by Kim Cayer
I got off rather green in the gills. It took precisely three seconds to get to the fortieth floor and my stomach contents threatened to exit the elevator before I did. As soon as I had my gagging under control, I spoke to the new receptionist. “Hi, I’m here (burp) to audition for Monday to (belch) Sunday.”
This gal was Ice Queen 2009. “Down the hall to the end. The casting director will check you in.” She immediately went back to some typing. Sheesh, this one probably had a callback for my role already.
Down the hall, to the end, to a door with a sign proclaiming that I was in the audition area, please enter. I paused a moment to have a private pep talk. OK Alice, this is it. Act like you’ve never acted before. Smile a lot. Sparkle your eyes. Relax, Alice, relax. Settle down, gut, settle down. OK, let’s go in. Alright, three more breaths. Now, LET’S GO GET ’EM!
I opened the door and was confronted by a sorry sight. Twenty overweight, out-of-fashion, dumpy European women faced me. I felt like I was in the House of Mirrors. A bizarre feeling washed over me; I felt like bursting into tears.
A luscious blonde entered through another door, followed by my twin. All eyes in the room drank in the blonde, including mine. Perfect figure, perfect hair, perfect teeth. An unusual insight hit me…Why, she was probably just like me once, but then some sugar daddy spent millions on liposuction, rhinoplasty, dental care, breast reduction, waxing, hair, etc. on her. But then I realized it to only be a fantasy when a more truthful insight hit me. If she originally looked like me, how would she have really found a sugar daddy?
“Beverly Bohunk?” Miss Perfect asked. Beverly hesitantly stood up. You would have thought she was going to the electric chair. “You’ll be going in next. Just hold on a moment.”
She approached me. “Hi! What’s your name?” she asked.
Oh, great. The name game again. Hey, Alice, cut it out! You’re letting this scene get to you. You’re better than them! Stand out! Besides, your name isn’t going to sound any worse than Beverly Bohunk’s and nobody snickered then. “Alice Kumplunkem!” I proudly stated.
Miss Perfect checked her list and marked me off. “We’re running a bit behind schedule,” she said. “There’s a scene on the table for you to study. Alright, Beverly, come on in.” She spun off before I could speak. I’m glad, because I had the urge to endear myself to her by telling her she had the looks to be an actress. I’m sure every second Bohunk in the room probably said it and I didn’t want to be part of that crowd. And please, I’m sure I had to be the best-looking Polack of the bunch.
I had my lines down pat when my turn came along at 4:45. I had the questionable pleasure of watching a constant procession of slovenly-looking sad sacks come and go. Miss Perfect, still shining bright, announced that I could go in. I followed her and saw five people sitting behind a table laden with food. How nice! They were trying to put us actors at ease. Miss Perfect announced me and I walked forward. And kept walking forward until I was right in front of the table. Mmmm…strawberries, pate, chocolates, all sorts of goodies. I reached for a custard tart.
“Those are for US,” a huge-bellied man said. Aux fuck! Faux pas! I quickly back-pedaled back to Miss Perfect who gave me a frown, causing a single furrow to interrupt her flawless features.
“That man is Abe Goldstein,” Miss Perfect said, “the owner of Largemar. In order after him are Troy LeRue and Abby Flute, the executive producers of the show. Sam Wymer is the producer and Fred Guyler is the director. I’m the casting director. We’ll be deciding if you’re suitable for the role.”
“Oh you’re so pretty you should be an actress,” I quickly squeezed in.
“I’ll be reading opposite you. Did you bring your photo and resume?” she asked.
OH, OH. “Uh…didn’t my agent send you one?” I beseechingly asked.
The casting director acted as if she’d heard this excuse once too often. She heaved a huge sigh, as did two others around the table. “I imagine there’s one around,” she muttered. “You should always bring a photo and resume to all auditions.”
“Yes, I’ll remember that,” I vowed to her. “I could phone my agent and have him get one to you immediately.”
“Well, let’s just see how the audition goes,” Miss Perfect said. “Anytime you’re ready.”
Ohhh, I so wanted to please them and already I’d committed two no-no’s. I opened my mouth to speak and couldn’t, for the life of me, remember my first line. I looked like I was in pain as I desperately searched my mind for that elusive line.
