Marshall of the Fitness Center - Pt. 1

I had a normal job for all of three weeks. Then I had a panic attack and left.

I used to get panic attacks frequently. One of the more memorable ones happened during a Theater for Young Audiences class; the class discussion strayed into a sensitive area and I suddenly felt the air becoming scarce as my throat closed in. I stood up, pointed to the door, and made it to the bushes in the nick of time. At least, that's what I thought.
"Jas?" I heard someone say. My hands and knees were planted to the ground but, in my sideways view, I saw Helen, one of the theater majors, running around and waving her arms wildly.
"Oh God!" she yelled. "Stay where you are! STAY WHERE YOU ARE! Someone! HELP! Call 911! HELP!"
I shook my head violently, holding up both hands in a sweeping Halt gesture.
"Stop!" I gasped. "Leave me alone! I'm ok!"
"Someone! Anyone! HELP! JAS IS DYING!"
Any prior hope of not disrupting the class had gone out the window. The teacher and four other students came out to the porch. What a sight they must have seen: Helen, running around the yard like a chicken with her head cut off, screamed for an ambulance while I tried to steady by breathing with one hand and fiercely bat the hysterical Helen away with the other.
"Helen!" the teacher called. "Leave her alone. You're not helping any."
"But she's-"
"Don't worry about that," she said. After making sure that no ambulance would show up and that Helen left like she was told, she turned back toward me. I tried to croak out a "thank you," between gasps for air but settled for a quick thumbs up sign. She raised her eyebrows and took a sip of her coffee. Then, she casually called out, "Finish up and come back inside when you're done."

They became less prevalent as time passed by and, eventually, disappeared almost entirely. The last one occurred over a year ago while I was still at Disoda Soda; a man had lunged at me, screaming obscenities in my face about how the line was too long. Nothing about that guy didn't scare me; even his ridiculously frilly Scottish accent seemed intimidating. It's that particular imagery that I find so disturbing; men and women whose self-entitlement knows no bounds. That description fit my former boss, Marshall, to a T.

I knew that something wasn't quite right about Marshall during the interview.
"I see you've got experience with selling memberships," he said. "That's great and all, but you probably don't really know what makes a good sale," he said, glancing back at my resume.
"I do have-"
"Well, I can teach you. I know what makes a successful sale. You could be selling memberships here in no time," he said, looking me dead in the eye. Maintaining good eye contact is a way to show that you have confidence and flair, but it's also a way to establish dominance and intimidate people. Pro-wrestlers have utilized the art of eye-locking their fierce opponent for generations.
"Yeah, if you get this job you'll enjoy working here," Marshall chuckled, "I mean, my last two employees were here for, oh, about two years. So I like to think I'm a good guy."

Marshall and the other new hire were already sitting at the desk when I walked in for my first day. Marshall seemed friendly enough.
"Jas, this is Charlene. Charlene, Jas; yadda yadda."
We shook hands. She was a quiet young woman in her late 20's.
"Charlene's a work-out buff, aren't ya, Charlene?" He knocked her in the shoulder. She flinched. "But don't you worry, Jas; we'll have you working out soon enough."

We spent most of the first day walking through the gym, which was roughly the size of Payless Shoes store, while he showed us that various areas that needed regular cleaning.
"Especially the bathrooms, though. Mostly because you women keep flushing things down the toilet that don't belong there." He chuckled. Charlene and I glanced at one another.
"Don't believe me? Hey, Ax!" he called out. Ax, the gym's personal trainer, was in the middle of a session with a client. "Ax, don't women need to pay more attention to what they flush down the commode?"
Ax turned the other way.
"Heh, heh," Marshall chuckled, "Yeah, we know how you ladies are."

We moved on to the plate-loaded equipment.
"See this? It weighs 50 pounds. Bet you can't pick it up, Jas," Marshall teased.
"Huh?"
"See if you can pick it up."
I picked it up. His smile dissipated a little.
"Well look at you! You didn't tell me you an experienced weight lifter, Jas. Show us those guns. Go on, show us."
I glanced at Charlene.
"Um. My sleeves don't go up so easily," I said.
"Ch- ch- chicken!" he chirped. "Don't worry. We'll get you into the 100 Push-Up club soon."
He then switched gears and said,
"So. Here's how you clean a dumbbell."

