Love the Wine You’re With

Actually, that’s not true. I love my job—when I’m actually working. I’m an actress, and there is nothing more fun than being paid to spend the day flying around the set in a harness, or being outfitted by a costume designer in a seven-thousand-dollar sequined dress, or looking across a table at a love-struck George Clooney, who asks you to pass the salt.

But today my job is to get a job. Which sucks. Always, always, always. I wish I could be like that actor who said every audition is an opportunity, however short, to practice your craft. I’m thirty-two years old and have been working for fourteen years. I’m done. I’m ready to (a) start fielding offers or (b) win the lottery and retire.

I start today’s round of auditions at six (fucking) A.M., because audition #1 is at eight A.M., but in Santa Monica, a city west of Los Angeles. I live with my roommate, Natasha, in Silverlake, which is a good hour from Santa Monica even in the best of traffic conditions. Add drizzling rain, the usual frazzled commuters, and two lane closures for road work, and one must leave the house two hours early.

As if that weren’t bad enough, it’s for a commercial for a pharmaceutical where I have to look like a scientist, and where I’ve been told to “dress the part.”

You tell me how not to look like an ass when you show up to a job interview in a white lab coat. (The same lab coat you’ve worn to at least twelve auditions, and one very weird second date.)

I don’t know why the trend lately, but I’m half Asian, half Caucasian, and I seem to be getting audition after audition for “scientist” and “doctor.”

Okay, I totally know why the trend. And the stereotype totally pisses me off. Although I suppose one advantage of being in my thirties is I’m now the smart scientist type. Once, in my twenties, a director gave me the most back-handed compliment when he said, “With your straight, black, ‘shampoo commercial’ hair, and porcelain”—(read: half-white)—“skin, you’re like an approachable geisha.”

Anyway, a little before eight, I make my way to the ad agency, which is on the third floor of a mirrored building that looks like all of the other mirrored buildings in the area. I sign in at the reception area to let them know I’m there and try to pretend that I don’t see twelve other Asian women, all dressed in lab coats, silently rehearsing their lines.

The receptionist hands me the sides, which is what we call the pages with the actor’s lines on them. On the top of the first page is a word: XKLGGENZS. Judging from the rest of the script, I’m guessing that’s the name of the drug they’re selling. I resist the urge to ask to buy a vowel.

I sit down on a white pleather sofa and read through the script. The first page is for a younger actress, who will play Sarah, my afflicted patient. What she is afflicted with, the script will not say.

JULIA, a handsome woman, older, approachable, tells us in her authoritative voice …

JULIA

But now, we women have options.

Then page 3 scares the shit out of me. Because over a shot of four beautiful young women laughing over cocktails (Sarah and her friends), I (the phony doctor) have a voice-over to warn consumers:

JULIA

(v.o.)

Side effects include drowsiness, short-term memory loss, decreased libido, stroke, depressed mood, dry mouth, tinnitus, and death. Pregnant women should not take Xklggenzs. If you have thoughts of suicide, please stop using Xklggenzs and consult your doctor immediately.

EXT. BEACH—MORNING

A glowing Sarah runs up to the camera to confide …

SARAH

It’s time for a new start. It’s time for Xklggenzs.

I quickly look up tinnitus on my phone: ringing in the ears. Seriously?

“Holly Graham.” A curly-haired guy in a navy blue suit calls out, clipboard in hand.

I raise my hand and tell him cheerfully, “That’s me.” I gather up my things and make my way into the casting room, whispering to him as we walk in, “How do I pronounce…?”

“x-KEL-ggenzs.”

“x-KEL-ggenzs,” I repeat.

“No, the second g is silent,” he tells me, then raises his voice to announce to a roomful of executives, “This is Holly Graham. She’ll be reading for the part of Julia.”

I quickly survey the room to see who I’m playing to. In front of the floor-to-ceiling windows is a super-long table with twelve people seated to face me. Shades of Da Vinci’s The Last Supper. In the center of the table, substituting for Jesus, is a video camera. While one of the execs stands up to run the camera, the man farthest to my left (I assume he’s the casting director) says to me, “Can you state your name?”

