Chapter 26 Dean W. Seely
DEAN W. SEELY
Good morning, everyone! I’m Sasha Cruz, your casting director today.
So excited to welcome such inspiring talent today.
I’ve chosen each one of you personally and can confidently say that you’re the cream of the crop.
No matter what happens after this audition, please remember—I believe in you.
Now, I only have five slots to fill. And there are thirty of you.
But again, I love discovering talent. So, even if you’re not right today, you might be right next time.
Or I may know a casting director who has the perfect project for you.
Ha! I’m kidding, why would I share talent with a competitor? ”
A modest wave of laughter rolled through the crowd.
Sasha was addressing the hopefuls in the back of the audition room, who were grouped on folding chairs.
Everyone had a bookable look. Everyone had experience.
And everyone was nervous. The casting was being held at Tribeca’s Splashlight Studios, in an industrial chic, whitewashed, sun-dappled space with thirteen-foot ceilings.
A few members of Seraphina’s executive class were perched at a conference table to the far right, quietly observing the proceedings.
But it was Sasha’s show. She looked the part, too—decked out in a mini vest dress, chrome stiletto sandals, and a sleek bun. She was in business demon mode.
Sasha Cruz was on. And she was doing something she’d never done before. Giving a pre-casting pep talk.
“I had a thought on the train this morning. I wanted to give you some inspiration. You do this all the time. Far be it for me to tell you how to do your job. But I know that, sometimes, inspiration fails you. I know that the business can dull your shine. Make you second-guess your talent. It might even make you forget what drew you to acting in the first place. I want you to remember who you are. The good things, but especially the negative stuff. The scary things. The part of your personality that gives you pause, or may be a bit too ‘real,’ too ‘authentic’ for this world. Use those elements. Because that’s what’s going to set you apart.
“Now I, myself, am not a vulnerable person.” She’d begun to pace slowly, hands clasped at her butt.
“I don’t confide in people. Instead, I sit alone with my thoughts, letting them consume me.
For example, I experienced a traumatic incident about four years ago.
It sent me into hiding. I felt like a victim, and I was too scared to face the world.
But my perspective’s changed! I wasn’t a victim.
I was scrappy, resourceful, and brave. Without getting into too many details, my bravery involved light parkour. ”
“Period,” someone whispered from the audience.
“Recently, when I found myself in yet another tricky situation, I channeled that strength to empower myself. To stand tall and get on with life. And honestly? I think I turned a corner. I feel free for the first time in, well . . . maybe the first time, ever. Do I still have general anxiety disorder? Sure. But I have it. It doesn’t have me.
“In your audition today, I urge you to use your shame, your secrets, your hidden histories. Use them to be a fully embodied performer. We aren’t one thing.
There’s no either/or way of looking at yourself.
We’re all sexy and gullible and brave and scared and yearning.
People are prismatic. So today, don’t think of yourself as a type.
I’m not looking for a type. I’m looking for complex human beings.
Give me everything. Your performance will be the better for it. ”
A flaming redhead wearing excellent jeans raised her hand. “I’m sorry, this is an audition for a lipstick campaign, right? My agent said there’d be no reading, just vibing on video.”
“Yes!” Sasha cleared her throat, realizing she may have gone overboard. Time to wrap it up. “No, you’re correct. This is the Seraphina commercial casting. You’re in the right place.”
With that, she wrapped up her little welcome speech and headed over to her desk.
The click-clack of her heels on the polished cement floor sounded uncomfortably loud against the stunned silence of the actors.
Palms sweating from mild embarrassment, she sat behind the small desk positioned on a blank, whitewashed set.
The videographer had set up his equipment just a few feet away.
She smiled at him. Gave a thumbs-up to the Seraphina team over at the table.
Arranged her portfolio printouts. And then she pulled out her lucky pencil from her bag.
It was chewed up, four years old, and sharpened down to a nub at this point.
Of all her talismans, it was the most important.
Just holding it made her heart hurt.
When it came to the almost-untenable levels of yearn she felt for Wes, she was a coward.
She couldn’t count the number of times she had picked up her phone, pulled up his contact info, and then swiped out of it.