For every one of the gym's shortcomings, Marshall had a reason. There was no music playing in the background?
"Yeah, I found that most people just listen to headphones anyway. The speaker gets on people's nerves and no one can ever agree on the music."
The bathrooms were gross from lack of upkeep?
"Nothing that a little elbow grease can't fix."
There was no hot water?
"Yeah, we just don't get hot water. What are you going to do? The neighbors don't get hot water, either."
The temperature was cold?
"Yeah, that furnace is screwy. Plus, it's hard to keep a steady temperature when people come in and fill the room with their body heat." He laughed to himself as he headed to the men's room. "Heh, body heat."

--

"He said what?" Jolene, one of the soon-to-be former employees, said when I told her. I had managed to come in a little early so that I could wipe down the equipment without worrying about Marshall staring at me the entire time. I got more than I bargained for: Jolene had long been eager to share her thoughts and opinions about Marshall.
"That's typical. So typical! He's a cheap asshole," she muttered, tucking her belongings into a knapsack. "The restaurant next door has hot water. Did you know that? Yeah. I went over there and asked them myself. The only reason we don't have hot water over here is because he won't pay for it. And the music? Don't even get me started. Every other gym in the world has something playing in the background. It's not like we'd even have to get satellite radio. He could bring in a boombox, for crying out loud!"
"He says that people will just fight over the station."
"Oh, bull. He just doesn't want the kids to play rap music," she retorted.
"Really?"
"Oh, God, yes. He's such a racist. Have you noticed how he'll fawn over any prissy little thing that walks in, but the minute a black guy comes through that door he tenses up and won't talk to them? And the Latinos - oh my God! He'll comment about how so-and-so doesn't speak English. He did it to this one guy a couple of months ago, and on the guy's way out he stopped by the desk and said, "For the record, Jolene, I speak English just fine."
"Ouch."
"Oh! Oh," she continued, looking around to make sure he wasn't walking up to the doors, "Have you noticed this yet?" She pretended to dig around in her ear with her pointer finger before bringing it before her nose for a little sniff.
"Ew, really?"
"Really. I wish that the other guy who worked her hadn't told me, because now I notice it all the time. Sometimes he'll eat it, too."

When he wasn't making us clean, one of his favorite things to do was sit and observe Ax during his personal training sessions. Ax loved to work on core strength by making the client throw weighted punches.
"Look at that," Marshall said, clumsily using chopsticks to eat his lunch. I checked on Ax; he held up a square punching bag and told the client to sock it with "everything she had."
"Huh?"
"He's making her throw punches."
"Is that bad or something?"
"Well," he scoffed, "I mean, I'm the one here who is a black belt in Tae Kwon Do."
I paused and looked at him, mostly to check and see if he was serious. Black belt? My seven year old cousin was a black belt.
"Yeah," he continued, "It bothers me to see him train people using stuff that I'm, you know, more experienced with. But, he's the trainer, so what are you gonna do?"
He rolled his eyes as he stuffed his mouth with more of the grocery store sushi.

I brought my laptop in to work with me on my second week. I planned on using the down time to work on the emergency house management guide for the theater where I had interned. The gym was spic and span and, besides, Marshall played on his laptop all the time. I wasn't worried.
"Ah, brought your computer," Marshall said, creeping around the desk.
"Yeah, figured I'd use the down time to get some work done."
"Work? What are you working on?"
"Intern stuff. For that internship I told you about."
"Uh-huh." He made a lap around the space and came back, saying, "Hey, you should go give the bathrooms a deep cleaning. You know where the mop is."

I previously mentioned the bathrooms needed a serious overhaul, but that's just a nicer way of saying that HGTV would take one look at them and say, "Tsk, tsk." I did the best I could and settled back into my work. Marshall stared at me from in the back office. Finally, he walked over.
"Look," he began, "I don't mind you bringing in your computer and taking a little five minute break to work on your intern stuff, but I don't appreciate you taking out your computer to work on your crap on my time. I know that you're here for five hours, but I can't believe you thought that it would be ok for you to bring in your computer. I mean, really? I would have never, ever done that, especially on my second week on the job."
"I'm -"
"I mean, I just didn't expect that from you. I don't understand why you thought that it would be ok to do that. I mean, I know that you get bored, but this isn't just your regular college job, and -"
"Marshall."
The weighted tone of my voice made his eyes flair. I swallowed the heat in my throat and said, in a nice and pleasant tone,
"Note taken. I'm going to put away my work and go wipe down the equipment."
"Good."

