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When Mandelbaum saw the audition notice in the trades, he knew he was perfect for the part. He knew he would be triumphant in it. He knew that he must have it. What he didn’t know was how to insure the director’s compliance: directors in Mandelbaum’s experience, more often than not, were notoriously unable to recognize the treasure emoting before them. Was there not his failure to get even so much as a callback when he read for Lear in the Imaginary Shakespeare Company’s production? Had there not been the fiasco of the Long Island City Community Players offer of Dr. Baugh after his searing reading of Big Daddy? Had he not in vain waited for the ringing phone to call him for Long Days’ Journey, for Desire Under the Elms, for–why rehash ancient history? That some two bit director was not always the best judge of talent was a given. Talent was not enough. An actor, even such an actor as Mandelbaum, needed something more, something to grab the Philistine by the scruff of his neck and say to him: “Here is your man. Your search is over.” An electric monologue wouldn’t do it. A brilliant cold reading wasn’t enough. Nor was inspired improvisation, no matter how creative. These he had tried and they had failed him. No something more, something more was necessary. But what was that something more to be? Mandelbaum’s first thought was attire. He would wear something in character, something eye catching, something memorable. But then he remembered he had rented that tuxedo for his audition that piece of Noel Coward’s, and the kilts for Macbeth, and the toga for–well obviously, costume was not the answer. A gift perhaps? Too much like a bribe. Besides there was the bottle of Merlot he had given the casting director of that Mamet play without generating so much as a thank you let alone a phone call. Possibly he might make contact with someone close to the director–a friend, a loved one–someone who could speak a good word for him, plant a seed so to speak. Of course that would presuppose he could find out who the director was and then that person close to the director willing to speak a good word for Mandelbaum, at best a mannerly stranger. An anonymous call to the theater heralding Mandelbaum’s genius: who would listen. He could purchase an ad–a full page even–in that very trade in which he had seen the audition notice, but then after all is said and done what is the worth of self praise. That first night he went to bed with a head full of rejected possibilities, and the second night as well, but on the third night–sometime around 4:34 in the morning–there came to him, like a single snow flake falling from the cold night sky the beginning of a glimmer of a glint of an idea, an idea that so excited him that no longer could he remain is his bed under the cover of his soft down quilt, but he must get himself up, brush the night’s taste out of his mouth, brew a pot of fresh ground coffee and nurture this glimmer into a plan. That it had taken him so long to arrive at what was so obvious now that it had come to him left him sipping his coffee in amazement. How often is it that we fail to see what should be so blatantly obvious to us? What was needed was to get some attention. Once he had that, the rest would take care of itself. And what better way to get attention, Mandelbaum had recognized with that glint of an idea, than the threat of . . . well, the threat of force: a gun for example. The problem was that a gun was something alien to Mandelbaum, not only did he not own one, he had not the least idea where to get one, and if he had, he hadn’t the slightest idea of how to use one. Of course he didn’t actually intend to use it, it was merely to get their attention: still one never knew what might happen with firearms, stories of inadvertent shootings abounded. And should, for some unforeseeable reason, the gun go off, it was as likely to be Mandelbaum shot as anyone else. Indeed even if it was someone else, that someone else’s shooting would most certainly put an end to any chance Mandelbaum might have at getting the part. Guns were not an option. A second cup of coffee suggested some sort of explosive. Mandelbaum knew nothing of explosives, but he had heard that all the information one might need was available in books and magazines and electronically on the internet. He was far from a dummy. If third world terrorists and high school outcasts could fashion such devices, Mandelbaum was certain he could as well. Making a bomb was not the problem: the possibility that he might succeed was the problem. Bombs after all have a way of going off. And when they do, they are as likely to take with them the bomber as well as the bombed. Again, a prospect not to Mandelbaum’s taste. It was only when he realized that what was important was the threat of the gun, the threat of the bomb, not the reality–since neither one nor the other was in fact intended to be used–that the glimmer glowed bright with the dawn. Was he not an actor? He did not need a real bomb. What he needed was to convince that he had a real bomb, to persuade that he would surely make use of that bomb were he not taken seriously, and to create with that conviction the attention that would get him an audience alert and attuned. In short the actor needed to act. Here was a part almost as worthy as that which he coveted. With that, Mandelbaum began his process. He was Mandelbaum the Bomber. What did he want, this Bomber? What had he, Mandelbaum, ever wanted so badly that he would bomb for it? Back into his past memories he explored, searching for the experiences which would stamp his performance with the imprimatur of authenticity. His body became the body of a the Bomber. His voice spoke with the Bomber’s accent and inflection. His steps and carriage were the Bomber’s steps and carriage. Mandelbaum looked into the mirror, and having made his choices, and made them well, Mandelbaum the actor found staring back at him, Mandelbaum the Bomber. The audition, what audition, the performance was the pinnacle of Mandelbaum’s acting career. Even when they discovered there were no explosives in the back pack that Mandelbaum had planted on the stage next to him while he delivered his monologue–Prospero’s farewell somewhat fittingly, he could still detect the fear in their eyes. Even as they led him out of the auditorium handcuffed between two young police officers, he could smell the terrified bodies of those left behind. He could hear the whispering relief as he moved closer and closer to the door. And he laughed, at first to himself, then lowly and then peals of loud and raucous laughter, and the loud and raucous laughter that he heard was the laughter of the madhouse. Mandelbaum the actor had become Mandlebaum the Madman.
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