The Guy I Definitely, Possibly, Never Met

- A casting pitch that starts as a joke and ends as something else -

Full disclosure: Connor Doyle and I have never met. Not once. No mutual friends, no chance encounter at a party, nothing. By any reasonable definition, we are strangers.

And yet.

Hear me out.

I grew up two neighborhoods over from where Connor went to high school, during the same three years, in the same smoking-behind-the-gym, occasionally-getting-into-it-with-rival-schools era of Boston that, if his old interviews are any indication, he also grew up in.

I'm not saying we met.

I'm saying the math is suspicious.

Nobody starts smoking the week after graduation. That's a habit you acquire young, and usually somewhere specific—somewhere with bad lighting and worse judgment. I had a friend at Connor's school, so I was over there often. And in the interest of complete honesty, we occasionally "borrowed" cigarettes from kids there, in the sense that borrowing normally implies an intention to give something back, which ours did not.

There were also, occasionally, fights. I'm not proud of this. I am, however, reasonably confident that Connor and I crossed paths at some point and simply failed to introduce ourselves, possibly because one of us was running away at the time.

So there we were: two kids, same streets, same era, possibly passing each other without knowing it.

And then, decades later, we both somehow ended up in the movie business—him in front of the camera, me several time zones away trying to convince people to pay for what happens behind it.

What are the odds?

I genuinely don't know. I didn't do the math. It felt true when I wrote it.

What made me a fan of Connor long before any of this was watching him, early in his career, go toe-to-toe with a director everybody else seemed too intimidated to challenge. People sometimes call that kind of actor "difficult."

I never saw it that way.

I saw a guy who showed up with an opinion and refused to file it down just because someone more powerful was standing across the room. I liked that about him then. I like it even more now.

Do I wish I'd tracked him down in high school and somehow arranged for us to become lifelong friends? Of course. Would that have made what came next substantially less ridiculous? Also yes.

But I didn't, so years later I found myself making my case the only way available to me: cold, slightly unhinged, and fully aware of how the whole thing sounded.

I should mention that Connor is not the only good actor alive.

There's Pacino. De Niro. Denzel.

I have a feeling DiCaprio would probably show up if I asked nicely.

I'm just saying, I had options.

I still wanted Connor.

Which brings me, eventually, to the actual pitch.

I'd spent years building a special-forces thriller I wanted to shoot on real locations. It had survived several apartments, two hard-drive failures, countless rewrites, and one deeply confusing meeting in which a man spent twenty minutes enthusiastically discussing what turned out to be an entirely different movie.

The project had been told no more times than I could count. It was still standing.

That was either a very good sign or evidence of a serious stubbornness problem.

Probably both.

I wasn't going to open with numbers or deal points before Connor had read a page. If I was asking for him specifically, I wanted the script to explain why.

My request was simple:

Read it.

Don't worry about whether the physical part looks too demanding on paper. Don't calculate how much mud, running, falling, shouting, or general suffering might be involved.

Just read the character.

Then decide.

Because underneath all the special forces, the hostage situation, the gunfire, and the things designed to look good in a two-minute trailer, I thought there was another movie hiding.

And I thought Connor could find it.

I also had the possibly delusional hope that this might become one of those roles people mention years later in interviews.

"What made you say yes to that one?"

I wanted to be the strange answer.

Then came the part of the letter where the joke had to stop.

Because this part was true.

Connor, we've been almost meeting since we were seventeen.

Or at least that's the story I've been telling myself.

Two guys from the same patch of Boston, living through the same years, walking some of the same streets, perhaps standing in the same convenience store line or passing each other outside the same school without any reason to remember the other's face.

Maybe it never happened.

I'll never know.

But I do know what it's like to watch someone from your own streets make it all the way out.

And I know what it's like to still be trying to get there yourself twenty-five years later, one script at a time.

There was something oddly comforting about that.

Not envy, exactly.

More like proof.

Proof that somebody could start where we started and end up somewhere nobody around us could have predicted.

