Me and Brad Pitt

About a year and a half ago I was accosted in the street by a total stranger, some old hippy guy. “Wooaa, stop man stop,” he said. I stopped, expecting him to speak, but he just stood there, staring at my shadow, muttering “perfect, perfect.”

“Can I help?” I asked. The words hung around in the air for a while, not doing much.

Eventually, still without so much as taking his eye of my shadow for a second, he passed me his business card. “I’m Brad Pitt’s agent,” he said, “I may have a role for you in a project he’s shooting. Meet me at this address at 8.15 tomorrow morning.”

I thought he’d finished, but he took out his phone and snapped pictures; not of my, but of my shadow. I was somewhat confused.

I phoned in work and took the morning off, saying I had a dental appointment.

When I arrived at the offices I was astonished to be greeted not just by the agent, but by Brad Pitt himself.

"Mr Pitt", I said, "it's an honour to meet you. I'm a real fan of your work. Fight Club is my all time favourite movie."

He ignored me. Just as his agent had the day before he spent the whole time staring at my shadow.

"That's amazing," he said eventually to his agent. "But can it act?"

It? Was he calling me an it?

"Mr Pitt would like you to try some simple acting techniques. If you would stand behind him, copy his moves exactly and I will film your work."

I stood behind the Hollywood legend Brad Pitt. When he laughed I laughed, as he cried I cried, when he hopped on one leg so did I. Together we went through the whole remit of emotions and bodily positions.

When we were finished Pitt and his agent watched the film agog. Eventually Brad said "That's enough," stood up and left without saying a word to me. Oh well, I thought, at least I'll have a story to tell, at least I'll be able to tell my children about the time I failed an audition for Brad Pitt.

"Do you have a name?" his agent said.

"Terrence," I said, "Terrence Oblong."

"What do you do for a living Mr Oblong? How much do you earn?"

"I work for a charity," I said, "I campaign for a better deal for disabled people."

"That must be so rewarding for you. You can't put a price on work like that, knowing that thanks to your efforts disabled people are going to live better, happier lives. How about £100,000?”

“£100,000?” I asked, confused.

“£100,000 to quit your job for the charity and appear in a movie with Mr Pitt? If it works out, it’ll be an ongoing deal, heck we might even pay more next time. If it doesn’t, well it’s a month’s shooting, you could just take it as annual leave and go back to work.”

“Erm, wow, I guess a month’s leave should be okay, I’m due a stack of flexitime. But is that it? Is that my audition?”

He laughed mercilessly for several minutes. “Oh dear, oh dear Mr Oblong, we absolutely do not want you for your acting skills. You are hopeless. Frankly you couldn’t even hop properly, you were using the wrong leg.”

“So, erm, why are you paying me £100,000?” Even by Hollywood’s standards it was quite an extravagant use of money.

“We want your shadow Mr Oblong. It’s wonderful, it fits Mr Pitt perfectly. He’s so natural with it, it could be his own.”

“Erm, what happened to his shadow?”

“Ah, that’s a sad story. It never worked out. It just looked wrong. It was too dumpy, too forlorn. It just got in the way. Ever since the early days they’ve been editing his shadow out, using CGI or stunt shadows in its place. And last year they finally got divorced. He doesn’t have a shadow now.”

“Wow. So, erm, I get to hang out on a film set with Brad Pitt, get £100,000 for a month’s work and don’t even have to act.” It was a difficult decision. I had to weigh my own personal gain against my lifelong commitment to disabled people. “I’ll do it.”

And so I did, and my shadow was used, saving the studio something like $5 million in CGI effects, I was hired again, this time £250,000 for a blockbuster, and again for £25,000 for an arthouse number.

I quit my job, but frankly I never enjoyed the Hollywood lifestyle. I was treated like a nothing, it wasn’t just Brad who ignored me, the Director only spoke at me to bark orders about the positioning of my shadow, I was hardly spoken to by anyone on the set. I wasn’t even entitled to lunch or drinks or anything, as it was my shadow that was hired and shadows don’t eat or drink. Frankly I was treated as if I was nothing more than the woman carrying Julia Roberts’ breasts, or the girl with Demi Moore’s bum. To them I was just meat. Meat with a shadow.

My shadow loved it though. He was in every photo shoot, every frame of film. Even scenes in the dark, you could make out a shadowy different darkness. My shadow was a fucking star. Other than being with me at all times, we had nothing in common. He treated me like David Cameron treats Nick Clegg: necessary but useless.

After half a dozen films his solicitor got in touch. He wanted a Separation Order, essentially a divorce. He was going to become permanently attached to Brad.

Brad’s agency cushioned the deal with a £2 million pay off. I took the cheque straight to the bank, I was sad to see the shadow go but you have to move on don't you.

I see them now, on screen together, and I have to admit that they’re perfect for each other. Me, I’ve decided to live without a shadow for a while, enjoy the freedom, spend the money. Hey, maybe I’ll even find time to write that novel I always threatened to write. And yes, I do mean it as a threat.