Wednesday, 1:25pm. A bustling lobby at a popular casting studio...
Excuse me, I'm sorry.
"Yes?"
Sorry. I don't mean to be that girl, but I was scheduled for 1 o'clock...
"...OK--"
...Right, and I just wanted to see how long I had before I went in.
"Oh."
To audition.
"Right. Ummmm...you still have like 5 girls ahead of you."
Oh. OK.
"Why?"
Well--
"...Do you have, like, somewhere to be? Somewhere else you have to get to or something?"
Actually...I mean, I do.
"Uh-huh."
Sorry. It's just, I have to be on-set at 2.
"Oh!" (Oh?) "Oh! No worries, we'll switch some stuff around and take care of it."
(REALLY?!) Really?!
"Absolutely! Don't sweat it, we'll get you there in plenty of time."
Oh. Great! Great.
"Thanks for your patience, by the way."
No. Yeah, of course, thank you.
...And so there you are, getting preferential treatment, being that girl getting preferential treatment at an audition because of those 5 1/2 words:
I have to be on-set.
And you should feel guilty, you should, having those other girls who have been waiting for 45 minutes leer at you, laughing at your expense because you somehow can't keep your almost-cleavage buttoned-up and cursing you under their breath for cutting in line, almost effortlessly, simply for having a more important place to be.
But you don't.
You feel goddamn magical.
You continue to feel magical as you kick that audition's ass, whisk yourself towards the elevator whilst grinning extra big at the bitches who are still staring you down as you exit, float down the street, and glide (...not really, it was midday traffic in Chelsea) into a cab.
(cue the plucky little orchestra)
440 West 15th, please.
"West one-five, ma'am?"
One-five, indeed, good sir! (Ha HAAAAAA!!!)
I am going to set.
You are going to set, you fancy bitch! How completely dreamy, how magical!!
You magically heave your bags from the cab, pay the driver with a smile, sprinkle some fairy dust and send him on his merry little way.
There is the HighLine.
There is the sun.
And there is the magical building in which your set awaits you. Just you.
Glorious!
You pirouette through the doors streaming rainbows in your wake.
Hello! Where might I find Stage E?
"Ah! But of course! It's just right through there!"
Oh, gracious, THANK you! Um, shall I?
"You shall!"
I SHALL!
You throw open the doors of the hallway releasing a fleet of doves and, as you careen towards the stage door, you are showered with falling rose petals...and awe.
"The set is calling you," whispers the unicorn standing before Stage D, "She awaits."
Well, I am not one to keep a lady waiting, says you.
You give the unicorn a wink, he bows his head reverently, you take a deep breath, and gently press on the sapphire-studded door of Stage E.
I am headed to set, I am headed to set, I am... ...
(cue the extreme record scratch)
But no.
No, friends. Not so. What awaits is something altogether completely 100% different than magic. What awaits is something altogether completely 100% the absolute opposite of unicorns and wonderment and set-whimsy and "Angela, here's your director's chair and cucumber water. And complimentary pegasus."
No.
What awaits is a world of squeals and chaos and pigtails and velcro. Extreme hyperactivity and the mingled smell of baby powder and baby feet. And hairspray.
Oh no.
What awaits is 42 children in exceedingly bright nearly-neon clothing and their stage mothers.
NOOOOOOOOOOOO!
You see, ladies and gentlemen, this is what the world looks like when you're shooting something for Nickelodeon. And, indeed, I was.
In complete and total honesty, I had nearly forgotten what world I was actually walking into. Really. And, in my defense, of course I did! I was walking onto a set. A pretty sizable one, matter uh fact, and I don't care who you are, you're not on one of those every second of every day, that's some exciting shit. I was excited. ...I'm perpetually excited, but COME on, that's a legit exciting situation. In theory.
But this. This. The world of Nickelodeon to a 29 year-old...aw boy, you guys.
(Sidebar: I should like to preface this by saying that I love children. I totally absolutely do, I can't wait to have them someday. In eleven years. And I hope that they are brilliant and have dimples, that they are brilliantly dimpled children who giggle and are sweet and witty and not remotely douchey or bratty ever. ...I'm gonna work really hard at that. In eleven years.)
Children are nuts.
