I’ve always been destined for greatness. It just hasn’t happened yet. I came the closest in middle school, when I begged my parents to sign me with a talent agent. As a mediocre actor with absolutely no musical ability, I had no discernible talents an agent could peddle. I starred in my fair share of school drama productions, but only because males in the department were so freakishly rare. Ten years after the fact, I still wake in a cold sweat, sheets hobbling my ankles, as I relive (with striking clarity) my disastrous stint as Seymour in my school’s production of Little Shop of Horrors.
Playing the part required no huge stretch of the imagination. Slap on a fistful of hair gel, deftly curled cow lick, a pair of tortoise shell glasses, and I became the dictionary definition of nerd. They cast me, essentially, to play a role I already played beyond convincingly in real life. Looking the part was simple. Acting the part, however, demanded far more courage than I held in reserve. For an introverted social outcast, Seymour had an inordinate number of solos demanding all eyes on him.
From the start, doubt crippled my performance. I was a boy among men, the cast filled by both middle and high schoolers (the speaking roles generally doled out to the junior and seniors … somehow I snuck through that filter). My body had barely begun to contemplate puberty, let alone pump my body full of deep, rich, masculine testosterone. Unable to get through a spoken sentence without my voice cracking, I had no hope of holding a sustained sung note.
And rhythm. My dear lord, did I ever lack rhythm. Step-ball-change, kick kick, sashay, tappa tappa tappa. These terms meant nothing to me. The choreographer learned early on to expect very little from me, and simplified my dance numbers to periodic shouts from the darkened wings: “Bryan! Just stand still and try not to look so awkward!”
My father, in a misguided show of paternal pride, filmed all three of the performances and screened them for anyone expressing the slightest interest. Incidentally, not many people expressed the slightest interest. Months earlier my family agreed to host a visiting Yale Wiffenpoof, the elite acapella group slated to perform at my school. Unfortunately for him, his visit coincided with Little Shop’s opening to a lukewarm audience. I returned home from the cast party to find my Technicolor humiliation shuffling across the TV for the traveling troubadour’s amusement. Mortified, I slunk into the living room to see my pasty, pudgy self warbling off-key, a look of bemused confusion on our guest’s face. Both my parents, bless ‘em, beamed with pride.
“Dad! Turn it off!” I shrieked, my voice cracking to add unintentional emphasis to my embarrassment. “Don’t make him watch that!” It caused me physical pain to watch myself, and I knew someone who actually could sing was wracking his brains for some polite critique of my phenomenally unremarkable musical talent.
“No, no,” he assured my dad. “I’m fine.” Fine. The catch-all, non-committal word, underlined with an unspoken “But I sure wouldn’t have any objections to you turning this off.”
The private screening of my own personal hell heralded the end of my stint in musical theater; my career on the great stages of Broadway died gasping its first breath, screeching a note never before heard by the human ear. So musicals were out, but straight up acting still offered me my glittering future.
I knew I could deliver a line convincingly. I managed to beat out the Brazilian student for the role of Seymour only by the grace of my acting chops. That and the fact that his spoken English sounded like a man fresh from the dentist with a mouth numbed by Novocain. Ironically, he was cast to play the masochistic dentist. I remained confident I could play any role thrown my way … as long as it involved no singing.
And thus began my campaign for a talent agent. I had no schemes to land myself in a summer blockbuster, nor did I want to make my rounds in commercials hawking snack packs or Sunny Delight. I didn’t want power lunches with Hollywood movers and shakers, nor did I want to nosh with the glamorous elite. I wanted one thing and one thing only: a role on Star Trek: Deep Space 9.
If there have been any doubts up to this point about my dorkiness, let me quell them now. I will unabashedly claim my geekdom; I revel in it. I’ve been a Trekkie since the first time I heard the trumpet notes of the original opening theme. I squealed with joy when I first saw the trailer for the revamped Star Trek movie, bringing no small amount of embarrassment to my date. I am well-versed in lore and trivia. I do indeed know the trouble with Tribbles, I can list with unquestionable authority all of Dax’s symbiotic hosts, I will stand in strong defense of Captain Janeway’s managerial capabilities, and I will always wonder why Deanna Troy ever deserved a senior position on the bridge.
I knew with my sights set on the Deep Space 9 soundstage (a veritable tractor beam of focus and determination) nothing could stand in my way -- nothing except my parents.
My parents rolled their eyes when I first told them of my intent to be the latest great actor delivering the opening speech at Star Trek conventions scattered in strip malls across the greater Midwest. Even though I knew with absolute certainty that legions of adoring fans (dressed as my complex yet loveable character) would beg for both my autograph and attention, my parents remain coolly skeptical.
“Bryan, this is a phase.”
“Star Trek is not a phase!” I countered. “It’s one of the longest-running franchises in television history!”
“What happened to the dream of playing violin in Carnegie Hall?”
“The chin rest gave me a crick in my neck.”
“Playing back-up guitar for Belinda Carlisle?”
“The string popped when I was tuning it; I could have been blinded! I’m scared now.”
“Being a vet for the Ringling Brothers & Barnum and Bailey Circus?”
“I don’t trust elephants. The clowns freak me out too.”
My parents are dream crushers.
I shelved my dreams of gallivanting across the universe. If my parents refused to pay to have me discovered, dreaming would only spiral me further into my well of depression. My rehearsed interview with Matt Lauer and Katie Couric would never air. Rosie O’Donnell would never fling a Koosh ball my way and ask how it felt as the youngest cadet out of Starfleet Academy. My star on the Hollywood Walk of Fame would go to someone else. I would forever eek out a commoner’s existence, gazing into the stars at night, wondering “What if?”
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