talent and confidence, and had to remind everyone how talented and confident he was in every breath.

     That show was handpicked for him, but there lied the all elusive double-casting. It played with young-hopefuls’ visions like carnival mirrors. I had already landed a couple pretty decent roles in the department, and big senior Chris told me that I had potential. I had potential.

     Two key obstacles stood in my way. First, the Man of the Apes apparently required a high, high voice—a tenor to be exact. I was but a middle-of-the-road baritone. Okay, nothing some vocal lessons couldn’t solve. Then, there was the big obstacle: the six-pack. What’s a man without one? Nothing a little dieting and low-fat elbow grease couldn’t solve. When it really came down to it all, the only obstacle was me. If I wasn’t enough for the monkey man, then I was just going to have to become enough in about three weeks. Daunting, but hey, just look in the mirror and remember: You have potential.

     Classes were for doing the previous class’s homework—I needed to crank out every drop of time I could for the gym. Lunch was for researching workout routines; if I was going to be enough, then I needed to change how I worked, what I ate. After school was for singing, reaching out for every note from every song the Man of the Apes sang. The gym was for work—work, nonstop work, only work. An animal close to a gorilla in the crunch and push-up jungle.

     But back home, the mirror showed me decent muscles and an average amount of body fat. So, in other words: nothing.

     Okay.

     Classes were now for reading about expanding vocal range—I needed to crank out angel notes from my shattering throat for auditions in just two weeks. Lunch was for researching workout routines—obviously, I wasn’t doing it right, wasn’t working hard enough. After school was for voice lessons—the exact same spot big senior Chris went to, “just the best in town,” he told me. The gym was for work. Work, nonstop work, only work, more work. More crunches. More push-ups. Arm days, core days, and leg days. All three days at once if I had the time, and I made the time.

     But the mirror showed me sort of toned muscles and a slightly shrunken stomach. In other words: nothing.

     Guys, I’m just trying to be the best actor I can be.

     Yeah, I’m doing this for me. I’m just tired from all the hard work I’ve been putting in. Yeah, I ate today.

     Look at me.

     Look at me.

     I’m fine.

     My mother talked to me about the increasingly lighter portions I took at dinner, saying I would “have no energy,” but she’s just never acted before. My Grammy Awards-winning vocal coach quickly informed me that “expanding” one’s vocal range to go higher was simply not physically possible, but did he know who he was talking to? They were both gonna be so proud of me when they saw me skinny and ripped on that stage. Their eyes would be my mirror, and for once, I would look good.

     I had plenty to appreciate that bleak Thanksgiving, but inside, I only thanked the God I’d been questioning for putting me on the first day of callbacks—the same day as Chris. Surely, my audition impressed my director enough. Hell, I sang one of Tarzan’s songs for it. I might’ve broken the rules singing a song from the show, but surely, it was the needed bold and daring risk that screamed “This is your Tarzan!”

     For some reason, though, I could barely keep my glassy eyes open that day. My body screamed for something, but what, I didn’t know. Rest? I mean, I went to the gym the night before, but I slept. Food? Eh, I was eating enough.

     Just look at what I ate that day! Turkey! Well, actually that had saturated fat. Green beans! Oh, my grandma always cooked them in bacon, still too much fat. Mac and cheese—Christ, all that butter? How will you look in the morning?

     I just had to be ready for callbacks. Just a few more days.

     Just a few.

     God might’ve been judging me from the cross above my grandmother’s bed, as I tried to ignore the ticklish emptiness of my stomach spreading like a rash all the way to my worried fingers and toes. I just stared at the mirror by her bed and slept through the day.

     It wasn’t until I got to my friend’s house that night before our ritual Black Friday shopping that I was (force) fed my first meal: a green apple. I tried to breathe talent and confidence and remind them of how great I felt about myself now, but their eyes saw through my cracked reflection. Just that apple they shoved in my scared mouth was enough to remove the malnourished anchors keeping my muscles weighted on the bed. I still associate those apples with a sort of “magic.” Even though no spell was cast, just a simple cure to my blind stupidity.

     I let myself eat the day of callbacks, but I soon regretted that as our director made the girls leave and closed the doors.

     “Alright, you know we gotta do this,” she said. “Take your shirts off.”

     No matter how much I sucked in my perfectly average gut, I could feel it sticking out ahead of the twenty other shirtless teenage boys. I tried to catch what she saw in each of us in the reflection of her eyes. She barely had to look at big senior Chris, of course she knew his body. But Jacob, pfft, he was obviously too fat. I knew that. He knew that. She had to know that. My display had to be enough. It had to be.

     And then, she saw big senior Chris and called him up to read for Tarzan.

     And then, some newbie named Jared.

     Along with two young hopefuls looking to be seen as (skinny) enough for Jane. And then some other “not me.”

     The rest of callbacks came and went, and all that remained was that cast list. I don’t remember if I didn’t eat out of fear, or to keep myself ready for the role.

     I didn’t get Tarzan. I didn’t get the title character, the final bow, the last hurrah of standing crowds. I didn’t find a tenor voice. I didn’t carve the alpha male six-pack. I just had me. And, the role I did get: Professor Porter, Jane’s loving father.

     When my friends’ and familys’ eyes read that Nate Caudill was going to be a jolly British professor with a song and more, only their smiles reflected in my own. It would’ve been the same from them had I gotten an ensemble role, I know it. So, instead of sucking up my regular drugs, I just put on my fake mustache and savored every bite. I still have that crusty mustache somewhere.

     I still freak out a bit any time I sip a milkshake or eat a fry. Nothing a few push-ups and crunches afterward can’t solve. Who knows when my lovely girlfriend, a director’s eyes, or some new someone might want to be impressed by my perfectly average ab-line, I can’t lose that. The damn thing still needs work. That’s what the mirror tells me. Or what I’m telling the mirror.

     I fear that milkshake sip or single fry will tear down every part of me I’ve toned up, but maybe that’s the point. Maybe then I’ll truly make the most of myself like I made Porter—without the mirror. After all, that damn thing’s just glass.

Nathaniel Caudill is a published and award-winning screenwriter and playwright. He writes, directs, and acts for Mount Tiny Productions, an independent multi-media entertainment company. He is also the host of Brick Canvas, an interview podcast where artists dissect their respective crafts over piles of LEGO bricks.

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