“I thought there was no nudity in this movie,” I tell the director.

“There isn’t.”

“What about that scene where the kid looks over at the mirror in my bedroom and sees me lying on top of him?”

The director taps his outstretched hand against his waist. “Only to here,” he says.

“Oh, okay.”

Yes, kids, bare-chested Dogpoet captured on film (er, digital video) for all time. Having a shirtless scene in a movie ( er, short film) and a potential visit from the space monkey next month has been very good for my short-term gym goals. I’m sure it’s only a matter of time till we hit Sundance. Apparently the film festival in Turin, Italy is already requesting a rough cut. I’ll be huge with the Italians, just wait. Unless they like the kid more. You know, the beauty of youth and all that.

I warm up a piece of left-over peach pie in the director’s microwave while the other actors discuss Robert Deniro.

“I was watching Godfather II the other night, he’s really amazing in that. I think it’s his best work.”

I cut into the pie. Maybe I should rent that again. Maybe I should act like Deniro next week. No, wait, that’s stupid.

“There’s that scene where he watches his baby and from that moment on he just gets more and more confident.”

“Almost like his body gets bigger.”

I’m trying to imagine how I’m gonna pull this off. The beauty of theater acting is that when you get on stage, you just go, and the play goes, and you and the audience are on a ride. This movie stuff, with the lights and the camera angles and the cuts and the jumps in time; there’s no flow there. Just lots of people holding equipment, holding their breath, as you act natural in a pool of hot light. Not that I’ve tried it yet. Just, you know, it’s what I imagine.

Excuse me, I have to work on my lines.

“I fucking love this place!”

“I fucking love this place!”

“I fucking love this place!”

Yeah, I went there. Sorry.

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