by Katie George
Chapter Two
I STUFFED THE rest of a banana into the throaty space of my mouth, and then I was hurriedly positioning the recording camera for the first round of auditions of a casting labeled Joan D’Narc. From what I’d picked up in my newbie haze, the pilot would be on an obscure channel that sounded like a mixture of science geek and choppy chic. But it was my first day on the job, and I was shadowing an assistant casting director, Margaret “Megg” Holmwood, and her own assistant, Becki Aliaro. So I was about the smallest fish in a medium-sized pond.
In the meantime I had already perused the script and died in awkward fright. Whoever auditioned for this part was desperate. Yet everyone has to make his or her break someday—that is what I had learned from even scrounging up the job offer from Braitley & Richter. I had yet to even see a photograph of either of the owners, and here I was on their property.
“Hey, Emily,” Becki called out, unwittingly (well, maybe it was intentional) mistaking my name. “Can you shift the camera more to the right? Thanks, girl. Also, can you fetch Megg some water—no ice?”
Megg was sorting through papers. From our limited conversation, I deduced she worked hard to stay alive in favor of the wrath of her direct supervisor, Baylee Feta. The hierarchy was tough, and I was at the bottom of the food chain, like one of those feeders or plankton or amoeba who mope around and get eaten.
I found the nearby refreshment room, where a few stray humans were scarfing down lunch or reading something juicy on their phones. I grabbed a water bottle and turned to see the feared, honorable Baylee Feta purchasing high heels off some lucrative shopping website. They were strappy and pink, and I said, “Those are cute.”
She looked up like I was scum, and then her frown turned to disbelief. She sat up and said, “Thanks? Well, I’m buying them for a party. I’ve got the dress, and like any girl knows, I need the shoes.”
“I like them,” I said, shifting so I could walk back to the energetic (not) screening room where Megg awaited her water. But Baylee stuck a manicured hand through her brown hair and gestured me to sit down. Knowing she was my boss’s boss’s boss, I did as she said, noting how pretty she was.
Baylee Feta looked Italian or Greek, some ethnicity like that. With long brownish-black hair and unblemished olive skin, she seemed like the failed-actress type. A woman who had a chance once, but ended up behind the screens. Her large brown eyes reminded me of Bette Davis, yet she seemed like a sexed up version of the old Hollywood glam. The fire in her eyes was something I did not necessarily like, but when one lives off old bread and a health nut’s cooking, there is pretty much anything one will do.
“You’re the new meat. How’s the first day on the job?”
“It’s going well, I suppose.”
Baylee nodded toward the water. “Get used to it. That’s how the first few years are, unless you want to truly prove yourself.” She leaned closer to me, revealing a hint of cleavage, which made my eyes widen as big as hers. “If you’re smart, you’ll see the opportunity—and you’ll take it. This is a tough world…?” She paused, waiting for my name.
“Oh, I’m Emma.”
“Emmy, if you really want to do well, dress like me. Those shoes I bought are ones that really make an impression, especially on men like Richard Braitley and Hugh Richter.”
“Thanks for the advice.”
“Hey, Emmy, how about we grab lunch tomorrow? I’ve always wondered what it’s like being a mentor.”
“Sure?”
“Don’t forget what I said. Now, go. Megg won’t notice you’ve been gone long, but Becki might be a twit enough to say something.”
“Thanks, Ms. Feta.”
“Oh, dear Buddha, if you ever call me that again…”
“Thanks, Baylee.”
A genuine smile dripped from her lips. It seemed like she had a very limited friend group, especially since she had taken me under her wing—officially or not. “Scram before you die.”
I walked back to the casting room, and Megg was rearranging more papers on the opaque desk. Becki’s nose was scrunched up, and loud enough for the supervisor to hear, she asked, “What took so long?”
“I was just talking with…”
Megg took the water. “Thank you. I think we’re just about ready for our first actor. Lights, camera, kill me now. Emily, go get the first one.”
My feet were already aching from the pent-up pressure running around for coffee, bagels, and gossip magazines had built up. I rushed out to the waiting room, where the young secretary waved at me. Her name was Claire, and she was an aspiring actress too. Supposedly, there was a runner—a person who literally ran out to do this work for the panel—but she was unavailable today. That was okay with me, because it gave me an excuse to run around to relieve some tension.
A waiting room of actors and actresses of all shapes and sizes awaited me.
“Okay, this is the process,” I said with a shaky voice, about to repeat what Becki had coached. “I will call back three people at a time, and two will wait right out the door. You all have scripts you’ve had time to look over, and as a piece of advice, give it all to the script.” I watched as the actors assessed my own ability to speak, which obviously wasn’t very well. A lot seemed nervous themselves, but some scoffed at me. I could ruin them, as I did have about a one percent sway on if the panel chose a person for the part.
“Also, I would like some respect from some of you. Act how you want, but remember in the end, we are all humans here.” I shot a glare at a pampered princess in the corner, and then called out three names. “Beth Gellison, Arya al-Chocki, and Samuel Perringer. Please follow me back.”
