Just a Geek

by Wil Wheaton

  It was at 2:30 in the afternoon, so I slept late, and then spent the morning reviewing my character notes and audition script, which actors call “sides.” The second audition was to happen later in the day, and I wouldn’t have time to return home between the two to change, so I carefully hung a different wardrobe in the back of my car before I left the house around 1:45, for Walt Disney Studios in Burbank.

  When I was a kid, I always liked going to Disney. As far as studios go, it’s actually pretty boring: no back lot like Universal or Warners, and no front lot like Fox, but standing at the corner of Mickey Mouse Avenue and Dopey Drive is pretty magical when you’re a kid. Hell, it’s pretty magical when you’re an adult!

  I showed my ID to the security guard and waited while they searched my car. There had been some nebulous threat against movie studios, and they were all really manic about security. Driving onto the lot at Warners was like going into an embassy, complete with concrete barriers and guys with guns, but Disney was a bit more relaxed. As long as there wasn’t a box in the trunk that said “THIS IS A BOMB” in big red letters, you’d be fine.

  I parked my car and checked my watch: 2:25. I looked at myself in my rearview mirror and said, “You’re a good actor. Go kick their ass.” It’s something that I do before every audition. It started out as a practical way to steady my nerves, but over the years, it’s turned into a superstitious ritual.

  I walked across the parking lot, past several actors on their way out who looked exactly like me. Was one of these “The Guy,” or did I still have a chance to be “The Guy?” Those thoughts, spoken by The Voice Of Self Doubt, lead to unemployment, so I pushed him out of my head.

  I went out of my way to pass through the intersection of Mickey Mouse Avenue and Dopey Drive, and arrived at the audition one minute late. The room was empty except for a water cooler and a few chairs. A sign-in sheet sat on one of them. I picked it up, and wrote in my name, SAG number, character name, agent, and time I arrived. I looked up the list to see if there were any familiar names ahead of me, but I didn’t see anyone I recognized. All the names were crossed out, and someone named David was ahead of me.

  I looked around for David.

  Was David the guy who was going to take my job away from me? Maybe I’d go Tonya Harding on him before he got to go in.

  “Hey, David! Nice to meet you! I’m Wil. Did you see this interesting thing on the window ledge?” Shove. “Oops. Sorry about that. Let me just cross your name off the list here . . .”

  David was nowhere to be found, so I sat down and waited.

  And waited.

  And waited.

  At 10 minutes past 3, I heard the bell chime on the elevator down the hallway. Of course! David was downstairs, plotting my destruction. I heard footsteps coming down the hallway, and glanced at the open window that was next to me. When I looked back, Sean Astin walked into the room.

  My heart leapt. Sean is one of my favorite people in the world, and we really hit it off when we worked on Toy Soldiers together. In the months of publicity tours that followed, we became good friends, but as his career took off and mine tanked, I fell out of touch with him. All my murderous thoughts about the still-unseen David went out of my head.

  “Is that Sean Astin?” I said with a huge smile.

  “You look just like Wil Wheaton,” he said.

  I jumped out of my chair, and we embraced.

  “I am so happy to see you,” I said.

  He picked up the sign-in sheet. “How have you been?”

  Shitty.

  “I’ve been better, but I’m great now,” I said.

  “I’m sorry I couldn’t come to your wedding,” he said. “We were in New Zealand.”

  “Yeah, your assistant told us—what was that? Three years ago? Holy shit. That’s a long time.”

  He nodded.

  “Was it fun?” I said. Fellowship of the Ring had only been out for a few months, but it was well on its way to being a phenomenon.

  “A lot of work, but also a lot of fun,” he said.

  I wanted to drop my sides, forget the audition, and spend the rest of the afternoon in a coffee shop, catching up.

  “Hey, what are y—”

  The door opened, and the casting director walked out, chatting amiably with a fairly well-known actor. Why wasn’t his name on the sign-in sheet?

  “. . . so we’ll talk to you soon!” he said.

