Crimestoppers
Small Town, Stolen Wheels: How A Rash Of Lawn Mower Thefts Set Me On A Path That Changed My Life Forever
Tuesday, October 12th, 1993.
10th grade.
A day like any other, probably.
Indian Summer had just packed her shit and left us as the brisk Fall mornings arrived to remind us that soon this place would be covered with five feet of snow.
I woke up with just enough time to pop the zits on my face, throw no-name cereal down my throat, and find something clean enough off my bedroom floor to throw on my awkward and chubby teenage body.
My friend Duane and his mom Bonnie picked me up in the morning, every morning. Bonnie drove. Duane sat next to her in the front seat, usually angry after they’d fought their way out the door, usually with Duane blaming Bonnie for how hard their lives were.
Bonnie was a rock, a saint, as tough as they come. I wonder how she’s doing these days.
We got to school. Stood by our lockers. We talked loudly about hockey and girls and gangster rap because that’s what a couple of kids in Northwestern Ontario did back in 1993.
For the record, I grew up on the west side of my town but am Team Biggie til I die.
Mornings always dragged.
High school was kinda bullshit to me. I had three classes that I knew would never be a material part of my life - math, chemistry, and geography. Geography. The most perplexing of higher education studies - if maps already existed, why do I need to know where Iran is? Can’t I buy a plane ticket and fly there? Am I walking there without direction? Would I ever be in a situation where I’d be forced to walk from Northwestern Ontario with a backpack full of my meagre belongings and find it all on my own? Okay. I’ve made it to Thunder Bay. I’ve now walked to Parry Sound, Ottawa, Montreal, and Halifax. Shit, there’s an ocean but I don’t know which one it isq. If ONLY I had paid attention in 10th-grade geography. I have no idea where I’m headed next. Iran, where are youuuuuuuuu?
Lunch meant driving around in Ben Peart’s rusted-out Camero while listening to gangster rap without the context behind the raps. We’d crush cheap fries and cheeseburgers from McDonald’s and race back for 4th period. Drama class.
I was a bit early for class on this day, so I found a quiet corner to sleep off my cheeseburger lunch. Shortly into my daze, I could hear a slow but intentional shuffling across the floor. Ms. Tomczak’s Birkenstock-clad feet floated over to me as her blanket smock and pants outfit fell around her as she crossed the high school drama room floor.
“Hello, Ryan. You’re well,” she stated.
“I think so,” I replied not knowing whether she was asking me or telling me.
“Great. There’s an audition in town that I think you’d be great for,” she smiled.
“What do I have to do for an audition,” I asked quietly.
“You’ll probably have to prepare by memorizing the script, and you should have a few different reads ready to show the director you have the range to play the character you’d be considered for,” Ms. Tomczak explained.
I kicked the heels of my Reebok pumps (tennis pumps to be exact, there was no Footlocker for 500 miles, I bought what the one store in town had) off the drama room floor and, without looking up, said, “I’ve never memorized a script before.”
I couldn’t believe it. I was 14, and my big break was knocking on my door. From the moment Ms. Tomczak said the words “audition,” I was in.
I acted (see what I did there) disinterested and nonchalant about the whole thing. I didn’t let on that I was ecstatic.
“I’ll think about it, I have hockey practice and work, and I always have to shovel for my dad,” I explained, letting her know how busy I was.
“It’s for a commercial. A TV commercial,” she continued. “It’s a three-day shoot, and it’s a paid opportunity. You’d have to get your parents to bring you down to sign the forms. These are the sides you need to memorize if you’re interested.”
She handed me the papers and turned quickly. “All right, find a mat, hit the floor. We’re going to breathe,” she clapped at a furious pace as she hit play on her favourite Enya CD .
I fucking loved that Enya album. What’s it called?
I found a mat. I hit the floor. A dream was born.
I was going to be a professional actor.
I was 14, and I had already made it. Incredible.
After school, I had to work at Howarth’s Home Centre, where I delivered furniture and fridges and swept floors and sold headphones and TVs. That night I delivered some furniture and swept some floors all the while sneaking glances at the script sides I had folded up and put in my back pocket. I was already memorizing my lines, all four of them.
After work, hockey practice. The whole practice I was rehearsing the line, “Quick, let’s get outta here before the cops come.” I was discovering my inner Robert De Niro that night on the ice.
I went home that night and practiced the four lines of dialogue over and over again. Bleary-eyed, and with my head full of reads, I fell asleep with the papers on my chest.
“Quick let’s get outta here before the cops come.”
“Get the John Deere, it’s a nice one.”
“The door is locked.”
“Steve, the door is locked.”
I slept like a baby that night. I was prepared for the audition and ready to embrace my future as an actor in Fort Frances, ON.
I woke up feeling like a million bucks. I got a ride to the Cable 9 station, the local cable access channel where the auditions were taking place.
I had butterflies in my stomach and suddenly, I couldn’t remember any of the words I had worked so hard to memorize the night before. What happened to the words?
I stood outside the door of the cable access building in the east end of town and poured over my script one more time. The sentences were bleeding into each other, and suddenly, I felt lost.
“John, dear. The door is locked.”
“Quick, Steve. Let’s get outta here before the door is locked.”
“The John Deere is locked and the cops are coming and Steve it a nice one.”
I was a mess.
The director came outside to retrieve me. “McMahon? Are you Ryan? Are you here for the audition?” “Yes,” I whimpered as I slowly shuffled inside.
I made my way up the stairs and into the studio. There was one camera and some white tape on the floor. The director moved behind the camera, turned it on, hit record and told me to stand on the tape.
This was my moment.
“Okay, Ryan. Thanks for coming this morning. Whenever you’re ready, just begin from the top of the script.”
I took a deep breathe.
I closed my eyes. Just like I was instructed to do in drama class.
I let the soothing sounds of Enya fill my spirit.
I acted my fucking ass off that morning.
About 4 minutes later, I was covered in sweat. I was on the floor. I had just delivered the line, “Quick, Steve. Get the John Deere, it’s a nice one. Let’s get out of here before the cops come,” with masterful precision…even if that wasn’t the line. My god, it was perfect.
I rose from the floor, breathless. Stunned. I did it. I nailed the audition.
The director clapped once. Literally, he just clapped once. I thought it was for me, but it turned out to be for sound sync.
At any rate, he told me I got the part.
The other guy hadn’t shown up.
I was cast in the role of Disaffected Native Youth Suffering At The Unbearable Weight Of Colonization and Forced Assimilation, So Turned To The Very Desperate And Unfortunate World Of Small Time Petty Crime And Lawn Mower Theft, Resulting In Charges Of Theft Under 5000 Dollars, All Because This Young Man Was Crying Out To Be Hugged And Told All Would Be Okay In The World But Didn’t Have That So Instead Threw His Life Away By Breaking Into The Local Lawn Mower Shop While Snapped Up On Four Coors Lights On A Friday Night.
I was typed cast.
I still can’t believe it.
Dreams do come true.
If not for racist typecasting, you never woulda got your ACTRA card?