Tiny Dancer

They say to dance like nobody's watching. 

But what if someone is watching? 

And they have a camcorder?

These were the questions I asked myself on Thursday afternoon when I walked into a Midtown casting office to audition for the role of Dancer. If you know me, you know I don't love dancing. And if you've seen me dance, you know that I shouldn't. But here I was, getting ready to dance for money and a shot at filming a commercial in Barcelona.

The scene seemed straightforward. A man stands, waiting at a bus stop. His phone dings. He picks it up and sees that a product he wants is on sale. That would have been all well and good, save for the next line: His "body reacts in a way that feels involuntary, a hand twitch, a shoulder bump, a knee flail. He looks bewildered like he doesn't know what's coming over them." 

A knee flail?

As I reviewed the script, questioning all my life choices, the casting associate called the next two actors. The breakdown said talent doesn't need to be a dancer, but I think there was an implied ...but they should be. These women wore black workout leggings and workout tops. I think one of them had tap shoes. I wouldn't have been surprised if they had put on leg warmers. Were they part of the same troupe? 

Why am I here? I wondered as they sashayed into the room.

I began to experience real dread, but tried to look on the bright side: it was nice that they could go in together. If I'm going to face my fate, at least I'll have company. I wonder if that's how Jesus felt at Golgotha. Maybe he found solace in looking to the two other guys and thinking we're all in this together.

A few minutes later, the two women came out beaming.

"That was SO much fun!" one of them said, adjusting her headband.

"OMG, right?! I hope to see you on set!" She twirled to the elevator.

Somehow I doubted I was going to come out of the room in the same mood. I wanted to die.

"Anthony, Curry," the casting associate called. "Come on in!" We entered and she explained the plan. "Any questions?"

"How long do we have to dance?" I asked. I felt like a death row inmate. "How long do I have...once you flip the switch." I forced a smile.

"30 seconds," she said.

She said action and something took over my body. It wasn't "dancing skill." After looking at my phone, my plan was to give an involuntary fist pump. I'd look at my fist, bewildered, and then force it down with the other hand, at which point I'd hit 'em with the knee flail.

Unfortunately, that was the end of my plan, and with 25 seconds to fill, I went off book. I started shaking, moving around the room. I covered a lot of ground. I tossed in a back bend. Some air punches. At one point I launched my arms into the air and, not knowing what to do next, held them there.

I said the first thing that came to my mind. "I'm stuck." Great. Now I had to keep my arms up there while my lower half rode out the clock.

Finally, the casting associate said the magic words. "Aaaand cut." She was giggling. "I'm not laughing at you guys," she said. "I'm laughing because I can so clearly see this scene. I liked how you both had…uh…specific movements, very different from each other."

And all of them terrible.

Sensing a cover-up, I stood, out of breath, wondering how much embarrassment I was willing to put up with to pursue this job. Apparently, more than I would have guessed. I was reminded of a Howard Stern interview where he asks Jerry Seinfeld how he puts up with all the time he spends writing and performing. "Find the torture you're comfortable with," Jerry says, "and you'll do well."

Most of the job is not the dream itself. Most of the job is a weird little collection of undignified embarrassments. The dream is one national car commercial and lots of money. The reality is many terrible auditions and lots of shame.

Everyone has a price. Mine is a shot at a better life. 

And an all-expenses paid trip to Barcelona.