I mean, generally speaking. You put 42 of them in a room together, they go nuts. Inherently, they do. So, if you put 42 of them in a room together and then you tell them that they're all going to be on TELEVISION: nuts. Ape. Shit. Crazy, BUH-nanas.
"AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!"
"AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!"
"AH! AHHHHHHRRRRRRRRRRRRRGGGGGGGGGH!!!!" Yelling yelling yelling, screaming screaming screaming, running running running dance party dance party dance party as soon as I walked through the door and OH my god, my brain's exploding. Wow.
I sat back and absorbed this, all of this, and massaged my temples as I was trying to assemble my wardrobe potentials for the shoot. There were these little moppy-haired boys running around the holding room like airplanes, little girls with better hair than I have chasing each other to the buffet table to consume their weight in Handi-Snacks.
"I love One Direction."
"No, I love One Direction!"
"I do!"
"I do!!"
"My mom says I do most."
"Nuh-uh!!"
"YUH-huh!!!"
"TELEVISION!!!!"
"TELEVISIONNNNNNNNNNNN!!!! AHHHHHHRRRRRRRRRGGGGGGGGH!"
And then Me in the middle of this. Plus three other equally as floored-looking grown-ups.
Wow.
The four of us sat in silence around the perimeter of the room and just stared off into the abyss of rabid children.
Are you seeing this?! says I to the 65 year-old lady sitting next to me. All that energy....I can't tell if I'm envious or terrified. You know?
Silence. Absolute silence as she remained glued to her Kindle.
OK great.
Great.
Yelling yelling yelling, screaming screaming screaming, running running running dance party dance party dance party--the room is theirs. Undeniably so. Every hair and make-up chair has a toddler parked in it, every drink has been snatched-up by 5 year-old claws, every hanger is draping a smock from Gap Kids, every P.A. is taking deep breaths and staring way too hard at their clipboards, and I'm just this slack-faced imbecile, just kinda standing there.
(What the hell am I doing here?)
"Excuse me, m'am. Which role are you?"
Uh...Toy Store Adult Extra #2? I'd nearly forgotten about that part of it, too. That "extra"-thing. That "You auditioned for a speaking role but got this instead"-thing. Shit was getting hilarious.
"Ah! Gotcha. Great, thanks! We'll...check in in a bit."
Hell.
And then, there were the stage mothers.
You're in the business, you know stage mothers, and you can't avoid them, no matter how much you'd really really really really like to. You know that they will take over a room, letting everyone else know how completely important and perfect their child is, how completely important and perfect their wardrobe has to be, and exactly how much hypoallergenic eyeliner they are comfortable with their child wearing and why.
These women birthed Stars. Brilliant, uber-talented, hyper-charismatic stars, and they need to be showcased; it is the stage mother's job to ensure that their child is showcased better than the other 41 children in the room.
I cannot tell you the number of times that I have participated in just such an exchange with one of these women:
"So, have you done this play before?"
Actually, no, this is my first time. I'm thrilled, th--
"Oh, well, this is Julia's sixth time."
Oh. Wow. That's--
"She auditioned for her first time when she was 3, but they said that she was just a bit too young. So. Then, we had her audition when she was 4, right when she started Kindergarten, because she started early, you see, quite early, she's incredibly young for her grade but she's just so smart. ...Anywho, she just blew them away at her audition, just wow, you know? And she's been in it ever since, kinda getting bigger and bigger with her part every year. And she's done it regionally now, too, which is just...I mean...UH. You know?"
...That's great.
"But she's just so humble, you know? Like, it never gets to her head, and I just thank God for that every single day, that I have such a modest, humble, talented, beautiful daughter. Look at her over there, she's the one with the pink leggings and those little Uggs on, the one sitting cross-legged all...poised. Isn't she beautiful?"
...She is.
"And she's just so excited, her entire primary school is coming. Just all the kids, all of them. I was talking to her teacher and I think that her class should all make cards for her, just, you know, 'Oh. Wow. Great Job', something, but I don't know, we'll see, it's not my call, so--"
How, um, how old is she?
"She's 6."
Oh. Wow.
"But, you know, a very mature 6."
...Sure. That's cool.
"Mmhmm. ...So. How old are you?"
Stage mothers are terrifying. Stage mothers are exhausting.
However, for the first time in my whole life, I looked around this room and saw that these stage mothers were simply exhausted. Completely depleted, as if they'd just given up.