“Where’s your script?” Miss Perfect asked a touch clippingly.
“I left it in the waiting room,” I confessed. Thing is, I deliberately left it there. I wanted to impress them by walking in scriptless, to show them how quick a study I was.
Abe Goldstein groaned aloud. “I’ll run and get it!” I quickly offered.
The director picked up some papers and without a word, handed them over to me. I grabbed them, ran back beside the casting director and played my heart out to Abe Goldstein. I’d deliver a line to Miss Perfect then jerk my head to catch Abe’s response. He was just sneaking sidelong glances at everyone, which only served to make me more manic.
Halfway through the scene, I noticed an unintroduced man. He was manning a video camera, capturing my performance. Now I was shaken. Had I known I’d be on camera, I’d have…what? Tried to act better? In the scene we were enacting, I was talking to my evil sister about our mother’s will. I’m playing this newly discovered daughter and I’m begging for some piece of this will.
Now, after having discovered this camera, I’d deliver some heartrending line and end it with an oozing Marilyn Monroe smile. I couldn’t help it; my inner soul knew I should act in anguish but my face was beyond my control. It was trying to…ugh…make love to the camera.
Finally, after an eternity, we ended the scene. I slipped in one more quick Marilyn smile replete with pose before the cameraman clicked off his recorder. There was a dead silence. “Shall I do it again?” I asked.
“Oh, no, no,” all five at the table concurred.
Miss Perfect gave them a cool, appraising glance, lasting all of a second. “Thank you, Alice,” she said.
She was edging me towards the exit. “Shall I send you my photo and res—” No time to finish the sentence.
“No, no, that won’t be necessary,” Miss Perfect interjected. She was definitely ushering me out. She didn’t even bother to escort me into the waiting area. The door was firmly shut behind me as soon as I’d cleared it.
But maybe…dare I dream? Was she to be in on a discussion about me? My availability? How quickly they could get me? I stood still for a moment, hoping to catch a tidbit.
“Where’s SHE from?”
“Toronto, Canada.”
“You know, they wonder why all the American stars are taking over their shows, and why we hire about one Canadian a decade. My God! If that girl is any indication of the talent from Canada…”
I fled.
My mind was doing nothing but zoning and I felt like I was on the verge of spontaneous combustion. I wanted to do it in private though. I staggered down the hall to a door called Marilyn. (Agh! Bamboo shoots under the nails!) There was an identical door next to it which read Clark. I assumed this was Largemar’s cute way of saying Men’s and Ladies’ washrooms.
As I pushed my way through Marilyn, I had a moment of clarity. I stopped dead with the thought which was almost teletyping itself into my brain. You…have…just…made…a…laughing…stock…of…your…self…in…front…of…the…biggest…employers…in…the…business…I…repeat…
I calmly stepped through the door. When I was on the other side, I accelerated its slow-closing swing by throwing my body against it. “WHY MEEEE??? Oh my God, it was all recorded on videotape! For years to come, people are going to watch that audition and get the belly laugh of their life!” I tried wisecracking to keep from crying. “Whoopee! I’ll beat out Joan Rivers for comedy video of the year!”
<
br /> I banged on a washroom door. “Face it! You can’t act! Stick to the background where you belong!”
I pounded my fist on the hand dryer. “First you’re doing films with a six-dollar budget, then you somehow manage to do a porno film and now you think you’re so big-league, it’s time for the soaps! Fat chance, fatso!”
I dried my hands. “Velda can’t decide if she wants her fur coat in black or white. My boyfriend, oh sorry – make that EX-boyfriend, can’t wait to drop me for some witch doctor’s kid and I’m the court jester for Largemar Productions. My mother doesn’t believe I’m really her kid, my agent obviously looks on me in an unkind light, and yet I think I’m so special, I’m going to blow Marilyn Monroe outta the water!”
The dryer stopped. I also stopped my tirade. I looked into the mirror and felt like throttling the throat of that loser reflected. The criminal urge was so strong that I actually reached out to my image. Catching myself, I slapped the mirror a few times. I finally broke into tears and slid down between the matching pink sinks. I rested my cheek on the pipes, which I barely noticed were not given the same painstakingly pink paint job as above.
