“Name, please,” asked the Director. He was a fat man with a scruffy double chin, and watery eyes hidden behind thick glasses; he wore a bright red t-shirt with a pocket.
“Norman Johnson,” said Norman, shuffling his feet on the dirty studio’s linoleum floor.
The director jotted something down on his clipboard, then retrieved a file, swiveling in his chair. Next to him sat the Choreographer, a lithe woman of about 45, who watched Norman with a skeptic wrinkle in her forehead. The Producer was on the other side of the director--tall and thin in a gray suit. Lastly, a short balding man sat, tapping his pencil on the table: the Writer. They each had little signs before them, denoting their positions.
Norman stood in front of the long table, his sweaty hands clinging to the material of his wool blazer. He had dressed nicely for his audition, or as nicely as he could; he’d even shaved, and arranged his comb-over neatly.
“Mr. Johnson,” said the Producer in a high, nasally voice. “What is it that you do again?”
“I’m a salesman,” Norman said quickly, pleased the questions were so easy. He offered a nervy smile. “I sell air industrial conditioning units . . .” The Producer’s face clouded over with mild repulsion, and Norman lost his train of thought. He felt like a rabbit in the eyes of a wolf.
The Director leaned forward, “And do you enjoy your job, Mr. Johnson?”
“My job? Well--no, not really,” replied the salesman, as more sweat sprung anew on his forehead. He looked from the Writer to the Director, pushing his glasses up with his shaking fingers. “I guess I always thought I’d do more, but I’m rather . . . comfortable now,” he admitted.
The Producer sneered, pointing to the file in the director’s hands. “Well, certainly the salary can’t be keeping you there.”
The Choreographer squinted at Norman, drumming her acrylic nails on the table. “And are you always this late, Mr. Johnson?”
Norman laughed nervously, the sound muffled in the quiet studio. “I--I guess I tend to be late quite a bit, yes. I apologize--”
“Can’t get his cues right,” interrupted Choreographer said, writing down on her clipboard.
Norman could sense this was all progressively deteriorating. He knew he should have tried harder to get things together. He was just ill-prepared. These experts could see right through him. No confidence, no composure . . . he was putty in their hands.
The Director sighed, and asked, “You got a girlfriend then, Norman? A boyfriend, maybe? Dying mother? A dog, even? Something? Got any physical limitations? Psychic powers? You told us on the phone you were working on a relationship . . .”
“No, no . . . there’s no one but me,” Norman said, shaking his head. He was alone.
The Writer rolled his eyes, and finally spoke: “Do you have anything we can work with here, Mr. Johnson? You’ve told us so far that you have no motivation and no ability to get your cues right. I won’t even ask if you’ve prepared a monologue. What good are you? Do you do anything?”
Panic rose in Norman’s veins, but his mind wouldn’t work through the adrenaline. He said the first thing he could think of: “I own . . . lots of records.”
“You’re a Top-40 kind of man, Mr. Johnson. No one is interested in Barry Manilow and Barbara Striesand fans,” snapped the Choreographer.
“Listen, Norman,” said the Director, wearily rubbing his eyes behind his lenses. “You’re mundane, average--you are boring. We’ll review your case in private, of course, but as it stands, you remain dead air--a waste of screen time.”
“No cues--no timing,” said the Choreographer.
“No plot--bad lines,” said the Writer.
“No character--no angle,” said the Director.
“A waste of our efforts,” added the Producer. “Unless you can prove to us otherwise . . .”
Norman could find no words. The Writer smirked.
“On your way now, Mr. Johnson,” said the Producer. “And, don’t call us. We’ll call you.”