My mate Barney is back. Just returned from a sojourn on the Gold Coast, but on first sight, he could have just stepped off the plane from Alaska. All that’s missing is a team of huskies and a sledge.
It turns out he’s off to audition for a part in a play. So we sit in the mall’s food court sipping coffee on this balmy autumn day when a T-shirt and shorts is still the attire of choice, and we (I, at least) endure a thousand curious stares.
I have learned that if it is attention one seeks, court proximity with Barney. Some of us are born to be in the spotlight or limelight.
“Couldn’t you have dressed up at the hotel?” I ask.
The hotel, that is, where the audition is to take place in front of a casting panel of four that includes the playwright, the director, the producer and the dramaturge.
“Erm, I thought I’d put in a spot of practice before hand,” Barney replies, “plus you get a readymade audience at the mall. So I thought what the heck, let’s give it a go. So what do you think?”
I am reluctant to divulge my true thoughts so I reach for the diplomat within and say, “You’re probably wiser than others to think of a practice run like this, and braver too.”
“Oh, you know me, Kev,” says Barney, chest puffed out from the praise for his courage, “Nothing and no one phases me.”
Except, Mrs Barney, of course, whom we both — tacitly, discreetly — refrain from mentioning.
I ask Barney if he’s playing a gold prospector of yore in the forthcoming play. It turns out that — if he auditions well — Barney could get the part of a lion.
“It’s one of those fabulous ... fables!” he informs me, adding, “They are in demand these days, after The Lion King did so many sell-out shows. All this wintry fur-lined appearance is the closest thing I could find to a lion’s costume for the moment. You could say I’m a lion in winter.” As is his wont, Barney leads the laughter on his own jokes and, as is also his wont, wipes the residual tears of mirth out of his eyes long after everyone else is dry eyed.
“I’ve got to pick up a few things for the wife before I set off. Care to accompany me?” he asks, and I decline politely, holding up my half-finished Starbucks. I’m not sure I want to be auditioning for jester’s assistant this morning.
Anyhow, a week passes before I run into him again. He is, thankfully, returned to dressing as the others do, which is normally. How did the audition go? I ask. “Oh, I think I did a great job, but in the end I had to turn down their offer, Kev. I didn’t quite agree with the script.”
Which sounds to me like Barney truly didn’t perform well enough. I leave it at that, but three days later bump into Trevor, a mutual friend of ours.
“Nah, that’s not the truth, he could have had the part, it was his ego that declined it.”
Ego? Why?
“Ah,” said Trevor, “one of the scenes features the lion being tamed by a mouse. Barney couldn’t handle that. Apparently, this mouse dares to venture on to the stage on the lion’s wedding day celebrations while all the other animals are in awe and hanging well back. ‘Good luck,’ says the mouse, and the lion, enraged at the mouse’s audacity, roars and tells the mouse to get lost and be respectful whereupon the mouse replies, ‘Oh, shut up. I too was a lion before I got married’.”
It explained everything, especially the wife jokes behind Mrs Barney’s back that Barney loves to tell, like the one: I took my wife to the pictures. And pointed out the layer of dust on each one.”
That’s the real role Barney enjoys — in private. He is another version of Walter Mitty.
Kevin Martin is a journalist based in Sydney, Australia.
