Critical Care

“Is it your butt again?” Wiff asks, before I even stand up from the barstool. “I don't know why you always order the hot wings.”

“What? No…I just remembered I have to tape an audition.”

"Oh good. Because we're low on TP. You keep blowing through whole rolls."

A few weeks ago, Wiff and I were having lunch at our local bar when I remembered I had a self-tape audition due in under an hour. 

*****

I rush home, toss my keys in the glass jar, and grab the tripod from the closet.Thirty minutes. Plenty of time.

I rehearse the line a few times, pretending to be a real actor—the kind who saysgravitas out loud.

“In a city like this, how can we get critical care where it's needed?” Nailed it. First try. Twenty minutes. Tons of time.

They ask for three takes so they can see range. My range extends as far as saying the line three times: once hopeful, once constipated, once like I've just remembered where I parked.

Midway through the audition, Bailey uses her pee pad. Fifteen minutes. An interruption, not a problem. Knowing I have a tight turnaround, Wiff cleans up the pad and gives her a treat. I mutter “i'M a g0Od GiRL” in Bailey's voice and say “yes you are” in mine. Our neighbors must think we're rehearsing for an avant-garde puppet show.

I resume the audition and make a mental note to edit all this out. Ten minutes. Pressure's on.

Normally I prepare for self-tape auditions. I print out the sides, highlight my lines, get the lighting set up just so. And then I wait. I clean the kitchen counters. I scrub the undersides of the cabinets. I tell myself I'm letting the character reveal himself, but really I'm just procrastinating.

This audition has me particularly vexed. Despite sitting in my inbox for forty-eight hours, I waited until the very last hour to do it. On a full stomach. And there's still a full load of laundry in the dryer that needs folding. 5 minutes. Everything will be fine. Once the towels are put away. And the plants are watered. And I've Googled “Am I gravitas?”

I rattle off a few more takes, pausing between each one. It looks like I'm searching for motivation—like a real artist. But really I'm thinking, did I really blow through a whole roll? Twice?—like an idiot.

“And that's a wrap!” I say to no one in particular. “I think I nailed it.” 

Bailey licks the tripod in approval.

I edit out the pee-pad interlude, saving only the best three takes—which is hard, considering how great they all are. I look away from camera for a moment in that one; that'll show them I'm aware of the setting. In this one I look like I'm about to cry. They'll never know I'm holding in a fart.

Normally, I review each audition before sending it, but with just one line and two minutes to the deadline, I send it. How much could I screw it up?

It turns out, a lot.

Somehow I send the full, unedited audition. Two minutes of me standing in front of the camera—with the dead air. Or, as I hope they see it, being an artiste—with the pretentious e. I slate my name and height at the beginning, which is normal. But then I walk away. Which is idiotic. Two minutes of me muttering to myself. Alternating between running the line and thinking I should be mopping the floors.

But it also turns out I booked the role. Who can deny the hopeful-constipited-parking trilogy? Am I a triple-threat?

I don't know if there's a lesson here. And if there is, I refuse to learn it.

On the one hand, maybe I booked it because I care so little whether or not I get the job. Directors can sense desperation, and maybe—hopefully—they sensed that I was a not-desperate actor. Maybe they thought I was so into the audition that I couldn't possibly cut out the air, like I'm some dorky kid who enjoys showing his work. 

On the other hand, maybe I booked it in spite of all that. Maybe they needed someone who looked like me, and, given that I've booked commercials with this casting director before, maybe they figure I'm a low-risk hire. Maybe they picked at random and thought, at least he's not cross-eyed.

I don't know what they thought, and it doesn't serve me to presume. That's putting thoughts into minds I can't read. What I do know is that next time, I won't wait until the last minute to tape an audition.

Because, deep down, I am not a cool, aloof, unbothered artist.

I'm a man who edits out a dog pee break and calls it “range.”

And who, God willing, will do it again.

For the full, cringe-worthy audition, click here.