I wailed for a while. Every now and then I’d throw in another spoken reason for me to wallow in self-pity. Suddenly I stopped. My eyes focused on a pair of legs directly across from me. Realizing someone had just overheard my monologue on my crisis of a life, I figured it was likely a lady fearful of this madwoman.
“It’s alright,” I said in a wooden voice. “It’s safe to come out.” I was afraid to stand up, knowing the violent state I was actually in. And since this lady now knew my intimate secrets, I didn’t exactly want to face her. I just remained sprawled under the sinks.
A disgustingly trim woman dressed in ultra-gaudy Rodeo Drive clothes walked out of the stall. Her hair color was so beautiful, you knew it had to be fake. As she stood above me, I was pleased to see that she had a hair protruding from a mole placed oh-so-becomingly by her mouth.
“I wasn’t afraid,” she spoke with a fancy Vassar College accent. “You’ve certainly had to struggle through life.”
Yeah, so what, lady? Have you ever had to struggle? Would you struggle if I tried to pull that greasy hair out of your mole? I felt wicked. I felt like doing it; I knew it would grow back twice as long. Instead, I just sniffed a big one.
“My name is Karen D’Amato,” she introduced herself. “I’m a producer over at Sebrings.”
Spare me, I thought. Just go down the hall to the Largemar audition room, watch my tape and then spare yourself. She continued, “And you are…?”
I felt compelled to answer. “Alice…snuffle…Kumplunkem.”
“I’ll be in touch,” she said, looked in the mirror, patted her already sleek hair, and exited.
Be in touch? What for? I had enough of New York. I caught the bus back to Toronto, my tail between my legs.
* * *
I was back in my beloved, coldhearted Toronto. I was living in squalor and depression and wanted to be left alone, thank you. As a matter of fact, I was debating whether I should seek asylum in Iran or Siberia, or just an asylum. I felt like an infectious, pus-filled sore. Obviously I wasn’t wanted in my home country or the land of opportunity. No one wanted me. Not even Lunchpail.
I was gone from Toronto less than 30 hours and in that time, not wanting to be outdone by New York, my Toronto life fell apart. I entered my apartment and the first thing to greet me was a note from my landlady. How I hate when they enter your apartment without prior permission. The note said she wanted to see me as soon as possible.
I went down to her spacious suite and presented myself. She asked me to come in and I immediately saw my dear cat Lunchpail curled up in front of the fireplace, a bowl of cream within reach. “Lunchpail!?” I cried out. He glanced at me and snobbily turned his head away again.
“He’s not called Lunchpail anymore,” Mrs. Beautt informed me. “What a ridiculous name for a cat. He is now known as Winthrop the Third.”
“Sez who?” I asked. What in the hell was she pulling? “I don’t get it,” I said, meaning every word.
“I went up to your apartment to enquire about this month’s rent, and the large amount owing on LAST month’s, and I heard this awful meowing,” Mrs. Beautt exaggerated. “I felt it within reason to use my passkey and I found this poor cat STARVING.” She glared at me with venom.
“Oh, I DOUBT it. I was only gone a DAY,” I retorted. Mind you, I didn’t have much cat food to begin with when I left.
“And the SMELL in your apartment! We do have health laws to obey,” my landlady continued. Well, she did have a point there. It was pretty acidic. I’d been making a bag of kitty litter last a helluva long time, changing his box only when I absolutely had to. Such as when he began shitting in my sugar bowl.
I didn’t know what to say. I could fight for custody. Hell, he was MY cat – I could just take him back! I looked at Lunchpail who stood up and stretched. Fuck, Pail, are you grinning? I could see he’d been given a bath and sported a gay red flea collar. He ambled over towards some space-age tent which I realized was a fancy litter box. Yeah, he was a happy cat here. What alternative life could I offer him? Deserter.
“Fine, Mrs. Beautt,” I said. “You can have him. Just take care of him.” I turned to leave.
“Alice, the rent. I want it ALL in one week or you’ll be evicted. I’m giving you verbal notice and,” she rummaged in a pile of letters, “written notice.” I was handed said notice. I sputtered a bit, then grabbed it and turned on my heel. I didn’t feel like being nice to her and why the hell should I?
