Penny looked around the room, the open casting call room for yet another bit part in a bit movie, bit T.V. show, bit play. She went to the open castings because she didn't have an agent. She had thought, way back in time when she first came to Pasadena with Kurt, she thought she would just get herself an agent and then an amazing part and then success. That hadn't happened. She split with Kurt and found her apartment in the building with the broken elevator, which she didn't mind because she figured she could lose weight, but she hadn't. She'd gained weight.
She looked around, her green eyes blinking at all the other blond pretty girls, many of them skinnier than she was, skinnier than anyone should be. She could see that bone that was on the top of the shoulder, she could see collar bones jutting out with a frightening clarity, like they may just burst through the skin. She saw blond hair that was obviously dyed. So was hers, but she had been a sweet little blond as a child and her dirty blond hair sometimes needed some brightening up, just a coat of dye to bring it back to its childhood brightness.
The character was a blond who was 24 years old. She was close to that. Looking around she saw some girls who were obviously teenagers and couldn't pull off 24. She saw others who were mid to late 30's and couldn't pull off 24. She looked at the tattered and coffee stained scripts that were held in manicured hands. She saw many lipsticked mouths mouthing the lines. She blinked and wondered what she was doing here.
What was she doing here? She'd sit in this room for hours just for her five minutes of sputtering out the line to the bored faces of the people who were casting this production, and they would seem to hardly listen and then tell her thanks in toneless voices and she would leave and never hear anything, ever again.
What was she doing? Working at the Cheesecake factory? Bringing people their stupid food so they could fill their faces and their loathsome bellies? This had seemed okay when she had the dream of becoming an actor, actress, someone creative and someone successful. Was it still okay when she didn't have an agent and she didn't have a chance? Was it still okay when she never got called back and she never got picked and she ended up feeling like the gawky kid with the too big glasses always sliding down their nose waiting to be picked for the team? She wasn't familiar with this feeling. When she had been the bright shining blond star of her high school in Nebraska this had never happened to her. She was picked first, always.
She felt hot in this room, there was no ventilation, and the stink of desire and desperation was becoming too much for her. She watched painted toes wiggle in cheap sandals, she watched liposuctioned thighs flex and stand. She had to get out of here. She couldn't seem to remember the two lines the part called for, she couldn't seem to remember the motivation for this character, the background she had given her to make her feel real and alive. Even if she could remember these things she wouldn't get the part. There was a glut of talent and non-talent trying for these roles, vying for these roles. There was always the possibility, however remote, that the right person would see the right part and jettison you to fame and fortune. But the idea of this, the belief that this was anything more substantial than luck was beginning to fade in her mind.
She stood up, feeling her lungs almost collapse in on themselves in the unmoving heat of the room. She clutched her dirty script with sweaty fingers.
"Excuse me," she said as she brushed past toes and feet and ankles and shins. There were so many people in this room, this room was packed like some cattle slaughter pen, the cows mooing with a low and mournful sound, although you knew they had no clue about the death that awaited them.
She felt like she could barely see, the room growing dark around all the skinny blond girls who ranged in age from 14 to 45, all trying to squeeze themselves into this 24 year old natural blond character. She saw the brown and dirty blond and red roots on more than half of the heads. She heard the murmur of the line, the soft whisper of the line, and they all reached her ears at once, making the tiny cilia in her ears vibrate.
What was she doing? She stumbled out into the L.A. sunshine, the sparkles on the sidewalk reflecting into her eyes. She would have to drive all the way to Pasadena and her waitressing job, the only job anyone had given her. Was that all she was worth? Delivering food to people for minimum wage? What was she worth?
Before she left Nebraska she had been worth what the beautiful, popular girl was worth. It was worth it to bring her to parties, to movies and to pizza joints, to proms, and to back rooms and the backseats of cars. What was she worth now? She was only getting older and had been waitressing long enough to get good at it. She could time her tables just right and get everything to them smoothly. She could smile a fake smile no one ever saw through and get a nice tip, which she would scoop off the table and into her pocket.
She stopped walking, flipped her hair out of her face, and thought about going back. She should go back and nail this part, own it, make them give it to her. She should quit her stupid job and take acting courses somewhere, not some history class she would never use. Her time was too precious for that. She should move in with Leonard so she could focus on her acting and not have to waitress, and get worn out, and burn her fingertips on hot plates and stand so long her muscles would start to shake.
She licked her lips and kneaded the script in her hands like it was a piece of dough. It wasn't too late to go back to that hot box of a room and moo mournfully with the other cattle. It was time to commit. It was time to go for this for real. She looked up, her green eyes squinting in the sun. It was time.