So yes, I wanted Connor to read my movie. But by then I realized I wanted something else too.

I wanted to sit across from him one day, pour two whiskeys, and talk about the movie neither of us had made yet.

And maybe, somewhere in the conversation, compare notes on the Boston neither of us quite escaped.

Maybe we'd discover that we really had crossed paths. Maybe he stole one of my cigarettes. Maybe I stole one of his.

Maybe neither of us smoked anywhere near the other and this entire theory was nonsense.

Honestly, that would have been fine too.

If he passed on the movie, I'd survive.

I'd had practice.

But if he didn't—

Connor, if you're reading this: hi.

We've never met.

I'd like to fix that.

And I've got a script I think is worth the twenty minutes it'll take you to find out.

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© 2026. Gun Choi. All rights reserved. Unauthorized copying, design imitation, or concept reproduction is strictly prohibited.

 The Old Man Who Danced With My Wife

   ...Dance Class Stories, Part 3

The Tango Guy had already taught me a lesson about my own arrogance and the danger of prejudice. You shouldn’t judge people by the way they look. Other people’s lives are full of stories you know nothing about.

I had reflected on all that, practically written myself a letter of repentance—and yet, within seven minutes of walking into the community center, I had found someone new to dislike. This time, my new enemy was a rather grotesque-looking old man.

“From now on, I’m going to stop looking at appearances and look straight into people’s souls,” I announced. My wife was lying on the sofa, scrolling through her phone. “Sure. But before you look into my soul, how about doing the dishes?”

Profound moments of self-awareness are often crushed by reality in exactly this way.

We had finished tango and moved on to a beginner swing class. My ankle had healed, and my confidence was back. After all, back in the early ’80s, I practically owned the dance floors at the downtown clubs. Surely my body would remember a little slow, slow, quick, quick. To be honest, what I remember best is the waiter bringing me the bill at closing time.

There was an old man standing off to one side of the dance floor who was impossible not to notice. He looked to be in his late seventies, thin, with white hair. His trousers were pulled unusually high around his waist, and on his feet were gleaming white shoes polished to a near-mirror shine.

Above the waist, he was clearly an old man. Then the music started.

Everything below his knees was twenty-six.

Shuffle, swish—tap. Shuffle-shuffle.

I leaned toward my wife. “That man’s legs should file their taxes separately.” / “He’s good. Could you dance like that?” / “I don’t want to live that intensely. Those joints have been illegally modified.”

Even stranger was his expression. He moved like an eel set loose in water and somehow never seemed out of breath.

Then it happened.

The old man came over to us and, of all people, looked directly at my wife. He held out his hand. “Wanna dance?”

I remembered the lesson of the Tango Guy. No prejudice. Respect your elders. “Go ahead,” I said coolly. My wife stood up without hesitation, so I added quietly, “Just don’t get too close.” / “What?” / “I said, respect your elders.”

The problem was that my wife was having far too much fun. The old man flicked his hand once and she spun around. Twice, and she went around twice. My wife, who had never exactly been a natural dancer, was suddenly flying across the floor, laughing like a teenager.

When was the last time she had laughed that hard with me?

Actually, there had been a few times. Once when I slipped on the front steps and landed flat on my back. Another time when I singed part of my eyebrow lighting the barbecue.

When the song ended, the old man smiled at her. “You’re good.” / “You’re really good,” my wife said. They smiled warmly at each other. Then he pointed at me. “Does he dance?”

My wife hesitated for exactly 1.5 seconds. I jumped in immediately. “Of course!” / “You can’t dance.” / “I used to dance all the time.” / “You used to drink all night at clubs.”

Why does she always fact-check my legends at the worst possible moment?

The old man pointed toward the dance floor as if to say, Let’s see it, then. There was no other way to interpret it.

This was a challenge.

I took my wife’s hand and began demonstrating my slow, slow, quick, quick. Unfortunately, with everyone watching, I became nervous and somehow turned it into quick, quick, quick, quick, slow.