  The well-known actor shook his hand and left. The Casting Director looked right through me and said, “Hello, Sean! Thank you for coming in!”

  Sean smiled, and I did my best impression of the invisible man while they shook hands.

  The Casting Director looked down at the sign-in sheet and called out, “David? Is David here?”

  “Dave’s not here, man!” I thought, and stifled a giggle.

  I looked around the empty room. Unless he was hiding behind the water cooler, David wasn’t here. “Have you seen David?” The Casting Director said to Sean.

  “No. But I think Wil is next,” Sean said.

  The Casting Director looked at me like I had just appeared in a puff of smoke.

  “Just a second,” he said, and walked to the hallway door. “David?!” he called out.

  “Yes?” Came the distant reply.

  “We’re ready for you.”

  I guess he was sitting around the corner, or maybe down on the stairs, but the mysterious David walked into the room, and handed his picture and resume to the Casting Director, who turned to me and said, “You’re next.”

  “Okay. Thank you,” I said.

  The Casting Director’s voice took on an incredibly obsequious tone as the door shut behind him. “This is David, everyone . . .”

  I looked at Sean.

  “Tell me again why we do this?” I said.

  “Because we love The Process,” he said.

  “Oh yes. The Process.”

  We both shook our heads, and I picked up my sides. There’s a very delicate balance between over-preparation and under-preparation, that’s best compared to a pitcher coming out of the bullpen: as an actor, I can’t over throw before I get into the game, but I can’t be warming up on the mound, either. Over the years, I’ve found this balance by reviewing my sides and notes when the guy ahead of me goes into the room. That way I have about 3–5 minutes (depending on the length of the scenes, of course) to warm up, and I usually go into the room ready to blow my fastball past them or stun them with the knuckler.

  Of course, this doesn’t work when the guy ahead of me stays in the room for over 20 minutes.

  After 10 minutes or so had passed, I turned to Sean. “Do you want to trade numbers and maybe get together to catch up sometime soon?”

  He reached into his pocket for a pen. “I’d love that,” he said.

  I tore the bottom off a blueish scrap of note paper that had directions to my second audition on it and handed it to him.

  “I’ll give you my cell and my home numbers,” he said.

  He wrote them down and handed it back to me. I tore off a smaller corner, and wrote my home number down. “I don’t have a cell right now,” I said with some embarrassment.

  “Got it,” he said.

  I folded that scrap of paper in half, and put it into the breast pocket of the sport coat I was wearing for the audition. In the back of my mind, I wondered if I’d actually get the nerve up to call him.[10]

  I sat back down, and looked at my sides again, but I didn’t read them. I was dangerously close to over-preparation territory.

  Another 10 minutes passed before the door finally opened.

  “David, you were wonderful,” the Casting Director said as they passed us. “Stay close to the phone.”

  David left, and the Casting Director picked up the sign-in sheet. He crossed off a name (presumably mine) and looked up.

  “Wil?” He looked around the room.

  “I’m ready,” I said. Again, he looked at me like I had flown in through the window. Is he doing
this on purpose?

  I handed him my picture and resume, as I stood up.

  “Break a leg,” Sean said.

  “Thanks,” I said, and entered the same room I’ve been entering for 20 years: always too small or too big, harshly lit, and dominated by an enormous conference room-sized table, around which sit several studio executives, producers, writers, and casting assistants.

  This particular room had something new, though: the infamous casting couch crowded the left side of the room; upon it sat five executives. Clustered around the ubiquitous table were another seven people. A casting assistant stood behind a camera, mounted on a tripod.

  “This is Wil Wheaton,” the Casting Director said.

  I extended my hand to the executive who was nearest to me. She didn’t take it, but chewed rather forcefully on her gum.

  “Hello,” I said, as I dropped my hand to my side.

  Nobody said anything. One guy folded his hands in his lap, and looked at me expectantly.

