“Wakey, wakey,” she purrs and though I’m too hung-over to sneer I still feel it defies belief this girl actually says things like “wakey, wakey,” and so I sit and stare and am made instantly aware as to what held such attraction the night before, what lead me to this room, this bed, this moment as my eyes rise from her legs to reveal the fine contours of a tightly toned back and a white cotton bra strap holding on for dear life, and she turns and there is a moment, just a moment, of shared silence as I raise my gaze to her eyes and they stare through me and I am all panic but they relent slightly as she utters one word,
“Julia.”
I remain silent.
“Julia, you’re searching for my name. My name is Julia.”
“Julia, right … yeah, Julia,” I scramble, “Of course, Julia. Julia,” I repeat.
“You called me Sarah all night,” she replies as she turns to find a blouse, a skirt, some shoes perhaps. “It’s all right, I’ve had worse, the last guy I dated called me Shannon, which isn’t even close, and a little too masculine for my liking.”
She seems resigned to it all and for this I feel better, I feel less pity or shame or guilt as I promise to call and close the door behind her.
And I enter today’s chosen torment, a non descript building somehow strangely familiar within which lies another audition, another showcase, another opportunity to reveal my range, my depth and my cheekbones amid others equally talented and genetically blessed.
I sit and pretend to read a collection of William Burroughs’ letters which I hope provide the illusion that I am curious and intellectual, curiously intellectual perhaps, and while I lay the book on my lap I scour the room and check out the competition.
So many faces yet they are all somehow mine.
I am six foot and I am tan. I am lean, I am blonde and I have chiseled features and so I join all the others who are tall and lean and tan and blonde and chiseled and we all meet eyes and acknowledge each other - but not really as we are all the enemy - as we sit to memorize lines and reproduce emotions and apply appropriate expressions to wooden dialogue amid poorly conceived situations.
The fellow seated next to me appears professionally manicured and I find myself intimidated by this, by the fact he feels he is worth the investment in a manicure, specifically for this audition perhaps, therefore … he feels he is worthy of the time and effort and expense of a manicure … he is well aware of the breadth of his talent … he feels he is the complete package … he feels, no he knows he is the complete package … and I am sitting next to him … Good Lord.
I am seated next to the complete package …
Recognizing the familiar twinges of an approaching panic attack I withdraw and release and relax, live in the now, breathing and focusing and living and experiencing and breathing and living and breathing … and give in and simply take a Xanex and then reach for a Valium to complement but recall I stopped taking Valium before auditions after a producer told me I played dazed rather convincingly.
Another fellow enters the room and says ‘Hello’ with a slight stutter and I am greatly relieved.
He sits and removes from his shoulder bag a crisp portfolio with photo’s “just taken” which are apparently “fabulous, but … you know …” and as he chats with the man next to him about photographers and lighting and the difference between shadow and shade, I remember something I read at college about stuttering as a sign of sexual confusion and I wonder what is going on in that pretty little man’s pretty little head.
Sexual confusion is a no no when it comes to the ‘craft’, one must be open to any and all experience and I wonder how much this repression has hampered this fellow so far, if only he’d let go, release …
I passed this lesson onto my friend Jess who laughed and said I would be a hard nut to crack, apparently one of her friends calls me‘ Miles Davis’ as she feels I live life as if I’m “playing with my back to the audience.”
I considered and countered with the fact that perhaps Miles Davis showed his back because “he was comfortable within his own skin”’, and she replied “it was a sign of duplicity” and so we left it at that.
And from across the room, a Lance, a Chip, a Zac, attempts to compose himself via some sort of mantric repetition, his mouth forming silent syllables as his brain works overtime to achieve short sweet nirvana. His lips pick up speed, racing now through the syllables, his head begins to bob, then sway.
I lean forward in an act of genuine compassion, “You know ...” I begin, “you're displaying many of the primary symptoms of the early stages of Schizophrenia..”
He pauses and his eyes lock on mine, “Pardon …”
“Schizophrenia.” I repeat. “Let me guess … you were born in the Spring.”
He nods and then so do I.
“It’s most common in those born in the Spring,” I add. “No one knows exactly why ...” I note the fear, and possibly even disgust in his eyes and so I retreat.
“You know ...” I conclude, “something to think about.”
And I return to William Burroughs slightly disturbed at the absence of a simple ‘thank you’.
The Burroughs' letters are almost indecipherable, they appear a mash of crosses and symbols and yet for once I feel an almost grateful submission to the text, the Xanex has taken affect, and feeling calm, feeling calmer, I sit back as another name is called from a distance and another offering leaves the room and we all pretend not to procure the evil eye and certainly not to offer curses from cultures long since past.
The room shuffles slightly with each call, as if we are a pile of papers gently stacked, there is an air of attention that nobody can deny.
We are all ready and waiting to be disappointed, like an ex who in a rare moment of honesty sighed simply “I have come to the conclusion that I have very little time for people who aren’t me,” and as she said this she inhaled deep and long and her eyes watered but her manner remained cool and she continued … “You can pleasure me if you want to …” with this she paused to light another cigarette … “but” …. puff …, “I can’t promise I’ll enjoy it,” and I recall not knowing whether to take this as admonishment or challenge.
And the door opens once more and our heads rise in unison and my name is called, and repeated once more, and I stand and find myself watching myself enter and sit and nod and smile as my eyes meet the eyes of the same faces behind every desk at every audition, and I pleasure them as I pleasured my ex, with similar result and response, down to the snub of the cigarette on the ashtray to let me know when we’re done …
And there is a silence that simply hangs and then overcomes us all as I know and they know that this has all occurred too often in the past and none of us are better for the experience.
I feel spent.
I feel strangely less than before.
And the casting director lets me know with a wave of the hand that they'll “Call me soon if …” and this is convention at best and etiquette at it's worst and I leave them unsatisfied, an “ok”, a “yeah” and a feint final attempt at “whatever” as I close the door behind myself.
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