HOLLY
4:00 P.M.
Do you think people know when they’re about to snap? Do you think it’s like a snowball rolling down a hill that just gets bigger and bigger, until the ball is the size of a truck, and it’s about to bitch-slap the next idiot who stumbles across its path?
Because my snowball idiot is sitting across from me at a table with his assistant, his commercial casting director, and some assorted randoms.
Ah, famous (infamous?) commercial director Joseph Chavez. How can I describe this guy? Talented? Very. Although you gotta wonder how much the people surrounding him pay for that kind of laser focus at work. Ridiculously handsome. Like, to the point where you’re almost annoyed with him. His driver’s license would merely describe him as a six-foot-two guy with dark brown hair and blue eyes. But that’s like calling a Stradivarius a fiddle. I always wonder where in the world you find that glowing olive skin contrasting with electric blue eyes.
Personality? Ah. Here is where we hit the problem. A friend of mine who has auditioned for him on numerous occasions once described it as “does not suffer fools gladly.” I think that’s being generous. I would describe him as a raging narcissist, with a streak of OCD and a personality that can only be described as “chafing.”
But I am a fan of his work, and I need this job.
So I close my eyes and let the world drift away …
Breathe, Holly. Take your time. Find your center. You are here to act. In this moment, you are an actress. Nothing else matters.
I open my eyes and burst into a dazzling smile. I lean into the casting assistant and tell her in a conspiratorial, yet excited, voice. “I’m wearing one right now.”
“A diaper?” the casting assistant reads from her script in a deadened tone.
“Not a diaper, an adult undergarment!” I answer with a tone of voice normally reserved for finding unknown ice cream in the freezer. “Designed by NASA for discretion.”
Before I launch into my lawyer-inspired monologue about how the product is not intended for use during periods (as you would when having lunch with a friend), I look over to see the director doesn’t even know I’m in the room. He’s too busy reading his phone screen and pensively thumb-typing back. The casting director nervously glances at him to glean a reaction of any kind.
Type, type, type.
I stare at the director, anger and hatred starting to simmer in my stomach. Yes, it’s a crappy audition for a crappy product (no pun intended), but I drove forty-five minutes in bumper-to-bumper traffic to be here and get to act for forty-five seconds. His people called me, which means he called me, not the other way around. The least he could do is acknowledge me.
I watch the guy purse his lips as he reads the response on his screen, then thumb-type again onto his phone.
I slowly put down my script and lean in across the table, so my face is mere inches from his. “You’ve hit your breaking point, haven’t you?” I ask him calmly. “That moment when you just can’t take it any longer.”
The director looks up from his phone, surprised to discover there is someone else in the room. “I’m sorry?”
“Yeah, you are,” I agree. I interlock my fingers and let my chin rest on my hands as I look him right in the eye. “When you were a kid, you dreamed of becoming a director, didn’t you?”
A bit startled, the guy looks around at his staff for a save. He gets dead-eyed boredom in response. I take that as a sign to continue. “It was all you ever wanted to do. I’ll bet you spent hundreds of hours in your parents’ living room, studying every detail of every Hitchcock, Scorsese, and Kubrick film you could find. The lighting, the sound, the camera angles each one chose.”
The director slowly puts his phone down and stares at me. “Yeah,” he admits suspiciously.
“And you kept studying,” I continue. “And you started sacrificing. And when everyone else went to Europe after college, you took out student loans and went to film school. Then, when everyone else started moving in together and looking at rings, you stayed single, free from distractions, and spent every last dime you could get your hands on finishing your next short film. Maybe even maxing out a few credit cards along the way.”
The douche bag widens his eyes at me like I have a crystal ball and just successfully guessed his weight, age, and third-grade crush. But then his tone of voice makes it clear that I am a piece of gum to be scraped from his shoe as he asks, “Where exactly are you going with this?”
“You had three roommates, a clunker that barely ran, and debt so high you didn’t know why anyone would be stupid enough to loan you money in the first place. But you were a director. They weren’t. You were sacrificing for your dream. And one day all of that hard work and sacrifice would pay off. You’d have your Academy Award, your hot wife, a couple of gorgeous kids who look just like her, and your house on the beach.”
Now I have captured his attention. The guy considers my statement as though it were a question, “Well, I’m not sure if I thought—”
“And here you are, after all of those years of study, loneliness, and sacrifice, directing an adult-diaper commercial. Living the dream, huh?”
He’s about to counter my statement, but I shut him up with the palm of my hand. “Tonight’s going to suck for you, Joe. Because you’re gonna go home and you’re gonna be up half the night realizing what a waste of time your life has been lately. And that being an asshole doesn’t make you an auteur, it just makes you unhappy, and it makes everyone around you miserable. It’s time for a change, Joe. And as you stare at the bottom of your scotch glass tonight, you’re gonna think about me, and you’re gonna wonder, ‘What do I need to change?’ Well, the first thing is, when someone’s talking to you, get off your fucking phone and listen. You might learn something.”
I pick up my purse and leave.
Oddly enough, no one follows me.