Actor Without a Role

He waited for the President of the “Albuquerque Miko Minions” to introduce him. Standing in the corridor, his costume thinned and fading, he couldn’t afford another; that was the reason he was here; free meals, a night in a place with working plumbing.

The President of the “Minions”, bloated with the “power” of office, should of spoken no longer than to introduce Simon Powel, not go through the domestic history of his incumbency.

Simon felt hot and dizzy standing outside of the meeting room. He wanted to sit down, he wanted to sleep. He had cashed the plane ticket, bought a ride on a bus, thinking he’d save the difference. The cost of a cab from the bus station to the airport, (where he’d be met by the President and his Executive) left him with ten dollars difference and feeling the way one would who had spent two days on a bus.

Anxiety boiled; he couldn’t breathe, used the worn mantra to calm himself; “Nothing is Important, Nothing is Urgent.” It wasn’t “stage fright”, it was “flop sweat”, and not for this trivial appearance, but his life. Simon Powel, who was about to welcomed and cheered as the Messiah by his fans, was the biggest loser in this Motel for losers.

The guy who would mop the floor after the meeting, the fans who would go back to being clerks or cashiers, had lives. He didn’t. He was an actor without a role.

It was more than a year since the last episode of ‘Crossworlds’ had aired, two years since he had been a member of the cast.  Years since he’d been Simon Powell.

As he heard the cue, he came stomping into the room. Forty seven people cheered. He made Miko’s trademark signal; arms out, bent at the elbow, fists pointing to the ceiling, stiffly drop right shoulder, drop left, meaning he was ‘gearing up’.

The audience shrieked, many imitating the gesture. He wiped “Miko”s’ glower from his face, smiled as Simon, and the audience quieted. They didn’t want Simon Powel, they wanted “Miko”.

Simon Powel sank onto the high stool that had been placed for him, (at his request), while the President babbled. He sat, looking at his boots, wondering if the patches of electric tape were visible. Then the microphone was offered. He took it, glowered at the audience and growled; “What you want!” They became giddy again, shouting, “Miko! Miko!” standing and clapping, turning to each other with smiles on their faces.

It would not be so intolerable if Simon Powel was a sci-fi fan. But he had dismissed science fiction, whether book, movie or television program, as cartoon. He was a “serious” actor. He would to do Shakespeare and Miller. He’d taken the role of “Miko” because he was desperate. He had classified the role as “fill-in” until other parts came along.
There hadn’t been other parts.

This group, as the others at Crossworld Conventions or Miko Fan Clubs, had him as the center of their universe. No. Not him. The Character of Miko. This crowd didn’t care about Simon Powel, if he ate, if he had a place to sleep. This crowd cared about Miko, their questions were about Miko. About episodes and expressions, lines Miko had said. They knew more about Miko then he did.

Once asked to speak to a group in Tulsa, he destroyed his chances of being invited back by appearing as Simon. The smile he had made a few minutes ago had been the offer to expose the man behind the character. They turned it down.
They didn’t want Simon Powel, they wanted Miko.
 So here, for the next block of time, he would be Miko.

He endeavored not see the pathos, tried to find something new or interesting, but heard it all many times before. He wished this “convention” would end, he was starving. He hadn’t eaten for six hours. That had been a bag of fries, because he couldn’t afford a burger. Abruptly, Simon turned to the President, as if called. The President, proud to be noted by the Great Miko, leaned towards him.

“I’m starving,” Simon says, “can we continue this discussion over dinner”.
 ”Um, we didn’t get enough members to have the banquet. I can buy your dinner, but there isn’t a banquet as we planned.”

Simon suppressed his anger. He’d looked forward to three course meals, being able to ask for seconds, now he had the impression his dinner would be in the next door diner.
 ”Get me a burger, now!” he ordered.
 ”I can’t leave!” The President exclaimed with shock that this could be suggested.

Simon glared at the audience and in Miko’s voice; “Get me something to eat! I’m starving!” as if selecting an entree.

Half the audience ran towards the door, the President called them back, but five continued to go. A fan was standing, demanding an answer to a question Simon hadn’t heard. Covering, Powel responded; “If you were called upon to answer that question, what would you say?” The fan began an exposition, which was interrupted by others who wanted their few moments of fame.

Simon watched them fight for his focus. If the world ended and he and these people were the only ones alive, he would be king. The President tried to bring order, Simon stopped him; “Let them debate the point, I find it interesting.” This encouraged the audience. Simon knew they’d be blogging until dawn, this the high point.

The food fetchers returned, Simon thanked them, took the first burger, saying to the others;
“Linger, I’ll get to you…”
 He took the first bite.  Aware he was being watched forced himself to chew before swallowing. He took his time, the first, the second, the third, answering questions between bites of the forth. He felt nauseous now, tried to hide it behind the sodas, but had to excuse himself. He displayed his cell phone, as if it had vibrated, hurried out into the bathroom to be sick.

He couldn’t remain in the safety of the booths, they’d come looking. He rinsed his mouth, returned to the meeting room trying to act cool. He took the fifth burger, ate it slowly. Time was up, they must leave the room; it had only been booked between four and six p.m.

“You still want to go to dinner?” The President asked.

“Let me change first,” Simon replied.

The President was disappointed. He didn’t want to be seen with Simon Powel, he wanted to be with Miko.

Simon went to the room he’d been assigned, took off his uniform carefully, removing the pins. He’d lost a lot of weight in the past two years. He kept his muscle tone, for that is all he had; a beautiful face, a beautiful body. Most of the forty seven wanted to join him at the diner, so he entered with an entourage.

He ordered bottled water and a salad, listened to them reveal what an impact Miko made on their lives. He felt better after he ate the salad, ordered a bowl of soup. He spoke to them, gave autographs. At nine, he decided to call it a night. He was escorted to his room, there wasn’t a female among them he would bed. He shut the door, into the shower, then into bed. There was a tapping, he wished it would go away, but it wouldn’t. He called out, a female voice answered. He called back that he would appreciate it very much if she would prevent anyone else from disturbing his sleep. Sometimes it worked. Sometimes the female would guard the door. Sometimes she’d wait a few hours, then start knocking again. Sex was so far from his mind he could be a priest. Or how he assumed a priest thought of sex.

He got a few hours before the tapping resumed. If he called the front desk, provided the phone worked, provided there was someone at the desk, provided that they would come, it would only make his circumstances worse. He took his pillow and sheet into the bathroom, lay on the floor. He had often slept on the floor of a closet, bathroom, alcove. Despite the fact he was no one as far as Hollywood was concerned, among Miko fans he was a Megastar.

He slept until woken again, the tapping now pounding, the voice belonged to the front desk shouting; “Check Out Time.” Had he slept so long? He rose, into the shower, dressed, (the same things he’d worn yesterday at the Diner), packed his Miko outfit, took the soap, (that’s all there was to take from this crummy motel) combed his hair, and stepped into the hallway in under twelve minutes. His few fans waited, the President ready to drop him at the airport. Simon was starving again. They took him to the airport, bought him breakfast, wanted to wait to see him board the plane. He ducked into a bathroom, lost them.

On the pavement, he hopped a bus which stopped ten blocks from the Greyhound Station. He began to walk. No one noticed him. He was only Simon Powel.