Box Girl (11 page)

The only commercials I ever actually booked were for running- or fitness-related ads, and that's because with all this
newfound freelancer time on my hands, I was running many miles most days. That, and the fact that the other actresses interpreted “Come to the audition in running attire” to mean, “Show up smelling like cigarettes in yoga pants and flip-flops.” The art director for an Asics campaign said he knew he was going to book me as soon as I got out of my car.

“You had on running shoes,” he said. “And your hair was in a ponytail.”

The bar was set pretty low.

My success in the commercial realm has been modest at best, mortifying at worst. While I have made a fool out of myself in front of very good-looking strangers at more than one audition, one such experience will forever hold the title of Most Embarrassing Audition Ever.

A friend of mine was producing an Old Navy commercial, so she asked me to come straight to the “callbacks.” Meaning, I jumped over a hundred girls and got to audition with only a handful of finalists. Because fitness commercials were the only ones I had ever come remotely close to booking, I assumed this was a callback for Old Navy's fitness line. Thus, I interpreted the wardrobe instructions of “short shorts and a tank top” to mean “running shorts and a running tank top.”

As soon as I walked into the casting facility, I knew something had gone horribly wrong. The other women were dressed in short denim cut-offs, heels, and slinky little tank tops. They were all models—
real
models—with long legs and thick, flowing hair, which had been curled into perfect ripples that spilled over their shoulders. They turned to look when I arrived. I stood at the entrance, my thin hair strung into a ponytail, my chest flattened into a sports bra, wearing shorts with built-in underwear. Standing there, I wondered if they'd notice if I just started walking backward out the door.

Immediately, my producer-friend spotted me, and I was stuck. “No, you look great,” she said when I questioned my
attire. “I live five minutes away,” I said. “I can go change.” She insisted that I looked perfect in what I had on. She was trying to be sweet. I really wish she hadn't been.

As I filled out my information in the waiting room, I plotted my attack:
When I go into the audition room, I'll make some joke about my outfit. I'll make them laugh. It will all be fine
. Moments later, a casting assistant came out and said the creative team was ready for us. Us? We had to all go in together? I should have just sprinted out the door. I was wearing running shoes. My friend grabbed my arm and said, “Let's go, hot stuff.” At this point I was fairly certain she was just messing with me.

Twelve of us marched in—them, statuesque in their stilettos, me, squatty in my tennis shoes—and took our positions, side-by-side, along a line of masking tape stuck to the floor. These women were standing in the most stunning positions, arrangements I would have never even thought of: chin up, shoulders back, chest forward, one sinewy arm resting gingerly on right hip, pelvis thrust forward, left foot pointed ever so slightly to the southwest. I looked to my right, then to my left: They were all doing it, in lock step, as if preparing to bring their knees to their chests in a Rockettes-style cancan.

I shifted my weight in my extra-stability running shoes and put my hands on my hips.
Wait, that's too many hands
, I thought.
I look like a cheerleading coach. Only one hand
. I dropped one arm and raised my shoulders to my ears. (“Don't wear your shoulders like earrings,” I could hear my mom saying.)
Shit
. I tipped my nose toward the ceiling and looked out of the corners of my eyes to make sure I was doing it right. I wasn't. I looked like an asshole.

We were told to slate our names for the camera, which basically—I had always thought from working at the agency—just meant saying your name. Apparently not. These girls had moves I'd never seen before: say name (with enthusiasm!), rotate right, rotate left, complete a full turn, flip hair, look back toward
camera, do sexy/pouty face, then flash a big smile and say name again (this time with a more resonating, sexy sound to it). I was screwed. There was no way I could remember all those steps.

But if there was anything I did have in my arsenal that just screamed Old Navy, it was large, straight, white teeth. I've never had braces, and I've been told my teeth look like the ones that sit on the dentist receptionist's desk. I apply Crest Whitestrips religiously, if for no other reason than it is one of my many ritualistic procrastinations from writing.

When it was my time to “slate,” I said my first and last name (which I sincerely have a hard time pronouncing) and did a quick twirl in my sneakers. This was not executed as delicately as I had hoped. The tennis-shoe twirl made that terrible, running-suicides-on-the-basketball-court screeching noise. In an attempt to recover, I flashed the most gigantic smile I could muster. This, no doubt, did not read “Old Navy,” but rather, “borderline personality disorder.”

The camera operator explained the premise of the commercial. Mr. T—yes, as in
The A-Team
—was also starring in the commercial, and he would be manning a “T-Machine”: a magical apparatus that transforms boxy T-shirts into form-fitting ones. “From boxy to foxy!” the art director chimed in. The camera operator told us to walk “as if on a runway” to the corner of the room, and, at the end of the imaginary catwalk, act as if our ill-fitting T-shirts had been magically reincarnated into sexy little tops.

This had gone from bad to worse. The twirl was embarrassing enough. Now I had to strut along an imaginary catwalk in an ensemble better suited for pushing a jogging stroller? It's hard to be sexy in a pair of tennis shoes. I have a newfound respect for that girl in the Shape-Ups commercial.