The last day of my third week at the gym started off great: Marshall claimed he had to do something with one of his children, so I worked the first two hours of my shift in peace. It was a lot easier to enjoy the the peculiar exercise habits of the members: the woman who walked on the treadmill with her arms waving in front of her face in cheering motions; the old man with the hunchback who did Ty Chi; the small group of moms that came to gossip about their children while they rode the cardio bikes; or my personal favorite: the guy who listened to old school R&B music on his iPod and occasionally grunted, "Sweeeat!" in the loudest whisper he could when he lifted weights. I always had to make sure my back was turned when he was using the gym; I just couldn't keep a straight face.

"Morning," whistled Marshall, smacking gum loudly and carting his gym bag through the door. Ugh; He planned on working out. He'd do that - the only times he would use the gym were when Charlene or I were working. He'd hop on the elliptical and turn look over the door every few seconds to see who might be coming in.
"Go and look up that person on the door access page. I don't recognize them," he'd say. If someone came in with more than one person and one forgot to swipe their card, he'd run over and whisper, "That other guy didn't swipe his card. Check and see if that person has a dual membership."
I brushed it off as anal behavior, but soon realized it was actually motivated by a desire to initiate conflict. A couple of teenagers, a boy and a girl, walked in and put their stuff in the cubbies. I had disappeared into the ladies room to fill the spray bottles, so I didn't see the events that led up to what I saw next, but I came back out to see Marshall's wet dream unfolding before entirety of the gym.

Looking Back at Some SBAP Favorites: Happy Birthday!

For my birthday, I asked anyone and everyone connected to me through Facebook and Twitter to share my blog via any social media platform of their choice. Assuming that this birthday request becomes wildly successful, many of you are probably visiting Smile Big and Pretty for the first time. If that's the case, welcome. I hope you like what you read and share my writing as well. Here is a collection of some SBAP favorites:

It's just like standing up yourself - only with animal waste.

SBAP Video Presents: The Typical Characters You'll Find in Acting Classes.

The Job Hunt Begins (Again)

The Open Letter to Sigma Nu.

Closing Time at Disoda-Soda.

The Beginnings of the Summer Serial: I need a job. - I love the entire collection tagged with "Summer Serial." There are just too many to post as favorites. This is what the majority of the one woman show was based off of; much of the material was left out of the blog entirely as a means to keep the show version fresh. I'll adapt the show and add those stories soon.

This Girl I Knew, She Had a Tattoo.

Take my money and teach me to act.

Enjoy them.

In a rare moment of total seriousness on SBAP, I'd like to take a minute and comment on how it invigorating it is to see how my writing, both on my blog and elsewhere, has changed over the course of just two years. That said, the past two years were just that: the past two years. Now it is this year.

I want this year to be the year. This is the year that I'm going for it with more than the best of my abilities. This is the year that I launch or book something that will propel me into the world that I want to be in and make the powers that be scratch their heads and say, out loud, "Where the hell did this woman come from and why has it taken someone this long to realize what she is capable of?"

I'm working a part time job that I hate and a series of odd jobs to pay the bills while I watch my peers that were able to pursue the dream earlier enjoy success; one girl even has a headlining role in the upcoming Showtime series, Shameless. It would be easy to succumb to the frustration with the fact that I'm way behind and I don't know what the right path is. Do I move to LA? Do I stay here and cross my fingers that the rumors about Atlanta becoming the new LA are true? People tell me that's the safe thing to do, but I don't want to be safe. I want to work.

One of my favorite influences, Conan O'brien, said that negativity was the worst thing you could bring upon yourself. I tend to keep those words close to my head and heart, especially when life deals me lemons. In fact, some of my best ideas erupted from less than stellar circumstances.

"I really wouldn't worry about things, Jas," a friend said recently, "You can spin shit into gold. Surely that will help you one day."

