Sitcom Artist

The actor opens his eyes and is disappointed to discover that he has walked into an intermediary chamber that leads to another entrance. He opens the second door and walks indignantly into the diner. Scanning over the restaurant he deducts points for its lack of currency. Too many of the men have plain old faces. There are not enough young women in tight fitting clothes. The walls are decorated with framed Absolut Vodka advertisements and posters from failed Broadway musicals. There is a display case filled with Leave It To Beaver lunch boxes. The actor scoffs at the thought that some people might find the décor charming. The place lacks the dazzle required to draw the attention of the right folks. The customers are mostly white, but this is not enough to make a bigwig agent say, "Waiter, this place will make a great sitcom and you will be the star!" The diner is lacking in more than pizzazz. There is no jukebox, radio or television in the main dining area. The furniture is composed of pink and blue plastic, the sort of material only found in fast food joints.

The actor is ready to disqualify the diner from any further consideration. He decides that his remaining time will be spent in the John where he can tag the walls with his trademark inscription, "Actor's hell!" On his way to the toilet he discovers the bar, a singularity within the establishment. There is a pool of well-defined characters; it is small enough to evaluate in one sitting and sufficiently diverse to please the most eccentric of tastes. Here is a drunk, a hooker, an electrician, a photographer, an impoverished poet-philosopher and two business pals. The actor makes this assessment within thirty seconds while awaiting the delivery of his Bud Light from the tap. He likes these people; they feel like ready-made chums of his. He turns in a half-circle and leans back on his elbows. Spotting the manager he decides that he has seen enough of the diner and is ready to negotiate his part. "I see you have a help wanted sign and I'm here to help," He addresses the manager, counting one half second to allow a response.

"Please, allow me to introduce myself," he continues, "You may have heard of me before. I've been a waiter in just about every restaurant in this neighborhood, including the Chinese-Japanese-Thai-Mexican place next door. Talk about confusing, no one speaks anyone's language. Drum roll please. But seriously folks I'm looking for work and you have work to give."

The manager is an old man named Patrick; he is one of those Americans that is part everything and identifies himself with nothing. He is short on conversation and disinterested with anything that requires abstract thinking. Baseball is the only subject that captures his higher mental faculties. Once a year he calls up the sports radio station to share his analysis of the Yankees and follows up once more if the team does not qualify for the playoffs. He has not missed a day's work in thirty-six years. He has no family, immediate or otherwise. Once in his life, when rushed by ambulance to the hospital due to severe chest pains, he was traumatized enough to desire a consultation with a priest. He was advised to seek god and to act moral, but no one visited him while he was sick. One week later his absence and return seemed inconsequential to the operation of the restaurant.

Sitting on a high stool, reading the sports section of the Daily News Patrick looks like melting whipped cream with paper stuck inside. It does not seem that he can safely move his body into another position. The actor does not observe how incapable Patrick is of reciprocating in conversation. "This is our routine," the actor says, "our shtick, our act, our rapport defined by symbiosis, though at times it will appear you are the parasite and at other times it will be I who is parasitic, or so it will seem as such. I make the jokes at your expense while you ignore me. I get frustrated and walk out on you all of the time." Ending his monologue, the actor laughs to himself, content with his performance. A flash of joy spreads across his lips as he imagines the reaction of his friends witnessing his show. It then occurs to him that he needs a real denouement, something to throw the whole story over the top. Colliding with a beautiful, hard working Puerto-Rican waitress named Alice would be a perfect scenario. She would drop all of her dishes and he would glide her smoothly into a waltz. At first she would be infuriated by his crass arrogance, but his undeniable charm would overcome her hostility. Finally, they would dance their way to happiness, winning Patrick over instantaneously. "If you can make Alice happy, "he would say, "then you are hired, young man." This perfect finale for a pilot episode is abruptly deconstructed by hot coffee.

The actor cannot find the villain responsible for spilling the steaming black beverage all over his pants; the diner is operating too fast. The three dishwashers are all equidistant from his location; they are busy with their labor, focused on the stability of the heavy bins they carry in their hands. Their eyes are turned away from anyone's line of sight; the actor cannot see their desperation. The six disheveled waitresses dash past the actor's left and right with trays tenuously balanced on overstrained wrists. It could easily be one of them; they go about their work as though nothing else exists. The actor would like to yell at someone, to hold someone responsible for the lack of professionalism that he is experiencing. He cannot attain anyone's attention. He cries out, "Well I hope you enjoy your food," but cannot raise his voice above the hypnotizing, disharmonious crescendo of customers' conversations. He storms out, heading for his next audition.

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Biography

Joshua Lefkowitz is resides in New York City where he writes in his spare time. His work has appeared in other literary and online journals such as Encounters, New Graffiti and Conspire.