I stepped forward with my right foot. My wife stepped forward with hers. Bang. “Why do you keep coming this way? You’re supposed to lead.”

We started again. This time I decided to lead decisively, so I gave her a firm push on the back. She shot forward two steps. “Why are you pushing me?” / “I’m leading.” / “That’s not leading! I’m not a shopping cart. Dance!”

Soft laughter rippled around the room. When I start losing face, my sense of balance is usually the first thing to go. My right foot landed squarely on my left, and I stumbled. It is hard enough to get stepped on by somebody else. I had somehow managed to step on myself.

I reached out desperately for something to grab. It turned out to be the old man’s arm. Using him as a pivot, I completed one neat, almost bashful little spin.

People applauded.

I could hardly have humiliated myself more thoroughly.

After that, something even stranger began to bother me. Every time we came to class, the old man was already there. Monday. Thursday. Holidays. Even when we arrived thirty minutes early, he was there first.

“Does that man live here? Maybe they gave him a room in the basement.” / “He probably just loves dancing.” / “There are limits. This isn’t dedication anymore. It’s an occupation. Should we call the SWAT team?”

Then one day, while my wife was away from the floor for a moment, the old man came over to me.

“Your wife…”

I immediately became alert. What? You think my wife is beautiful? I’ve known that for thirty years. Was this old guy finally making his move?

But he hesitated.

“She reminds me of someone…”

Then he stopped.

On the drive home, I wrote three entire soap operas in my head. His first love? An old girlfriend? An affair?

My wife glanced at me. “You’re jealous again, aren’t you?” I stared out the window. At moments like this, pretending not to hear is a matter of male pride.

A few days later, I saw the old man in the lobby of the community center. But this time he wasn’t dancing. He was sitting quietly by the window with an old photograph resting on his lap.

When I walked over, he gave me a sad little smile and held out the photograph even though I hadn’t asked to see it. A young man and woman were dancing in the picture, both of them laughing.

“My wife…”

They had spent their younger years dancing together. Then life took over—work, bills, all the ordinary things—and dancing slowly disappeared from their lives. Years later, they finally started again.

Not long after that, his wife passed away.

He looked once at the young woman in the photograph, then across the room at my wife.

“Your wife has her smile.”

Only then did the unfinished sentence from a few days earlier become complete.

The Tango Guy had already taught me this lesson once, and yet here I was again—writing the script myself and casting someone as the villain without knowing the first thing about his life.

It was arrogance.

Karma may run late, but it never makes mistakes. For someone like me, apparently it comes express.

When class began that day, the old man once again walked over and held out his hand to my wife. This time, I spoke first.

“Go dance with him.”

Only moments earlier, the old man had been sitting slightly hunched. But as soon as the music started, his back straightened.

Shuffle, swish—tap.

He was still unbelievably good. But that day, I saw him differently.

For those few minutes while he danced, time seemed to run backward for him—back to some long-ago night when he was young again, laughing beside the woman he loved.

When the song ended, the old man brought my wife back and placed her hand in mine. “Your turn.” / I waved both hands. “No, no. I’m dangerous.” / He smiled. “I know.”

Then he looked at the two of us.

“You two are good together.”

I took my wife’s hand. This time, I didn’t pull her. I didn’t push her. I remembered something the old man had told me.

Don’t push. Just invite.

I took one step. My wife followed. Another step. She followed again.

She looked surprised. “Hey. You’re suddenly getting better.” / “I told you. I’ve always been this guy.”

Exactly three beats later, I stepped on her foot.

“Ow!” / “Sorry. Sort of.” / She smiled. “It’s okay. Now that’s the man I know.”

Come to think of it, my wife and I may have been dancing some version of this dance for years. Whenever I headed off in the wrong direction, she pulled me back. When she grew tired, I waited for her. We lost the beat and stepped on each other’s toes more times than I can count.