My friend was being very generous with that statement, but I believe that she is right: one viable road to success is through my writing. A month ago, some very generous and connected individuals shared SBAP through their Facebook and Twitter accounts. Since then, my readers have multiplied, causing my work to generate a little buzz. If this buzz resulted from one central point of connectivity, imagine what even more points could do! Every little bit helps in an industry like this.

If I could have one wish for my birthday, it would be for you to share Smile Big and Pretty through Facebook, Twitter, or even e-mail. If you feel so inclined, become a fan on the Facebook page. If you like what I write, please share it.

Now, if you'll excuse me, I'm going to take a Unisom and do my best to focus all thought on Tron: Legacy as I go to sleep. If I'm lucky, the power of Disney Digital 3D combined with the vivid, chemically induced dreams will result in me riding a laser-cycle around a grid for a few hours.

That sounds like a choice way to start a birthday.

It's the day of the show - I mean Christmas Eve, ya'll.

Financial circumstances being what they are, I have put work and family before writing for the past week. The days leading up to Christmas have been a whirlwind of me trying to do gig after show after day job in an attempt to get some money to pay bills and buy gifts. I bought toys for the children and crass, musical cards for the adults.

My moderately successful tour de force slash juggling act has led me into an array of bizarre and comical situations; my brain literally itches to start typing up a nice arsenal of stories for SBAP. I'm scratching in anticipation right now while Clint wraps the forty of Bud Ice he bought his brother for Christmas.

Happy Holidays!

This is what a Christmas gift from Jas looks like.

This is what a Merry Christmas from Clint looks like.

Happy Holidays, everyone.

It's just like standing up for yourself - only with animal waste.

"Alright, guys. We're going to play a game. It's called Never Have I Ever."

I have always been a sucker for a good house party; probably because I am rarely invited to them. I still largely believe that they are a myth. Most young adults spent their college years balancing keg stands with study groups, but I foolishly wasted that valuable, first couple of years gridlocked with a mean, old fartass and felt that I had been robbed of the "house party" experience advertised in films like Rules of Attraction and Clueless.

During my penultimate year of college, a friend and fellow theater major from the apartment below mine invited a few of us to a party at his place. He had a reputation for throwing rowdy affairs that typically ended with a broken piece of furniture or several people in a bathtub, completely naked except for a fez hat and maybe a feather. However, he also happened to throw parties that attracted people outside the theater program, therefore offering us the opportunity to socialize with individuals outside our kind. I met up with my friend, Betty, and together we ventured to his apartment on the second floor.

I knew the majority of the people sitting in the living room. If I didn't know them personally, then I knew them by type. You can typically pick out underage drinkers by the way they take any and all opportunities to brag about their sloppy, drunken encounters with an acquaintance's genitals in the bathroom or way they enthusiastically volunteered their spotty knowledge of cheap liquor and the number of ways to make it stay in one's body.

"Oh, god; McCormick's is terrible! " one might say. "But if you run out of orange juice to chase it with, try eating some Honey Nut Cheerios really fast!"

I was once young and stupid enough to actually try chasing shots of Captain Morgan's with whole grain cereal. All I got was a nasty mouthful of grainy, fiber fortified rum and a moderate case of alcohol poisoning. Those days were behind me, but for most of the kids at this party, they were in full swing. That night I found myself with them in the middle of a riveting round of Never Have I Ever, a game that targeted one's innermost secrets and made sure that a bunch of total strangers knew all of them before going home.

"Never have I ever... been caught with someone at church," one girl piped up. Six or seven people took a swig of their drinks, signifying that they, unlike her, had been caught in the act on holy grounds.

"What? Come on, that's pretty much the best place to get caught! What a little bitch!" laughed one guy. The offender, whom I'll call The Tool, was a Nick Jonas look-a-like with a can of Keystone Light in each hand. He wreaked of cheap liquor and cologne.

"Never have I ever... been with someone way older!" the next girl said.

"Fuck that, be more specific," said The Tool. "How old?"

"Um, old enough to be my dad," she said. I felt the tingling sting of her words creep into my feet and rise up through my chest as I looked at my glass and, finally, took a regretful swig.

"Oh damn!" The Tool pointed at me. "This girl's a freak! Hey, what are you up to later?"

"Telling my mother how I went to this party and met this obnoxious kid who looks strikingly similar to Nick Jonas," I replied, taking a dainty sip of my drink. "It's your turn, by the way."

