AllFreeNovel
Share Us
“Aging?! He’s only thirty-nine years old!”
I stare at the shag rug, trying to make sense of what’s happening while Paul and Gershwyn go back and forth.
“Overwhelmingly, the audience thought you would’ve been better cast as … the villain.”
Gersh gasps. “The villain? Hudson is not a villain! Villains are played by washed-up has-beens.”
Paul pulls a face that says the phrase washed-up has-been suits me perfectly.
“Hudson? You okay, buddy?” Paul asks.
Plastering on a wide grin, I say, “I’m great. Well, not terrific. I’m a little sweaty. I should’ve taken your suggestion and gotten changed.” I chuckle a little and look over at my brother. “This thing should be called a sweat suit, not a wet suit.”
“A sweat suit is already a thing,” Paul says.
“He knows that, Paul,” Gershwyn snaps. “He was making a joke.”
“Right, yeah.” Paul nods. “Good one.”
Standing up, I carry Oscar over to the window again and stare out. The waves are already dying—the perfect metaphor for my career. Taking a deep breath, I turn to face Paul, doing my best to look breezy. “So? What do we do? How do we pivot?”
“There is one option, but I don’t think you’ll like it.”
“Hey, a few seconds ago, you told me my career was over. If you’ve got a Hail Mary pass in that playbook of yours, you better believe I’m going to take the ball and run.”
“We go full McConaughey.”
“Full McConaughey?” Gersh asks, wrinkling up his eyes in confusion. “Hudson doesn’t need hair plugs. He’s got great hair.”
“For the record, Matthew didn’t actually get hair plugs,” Paul says. “He uses some sort of cream. Rubs it into his head for ten minutes a day.”
“Really?” Gersh says. “Huh.”
Are they really talking about hair loss treatments right now?
“Yeah, apparently it’s some sort of miracle cream.”
What the fuck is going on?
“You wouldn’t think that would work.”
Oscar wiggles a little in my arms and I put him down on his bed, where he curls up into a tight ball. A wave of nausea comes over me and I pull on my collar again. “Could we get back to the matter at hand? Because, honestly, I’m freaking out just the littlest bit.”
“Right, sorry,” Paul answers. “The full McConaughey. We prove you’ve got the acting chops to play serious roles. Meaty stuff. I’m talking Oppenheimer, Killers of the Flower Moon. Get you a real Oscar,” he says, glancing down at my dog.
“Hey, Oscar is a real Oscar,” I answer, feeling defensive on behalf of my tiny buddy.
“It’s what you’ve always wanted, isn’t it, Hud? It’s why you named your dog after a trophy,” Paul says.
Yes, yes it is. But I certainly can’t admit that. Shaking my head, I say, “He’s a wiener dog. His full name is Oscar Mayer.”
Oscar opens his eyes, his ears perking up, but when no one says the magic words ‘walk time’ or ‘treats,’ he closes his eyes again.
“I don’t know. I’m not a drama guy. You said it yourself—I’ve been playing the wild, fun guy my entire career. I’m a lifeguard, a bodyguard, a ski champion.”
“Yes, up until now, but it’s time to expand your skills. Go deeper. Try something new. Show everyone in this town you’ve got what it takes to be up there with the big dogs,” Paul says. “DeNiro, Pacino, Streep.”
There is no way I’ve got what it takes to do that. I look over at Gersh, knowing I’ll be able to read the truth all over his face. If there’s one thing Gersh isn’t, it’s an actor.