These models' slates were just the beginning. During the actual audition, they strutted their stuff like it was fashion
week in Milan. They had the flouncy stride, the hip pop, the tossed-back smile/laugh at the turn, the swooshy walk back with the sexy, over-the-shoulder grin at the end. While waiting my turn, I considered my options. I could just walk out. No, speed walk out. My purse was on the other side of the room, though. I'd have to cross in front of the current auditioner and pass the camera. I'd probably trip over some vital cords and take the whole apparatus down with me. Not a good idea. Maybe I could just pretend to pass out? But that's almost more embarrassing. I was suddenly snapped into action when someone called, “Next!”

The only close cousin to the runway walk while wearing sneakers is the power walk. So I stalked along the imaginary runway, swinging my arms beside me like a middle-aged mom summiting a neighborhood hill. When I reached the end, it was time to engage in some T-shirt transformation theatrics. I had no idea what to do. I tugged on my imaginary ill-fitting top (which, in my case, wasn't imaginary) and made a frowny face. Then (god this is so hard to write) I held my hands in front of my shirt and did “spirit fingers,” twinkling my digits as if they harnessed the magical power of the T-Machine. I then opened my hands so my palms faced up as if to say, “Voilà,” like the ladies on
The Price Is Right
do after revealing what's behind door number four. Finally, I did the only other thing I knew to do: flashed my giant, crazy-person smile. I looked at my friend, who was looking at her feet—and suppressing a great deal of laughter.

When I returned to my place in the line-up, I waited for the final few girls to complete their turns. I marveled at their unsqueaky twirls, their poise, their appropriate wardrobe selection. After everyone was done, the art director stood and thanked all of us for coming in. He then told us they would get in touch with our agents, and we were free to leave. Most of the models took their time leaving the casting room, some
swinging by the director's chair to say a personal thank you for letting them audition. I power-walked to retrieve my purse, taking care to avoid eye contact with anyone in the room. With my bag firmly wedged under my now-sweaty armpit, I was finally able to enlist my ensemble for its proper use—and sprinted to my car.

Like Visiting Day in Jail

My Blackberry
de-dinks
. It's a text from my college friend
Dave who is in LA for work. He says he and our other friend Matt are coming to see me. To see what this box is all about.

I'm excited about this. In three years, no one has ever come to see me in the box, though everyone always talks about how they want to come. This is probably because the majority of my friends live either by the beach or in the eastern neighborhoods of LA, both of which are only five to fifteen miles away but, with LA traffic, can be an hour-plus trip. It is noteworthy that my first friends to visit me at The Standard live in New York, a six-hour flight away.

I'm on the phone when I look up and see them standing at the front desk. They are leaning on the counter, pretending to be on their phones, pretending not to notice me. I scream and wave, which is not allowed, but I can't help myself. Fortunately, the concierge is too focused on Facebook to notice. I hang up and call Dave's phone while they sit on a couch in the lobby and pass it back and forth. We joke that it's like visiting day in jail. Dave asks if he would get in trouble if he pressed
his lips against the glass and gasped, “I'll wait for you!” like they do in the movies.

The only other person who's ever recognized me while I was in the box was the art director at another LA magazine I had written for. He sometimes deejayed at the bar at The Standard. My Blackberry buzzed, “Lilibet, is that you in the box?” My eyes shot up. I scanned the lobby. I couldn't find him. I wrote back, “Yes it's me in here! Where are you?” But by that time, he was out of sight, already in the bar, tucked into the deejay booth.

Dear Mr. Retoucher

Pam said I needed professional headshots. I had plenty of
friends who were very handy with a camera, but she wasn't having it, so I made an appointment with a photographer named Brian. Brian took photos at his house, in his backyard. There was a female assistant there, too. She didn't do much but make me feel slightly better about not getting raped or kidnapped by this complete stranger who had lured me into his house with the promise of “making me look beautiful.”

I did three different “looks,” which I knew from working on the other side of the lens meant “outfits.” I insisted on doing my own hair and makeup for the shoot, which ended up being a bad idea. As it turns out, professional cameras and midday backyard lighting are not the most forgiving.

When I got the pictures back, it was a mess of flyaway hairs, uneven skin tone, and dark circles under my eyes. As a pretty photogenic person, I was horrified by the results. How was I going to get any auditions with these disasters?

I immediately called a girlfriend who was an actress.

“I hate them,” I said. “I look like Charlize Theron in
Monster
.”

“There is no way you look like Charlize Theron in
Monster
,” she said.

“Yes, there is,” I said.

“Just get them retouched, they'll be fine.”

Retouching. Genius.

After sending the pictures to Pam, she agreed with the retouching idea. (I didn't press her for specifics.) I emailed the three photos I hated the least to a photography lab in Hollywood, along with the following instructions:

           
Hi, please see attached jpegs for retouching.
⁴