But as long as the music was playing, we never once let go of each other’s hands.

As we walked out of the community center, I asked her, “When I’m his age, will you still dance with me?” / “If you’re still alive.” / “Do you have to say it like that at a moment like this?” / “Then live a long time.”

After that day, I stopped treating the old man like an enemy. Of course, whenever he danced with my wife, I still kept a sharp eye on him.

I had given up prejudice.

There was no reason to give up my eyesight too.

After all, if a man could shed every last bit of arrogance and prejudice in just a few weeks, would he really be human?

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© 2026. Gun Choi. All rights reserved. Unauthorized copying, design imitation, or concept reproduction is strictly prohibited.

 빈 의자

《체어맨》3부

[ 남자는 혼자 안뜰을 가로질러 왔다.

안뜰의 불빛 아래로 윤이 나는 검은 구두가 먼저 모습을 드러냈다. 이어 회색 정장과 넓은 어깨, 잡담 같은 것에는 관심도 없어 보이는 얼굴이 나타났다.

체어맨은 아니었다. 서른다섯에서 마흔쯤 되어 보였다. 목과 어깨가 굵었다.]

“이름.”

[ 나는 이름을 말했다. 남자는 내 얼굴을 바라본다. 아무래도 설명을 원하는 모양이었다. 나는 이미 여섯 페이지에 걸쳐 설명을 우편으로 보냈었다. 진입로에서부터 일곱 번째 페이지를 시작하고 싶지는 않았다.]

“자동차 열쇠.”

“왜요?”

“돌아갈 때 돌려줄거요.”

[ 나는 열쇠를 건넸다.그는 양해를 구하지도 않고 신속하게 내 몸을 수색했다. 내 주머니에서는 지갑과 펜 두 자루, 성냥갑, 구겨진 영화표 반쪽이 나왔다.위험해 보일 만한 것은 아무것도 없었다.]

“이쪽으로.”

[ 그가 저택 쪽으로 몸을 돌렸다. 나는 그때 헬리콥터 옆을 지나 그를 따라갔다.

가까이에서 보니 민간용과는 더욱 거리가 멀었다. 프로펠라 날개 아래에는 관 모양의 발사관이 두개씩 달려 있었고, 기수 아래에는 여러 개의 총열을 가진 무언가가 붙어 있었다. 나는 저예산 액션영화 현장을 충분히 겪어봐서 ‘기관포’ 정도는 알아볼 수 있었다. ]

“저거 합법입니까?”

[ 남자는 아무말도 하지 않았다. 나는 방금전 이 집 철문 밖에서 했던 불필요한  질문을 하지 말아야겠다는 다짐을 위반하고 있었다. 이러면 안된다. ]  

“ 질문 취소하겠습니다.”

[ 현관 홀은 내가 처음 살았던 아파트 전체를 집어삼킬 만큼 넓었다. 대리석 바닥에는 두 층 높이에 매달린 샹들리에의 불빛이 비쳤다. 벽에는 사막을 그린 유화들이 걸려 있었다.

나는 미술에 관해서 아는 것이 없다. 그러나 그 집에는 가짜일 만큼 값싸 보이는 물건이 하나도 없었다. 어두운 정장을 입은 남자들이 복도 곳곳에 여기저기 보였다. 아무도 나를 쳐다보지 않았다. 그게 오히려 더 무서웠다.

우리는 멋진 조각이 새겨진 커다란 나무 문 앞에 멈춰섰다. 바로 문이 열렸다.

문 너머의 방은 의외로 소박했다. 책장과 돌 벽난로, 낡은 가죽 소파가 있다. 안뜰이 내려다보이는 넓은 창문 옆에는 체스판이 놓여 있었다.

방 한가운데에는 의자 두 개가 서로 마주 보고 있다. 하나는 비어있고. 다른 의자에는 ‘한 노인이’ 차분히 앉아 있었다.