  “How are you guys doing today?” I said. What the hell am I doing making small talk? Just shut up and do the audition!

  After a long pause, one of them said, “Fine. Thank you.”

  Another looked very bored as he turned my picture over and looked at my resume.

  “Oh, you were in Stand By Me?” he said.

  Have I been in anything else?

  “Yeah,” I said. “A long time ago.”

  One of the other executives coughed.

  Over the years, I’ve developed a remarkable sixth sense for these things. When I walk into an audition, I can tell almost immediately how they feel about me. It’s just like dating—within seconds, these people decide if they’re going to take you on a nice date, or just fuck you and never call you back.

  These people weren’t interested in having dinner, that was for sure. An uncomfortable silence filled the room.

  They hate me. What am I doing here?

  “Okay, Wil. Go ahead and slate your name, then we’ll begin,” said the Casting Director.

  Oh. This will be fun. Nothing like doing comedy for a room filled with people who hate me.

  I turned to the camera, took a deep breath, and hoped that my years of acting experience would pay off: I was now acting like I didn’t want to kill these people.

  “Hi, my name is Wil Wheaton,” I said.

  “How tall are you, Wil?”

  “Uh . . .” I held my hand up to the top of my head. “About this tall,” I said.

  Silence.

  “. . . which, of course, would be about 5’11”.”

  “Thank you.”

  In every audition, there is this moment similar to the time between the lights in a theater going down and the curtain coming up, or the time between the clapping of the slate and the director calling action. But in an audition, there are no lights, and there’s no slate. It’s just this awkward moment when everyone hits a mental “reset” button, and the actor begins. In this particular audition, the moment was made all the more uncomfortable by the oppressive silence in the room. I took a deep breath, and began the first of four scenes.

  It was just awful. There was some forced laughter, almost like a half-hearted laugh track, but that was it. When the first scene was finished, I flipped over the top page of my sides and started the second scene.

  “Jenny, I thought—” I said, before I was interrupted by one of the executives behind the table.

  “Oh, we’re just doing the first scene today,” he said. “Thank you.”

  Boy, it took your hero David over 20 minutes to do “just the first scene today!” He must have been really slow. Or maybe you’re just full of shit.

  “Wait,” I said. “I prepared four scenes. I spent three days preparing four scenes, and didn’t go on vacation with my wife and stepkids so I could come in here and give you this audition. I’ve been working my ass off to give you this performance, and even though I can tell that you’re not interested in me at all, I’m going to fucking do this, okay? I have a 25-year career behind me, including a performance in an Academy Award-nominated film, and that counts for something. So why don’t you all just lighten the fuck up, and respect the fact that I came in here to do this stupid song and dance for your noncreative asses?!”

  Well, that’s not exactly true. I said something more like, “Oh. Well, thanks for seeing me,” and I walked out of the room.

  Sean looked up from his sides and asked me how it went.

  “Not so good,” I said, grimly. “I’ve set the bar nice and low for you.”

  “Sorry, man,” he said.

  “Meh. Whatever.”

  The office door opened. “Sean? We’re ready for you.”

  “Hey, call me next week, okay?” Sean said.

  “I will,” I said. “Break a leg!”

  “Thanks.”

  He walked into the room. “This is Sean Astin,” the Casting Director said. A chorus of happy voices greeted him as the door closed.

  I gave the best audition I could under the circumstances, but I was furious when I left, as much at myself as I was at them. I violently crumpled my sides into a ball, and slammed them into the first trash can I found. By the time I got to my car, I was seething. However, true to form, when I wrote about it, I did my best to focus on the positive, even calling these assholes, who I would have gleefully punched in the nuts if given the chance, “nice people.”

  09 APRIL 2002

  Stay Gold, Pony Boy

  There is no word yet on the auditions, but here is my personal recap:

  The 2:30 wasn’t as good as I had hoped. I went in after a guy who clearly did a great job (he was in there for close to 20 minutes), which is the absolute worst time an actor can go into a room . . . I could tell that he had given them exactly what they were looking for and I really felt like they just wanted me to hurry up and get out of the room. They were all really nice people, though . . . people I could totally work with. It was just bad timing for me.