The next dilemma was that my phone was cut off. OK, OK, I didn’t pay that bill either. And if I didn‘t pay the heating bill, that would be the next to go in a couple days. I used a couple precious quarters to phone my agent.
“Paul, it’s Alice. Look, I bombed big in New York. Just don’t ask,” I pleaded.
“I don’t have to,” Paul quietly responded. “I’ve heard from them already.”
“Well, I won’t ask for any more speaking parts, I promise. Paul, I need an extra job real bad. I’ll even take the $10-an-hour ones. Do you have anything?”
“Alice, it’s dead right now. There’s nothing to offer you. Call me in a week.” He hung up.
So I spent the week holed up in my flat. I didn’t wash my hair and it hung lankly around my shoulders. I decided to spend my last few cents just on chocolate and potato chips. My face had broken out like mad but did I care? Well, I cared enough to have a good zit-picking session.
I had just finished squeezing every last blackhead I could find. My face was red and blotchy. I sat and waited for the inevitable. Mrs. Beautt was expected any moment, probably accompanied by eviction enforcers.
Sure enough, there was the knock. I took my time getting to the door. I opened it with a resigned look on my face. Resigned to the fact that as of tomorrow, I’d be living on the street, all my belongings in a borrowed shopping cart. Please be kind and spare some change when you pass by.
Standing there was the lady from the Largemar ladies’ room.
“Hello, Alice,” she said. “If you remember, I’m Karen D’Amato. I’m a producer for Tomorrow Will Come, the soap opera.” Great. Now I’m being turned down for roles I haven’t even tried out for yet. Word does get around fast in that town. She continued, “I was in the washroom at Largemar when you did your Scarlett O’Hara number.”
Oh, I see. She doesn’t want me to stay away from her auditions, she only wants me to pay a couple grand for the destruction I caused in her precious powder room. “Yeah, look,” I said, “I know I caused a few bucks worth of damage. Uh…I’m a bit strapped for cash at the moment. Maybe we can work something out, like maybe I can work for you for no money…till it’s paid off, ya know?” I didn’t put much excitement into my offer. I figured, if you want to throw me in jail, go right ahead. It was a place to live.
“Well,” she said, looking awfully unangry, “you’re right on one point. I
DO want you to work for me, but it won’t be for nothing! Based on what I heard from you in the ladies’ room, I’d like to hire you as the executive consultant to the writers on my show. I do hope you’re available?”
Available?! My next gig was to be at Sing Sing but hey, I think I can get out of it. On the inside I was already planning the celebration party but on the outside, I was acting real cool. You know how they do it in the movies – making it seem like I would maybe consider the proposition but maybe I was quite satisfied with Paul’s People. I lowered a shoulder, curled my lips, scratched my neck (Lunchpail’s fleas had found a new home) and casually asked, “What’s the pay like?”
“There’d be an increase every three months, but I was thinking of a starting weekly salary of $3000, if that’s agree…”
“Fine!” I interrupted. “We have a deal! When can I start?” I was shaking her hand furiously with both of mine.
“Anytime. Book a flight with American Airlines, charged to Sebrings, of course, and let me know when you’re in town. We’ll arrange for your work permit and…,” she continued, pulling an envelope out of her pocket, “here is a retainer check for $3000. Welcome aboard.”
With that, she left. I stood there, reveling in my newfound success. I had a job! Suddenly my iron shoulderpads turned into regular lightweight (wash by hand) foam. I was so grateful to Ms. D’Amato! Why, even her mole hair had looked a rather pleasing shade of Raven Black #32.
Something nagged at my mind. I pushed it into the corner. I love thy neighbor! (except for that bitch Beautt) All is right with the world! That same nagging thought returned. I put it in a half-nelson. I was on top…it was on top…I was…it was…Aagh! I was pinned.
The thought made itself known loud and clear. I had to leave Paul’s People. It was going to be a tricky situation; since I hadn’t gotten the acting job, Paul didn’t get any commission. In the meanwhile, I was going on to a much better show-business job. He couldn’t touch me. I owed him something, but it wasn’t money. He wasn’t going to like the fact that I was now a step up on him in the biz. He’d dumped on me so often; now he was to be the dumpee. I could do it though, because I was going to New York City to be an executive consultant, whatever the hell that was.