No. 3: 🍒☝🏻🕉
The Word doc sides should’ve been your first clue: This was not going to be a legitimate audition. Except it was, for a legitimate movie, starring a legitimate B-list actor. Maybe they’re a SAG ultra-modified low budget and couldn’t afford Final Draft?
The role is for a prostitute who gets abducted. So you wrangle into your Very Sexy Bombshell bra that adds two cups in your best attempt at cleavage. Mini skirt, your cherry reddest lips, Steve Madden stilettos that are platform peep-toe perfect.
Other would-be prostitutes adorn folding chairs. There is no sign-in sheet, they explain, but you go after me says the blonde. She sounds like Wisconsin, long-lost friendly and underratedly beautiful. Her expression when she exits casting is your second clue: This is not going to be a legitimate audition. The corner of her mouth is pulled tight into an eeesh. “That was…” she mutters all flustered-like. But she scurries out the door before you can ask what.
The B-list actor and two producers sit behind a table. Names are exchanged and you emotionally summon fear, but instead of launching into the abduction scene, B-List asks where you’re from. Oh. Small talk first. The inconsideration of an actor’s nerves and preparation, you think, answering.
“How do you move?” he asks.
Does he mean struggle, like for the kidnapping bit? “What?”
“How do you m o v e ?” His finger circles vertically. He’s asking you for The Twirl.
Ears flush. Heat shames. Maddens one-two-step a circle. You’re an autopilot good girl. Their gazes make you feel naked, but you’ve come to play a whore, after all. Yes, you’re available September. No, you don’t speak French. No, you haven’t seen his movies. The Word doc pages in your hand are creasing.
They never have you do the scene. “We’ve seen enough,” they say. “Great job.” Suddenly you understand Wisconsin’s expression.
You’re offered the role of B-List’s French wife—or was it a chemistry read? You decline, hands shaking.
Later you learn that B-List is proclaimed a reincarnated Buddhist lama, furthering your disdain of Hollywood spirituality. You could spit on the texts of Tibet every time you see his face.