Yes, My Accent Is Real (22 page)

I researched David's signature personality trait, selective mutism, and read up on the underlying psychology. I learned that selective mutism is a disease that stems from pathological shyness. It is a real thing. So, what renders someone speechless? It's not that Dave is dumbfounded. He's
trying
to speak. The research says that your brain is sending a signal to your mouth, but somewhere along the way, you emotionally block your mouth from making words. And I thought,
Okay, what would make me, Kunal, selectively mute?
I imagined meeting one of my idols, such as the legendary cricket demigod Sachin Tendulkar. If Sachin happened to turn up one night when I was working at the raw food restaurant, what would that physically do to me? I knew that my mouth would open and my mind would have a thousand things to say but nothing would come out. I would probably tense my shoulders and my jaw, tighten my butt cheeks, dart my eyes back and forth to avoid contact, and try to become as small as possible, like a tortoise who doesn't have a shell. And what if Sachin was
always
around me? Well, that would be Dave with selective mutism.

On Monday, instead of taking the bus, I treated myself to a thirteen-dollars-a-day rental car, and I left so early for the audition—three hours early—that I drove forty miles in the wrong direction, called Suzanne, had to make a U-turn, and I
still
made it there on time. (Kids, if you ever want anything in life, always be early to meetings.)

The preliminary audition was at 11 a.m. I wore brown corduroy pants, a checkered shirt buttoned to the top, and a Caltech hat. (In the
pilot, if you remember, Raj is wearing a hat.) Here's how the process works: At the preliminary audition, you perform for the casting director, who in turn either dismisses you or gives you “acting notes”—things they'd like to see you do differently for the second round. The second round (if you make it) is where you get to audition for the actual producers. During the first round, though, the casting director's notes typically involve your delivery and motivation—you know—acting shit.

“Kunal, can you unbutton the top button of your shirt?” she asked.

“Sure, no problem.”

And those were my notes. A few minutes later the casting director took two of us aside. “Can you guys come back at three p.m. for round two?” She sent everyone else home, which, frankly, is an actor's
dream
—to have almost every other competitor sent home after the first round.

I had a few hours to kill and I was feeling confident, so I went outside and ate a bacon cheeseburger (so of course I thought of Allison the Lesbian). I wore a napkin over my shirt, terrified that I would destroy my costume.

I came back at two thirty—thirty minutes early—and was the first person back. As I sat in the hallway the casting director and the producers walked past me and I made a silly joke, something like, “I had a cheeseburger for lunch so please excuse my gas.”

This made everyone crack up. I was trying to win them over even before my audition.

“You are so funny!” the casting director said as she went into the room.

Yes, I'm funny!
When you're an actor you hold on to every single word from a casting director, and you analyze and overanalyze everything they say—over
and over and over again until you get the part, or more likely, you don't.

I was called into the room and it was time to audition for Chuck Lorre and Bill Prady, the creators of
The Big Bang Theory
. The truth is I still did not understand the gravitas of the situation. A more seasoned actor might have been psyching themselves out:
Oh God, it's Chuck Lorre! He's created like six of the biggest sitcoms of all time! He's a god in the television world! This is my big chance, don't screw it up!
To me, he was just another guy I wanted to make laugh.

Chuck has a maniacal laugh, a cackle that's almost a cough. It's infectious to hear that laugh. It's a laugh that makes you want to laugh along with it. So when he started laughing at my audition it gave me more and more confidence and I began to take over the room. It was another
ssssssssssss
moment, but this time it was real life.

I could tell that the audition had gone well. I went home, showered, and headed to my usual shift at the raw food restaurant, waiting tables and bullshitting with Diego and Zane. The next day once again I went to work for my usual shift . . . and then saw I had four missed calls.

“Kunal, they want to screen-test you,” said Suzanne.

“What?”

“They want to test you. Tomorrow.”

In the pilot world, a screen test is the final step to securing the role. To play Dave, I would have to audition for the big cheeses at Warner Bros. and CBS.

I finished my shift at the restaurant—at least I think I did. I don't remember anything else about that evening, I was walking around in a daze. That night I couldn't sleep. Both excited and nervous.
This was real.

The next morning, once again, I treated myself to a rental car from Enterprise. This was a big moment, and I didn't want to take my chances on the public transportation system. They happened to be out of economy cars that day, so instead they upgraded me, for free, to a white convertible Toyota Solara. What a good start to the day! On the way I opened the roof and blasted nineties hip-hop, feeling the wind in my hair and the California sun on my face. It was Broadway, and Central Park, and daydreaming all over again. I drove through the gate at CBS Studios feeling like a champ.

The final audition was in a “black box” type of theater. It looked exactly like all the theaters I had auditioned in before, and so it felt oddly comfortable. This was auditioning for ACTF. This was auditioning for grad school.
I have been here before.