(Oh god.)
What kind of child could wear their stage mother out?!
(Oh god.)
These ones.
(Oh. God.)
And I really and truly began to wonder what exactly I'd signed up for, rather, what I'd been cast in, rewarded with.
I was still wondering as much half an hour later when I found myself standing in a big warehousy room with 6 kids and one other adult sot. My hair had been curled, my lips had been glossed, there were a million and a half cameras and these crazy big lights, and a great big bright green backdrop melting into an expansive bright green floor.
'Twas the set, I was on-set. Finally.
(...I still don't get it.)
And there I am taking in my surroundings, and there's these two P.As lumbering around the set in pursuit of one (count that: one) boy.
"Trevorrrrr."
"Trevor."
"We need...we need you to sit down, Buddy."
"Trev, just have a seat, pal. We need you to stay. Seated."
"And quiet."
"Please."
"I'M A DOG!!!!!"
...
"That's cool, Bud."
"RAWR!!!"
"OK, so maybe we're not playing dogs right now."
"We're not."
"Maybe we're a Trevor, and Trevors sit."
"BUT DOGS SIT!!! BUT SOME BEARS!!! DANCE!!!!"
"Sure. But your...dog-bear can't dance."
"Let's stay away from those electrical cords, please."
"Yeah, and all those...ok, you need to--no more running, Trevor."
"Want me to get his mom?"
"RAWWWWWWWWWWWWWR!!!! RAWR RAWR RAWRRRRR!!!" Running around the foot of the set, pawing at the air all crazy-like.
"Trevvvvvvv...oh. Kay."
And P.A. #2 just stares at me, all haggard-looking and glassy-eyed.
"I can't be this kid's babysitter. Like, I won't." Throws his hands, marches off in the opposite direction.
(Yessssssss.)
And then:
"Angela?"
Yes?
"Hi! Avery here is going to be your partner in this scene." And then P.A. #3 brings over this adorable little wide-eyed girl who can't possibly be older than 6, all decked-out in polka-dotted everything and multi-colored Chuck Taylors. She looks prim, and composed, and completely totally precious.
I attempted to avoid the fact that little Avery was my implied daughter (Jesus, someone like me could feasibly have a 6 year-old. Ugh), swallowed my pride (She's cute anywho), and pressed on.
Oh, hey, Avery! How are you doin?
...Nothin.
Uh. Did you come right from school today? What grade are you in?...
...
Staring at the ground, kinda shuffle-stepping back and forth. Not a word.
...'Kay. Fail. (...Jerk.)
"OKayyy, guyyys, are we ready? Now. I need you all to look up at this beam, at this beam right. Here. OK? Are we looking? Are you guys alllllll looking at this beam, the one right here that goes allllllllll the way across the ceiling? ...OK? Got it?"
(CHRIST, Buddy, we got it! We got it!)
"OK. Now on the count of three, I want you alllllllll to pretend that there are great big balloons alllllll alonnnnnnng the sky, right where this beam is. OK? You're all at a great big balloon festival and there are great big balloons allllllllll over the sky, but. You can only look at the ones right. In. Here, where the beam is." (God.) "OKayyyyy?"
'Kay.
"And let's talk about all the different balloons we see with our partner." (What, this girl?) "OKayyy?"
O.K.
"On the count of three, ready?"
As the P.A. begins to count, I suddenly become completely annoyed. I sincerely don't understand what I'm doing in this company or why I'm doing this kind of work, this children's programming stuff, or how it is that I'm finding myself being an extra, again. And being an extra amongst a horde of children, nonetheless, it just felt like salt in the wound. Shouldn't I be doing something, I don't know...better than this by now? Something important-ish? Something where I could actually act instead of being a glorified babysitter to three dozen rugrats? Something...
(Uggggggggh, I am the grossest diva in the world!!!)
"Three! Action!"
"Hey! See that?!"
...
(...Avery? Was that just Avery? Talking to me?)
Ummm...which?
"The one right there, the one that looks like an elephant." And she grins like a maniac and points skyward.
Oh. Yes, yes I do.
"That's so funny."
Yes it is.
"Ooh! And that one over there? That looks like a cat."
It totally does.
"I know!"
I know! You're right!
"It looks like he's licking his paw!"
Yes it does.