흰머리는 뒤로 단정하게 빗어 넘겼고, 넥타이 없이 검은 셔츠를 입고 있었다. 체격으로 사람을 압도하는 남자는 아니었다. 그럴 필요가 없는 사람이랄까. 그 집의 모든 사람과 사물이 그를 중심으로 배치되어 있는 것처럼 보였다.

그가 앉은 의자 옆 탁자위에 놓인, 내가 보낸 ‘페덱스 봉투’가 눈에 들어왔다. 봉투는 개봉되어 있었다. 편지 여섯 페이지 전부에 밑줄과 손글씨 메모가 빼곡했다. 체어맨은 잠시 말없이 내 얼굴을 살펴보았다.]

“생각했던 것보다 말랐군.”

“영화 제작비가 끊기면 식비가 먼저 앞서가서요.”

“앉게.”

[ 나는 맞은편 빈 의자에 슬며시 앉았다. 나를 따라왔던 남자들은 그대로 서 있었다. 체어맨이 그들을 바라보며 턱짓을 한다. 그러자 저택 대문에서 부터 나를 인도했던 남자가 반걸음 앞으로 나왔다.]

“회장님, 아직 신원확인이 끝나지 않았습니다.”

“나는 끝냈어. 모두나가.”

“지금 상황이 상황인지라...”

[ 체어맨이 그를 바라보았다. 그것으로 충분했다. 그 즉시 남자들이 모두 방을 나간다. 문이 닫히기 직전 남자들이 전부 나를 돌아다 보았다. 둘이 남은 공간, 나한테는 공기가 무거웠다.

최대한 자신감이 넘쳐야한다. 그리고 반드시 위트 있어야하고, 그렇다고 너무 말이 많거나 쓸데없는 질문하면 안되고. 그렇게 내 자신에게 주문을 걸고있던 그때, 체어맨이 내 편지 첫 장을 들어 올리며 묻는다.]

“항상 이렇게 길게 쓰나?”

“돈이 없을 때만 그렇습니다.”

“돈이 생기면?”

“그때는 편지 대신 영화를 만들 겁니다.”

[ 재치있는 답변이라 생각했는데 그는 웃지않았다. 내 편지를 내려다보며..]

“내 돈이 필요하다고 썼더군. 그리고 목요일 저녁에 찾아올 테니 내가 시간을 내야 한다고 통보했어. 목요일이 내게 편한 날인지 묻지는 않았고.”

“물어보면 거절하실 기회를 드리게 될 것 같아서요.”

“내가 거절했다면?”

“직접 와서 듣고 싶었을 겁니다.”

“대문을 열어주지 않았다면?”

“ 계속 벨을 눌렀겠죠.”

“언제까지?”

“금요일까지요.”

[ 나는 그때 내가 지금 페이스 조절에 문제가 있다는걸 느꼈다. 머리속에서 경고음이 윙윙 울리고 있다. 나는 지금 체어맨과 티키타카하러온게 아니지않나. 그런데 이상하게 몸이 말을 듣지않고 있다.]

“두려운 게 있나?”

“많습니다.”

“그런데도 왔군.”

“ 용기란 겁에 질려도 주차비는 내는 거라 생각합니다.”

[ 그의 시선이 잠깐 창밖 바깥 뜰의 헬리콥터로 옮겨갔다. ]

“우리는 주차비를 받지 않아.”

“그렇다면 이번 미팅은 벌써 대부분의 스튜디오 미팅보다 잘되고 있군요.”

[ 잠시 그는 아무 말도 하지 않았다. 가까이에서 보니 눈 아래에 짙은 그늘이 있었다. 오랫동안 제대로 잠들지 못한 사람처럼 보였다. 돈으로 거의 모든 것을 살 수 있어도 잠까지 살 수는 없는 모양이다. 그가 내 편지로 자신의 한쪽 무릎을 가볍게 두드렸다. 그리고는 내 영화와는 아무 관련없는 질문을 했다.]

“아버지는 살아 계신가?”

“네.”

