The gag was that Quasimodo’s hump was really a box of Cheez-Its that he whipped out and noshed on like a couch potato. George did a great turn, morphing into the archetypcal crotch-scratching male at the end of the bit. How to top that sucker? Well, I got down and dirty, in major bell-ringer mode, then after yanking out the Cheez-Its box from beneath my shirt, I plonked down, stared at an imaginary TV and babbled, “Go Lakers, dude!” Big laughs.
On my way out, the director and I gabbed about the connections between the Nazis and Prescott Bush, Bechtel’s role in Iraq, the greatness of Nick Drake and of Joy Division. He’d never heard of the latter group, but loved finding out that the name comes from the section of concentration camps set aside for prostitution. Of course, being angry old lefties, we feverishly discussed Dick Cheney’s right-wing Project for a New American Century as the actors in waiting stared nervously at the audition-room door. He was a cool cat, that director. I felt as if I’d made a friend.
If only I had gotten the job.
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