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STEVEN IVORY: Ready for my Close-up
It was Saturday afternoon at the Farmer's Market. I was sitting at an outdoor table, reading the paper and minding my own business, when the thirty-something dishwater blonde in camouflage cargo pants and green T-shirt approached.
“Are you…fifty or older? See, I told you it was an unusual question.”
When I didn't seem bothered by the query and answered that I was in fact 53, the woman relaxed and pulled up a chair. She represented a casting agency seeking people my age for a TV commercial hawking a cholesterol medicine. “You have an interesting look,” she said.
I didn't dare inquire how she defined “interesting.” In any case, I told her I wasn't an actor.
“Perfect,” she replied. “We want real people.” Even so, she explained that the person cast would be paid professionally--somewhere between five and six hundred dollars for the day's shoot and earn residuals every time the commercial aired. “Would you like to audition?” No. I only listened as a courtesy.
Indeed, I'd forgotten about my encounter with the casting lady until I noticed the paper she'd given me on my desk the very morning of the audition. Me, auditioning for a TV commercial? What a…Then I got to thinking. It WAS in the neighborhood. I could drive right on by if I got the heebie jeebies. I dressed as I was when the lady spotted me--T-shirt and jeans--and headed over.
The great thing, I thought, as I headed up the stairs of the agency, is that I'm not an actor. It doesn't matter whether I get the job or not. I'm not invested.
I opened the door and was startled. In an expansive industrial space with recreational seating were about fifty men and women of all colors, in their early 20s and beyond. Apparently this space was shared by several agencies; most of these people, working actors and actresses, were here about roles in commercials, TV shows and films. On a blackboard, among a list of show titles, I saw the word Vytorin. That was either my commercial or a villain from “Space Ghost.”
Sheepishly, I signed in at table five and took a seat. It felt like the free clinic, only everyone in the waiting room was really good looking. Some quietly rehearsed lines with partners. Others chatted with strangers. Most, armed with headshots and resumes, sat in icy, anxious silence and discreetly sized up the competition. Even laughter could not lighten the weight of insecurity in the room.
To me, it seemed so humiliating, sitting there praying that you had the face, body, voice or whatever else these people look for in casting a role. Thank God, I said to myself--as I watched a bald guy, black, handsome and in his 20s, enter the room, sign in at TABLE FIVE, and take a seat--that I was here out of curiosity.
But wouldn't it be something, I thought, if they actually chose me. Wow: Discovered at L.A.'s Farmer's Market and now here he is in a frame with Meryl Streep. Or, hey, Fred Williamson.
Suddenly, I began to feel a certain nausea. I hadn't felt like this since my teens, when I considered myself too skinny, too ugly and too unhip to be accepted by the cool guys and cute girls. Here I was, invested. NERVOUS. And there's another bald black man, middle age, sauntering in. Way too many bald black men in here. I fought the urge to leave. Instead, I conjured in my head a few words about cholesterol for the audition; something to separate me from the rest.
I was so gripped by old fears--rejection, the desire to fit in--that they had to call my name twice. Well, that's because it wasn't my name. I'd signed in as a Jake Timmons, lest I knew somebody up in here.
A bearded, 30-something man, speaking to me in the calming lilt doctors often use when addressing patients, led me into an inner office, empty but for a video camera, sound equipment and a sliver of black duct tape in the middle of the industrial-gray carpeted floor. He told me to stand there, under a microphone hanging from a boom.
"So--J.T.,” he asked, camera rolling, “what makes you laugh?”
I thought fast: "The ironies of life," I answered, trying to sound assured. "Yeah. That's what makes me laugh. Life's ironies.”
“Give me one.”
Shit. Okay, how about: “Well, the fact that I know actors and I tell them I don't understand how they can submit themselves to auditions. Yet here I am.”
“That IS funny,” said the cameraman. “You've got a GREAT voice,” gushed a female agent who'd stepped into the room when I began.
They like me...they really like me!
Awash in what felt like warm and fuzzy acceptance, I launched into my soliloquy, seeking to channel the brother in those Allstate TV spots. “You know, Choles…”
“That'll be it, J.T.,” interrupted the poor man's Spielberg. “Thanks for coming in.” Then, he said it. He uttered them in a tone inoffensive enough, but it was still those immortal words, nonetheless: “There's no need for you to call us, we'll call you.”
Relieved in the uneasy way that you're relieved when you've found the courage to face blood work but now want to know the result, I asked the lady agent what I do next. “Well, now, let's see, T.G. [sic],” she began thoughtfully. “You could go buy yourself lunch. Or, if you live someplace, you could go back there. It's your call. You just have to leave here.” There's no chill quite like Hollywood Love.
And that was it. The “audition” itself lasted five minutes, tops. I headed down the stairs with some actors. One of them glimpsed my odd contentment. “Boy, you must have nailed it,” she said.
I just smiled, knowing I did better than that: I courageously faced some old demons. Old fears die hard, if they ever truly die at all. They can't bottle that remedy. At some point, that's gotta come from within.
No, they never called. But it's nothing I'll get my pressure up over.
Steven Ivory's book, FOOL IN LOVE (Touchstone/Simon & Schuster) is in stores now or at Amazon.com (www.Amazon.com) Respond to him via STEVRIVORY@AOL.COM.
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