She wasn’t even sure what scared her so much.
Rejection? What if he laughed at her? Told her that, in chasing windmills (waterfalls?), she’d missed her chance with him.
What if feelings had an expiration date, and each day they didn’t speak, she floated further from his mind?
What if Imani had gotten her claws in him?
She’d never know. Because Wes didn’t call her, either.
And each night that passed without speaking to him was excruciating.
Because she was too conscious of his absence.
Everything reminded her of him. On a Hot Girl Walk, she passed someone barbecuing at the edge of Prospect Park, and she thought, Wes could do it better.
A random person posted their Wordle score on social media, and she thought, Wes could do it better.
The Rose tried and failed to give her a thrill, and she thought, Wes could do it better.
Wes made everything better.
But life rolled on. Her heart didn’t stop, and neither did work. While Sasha was chatting with Destiny at her dining table, she got a late call from the creative director at Seraphina—she finally had a date for her live audition. It was Friday at 11:00 a.m., one week after the Two Tunics gala.
“Time to work, folks,” she announced into small handheld mic. “First up on set, Reem-Marie Badir.”
Reem-Marie, the kid sister of a B-actress she’d cast on a series about slutty social workers, hustled over and gave it her all.
Unfortunately, she didn’t have big sis’s charisma.
Pasting on her pleasant, neutral casting face, Sasha called the next actor—and hoped she’d find the right talent, fast. It was eleven o’clock, and Seraphina had booked the space till three.
She was nursing too much heartbreak to keep up this level of enthusiasm that long.
But, two hours later, she’d only gotten through eleven auditions. Energy was lagging, and each minute was dragging.
Why is this so hard? she thought. Oh, that’s right. Because I prepped them like they were reading for some Oscar-bait role. I encouraged them to Method act out their most intimate moments for a lips casting!
One actor pantomimed the worst kiss he’d ever had by French-kissing his palm.
Another stood in front of Sasha’s desk and, with her fingers, yanked her lips in several directions to indicate her shame about being a gossip.
Another slicked on black lipstick and delivered an off-the-cuff poem about how being a middle school goth informed her political views.
The auditions were messy, overemotional, and off the mark.
Wait. Were they off the mark or brilliant?
She gasped. Her posture went ramrod straight.
Sasha wasn’t a screenwriter. (And writers notoriously loathed input from nonwriters.) But she could influence, and there was something to the idea of lipstick—and lips!
—as a metaphor for inner consciousness, memory, and identity.
She grabbed her pencil. For good measure, she kissed it.
And then, she began scribbling notes on the back of a printout.
She had to act fast, as she had nineteen actors awaiting their turn.
As she was writing, Sasha felt a tap on her shoulder. She looked up with a start. It was April MacGruder, her fellow Spelman alum and Seraphina HR contact.
“April, hi! I didn’t see you on the call sheet for today.”
Sasha stood up and gave April a friendly, but professional, hug. A part of her felt antsy seeing her old college acquaintance in person. They’d only spoken on the phone since the email debacle.
“Great seeing you, Sasha.” As per usual, April’s tone was clipped and corporate. “You’re right, I’m not on the call sheet. And apologies for the interruption. I just popped over to drop something off for you.”
“For me? What is it?”
Pulling a file folder out of her bag, April addressed Sasha in hushed tones. “I know you harbored some complicated feelings after sending that email.”
“Which email?”
April looked at her blankly.
“I’m joking. I’m trying to see the humor in it, as part of my healing.”
“Ahh. Funny!” The HR representative didn’t laugh.
“Well, you’ll remember that your company email was disabled after the incident.
To give you some peace. But now that the project’s coming to a close, I thought you’d want to see these.
” She opened the folder, flipping through several email printouts.
“Your flight story launched a worldwide search. Dozens of Seraphina employees began looking for your fellow passenger. No one found him, I hate to say. But they all found their own loves. Isn’t that wonderful?
Look at all the good that came from you meeting Seat F. ”
Eyes wide, Sasha took the papers from April. Her mortifying foible inspired strangers to find romance? She was gobsmacked by this information.
“This is . . . I . . . I’m amazed. I don’t know what to say.”