Raymond (for R.G.)
By Allen Forrest
Yes, I knew him.
We met when I was casting a play.
In El Segundo, CA.
Picnic by William Inge
He came in to read for the role of Hal
he was Hal, he really was.
I didn't know it at the time,
when I cast him.
He lived a tortured life,
you don't get there entirely on your own.
You get some help at the beginning
and along the way.
Some get caught in that mess,
can't break out of it.
And end up being the victim of themselves.
He had everything.
Looks—drop dead gorgeous!
He had brains and a degree from college.
He had talent as an actor,
what he said he came to L.A. for.
Yet he missed it all forever and
by a mile.
He had everything,
everything,
except,
the one thing
you need,
the one thing you need above all else,
confidence.
It killed him slowly,
it took 49 years.
He died and never
lived his potential.
He hated something,
something deep inside,
something that held him back,
even with all his macho,
his bravado,
there was a fear inside.
Yes, I knew him.
I was close enough to witness his agony.
Standing near him on the grass
in front of the casting offices
he shook an angry impotent fist at them
and yelled out
“To hell with you bastards anyways!”
You could hear the reactions
coming out the widows,
from the secretaries,
from the assistants,
from the casting agents,
and I just stood there,
I didn't know what to say.
There was nothing to say.
Later that day
I ran into him waiting outside
where I worked.
He'd been drinking,
tried to pick a fight with me.
But I wouldn't bite.
He gave up,
a sad resignation
as he turned away.
He lived a tortured life.
As I said,
you don't get there on your own,
you have help.
I couldn't reach him,
I couldn't help him out of his mess.
Yes, I knew him.
And it hit me
rather hard
when I learned of his death
just 49 years old
just 49,
not yet 50.
He'd moved back to Portland, OR.
Worked in real estate for a while.
Then back home,
to Corvallis,
to die.
Goodbye Ray,
or as your friends called you, Rick.
Journey well.