The three stood and followed me to the room marked Joan D’Narc. Through the small talk and pleasantries, I had a gut feeling this casting would take a good deal of time. “If you three would mind sitting in these chairs for a moment while I check with my supervisors. Then I’ll call you in one by one.”
I went back inside and met with the creator of the series, Dan Hutchison, and a representative for the producer. The studio representative was a middle-aged man with serious halitosis. Dan was a smiley man, which creeped me out, but it was my first run-in with this job, and I was happy to be doing anything productive. Finally, I was given the go-ahead, and I called Beth Gellison in.
The girl introduced herself and took on various roles while I assessed Megg’s response. She furiously wrote in a little journal while Dan watched with a cowering eye. Becki also wrote in a journal, mimicking her boss, but when I strained an eye to see what was written in small scrawl, it was a poem by Alfred, Lord Tennyson. Then beside it, where it looked like there could be possible notes on Beth, Becki had written a little love poem. She caught me reading it and scowled.
Beth’s voice croaked, “That is why, Joan, thy can never marry a narc, for thine staff is a protection against thine enemies.”
When I’d glanced at the makeshift script, I did not see any thines or thys or wherefore art thou Romeos. This was supposed to be a modern adaptation, at least from what I had envisioned. The modern populace obviously thinks the practice of old English is old and outdated for a reason.
After Beth finished her monologue, Becki went up beside her and read as Joan’s romantic interest. Megg was still beating the journal to death, but I was floored by my decision to watch horrible acting take place—all while having the inability to laugh. Beth was giving it her all, but her all was pretty insignificant. This is where my father would say some adage like, “If you want people to think nicely of you, think nicely of them,” but some things cannot be repressed.
Finally, the audition was finished for Beth, who was promised to receive a response. As soon as she left, only five minutes or so after we’d called her in, the demure Megg turned to me and said, “Call her in about two hours. Tell her the pool of applicants was huge, but she did not feel like a candidate for our screenplay. Do you understand?” She turned to Dan, who nodded in agreement. That must mean she was supe
rbly terrible to them, as it was purely the director, producer, and studio rep’s choice to whom the role went to.
Dan took a sip of water, making a slurping sound. “Her charisma is lacking, especially for this production. I want the best of the best of the best.”
“Quick notice, and yes, I understand. We’ll find our characters.” Inside I wondered why Megg had spent so much time in her notebook if she hated Beth, while Dan seemed like a giant loaf. A few minutes later, I went outside to pull Arya in, and the auditions continued like this for the remainder of the day.
Finally, around four o’clock, the traumatic issue of Megg’s bleating stomach forced our decision to end soon. With only three left to audition, I was ready for a long shower and a visit to an Arctic pool to cool off. If things continued the way they were going, I might not have needed to jog again. I went back to get the last three, who were just a blur of faces. After nearly a hundred actors, I was ready to never watch a movie again. It hurt to remember that this was just the beginning.
The closing two showed some promise, with Megg promising to call back soon. I had begun my run of phone calls to those definitely not in the running for any role. Unfortunately for me, most people answered their phones on the first ring, so I knew I would have to finish the calls later that night. As soon as we called it a wrap, Dan said, “I’m so glad we have weeks of casting if we need them. I saw maybe three people who showed any sort of the magnetism I want to capture on my show.”
The studio representative nodded in agreement. “I can say on behalf of my company that we will need better results, Megg.”
Megg turned red and then offered, “I promise we will work harder.”
In turn, the producer’s representative offered in a collected voice, “Mr. Baiton agrees with the current predicament.”
I rolled my eyes, wondering just how Mr. Baiton would know how to agree. But my feet ached and I was ready to cruise out, so as soon as we said our pleasant good-byes, Becki shoved me into her little cubicle ten yards away. Megg was shifting into her private office, while I saw the other employees packing up to go. A room down the hall was still shoving people in to audition. Baylee appeared in the hallway, and she motioned me over. When she saw Becki, she rolled her eyes and sashayed over to me.
In the moments awaiting Baylee’s presence, Becki breathed, “You need to finish the calls. We want callbacks from this list, but we will wait to call them until we gather a greater interest in…Oh, hi, Baylee.”
“Becca, it is nice to see you,” Baylee said, not a drip of exuberance in her tone. She flicked her long hair over her shoulder. “I was just coming over to say that Emmy here should meet our bosses, don’t you think?”
“New employees…oh, well, whatever you say,” Becki said with a quizzical smile.
“Come on, Emmy. I’m sure Becca can handle whatever she was just about to ask you to do.” Baylee locked our arms and waved a confident hand to her inferior. I giggled as she said into my ear, “Our office needs more drama. The actors don’t even give anything in passion or interest. I really do want you to meet Richard Braitley, since he just came in from some conference in Mozambique or something exotic like that.”