I stood on that stage and knew that the most powerful people in the studio were watching me, so I decided I would break the ice with a stupid joke.

“Hello, I am Kunal. Thank you for allowing me to audition for
Two and a Half Men.
”

Laughter from the faceless audience.

“No, wait, that's not right,” I continued. “What Chuck Lorre show is this? Just too many to choose from.”

Before I started, I said to the casting director, in front of the entire audience, “Listen, I'm saying these lines in a room full of
very important people
, so it's important to me that you don't crack up laughing in the middle of my audition. Please keep it together.”

She starts laughing and the faceless audience does, too.

At that moment I'm just at a party, telling jokes to my friends, entertaining the room.

Then I deliver my audition. More laughter, and some more, and maybe a little more . . .

After it was over, driving back to Enterprise in that white convertible, I said to myself,
Kunal, no matter what happened, you did a really good job, you left your heart on the line, and I'm proud of you. Even if you don't get the job, I'm proud of you.

And then the phone didn't ring.

It didn't ring that night.

It didn't ring the next day.

It didn't ring the third day.

It didn't ring the fourth day.

Typically, the way this whole thing works is that you find out if you get the role within five days of an audition. This is contractually required. On day five, if the studio needs more time, they have to officially ask your agent if they can “extend the waiting period.”

So on day five—the day that I should get a yes or no—they asked to extend the waiting period.

I had no leverage. After huddling with my manager and agent, we agreed to extend the waiting period for another five days.

No call on day six.

No call on day seven.

Nor on day eight.

And not on day nine.

I'm hapless, I'm sleepless, I'm waiting, I'm hanging on by a thread. Hoping for a miracle. Bewitched, bothered, and bewildered. You get the picture.

Finally, on day ten, I got the long-awaited call from my agent.

But it wasn't that call.

“Kunal,
they want to extend another five days.”

Kill me. But what could I do? At that point I had become a zombie. I was still working at the raw food restaurant, but I couldn't focus on the food or Diego or Zane or Zane's yellow Lamborghini. I would take the bus to work, arrive for my shift, and not even remember how I got there.

We agreed to extend another five days—what choice did we have?

No call on day eleven.

No call on day twelve.

No call on day thirteen.

No call on day fourteen.

Finally, on day fifteen, I got the call from my agent.

But it was not that call.

“They want to extend for another five days.”

“No,” I said. I had had enough. “I demand an answer. This is torture.”

“Kunal. We have to.”

“If they give me the role they give me the role, but if not, I'm out.”

“
Trust me
,” my agent said.

“No. No more.” I was adamant.

“Okay, how about this. I'll tell them that we can extend the waiting period
one last time
, five more days, and that's it.”

I let out a long, deep sigh.

“One last time,” I agreed.

No call on day sixteen.

No calls on days seventeen, eighteen, or nineteen.

And still nothing on day twenty.

It
was time to call the studio and tell them that we would not extend anymore.

“Give us a couple more hours, and we'll call you back,” the studio promised her.

Then, finally, I got the call.

It was that call.

I was going to play Dave on
The Big Bang Theory
. Only now he was going to be called Raj Koothrappali.

It's funny how it all worked out. The beginning was quick as lightning—I auditioned for an agent on Thursday, signed with the agent on Friday, auditioned for
Big Bang
on Monday, had a callback on Wednesday—and then, toward the end, it all came to a soul-crushing halt. One thing I learned, though, is that whenever you go into auditions or interviews,
the judge is on your side.
They want you to succeed. Think about it. Let's say you're going to interview for a job. The hiring manager wants to fill that job so she can recruit a kick-ass employee and grow her team. And she wants that employee to be you. She's hoping that you'll blow her mind. As actors, or as job seekers, we walk into the room and we worry that they're sniffing for weakness. The truth is that they're already on your side, because once they find someone they want, they can call it a day and go home.

Luck.
People always say to me.
You got lucky with your first audition.
What do I say to them? How can I explain the journey? Leaving everyone and everything I knew in Delhi, cleaning toilets in Portland, making it through graduate school in Philadelphia, spilling milk shakes in D.C., auditioning in the Apple Store in New York City, stacking books every night, and riding the bus across LA. All the heartache, all those years, all the winning and losing and winning
again. Every person has a different journey. But no one has an easy one.
Luck.

After I received the good news I still had a few shifts to finish at Gerardo's. I informed everyone that I would soon be leaving.

On my final night at the restaurant, Zane came in wearing his usual suit and his usual sunglasses. “I have a present for you,” he said, tossing me a box.

I opened it. Inside was a miniature yellow Lamborghini. On the bottom of the box he wrote, “Till you get your own.”

I
. It was a little weird seeing so much skin, even in a raw food restaurant.

II
. Okay, I'd had one scene on NCIS playing an Iranian terrorist with a crooked mustache. Indian. Iranian. We all look the same.