"That's so silly!"
And for a moment, I'm actually having a blast. This girl is precious and has this big crazy awesome imagination and, for a moment, I forget that we're doing this for television. For a moment, it feels like we're just having fun.
Hey, Avery.
"Yeah?"
See that reallllllllly big balloon over there?
"Ooh, yeah! It's huge!"
I know! Don't you think it looks like a turtle?
...
"...No."
...
What? You don't? You don't think that looks like a turtle?
"No."
Oh.
"It looks like a pig."
Huh. Well, I think it looks kinda like a turtle.
"It doesn't. It's a pig."
(This girl sucks.)
"OK, wait, guys, freeze!" shrieks the PA, "Now. I want you alllllllll to keep looking at the balloons, but now alllllllll of the balloons have baby penguins on them! Oh nooooooooo, whyaretherebaby penguinnnnnnnnnns, ok go."
(Jesus.)
"NO!"
...What?
"NOOOOOOOOOO!!!! LOOK AT THE BABY PENGUINS!!!!!!!"
...Where?
"Up there! Right up there! On the balloons!"
...I don't see any baby penguins. (I can play your game here, Lady.)
"Yes you do!"
No.
"Yes you DO! You have to! They're right! There! They're everywhere!" And she was so manic about it that I started to feel bad. Felt bad for denying her, for not giving that jerk precisely what she wanted.
And then I looked at her again, and suddenly, I thought about my niece.
My niece is turning 3 soon, and she's a perfect creature. She is. She's beautiful and sweet and is in love with everything. Dogs, the beach, the guitar, The Little Mermaid, The Fresh Beat Band...
And then I remembered that I was on-set for her very favorite show. I'd earnestly forgotten about that, too.
And then I felt like if I didn't give into this jerk partner of mine that not only would I not be playing along, but that my niece would see it. She'd see me being mean, being a bully, my niece would see me being horrible and ruining her show.
...
Oh. My. Gosh WHAT ARE WE GOING TO DO ABOUT THESE PENGUINNNNNNNS?!?!
"I don't know!!"
There's so many!!!
"I know!"
This is AWful!
"I know! Mom!"
Avery! AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!
"AHHHHHHHHHHHHRRRRRRGHHHHHHH!!"
"Cut!"
The next couple of hours moved along in a similar fashion:
"You're at the zoo, HEY! Look at those polar bears!"
Trevor, you can be a worm later. Let's look at the bear right now, OK? ...The bear, Trev.
"You're still at the balloon festival, HEY! Let's look at the clouds!"
"There's so many of them!"
I know, right?
"I like the big green ones!"
...Me, too.
"You're in a toy store, HEY! Look at these stinkbugs!! Shake off those stinkbugs!!! Ewwwwww, they smell awwwwwwwfulllllll! Now RUN! RUN! RUN AWAY FROM THE STINKBUGS!!!"
STINKBUGGGGGGGGGGGGS!!!! AHHHHHHHHHHHHRRRRRRGHHHHHHH!!
High-quality acting on my part.
...Fine.
And the thing was it actually ended up being fun. And, I mean, of course it did. It was Nickelodeon, for crying out loud, you don't walk away from a Nickelodeon-shoot having had a fun time, something's wrong. Very.
And the thing is that this was not my first go-round a set of less-than-Oscar-caliber. I've shot an infomercial. ...Criminy, I've shot lots of things. I guess I'm just antsy to shoot something that feels legit to me, supremely so, something I can walk away from going Aw, damn, look what I did!!!
Someday.
But this set didn't belong to me. And most won't. This one simply belonged to 40 other people, wee ones, who were just as psyched to be on television as I was.
But, at least I got to say that I was there.
...
Walking away from 440 West One-Five, I called my sweet boyfriend instantaneously, like you do.
(cue "Rhapsody in Blue")
"Are you done already?!"
Yeah. What do you wanna do for dinner?
"You're done. On-set."
Yeah.
"Well, that was quick!"
Mehhhhh, not really.
"Angie, you were only there for three hours."
(?!?!?!?!)
The shortest shoot in the history of the world. And I hadn't forgotten, I simply hadn't realized. What a happy little nugget of discovery.
"You just left set."
Yes.
"And now you have all night. To play."
I do!
"...I'd say you won."
I WON!!!!
