Chapter 1: Pandora’s Box — Part 5


 Chapter 1: Pandora’s Box — Part 5

I read from the script—and I land a laugh. Not a polite chuckle, but an honest-to-God belly laugh from the table.

“That was great,” the director says, still laughing, eyes twinkling behind his thick lenses.

Then, once again, I’m sent back out to the hallway to wait. When I’m called in again, they take a Polaroid of me and jot down my measurements. No fanfare, just tape measure, flash, clipboard. Then I'm dismissed.

Two days pass.

I come home to find the light blinking on my answering machine. My heart does a little flip. I press play.

It’s Casting. Offering me the job.

I scream.

I scoop up one of the cats and spin around the room, both of us dizzy and thrilled. “Soon you’ll be able to eat!” I promise her. (In truth, my animals always ate before I did. But still—victory.)

Casting tells me a contract is on the way via FedEx. I go to my crappy day job and give notice, grand and theatrical. “So long, suckers!” I shout on my way out.

“See you in three months,” my boss calls after me, unbothered. She’s seen this play before.

Then the start date comes.

And goes.

No contract. No news. No nothing.

My phone calls to Casting are met with vague replies:
“We’re still finalizing the cast.”
“We’re running a little behind.”

Behind? I’ve already quit my job, said goodbye to friends, sublet my apartment, and rearranged my entire life. Now I’m just sitting at home, broke, hungry, and furious—watching TV commercials for the Company, all smiling people on beaches and perfect vacations.

“Fuck you!” I scream at the screen, flipping off a grinning, tan couple jet-skiing through my despair.

Time drags on. Days blur. Then, finally, the answering machine light blinks again.

It’s Casting. Again. This time they want me to come back for a callback. They’d like me to read for a Prince Charming-type character.

“Are they out of their minds?” I say to no one.

I show up on the requested day, expecting to play charming and regal. Instead, I’m handed sides for a nasty villain. Turns out Casting had it wrong. Again. (They don’t see me as a Prince Charming either, apparently.)

Still, I dive into the read—and they laugh. Loudly.

Inside, though, I’m boiling. I can feel bile rising in my throat even as I grin through the scene.

Out in the hallway, the Casting Director approaches.

“You’ve got the job,” he says, smiling.

“Why aren’t you excited?” he asks.

“I will be,” I reply through clenched teeth, “when the contract arrives.”

On the walk home, I curse them under my breath. In New York, that doesn’t even raise an eyebrow. Tourists, on the other hand, love it. Some even take photos.

Two more weeks pass.

I’m in my apartment, staring at the wall for what feels like the thousandth time, when the buzzer goes off. My dog bolts upright, ready for battle. He can hear a squirrel peeling a nut in Central Park from ten blocks away and will bark himself hoarse over it.

So now we’re both screaming.

“WHO IS IT?” I yell into the intercom, straining to be heard over my dog’s sonic assault.

“Federal Express,” the voice says.

I bolt down five flights of stairs.

In the delivery man’s hands is a thick envelope. I sign. Tear it open right there in the hallway.

It’s the contract.

I flip through it, skimming as fast as I can. Under “Roles,” it reads: To Be Determined.

I sprint back upstairs and into the apartment, where the cat is waiting.

Once again, I scoop her up and twirl us around the room.

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