I finally found you, Michael, you bastard. Starring in Fences at the Barnhouse Community Theatre in Plano, Texas, no less.

Did you think you could get away with this, Michael? You’re an even bigger idiot than I imagined if you thought I could be fooled by your “authentic responses” in those Chevy commercials.

My family was convinced you all really were “real people, not actors.” Even after I tracked down almost every single one of you, they still held on to the belief that maybe one or two of you were real, normal, car-loving people.

My family was wrong. Literally every single one of you is an actor. And now I can rub their gullible little faces in that.

I think the expression should be amended to be, “a good man is hard to find, and a good actor may never be found at all.”

What I don’t get is why anyone believed the whole shtick in the first place. I mean, Rachel Schnacky from the Silverado commercial starred in a movie alongside Ben Affleck not two years after that commercial aired.

“It’s the same girl!” I screamed at my family, pointing at two pictures of Ms. Schnacky on my corkboard, one of whom was from the commercial and the other who was from the movie with Ben, the photos connected by a line of red string.

Somehow, they still couldn’t see the glaring similarities. They kept on saying, “That’s not her. Rachel is a real person. The other girl—she’s just an actor.”

For a while there, I thought I’d gone crazy. What else are you supposed to think after spending three months in a motel outside of Los Angeles stalking “Jerry”—Paolo Rosso—while pretending to be a casting director, waiting for him to respond to your audition notice? (He drives a fucking Mini Cooper, by the way, not a Chevy.)

I was ready to throw in the towel. Admit to myself that I’d wasted a lot of savings on a bunch of casting director outfits I’d never wear again. Then that fateful knock came. Paolo strolled into my filthy motel room with—you guessed it—audition sides in his hands.

Everything about him was actor-y, from the dead look in his eyes all the way down to stupid way his feet fidgeted nervously as he read from the script for me…

You can understand why I might be so elated as to pop open a bag of Franzia right in the middle of the “audition.” (Because I’d spent so much money on those outfits, I had to settle for Franzia. It’s actually not that bad if you mix it with Diet Coke.)

But that was a mistake. Before I blacked out, I asked Paolo to fill out a form. At the end of the form were two boxes next to the statements, “I am a real person,” and “I am an actor.”

Because I was so drunk on boxed wine and Diet Coke, I didn’t look to see which box he checked before he left. He checked both.

I was livid with myself. I was livid with the Franzia, too, for that matter. I haven’t had a sip of alcohol since then—but I just might tonight.

Because you see, Michael, you were a hard one to find. I’ve heard people say “a good man is hard to find,” but I think this should be amended to be, “a good man is hard to find, and a good actor may never be found at all.” I saw your performance as Troy. It was one of the most moving performances I’ve ever seen in my life.

It’s no wonder you stayed hidden from me all these years: you portray a real person better than anyone I’ve ever seen. For a moment, up there on stage, you felt more real than even I did—a feeling I can’t seem to shake off. You’ve come a long way since that commercial, Michael.

I need you to fill out a form before I go. Yes, it’s the same form Paolo incorrectly filled out, but I think we both know which box you need to check.

I’m deeply sorry there isn’t an “I am a great actor,” option. I never thought I’d come across one. Until I met you, Michael.

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