“Drama does liven things up a bit,” I said, though I heard the lie in my voice. In fact, I hated it. When I worked backstage on theatrical performances in college, I always hated myself for committing to yet another show. Somehow I’d ended up in the entertainment industry, and of course I would do what I needed to do to keep my job. If that meant sidling up to Baylee Feta as a servant lapdog, I would.
“So, how was your first day? It takes a bit to get used to—especially working for a human being like Megg Holmwood.”
As Baylee led me to the starker and more sterile side of our office, I recounted the events of the day with a storyteller’s acute sense of detail. I didn’t care if she was listening or not, but she acted like she was, and then she pushed me into an office marked BRAITLEY, C.S.A. I felt just a sliver of anxiety tingle up my spine, but then I was meeting him face-to-face, and I felt the rehearsed lines come into practice.
“Richard, this is Emma Richmond, a new hire.”
Mr. Braitley was sitting at his desk, and his blue eyes widened. The first thing I noticed was his big gold wedding ring and a portrait on the wall of an English castle. Interesting style. He stood up and offered his hand, which I shook eagerly. He was older, maybe in his fifties, but he seemed younger. Maybe it was the dyed hair.
“Hi, sir. It is an honest blessing to work here.” A hint of my Texan twang came out, but I shrugged it off.
“Oh, Emma, don’t worry about the pleasantries here. Call me Richard. Any friend of Baylee’s can say that.”
“Oh, really?” I asked, surprised.
Then Baylee rolled her eyes quickly. “Emma, Richard is my husband. Surprised, aren’t you?”
This was exactly what Baylee wanted from me: a shocked, confused response. From gauging Mr. Braitley’s expression, I gathered he felt my reaction was quite comical. I waited for saliva to reenter my mouth and then I said with all the acting knowledge I’d gleaned from Los Angeles, “Baylee, why didn’t you say something sooner! Where’s your ring?”
She shrugged, leaning against his desk. I immediately felt like coughing up a lung. I was used to seeing older men with younger women in town, but as a traditional person, I’d never warmed up to the idea. Yet the two seemed genuinely happy, so I played the part of naïve new girl. Baylee scratched the back of her neck while Richard gazed at her long hair.
“I don’t wear it most of the time. It makes it awkward for our employees. A lot of them think that I’m a gold digger—yet they don’t know that I’ve built my own career. Richard just came as an added bonus.” She reached her hand back to him, and he took it in his own. She twirled around and smiled at him, and I felt awkward in the presence of this romantic moment. I took it as a compliment, though. “Richard, honey, I wanted you to meet my new friend.” She turned back to me. “People don’t like being friends with the boss’s wife—except you.”
Yet I hadn’t really done anything. I nodded, probably too eagerly, but I mumbled something like, “Well, I hope to be kind to all I meet.”
“Isn’t she adorable?”
“Where are you from, Miss Emma?” Richard acted focused on me, though he seemed only interested in his model-gorgeous wife. “I recognize the accent but can’t place it.”
“Rural-ish Texas. Now I’m from Glendora.”
The sun was beginning to set, casting a glow over the couple. Richard raised an eyebrow and said, “Texas, huh. We should go there sometime, shouldn’t we, Bay?”
Baylee taunted his anxious look and departed, grabbing my arm. “Maybe. Depends on Emma here. Come on, let’s go.”
My job was already proving to be quite a scandalous and dramatic affair. Even though Baylee had said there was not enough drama, there seemed to be plenty. The antisocial part of me wanted the accompaniment of my cat—and a nice lavender soak in the bathtub. Darn, I remembered sullenly. You live in a cheap apartment in Glendora. You can’t afford a bathtub.
I languidly wondered if I should try to rob a bank, but with the laziness in my veins, I decided a shower would work.
When I got home, Jamie was lying on the couch with some yogurt and a Sobe drink. He was watching a movie on the Lifetime Movie Network about a surrogacy gone wrong. I dipped my head in shame and fell haphazardly onto the sofa. He hated when I began to talk in movies, so I remained mum and waited for a commercial.
Five minutes and a bloodied envelope of secrets later, Jamie finally became responsive. “Well, how was your big day?” He jumped up and ran to the fridge. As I watched a commercial about a prescription drug, I heard the sound of the fire alarm. “Oh, my dear Aunt Lavinia!”
Somehow the alarm stopped bleating, and Jamie appeared with half a cake. “Ta-da,” he said, placing it on my lap. “My best friend conquered her first day!”
“Oh, Jamie,” I said, using my
acting skills again for the smile plastered on my face. It looked like it had endured a tsunami, but my heart did ache because Jamie had a caring bone in his body. “Thank you so much.”
“Well, tell me about it! I’ll cut you a piece. Did you see anyone famous?”
“Well, I did meet my boss’s boss’s boss’s boss—who happened to be my boss’s boss’s boss’s husband.”
“Sensory overload. Come again?”
“Yup.”
We sat there, ate some good store-bought cake, and talked like there was no time. I felt very blessed to be part of a moment as such.