  A good thing though, was that I saw Sean Astin while I was there. Now, Sean is one of my absolute favorite people in the world. I’ve known him since forever and I respect him tremendously both as an actor and as a person. It’s funny; every time I tease him about getting roles in Lord of the Rings, or Goonies, or any of the other kick-ass movies he’s been in, he tells me, “Hey, you got Stand By Me. So we’re even.”

  So, since I am always looking for the hidden positives in the increasingly shitty world of life as an actor, seeing Sean made that call worthwhile.

  The 5:00 call went much better. It was also for a sitcom and it was over at Warner Brothers. It was tough for me to focus, because of the lousy experience I had just had at 2:30, but I was somehow able to leave that behind me and I did a pretty good job. There was only one other person in the room besides the casting director, which means that there is not a ton of laughter where there normally would be if you were in front of an audience. That can really throw someone who isn’t experienced in these things, and I was really glad that I knew how to handle that. I think I’m a little bit too old for that part, but I guess they’re seeing people of all different ages, so I think I’m still in the hunt on that one.

  Thank you to everyone who sent me their good wishes. I especially enjoyed cat mojo.conf > /dev/Wil.

  I copied that one onto the back of a calendar page and carried it in my pocket.

  You know, the thing about both of these calls is, I did everything that I could possibly do to be prepared. I created characters, I learned the lines, I developed the relationships . . . I will never get used to the people on the other side of the table not putting as much effort into their side as I put into my side.

  So, now the stupid waiting begins . . . I’ll update when I hear something.

  I waited for three days—without my wife, stepkids, or even my dog for company—for the call to come that I hadn’t booked the jobs. When it did, I took a sardonic pleasure in the knowledge that, for once, I didn’t come in second. I had baile
d on my family at the last minute, and I hadn’t even cracked the top 10.

  12 APRIL 2002

  I’m a Loner Dottie, A Rebel

  I have a partial update from the auditions on Monday.

  I’ve heard nothing from the second call. However, not surprisingly, the first call, where they really made me feel unwelcome, is going nowhere.

  I talked with my manager about it and he got some feedback from them: they found people they really liked on Friday and I guess lots of actors left that room on Monday feeling shitty, like the producers didn’t even want those actors to be there.

  Well, duh. If they found people they really liked on Friday, why even bother to bring us in on Monday?! And why bother to bring in actors if they’re going to make us feel like they don’t even want us there?!

  Now, I know I probably shouldn’t say this, because in the entertainment industry, nobody is supposed to say obvious and truthful things, like Tom Cruise sucks, or James Cameron is an epic A-hole and Michael Bay is a complete hack, but here’s some information from The Inside™:

  This happens all the %$@!^ing time. Actors prepare their guts out for an audition, only to get there, wait an hour or longer (SAG says they’re supposed to pay us like 30 bucks or something if we’re there longer than an hour, but if an actor actually asks for that he will be blacklisted by that casting director, so nobody ever does) and go into a room where producers are on the phone, or looking through paperwork, or doing just about everything in the world except paying attention to the actor who is auditioning for them.

  Most of the time, the person who is reading with you is so overworked, he or she doesn’t take the time to learn what the scene is about and reads the other lines in the scene with a flat, monotone disinterest that throws off the best of us. I guess what most of them fail to realize is that the best acting is reacting and it’s tough to react to complete and utter disinterest.

  A notable exception to this rule is Tony Sepulveda, who casts at Warner Brothers. He is one of my absolute favorite casting directors to read for, because he ALWAYS makes me feel welcome and comfortable and he ALWAYS knows the material he’s reading. The last time I read for him, he was totally off the script and even improvised with me. Tony is an incredibly busy man, yet he still manages to find the time to make actors feel welcome. It’s a shame that there’s only one of him.