“Holly Graham.”

“Great. Now, Holly, can you read the side effects for me as quickly as possible?”

“Sure,” I say, giving him a huge I’m-a-team-player smile. “Side effects include drowsiness, short-term memory loss, decreased libido—”

“Let me stop you right there,” he says, putting up his palm. “You gotta go faster than that. I’m understanding every word you’re saying.”

“Absolutely. Thanks for the note,” I say cheerfully. Then I begin again, rapid-firing it, “Side effects include drowsiness, short-term memory loss, decreased libido, stroke, depressed mood, dry mouth, tinnitus, and death. Pregnant women should not take Xklggenzs. If you have thoughts of suicide, please stop using Xklggenzs and consult your doctor immediately.”

“Oh, my God. You sound sooooo bummed out when you say that,” the executive the second from my right tells me. “Can you sound a bit more upbeat?”

As I talk about thoughts of suicide? I think to myself. Then I tell him, “Absolutely,” and run through it again.

“Okay, now you’re sounding too happy,” the one woman executive in the room tells me. “How about something a little more authoritarian?”

This went on for five more read-throughs. If I’m supposed to be grateful to the universe for giving me this free opportunity to pursue my passion, I’d like to remind the universe that my passions also include ice cream and pretty much anything to do with Hawaii, France, or Ryan Gosling.

10:00 A.M.

I want to quit my job.

I should have been a dental hygienist. You never have to audition to clean out people’s mouths.

Audition #2 of the day is a callback, meaning I have already auditioned for the casting director, and either she wants to see me again, or I get to audition for the director. After a snail’s crawl commute down the 405 freeway to get from Santa Monica to the Valley, I make my way to soundstage three of the CBS Studios lot, where I see a line of stunningly beautiful women waiting patiently. Most of them are wearing shiny neon spandex from the 1980s.

Uh-oh. Before I get in the line, I quickly text my agent, Karen:

Hey—question about the NCI: Boise callback. Why is everyone in spandex?

I wait for Karen to text back.

Didn’t I tell you to wear spandex?

No, I’m pretty sure I would have remembered that.

Hold on …

I wait about fifty feet away from the line of actresses while (I assume) Karen talks to her assistant. My friend Audra (who is also mixed-race Asian and Caucasian, so we frequently end up at the same auditions) spots me.

I put out the palms of my hands and lift my shoulders to mutely signal, What the fuck? She responds by shaking her head, then pretending to hang herself.

I love her.

My phone pings that I have a new text. Karen.

Apparently they want you to look like Jane Fonda.

They want an Asian-looking Jane Fonda? Would that be before or after she was in Hanoi?

Very funny. Why did you put “Hip-Hop Dance” under special skills on your resume?

Because I’m desperate for a job. But Jane Fonda taught aerobics in the 80s, not hip-hop in the 90s.

Pretty sure they don’t know that.

Swell. I quickly head to a ladies’ room to change into some (circa 2010s, very unshiny) yoga pants, then Google the term “Fly Girls” to get a crash course in hip-hop from the 1990s. The Fly Girls were a group of dancing girls choreographed by Rosie Perez and featured on the show In Living Color. Jennifer Lopez got her start dancing with them. On my phone, I check out a picture of her from that time—she looks nothing like Jennifer Lopez. Welcome to Hollywood.

Twenty minutes later, I clumsily manage the Cabbage Patch and the Running Man, then nearly break my neck while attempting a move with my leg that the choreographer should just call the Broken Clavicle. This is followed up by a dance that should be renamed, Learning to Ski at the Age of Fifty.

Needless to say, I don’t think I got the part.

12:00 NOON

If I quit my job to become an Uber driver, would the amount of driving for work actually go down?

Audition #3 is on the Paramount lot in Hollywood, a short enough drive that I have time to hit Arby’s, change out of yoga pants and into blue jeans in their ladies’ room, then wolf down a large roast beef sandwich, potato cakes, and Diet Coke. All in less than five minutes. On my way out, I drive through for a ham and cheese with Horsey Sauce, silently promising myself to hit the gym before seeing Nat and Jessie tonight.

