You Can’t Be Serious(25)

3?Pronounced pun-OH’ch

4?It wasn’t until writing this book that I called DLC to ask, “Hey, what does ‘the panoch’ mean?” He laughed and explained, “It’s short for panocha… ‘pussy’ in Spanish.” Jeez. Would have been reeeeeealllly good to know that back in the day, when I’d offer people “a ride in my super-tite Panoch.”

5?I was deeply embarrassed.

6?Also a real consideration in the moment.

7?Remember, Indians love spicy gossip about other Indians.

8?The extra n stands for “Not gonna play a stereotypical cabdriver.”

9?Fifty cents a minute, guys!

10?There was no way to know for sure, since agents toss out submissions they don’t follow up on. Since I had submitted an old headshot to Barbara Cameron & Associates previously, it was presumably a combination of a new catchy name with a better photo that got me noticed eventually.





CHAPTER SIX HOW (NOT) TO PRODUCE MOVIES




Agent: ?

Paid gig with actual lines: ?

Panoch (super tite): ?

Dope internship: TBD



By the end of winter quarter my junior year, I had gone on a handful of auditions thanks to my new agent. To my massive disappointment, most of them had been for stereotypical, one-dimensional roles in commercials. During these casting sessions it was not uncommon to be:

asked “Where’s your turban?” (I’m not Sikh),

told “You speak very good English, wow!” (thank you), or

questioned about “which country is that accent from?” (New Jersey. Go, like, uhh, fuck yourself?!”)



So, when Barbara Cameron called one afternoon with a quick audition “to play a nerd on The Steve Harvey Show,” I perked up. Forget commercials, I was going out for an actual TV show! The audition scene was only one line—the nerd (creatively called “Nerd” in the script) raises his hand and asks a question in a high school classroom. That’s it, that was the whole audition. (I don’t even remember what he asks.) Even though it was finals week, I reasoned that since my statistics grade wasn’t going to determine my job prospects, I should abandon studying and go all-out. I got an ill-fitting plaid shirt and put tape on a pair of glasses—real high-end late-’90s sitcom stuff. I drove the Panoch to CBS Television City at the corner of Beverly Boulevard and Fairfax Avenue in Hollywood, parked in an area reserved for actors, and walked in.

Look, I am not a method actor. But you don’t just dress like a knockoff Urkel and not embrace the character. From the time I exited the car, I committed to being this Nerd. When I signed in at the front desk, I spoke in a weird nasally voice to the security guard and got some smiles from the janitor who I high-fived (and purposely missed) in the lobby.

All of this for just one line, that’s how badly I wanted it. When the doors to the small elevator opened, I saw there were already five people inside, coming up from an underground parking garage. Instead of waiting for the next one, I stayed in character, abandoned social norms, and awkwardly squeezed my way in. As we stood smooshed against each other, I said hi to each human, still in character with the weird nasally voice. I made a little small talk, excused myself at the third floor, made a left turn out of the elevator, and took a seat in the waiting room next to eight other prospective Nerds.

Ten minutes later a casting assistant called me into the audition room. I walked in to find… all of the people from the elevator! Turns out they were the show’s producers. I thought about saying hello in a more professional manner, but after squishing myself into a tight elevator with them, I was just going to have to double down on this one and stay in character. “Hey, it’s my friends from the elevator, hiiiiii! That guy has a warm shoulder.”

I read my line and left. That afternoon Barbara called to tell me I got the part.

The way sitcoms work, you rehearse and block (nail down the stage directions of) each scene throughout the week and tape the entire show on Friday (usually in front of an audience). Since all of this was taking place right in the middle of finals, I had to ultimately drop my statistics class1 and, after filming my one line, pull an all-nighter on a paper that was due at ten that Saturday morning.

I did not do well on that paper, and when the episode aired a few weeks after that, I got a big Hollywood lesson.

Our dorm oddly received the Chicago-based channel WGN, which meant we could watch some shows on central standard time—two hours before they aired in Los Angeles. WGN carried The Steve Harvey Show, so I planned to watch privately when it aired in Chicago, then watch with my friends in the dorm when it aired on the LA station.

It all happened so quickly: the Chicago feed on my small television, seeing myself on-screen, in that classroom, hearing the lead characters deliver the lines before mine, and then—bam!—a jump to the next scene. My line had been cut, and along with it, the potential for my first IMDb credit. I canceled the dorm gathering planned for later that evening, and asked Barbara to find out what happened. “It wasn’t personal,” she explained sweetly. “This stuff is common. The producers said they really enjoyed working with you, but they had to make some cuts for timing and commercials. That’s just the business side of things, honey. We’ll book another job soon.” My first paid speaking television role had been anticlimactic, but it was a fast lesson that for all of my passion as an artist, I was also entering a business, whose producers had entirely different considerations and priorities from my own.