“사이는 좋고?”

“거리를 두면요.”

“어느 정도 거리?”

“네바다 사막 정도의 넓이면 적당합니다.”

[ 그제서야 처음으로 그의 얼굴에 희미한 미소가 비쳤다. 그리고 마치 기억 속의 누군가와 나를 비교하듯 내 얼굴을 살폈다.]

“아버지를 미워한 적 있나?”

“스무 살 넘긴 남자 중 아버지를 한 번도 미워하지 않은 사람이 있을까요?”

[ 체어맨이 살짝 고개를 끄떡였다. 우리 사이의 탁자 위에는 은제 담배 케이스가 놓여 있었다. 그는 뚜껑을 열지 않은 채 엄지손가락으로 그 위를 천천히 문질렀다.

한쪽 모서리에는 알파벳 하나가 새겨져 있었다. ”D.” ]

“그 미움은 얼마나 오래가지?”

“아버지가 틀렸다는 걸 증명할 때까지 아닐까요.”

“그다음에는?”

“원하지도 않았는데 자신이 점점 아버지를 닮아가고 있다는 걸 깨달을 때까지일지도 모르고요.”

[ 순간 그의 표정이 굳어지며 시선이 날카롭게 변했다. 그러자 내 이성은 이제 더 이상은 위험해. 제발 이제 말을 멈추고 입 닥쳐!라고 아우성을 친다. 그때 어디에선가 전화벨이 울렸다. 셀폰이 아니다. 돌아보니 다른 탁자에 놓인 유선전화였다. 

동시에 노크도 없이 갑자기 방의 문이 벌컥 열렸다. 아까 이방에 있다가 나간 남자들이 손에 무전기를 들고 우루루 밀려 들어왔다. 긴장한 얼굴들이다.]

“회장님. 피하셔야 합니다”

“누구야?”

[ 남자들이 나를 힐끗 바라보았다. 체어맨의 목소리도 차갑게 굳어있었다.]

“연락이 왔습니다.시카고입니다.”

“뭐라고?”

“데이비드를 데리고 있다고 합니다.”

[ 체어맨의 얼굴에 분노가 보였다. 그때 밖에서 헬리콥터 프로펠라와 엔진이 살아나는 소리가 들렸다. 순신간에 기계음이 높아져간다. 로터가 돌기 시작했고, 중무장 헬기의 프로펠라 소리가 마치 테이블 위의 카드가 한 장씩 돌려지는 것처럼 느껴졌다. 뜰에 있는 그 헬기의 로켓포와 기관포의 질소가스 냄새가 이 방안까지 밀려와 진동하는것 같았다

체어맨이 자리에서 천천히 일어났다. 긴장하거나 당황한 모습은 없었다. 그러나 화난 표정은 분명했다. 그리고 나를 힐긋 보며 말한다.]

“우리 대화는 미뤄야겠군.”

“이자는 어떻게 할까요?”

[ 남자 둘이 내 옆으로 바짝붙으며 그에게 물었다. 그 중 하나는 내 어깨를 손으로 잡았다. 손아귀에 힘이 들어가 있었다. 나야말로 어리둥절 당황하지 않을 수 없었다.

방금전까지 분위기 나쁘지 않았는데, 한 순간에 상황이 돌변하고 말았다. 무슨 일이 벌어지고 있는지 모르지만 적어도 내 잘못 같지는 않았다. 그러나 바로 옆에 있는 남자가 ‘이자는 어떻게 할까요?’라고 한 말이 두렵다.

보통 영화에서는 그런 대사가 있을 경우 결과가 않좋은게 너무나도 뻔한 ‘크리셰’ 아니던가. 체어맨은 열린 문쪽으로 걸어간다. 그러다가 잠시 멈춰섰다. 그리고 나를 돌아보지 않은채 말했다.]

“만약 내게 거짓말한 게 있다면 여기 남겨둬..”

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《체어맨》 4부에서 계속됩니다.  

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