To those who knew Hoodie Reynolds, seeing the guy on public transportation instead of his own car would’ve been akin to seeing a dog on its hind legs (a mangy, 13-year old dog who’d never learned a single trick in its life) and yet here he was, stripped of the protective metal armor he called his car. And it wasn’t even technically his car. It was a loan in good faith; the drug lord he worked for would allow him to endorse the impression that he was, in fact, the proud owner of a Ford Gran Torino in exchange for his services and keeping his mouth shut. Which was a tall order—when does he ever keep his mouth shut?—so it was in moments like these that he wondered if it as all worth it, moments when he was forced to take the subway at oh-dark-fucking-thirty because he had to make a delivery in Staten Island and there was no way in fresh hell he was going to leave his boss’ car parked at the ferry. Lots of shady characters hang out at the ferry terminal. And he would know, he was one of them.
But also. There were shady characters in empty subway cars, too. Apart from him, of course, and he was too tired to pretend to look menacing so he didn’t get sticked up for fifteen dollars and an expired coupon for a plate of cheesy fries.
“You want me to what?” Hoodie said, head leaned back on the window, chin tilted up at the lights as he loosely held the pole next to him. “Do I fuckin’ look like some Brando to you?”
.
Growing up in New York City, rudeness from strangers was to be expected. It was still a little disconcerting when they were beautiful strangers. He expected this guy’s Prince-Charming-looking-ass to act at least a little charming, but he was treated to the old New-Yorker attitude. It was disappointing and it only made his already foul mood worse. He didn’t need this type of negative energy before an audition. He should have known better than to try and talk to people.
“Jeez, alright. Fine. Forget I asked.” He retorted, hands raised in surrender as he leaned back in his seat. “Not so much Brando, but maybe a little Sebastian Stan.” He added in a playful manner, hoping to ease the one-sided tensions. “You hate plays or something?”
Lucas nervously chewed on the back of a neon yellow highlighter while his eyes skimmed the page. It was better to risk the pen exploding in his mouth than getting into the bad habit of biting his nails again-- his oral fixation needed some kind of fill. He already knew the script back to back but his mind blanked every time he had an audition. There was no such thing as learning too much he figured, but the more he read the scene over, the less confident he felt.
The subway car was uncharacteristically empty for New York City, but then again, it was also two am in the morning. He looked over to the only other person in the car and cleared his throat loudly to get their attention. “Excuse me, would you like to run lines with me? I’ve got an audition for this thing in the morning...”
( BRANDON LARRACUENTE + CIS MALE ) — Have you seen LUCAS MORALES? This TWENTY-FOUR year old is a PERSONAL TRAINER/ASPIRING ACTOR who resides in BROOKLYN. HE has been living in NYC for HIS WHOLE LIFE, and is known to be HARD-WORKING and FRIENDLY, but can also be RECKLESS and STUBBORN, if you cross them. People tend to associate them with WORKOUT PLAYLISTS and AUDITION WAITING ROOMS —
.tw domestic violence (skip the strikethroughed part if you wouldn’t like to read it)
@codstarters
Lucas is the oldest son of Gloria and Eduardo Morales. Their family moved from Puerto Rico to NYC when he was only eight years old. He doesn’t remember much about his hometown but he plans on visiting someday.
His father worked as a truck driver and was often gone for long periods of time. Whenever he was away, Lucas was the man of the house. He was in charge of paying the bills, helping his mother with the children and running errands outside. His mom was not allowed out of the house and, back then, it never struck him as odd. It was the only normal he knew.
Their family was happy most of the time. Then there were the times his father would arrive drunk and yell at his mother, accusing her of cheating on him while he was away or making eyes at the neighbors. His mom would tell Lucas to take his siblings away and he would take them to his bedroom where they sat down and watched DVDs together. Those children’s movies weren’t exactly a sixteen year old’s idea of entertainment but they helped him escape.
He felt guilty every time there was a new bruise on his mother but he was too afraid of his father to stand up to him. And he loved the man’s good side, the one that provided to them and joked around with him. This was the same man that didn’t hesitate to hug him when he came out to him. It was only when he was drunk that he turned into a different person. He thought they could live through it, maybe help him quit drinking.
One momentous night, Lucas arrived home later than usual after being out with some friends only to find his mom was badly beaten on the kitchen floor while his little sister bawled. He saw red and before he could process what the hell had happened, he had his drunk father pinned down to the floor and beat him until his knuckles bled. The neighbors barged into the Morales home after his little sister ran outside screaming for help and pulled him off his father. He believes he would have killed him had they not intervened.
The police was called, his father rushed off to the hospital and, as for Lucas, he was arrested. His mother refused to say anything to the police, his six year old sister was not a reliable source and the only witness testimony they had were from the neighbors that walked in on him almost killing his father with his bare hands.
He was sent to juvie for about six months which felt more like six years and his life was never the same once he got out. The judge didn’t allow him to move back in with his father nor did his family seem to want him back because they never tried to contact him. He was placed with an Uncle instead.
His uncle was a nice enough guy, never married, a bit of a gambling addict. There were no rules in his house except one: Lucas had to get a job. The only thing that would be provided for him was a roof over his head, everything else he had to work for.
He worked part-time flipping burgers for awhile until a good friend of his hooked him up with a better job at a restaurant/video store place. He got to sit at the counter and watch movies most of the day. It was a sweet gig.
It was during one of those long shifts while watching John Travolta thrust his hips at Jamie Lee Curtis that he realized what he wanted to do with his life: He wanted to be an actor.
The obvious course of action for a wannabe actor would have been LA but he never cared much for the West Coast and he had no money to move out there. Plus, there was nothing wrong with starting out in theater even if Broadway was not exactly his cup of tea.
He dropped out of high school as soon as he turned eighteen. He was behind in his studies due to his time in juvie and he didn’t wanna waste anymore time in school. There would be no use for a diploma once he became a Hollywood star.
His good looks landed him some gigs as a model but they weren’t ever big jobs and a lot of the times they paid in exposure or, as was the case of this one local restaurant, a meal.
He’s watched the interviews, seen the movies about struggling actors-- he knows how hard it is to get started in the business but he didn’t know it would be this hard.
His other passion in life, fitness, started while he was in juvie. Working out helped him with his anger and he liked feeling stronger, healthier. He became a little obsessed with working on his body.
Tired of working at a minimum wage job, Lucas took a personal trainer course. There was, however, the small matter of a high school diploma being required. Luckily, one of his buddies sold him a forged copy and he was able to finish the course.
He currently works as a personal trainer to mostly older, rich, Upper East Side women. Their husbands are never happy when they see him but little do they know that he’d rather sleep with them than their wives.
