I sat in a tiny storage closet, behind the mirror, watching.
Two casting directors sat behind the table: a heavy, sloppy-looking, puffy-faced man with bad skin and greasy hair, wearing a Hawaiian shirt and grubby khakis, and a thin woman with not-bad blue eyes, wearing an obvious black wig and clad in red sweats.
Nameplates in front of them.
BRAD RABEPAIGE BANDURA
Two Evian bottles, a pack of Winstons, and an ashtray, but no one was smoking.
“Next,” said Rabe.
A hopeful entered. Audition Number 6 for the male
lead.
He looked at Rabe and Bandura, smiled with what he probably thought was warmth.
I saw tension, fear, and contempt.
What was he thinking?
Frick and Frack?
Hansel and Gretel?
Who were they to judge—both of them dressed like slobs—typical. Dressing down to show they had the power, couldn’t give a shit.
The hopeful knew the type—God, did he.
Waiting out there in that zoo for three fucking hours for the privilege of being judged by eyes that never changed through the bullshit smiles and the nods and the phony words of encouragement.
The judging.
“Okay,” said Paige Bandura, looking at her fatso partner. “How about the scene in the middle of forty-six?”
“Sure.” The hopeful grinned charmingly and flipped the script’s pages. “From “But Celine, you and I?’ ”
“No, right after that—from “What exactly is it you’re after.’ ”
The hopeful nodded, took a deep breath in that covert yoga way that no one could see. Closed his eyes, opened them, and glanced down at the script before raising them. Show them he could memorize instantaneously.
Looking into little Paige’s eyes, because she seemed to be on his side.
“ “What exactly is it you’re after, Celine? I thought our friendship had grown to something more.’ Shall I read her line, too?”
“No,” said Paige. “I’ll be her.”
Big, warm smile. Maybe . . .
Lifting a script from the card table, she read:
“ “Maybe, Dirk. Maybe not. But the bottom line is I need a man right now and you just may fill the bill.’ ”
Flat voice. Ugly voice. It came out Buddaboddomlion is I needa mayan.
The ones who judged were inevitably ugly in some way. The hopeful hated ugly.
“ “Is that so?’ ” he said, softening his tone, “ “because I think you feel more than that, Celine. I feel it and I think you feel it, too. Here.’ ” Touching his heart.
“ “Do you, Dirk?’ ”
Dooyoodirk.
“ “Yes, I do, Celine.’ ” He smiled at her again. “The script says he puts his hand on her—”
“That’s okay,” said Paige. Saucy laugh. “We’ll just pretend. Okay, what’s Celine’s next line—“But, Dirk—’ ”
“ “I know, you feel it here, Celine. From your inner being. The place where love grows.’ ”
He dropped his arms. Connotation of vulnerability. Stood there. Waiting.
Paige smiled at him again, turned to Fat Sloppy Brad.
Brad looked him over. Rubbed his face. Grunted.
“Not bad,” he finally pronounced.
“I’d say excellent,” added Paige.
Brad said, “Okay, excellent.” Grudgingly.
“If you’d like I can read more,” said the hopeful.
The two of them exchanged glances.
“No, that won’t be necessary,” said Paige. “That was really good.”
The hopeful shrugged. Boyishly. He had a great boyish grin.
Another look between him and Paige.
“Onward,” she said. “Some practical issues. The show is going to be fairly physical for daytime. Lots of love scenes—steamy stuff. Any problems with that?”
“Not at all,” said the hopeful, but a tightening above his navel had begun—someone—some little demon screwing up his insides. Smile. Acting!
“We mean skin,” said Brad. “It’s cable so they’re going to stretch the standards. Nothing worse than NYPD Blue, but there’s gonna be plenty of body shots. How about taking your shirt off?”
The hopeful didn’t answer. His heart rate had climbed to over 120. Despite all the cardiovascular training . . . fuck, fuck, fuck.
“Is there a problem?” said Paige.
Rooting for him. Maybe he could work it out.
“No problem,” he said. “I’ve got a scar. Some people think it’s actually pretty masc—”
“A scar where?” said Brad.
“No big deal—”
“Where?”
“On my back.”