Twenty minutes later, I am signing in at the next production front office, where I am handed my sides. Normally, sides look like this:

NORMAN

Can we speak to Mr. Huang?

RECEPTIONIST

I’ll see if he’s in.

Only for this audition, I am given a blank sheet of paper—except for one blue line drawn horizontally across the sheet.

I flip the sheet over, thinking the casting director’s assistant must have handed me the sides upside down.

Nope, nothing but white on the other side.

I smile pleasantly at the receptionist. “I’m sorry, you just handed me a blank sheet of paper.”

“Oh, did I?” she responds politely, looking over at the paper. Then she shakes her head. “No, that’s right. You’re Blue.”

I can feel my lips scrunching toward my left ear, trying to figure this out, when my name is called. “Holly Graham.”

“Here!” I pipe up nervously, then follow a puffy middle-aged woman with fried bleached blonde hair and long acrylic nails into a room where three men in suits sit at a table across from me.

“Okay, Holly is coming in as Blue,” Bleachie announces to the men before taking her seat at the side of the table.

They all wait for me expectantly.

I stand in the middle of the room and stare back at them.

The man in the center seat of the table beams a cheerful smile at me. “Whenever you’re ready. Just have fun with it.”

“Okay,” I say awkwardly, trying to study the blue line.

Crap.

I look up at the main guy and say, “If I could just maybe get a little direction here. If there were to be words on my script, what might they sound like?”

He laughs, and the other men laugh with him, half a second too late. “You are a riot. Karen said we’d love you. The whole point of our show is that it’s unscripted. So say whatever Blue would say.”

I nod, making sure to look him in the eye so that he can see that I’m totally getting where he’s coming from. “And who am I in this script?”

“You’re Blue,” he answers with a flourish.

“Well, thank you for not making me calculus.”

Polite laughs on their parts.

I try again. “What I meant is…” How the hell else can I ask this? “How do you see Blue?”

He nods, furrowing his brow as he ponders my deep question. “That is a good question.” Then he turns to the man on his left. “Dave, how do you see Blue?”

“Well, obviously, she’s female,” Dave answers, then motions toward me, “And extremely hot.”

Oh, yay me.

Then Dave shrugs. “I would say just play with it. Really make it your own.”

Believe it or not, the audition went downhill from there.

12:45 P.M.

I think I’m never getting a job again.

The good news: My next audition is at 1:20 on the Paramount lot, so I don’t have to drive. I grab a cup of coffee at the commissary and go through my e-mails to learn that Xklggenzs has already passed on me, but am I interested in auditioning for a medical marijuana commercial? I e-mail back to ask if they want me to be pro or con? Not that it matters—I’ll probably go in anyway. Sigh.

I waste some time texting Jessie.

Tell me again why it’s bad to be an accountant?

Pick one: Spreadsheet. Monotony. Nude hosiery. Sensible shoes. (I can’t find the emoji for Munch’s Scream.) Oh! And having to sleep with Kevin.

I realize that I have accidentally texted my roommate, Nat, a game show writer, not our friend Jessie, the accountant. I point out to Nat …

I have to wear nude hosiery sometimes.

Yes, and your reward for that is you get to kiss a One Direction member as part of your day job. By the way, did you eat the rest of the Cheetos?

I did, and I’d do it again. Yesterday was brutal. Today is worse. Plus, it paired well with the double-chocolate Milanos you hid behind the canned string beans.

I hear a ping from my phone, alerting me to a text from Jessie.

Tell me again why it’s bad to be an actress?

1:10 P.M.

I walk in to my audition ten minutes early to have Marion, an assistant whom I know fairly well, look up at me from her desk and do a double take. I turn to get a gander at the room full of actresses I’ll be competing against: They’re all drag queens. I smile at Marion, silently wave good-bye, and see myself out.

“You’re coming to bingo Monday, right, baby?” I hear from the waiting room on my way out.

“Wouldn’t miss it, Roxy,” I yell back to one of the ladies. “Just promise me you’ll tell me I-29 at least once.”

Six more hours until I’m sitting at the bar of Wine O’Clock with my friends, sipping on something from somewhere weird, and not having to pretend to be something I’m not.