Uncharted(68)

We move. We rush. We run.

Sharks in the water: stop swimming and you die.

And then quite abruptly we are old and wrinkled and frail, lying on our death beds looking back at a life we didn’t even pause to enjoy. We are so busy speeding toward that damn finish line, trying to keep up with everyone sprinting alongside us, we forget sometimes that the finish line is death and the trophy is a coffin six feet beneath the earth.

I press the pedal a little harder and the Honda groans precariously. A strange smell has begun to emanate from the vents in my dashboard. By the time I screech to a stop in the parking lot of the talent agency holding the casting call, it’s a quarter-past eight and my head is aching from the fumes. At a run, I drag my fingertips through my dark tangled mane and scrape it up into a pony-tail at the back of my skull. The weight of it tugs at my temples, exacerbating a headache from a hangover that hasn’t even properly hit me yet.

I skid to a halt just inside the doors. They slam shut at my back with a bang loud enough to make me flinch, drawing the gazes of nearly everyone in the starkly decorated waiting room.

There are a few dozen girls scattered along the aluminum seats lining the wide hallway, waiting for their turn inside the thick double doors — biding time until they get their shot to read lines they’ve likely memorized and rehearsed a thousand different ways, for a character with the emotional complexity of a hamster. They all look nearly identical — glossy blondes in sweater sets and heels. A few of them are wearing pearls for god’s sake, which says something about the role we’re reading for. Between my mussed, chocolate brown waves, thready jean cut-off shorts, and faded Ramones t-shirt, I don’t exactly blend with the crowd.

Damn Cynthia to hell for signing me up for this.

A wave of smug condescension crashes over me as sets of eyes coated with two perfect swipes of mascara scan my disheveled appearance from top to toe. Immaculately-lined lips purse in amusement and self-affirmation. Their thoughts are thinly-veiled as they examine me like a wad of gum stuck to the bottom of a Manolo Blahnik slingback.

I may not get the part, but at least I don’t look like her.

Grabbing a script off the stack on a table by the door, I sigh heavily and collapse into the closest aluminum chair.

I probably should’ve read the call sheet Cynthia emailed me last week, accompanied by a terse note reminding me that I am not getting any younger and haven’t had a steady role since I was wearing training bras a full decade ago. As is the case more often than not, her admonitions fell on deaf ears. I haven’t exactly bothered to prep — unlike the perfect, pretty, petty girls littering the room around me like mannequins in a store window. Heads buried in cue cards and hand mirrors, they run through last minute lines and check their makeup.

My eyes drop to the phone clutched between my fingers. I scroll through a week’s worth of backlogged spam emails until I find my mother’s message. I pick absently at my chipping black nail polish as my gaze sweeps the casting call. It’s a recurring guest role on a new pilot set during high school, featuring vampires or fallen angels or some other incomprehensible shit. Beth or Becky or some equally non-threatening name suited for a sidekick. A best friend.

Not the lead. Those were cast weeks ago.

I snort and the girl in the chair closest to mine makes a deliberate show of scooting away from me, as though my unkempt state is contagious and I’m liable to lessen her chances by sheer proximity. Twin spots of color appear on her high cheekbones when I waggle my fingers at her in a teasing wave.

“Don’t worry, sweetie,” I confide in a whisper. “I don’t want the part. But if you do, I think we both know what kind of qualities the casting director is really looking for.”

I make a crude pumping gesture with my hand and push out the inside of my cheek with the tip of my tongue.

With an indignant huff and a resolute shake of her slim shoulders, she turns her attention to the phone in her hands and attempts to ignore my existence.

That suits me fine.

The double doors at the opposite end of the room swing open and every head pivots to watch, faces etched in various expressions of critique, as a production assistant wielding a clipboard steps out, trailed closely by a girl who’s just auditioned. Looking a bit green around the gills, the girl makes her slow march through the gauntlet of aluminum chairs on which her competition sits, her eyes never wavering from the exit. Judging from the way her hands are shaking and the thoroughly bored look on the PA’s face, it’s clear she won’t be playing Becky.

A new name is called. A girl clamors to her feet and vanishes into the inner sanctum. I read through the script sheet briefly, grimacing at the cheesy lines. It’s even worse than I imagined, and not just because my headache has evolved into a migraine. This is bad writing, even by network television standards.

After a few moments of painful study, I close my eyes and lean back in my seat, wishing I’d had time to grab a bagel in my mad rush to get here. The thought of composing myself enough to walk through those doors and say the words, “What do you mean, Stefano is a… a… a vampire?” in a tone of breathy incredulity is almost more than I can bear without any carbs in my system.

Every few minutes, I hear the sound of the doors swinging open, of girls exchanging places, of heels clicking against tile floors as those who have failed to impress the producers escape eagerly into the parking lot where they will sit in their cars and cry until their perfect mascara is smudged beyond recognition. The hopefuls — those who still cling to this impossible dream of “making it” — always take rejection the hardest.