Hell On Earth

I am not a particularly religious man. I don't spend an inordinate amount of time contemplating the afterlife: Which pet will greet me upon arrival? What will I be offered to wear, if anything? Will the scent of movie popcorn hang in the air? I don't believe that my eternal destiny hinges on whether I throw my leftovers directly in the trash or set them precariously on the rim of the can so that someone needier than I can have ready access to my Chicken Francaise. It may surprise you then to learn that I have been to Hell. And it is the audition.

Auditions are a nightmarish dreamscape of the bizarre that would make Fellini himself scratch his head in bewilderment. There's usually a long, crowded hallway, packed with people who, under any other circumstances, would be institutionalized for staring into space and mumbling to themselves. All the chairs are metal, foldable and too close to each other. Also in this dreamscape, no one questions my use of the word "foldable." Once a day, a man may exit a nearby rehearsal studio wearing a full bumblebee costume and no one will blink. Along one wall is a line of women quietly trilling and clutching three-ring binders stuffed with yellowing sheet music that was photocopied in the library back in college.

The most profoundly disturbing aspect of the audition is that it is, seriously, the last place on Earth where women feel at home wearing a one-piece body stocking with high heels. I will go on record now as saying that there is never a right time to wear the body stocking. The obvious argument against them is that they are so form-fitting that the wearer may as well be nude. While this can be a pleasant distraction, it is a distraction nonetheless. But the real reason, and I remind you not to shoot the messenger on this, is that the body stocking, working in tandem with the ill-fitting bra, can result in the phenomenon known as "back boobs." Back boobs, people. I will say no more.

As for the men's fashions, it's simple, really. There are two schools. Exactly 81% of the men the gym fanatics wear a tight, black, suggestively-unbuttoned, short-sleeved shirt with a collar, dark dress pants, a black belt with a silver buckle, and square-toed shoes. There is no variation on this. The smaller but no less dedicated ratio of men the smokers wear a colorful T-shirt upon which is either a non-sequitur scrawled in cursive or a cartoon character doing something distinctly out of character. Completing the look are ripped jeans, a distressed brown belt with a chunky Western buckle, suede sneakers with a logo you won't recognize, and at least one leather wristband. The variation that you will find in this group is whether or not there is a guitar slung over one shoulder. If so, look out because they have been practicing.

Once I've navigated the fashion parade I try to sign in, sit down and take a few quiet moments for myself. It is at this point, invariably, when I find that I am auditioning with the same five guys I see at every audition. There's me five years older and a tenor. There's me a few pounds thinner with a lustrous beard and a full head of hair. There's me willing to take his shirt off to get the job. There's me right out of school, asking too many earnest questions. There's me who's worked with everybody... once. And then there's me. Many times, I'll hug these people. We'll look at each other and smile and pat ourselves on the back for not talking about the business. Then, after a quick discussion about the business, we turn our attention back to the task at hand, wondering, "Is that really what people think I look like?"

The audition itself is just a collage of images and sound, mostly. I am led through a door and someone mispronounces my name. I smile across the expanse of wood floor at the cabal of people whispering to each other behind a long table. As if linked by a hive-mind, they all look up and say nothing. At this point there is about 30 seconds of waving. I wave at people I know, I wave at people I don't know, it hardly matters, I just keep waving. It is a game I play. The loser is the first one who talks. They always lose. Usually with the old chestnut, "Whaddya have for us today?" I choke back the urge to say "dependency issues with just a hint of disdain," and head to the piano to sing the same song that the poor casting director has heard me sing at every dramatic, comedic, musical, non-musical, contemporary or period audition I've ever had.

I set the music in front of the accompanist. He nods. I walk to the middle of the floor. I nod. I finish the song. Everyone behind the table nods. "Thank you very much," the guy with glasses says. I nod again. I collect my music. The accompanist and I nod together. The casting director walks me to the door. She nods. I walk out into the hallway and the gym-fanatics, the smokers and all the women with back boobs nod. Just when I think I'm shut of all the nodding, I find myself alone at the elevator with the guy with glasses who is running downstairs to sneak a cigarette. As he hits the already lit call button we make eye contact. He nods. I nod. We ride down in silence. As we part ways on the sidewalk, he nods again. And with that final nod, I think, "That's three nods! I got it!"

Let's say for the sake of maintaining my anonymity that my name is Roscoe Friendlypants. I once went to an audition where the breakdown said, "looking for a Roscoe Friendlypants-type." No kidding. Can you imagine my excitement? I felt like I'd arrived. I went to the audition. I didn't get it. On an uncharacteristically balmy day in October, while I was wearing tights and trying to convince a room full of Swedes that I would be right for a roller-skating choo-choo train, a blonde popped her head in the room and announced the OJ Simpson verdict. "Not Guilty!... a5, 6,7,8!" I didn't get it. Once I had to regale a room full of influential producers with the story of how I lost my virginity. As a hunchback. In gibberish. Dignity. Always, dignity. These pale in comparison to the nightmarish moment during a dance call when I heard the words, "And these are the four counts of eight where you improvise. And remember, keep it Fosse." A-yep. I wish I could dismiss any of these memories as the snarky embellishments of the comedic essayist. But, alas, I cannot. They all actually happened as is. Even the gibberish hunchback.

For those just starting out, I like to offer these three bits of auditioning advice. 1. Be yourself. 2. Breathe. 3. Have been on TV.