Page 20 of Jacob Michaels is Not Crazy

Oma looked at me for a second, then seemed to realize what was being asked of her. She glanced at the T.V. nervously and reached for the remote. She wasn’t quick enough. I spun to the T.V. and saw my face on the screen. It was one of the action movies I had made two years previously. Something about terrorists trying to blow up the Statue of Liberty. It was complete crap. I had made twenty-million-dollars. Before taxes. It was a fair wage. The movie made twenty-times that much domestically and even more internationally.

“I’m going to assume you just wanted to see my face.” I snorted as I turned to look at her again. “Because that isn’t one of mine that I would have picked. Unless you’re trying to go to sleep.”

“Oh, fuck you.”

I laughed.

Oma laughed with me.

“It was just on cable.” She relented. “And, well, I was flipping and there you were.”

I shuffled over and sat down, perching on the ottoman her feet were on, looking at the T.V.

“God.” I shook my head. “I have lost a lot of weight, huh?”

“Look like a damn twig.”

I nodded.

“You know they made me work out every day with a trainer for three months before I made this shit?” I gestured at the T.V. “They put me on this high protein, low-fat diet. I’ve never eaten so much salmon, chicken, and eggs in my life. I couldn’t drink alcohol or have sugar. And I worked out for three hours a day every day for the entire two months.”

“Well, you can tell.” I sensed her waving at the T.V. from behind me. “That shirtless scene was something to behold, Robbie. Looked like you were carved outta stone.”

I laughed.

“I felt like shit the whole shoot.” I sighed. “I was so unhappy.”

“Well, I’d be unhappy too if I felt like my neck was eating my head.”

The laughter poured from my throat.

“Who’s that wrestler fella?” She asked over my laughter, a few chuckles escaping her throat. “That guy who is always telling people they can’t see him?”

“I was not as built as John Cena.” I gestured at the T.V.

“Your neck was bigger than his, that’s all’s I’m saying.” She cracked. “Looked like you could drink peanut butter straight from the jar.”

“Yeah.” I cackled. “It was ridiculous. It’s the buffest I’ve ever been.”

“Then why did you feel like shit?”

“I was so unhappy.” I sighed. “I was lonely and miserable and bored and stressed and…I guess everything not good, Oma.”

“Well, ya’ can’t tell.” Her voice was soft. “Guess that’s a testament to your acting skills, huh?”

“I suppose.” I stared at my ex-body doing my possibly ex-job on the small screen in front of us. “I wasn’t acting. I was posing.”

“What’s that mean?”

“I was doing what was expected of me.”

“Isn’t that what actors do?”

“I’ve never won any acting awards because I can’t act, Oma.” I sighed. “I just know how to be anyone but myself. That’s what I do when I’m making movies or T.V. shows. Or I’m playing ‘rock star’ on stage. I’m anyone but Robert Wagner.”

“Robert the youngest.”

“Do you think mom and dad would be proud?” I didn’t dare look back at her.