"Fine, fine," he said, his tone saturated in subtext, "I see how it is."

"Good. Then go."

I watched The Tool slide back into the couch and survey the crowd before snapping his fingers at his own brilliance.

"Never have I ever kissed a dude!"

"Surprise, surprise," Betty whispered, "He screws in church and hates the gays."

"Hey," The Tool said, raising his glass, "You guys better be whispering about how much you want me."

"Oh, honey," I said, getting up for a refill, "Don't flatter yourself."

"Don't flatter yourself. You know you'd do me." He called after. I squeezed my cup and swallowed my anger with a smile before I turned around and said,

"Yes, well: your ship sailed the minute I became too old to watch Camp Rock."

Betty and I observed the Never Have I Ever circle from the kitchen. With the two of us temporarily out of the picture, The Tool had moved on to terrorizing the poor girl who had never had copulated in a place of worship. She was about to cry.

"Hey, Nick Jonas," I said, sitting back down, "Lighten up. You're killing the mood."

"Come on. Like you could even get enough of this," He said, grazing his hands across his torso.

"You're giving yourself way too much credit," Betty scoffed.

"You're one to talk, missy," The Tool fired back, taking a drink.

The noise level record-ripped to a dead silence; the party seemed frozen in time.

"One to talk? What exactly do you mean by that?" she said slowly. Betty made no qualms about the fact that she was full-figured and gorgeous, but The Tool had clearly gone too far. He knew he had struck a nerve and he wasn't about to relent.

"I'd pay money to see Miss Freak over here take her shirt off, but I wouldn't pay shit to -"

"Hey. Asshole," I cut in, "Will you just shut up?"

A few seconds passed. People from the bedroom had propped the door open, peeking their heads out to listen.

"No," he finally stammered, clearly taken aback, "No, I will not!"

"Fine then." I stood up. "Betty, you sick of this guy?"

"Yeah. I need a cigarette, anyway."

"What a waste of a person," Betty said, taking a drag.

"Forget him. He looks like Nick Jonas and drinks Keystone Light."

Betty was silent.

"Hey," I said, "You ok?"

"I will be."

Just then, the door swung open, startling us. Out staggered The Tool, calling inside,

"Yeah, well fuck you guys! Your party sucks, you cocksucker!"

He lost his balance and fell toward me.

"Dude! Chill out!" I said, pushing him off.

"No, you chill out! You crazy ... freak... bitch!"

He slammed his fist on the door and used the force to push off and get some momentum going in the opposite direction, turning around only to throw a can of beer at us.

"You and your fat bitch friend can suck it!"

He continued to scream obscenities and slam his fist into the walls as he staggered to the apartment where he was staying at, three doors over. The door slammed and we could still hear him, screaming and throwing things against the wall from the inside.

I looked back over to Betty, glossy eyed and quiet, clearly holding back something complicated.

We left shortly thereafter.

--

The next day, I lost an hour long battle against the urge to go buy a microwavable pizza. On my way to the car, I noticed that The Tool's sneakers were sitting right outside his door. I paused to look at them. They were all alone; void of any protection from their owner.
I bit my lip as my brain fired out the possibilities.

I shouldn't, I thought.

I took a few more steps toward the car. The shoes, pristine and white, seemed to be calling after me, filling my general area with visceral sensations to tempt me back toward their resting place.

"Jas. Jas," they cried, "please, please take us. We belong to a heartless creep who resembles Nick Jonas. Please, please use us to achieve your vision!"

I turned around. The soothing sounds of psychological seduction stopped; there were only the shoes.

I really shouldn't, I thought.

I made it all the way to the inside of my car. I sat in the front seat, unable to put the car in drive. I thought of the nasty things that The Tool said. I remembered dodging the beer cans as he slammed his way back to his apartment. I remembered the hateful comments he made to my friend. Each scenario overlapped the next in a Rocky worthy montage, faster and faster until I felt my arm turn the key to the left and I heard the sound of the engine shutting off. I opened the door, ran up the stairs, snatched the shoes, and went to get my pizza.

Upon entering the safety of my bedroom, I tossed them on the ground and let my two ferrets, Elroi and Nola, out to play. Ferrets love anything that smells or allows them to crawl inside, so it made sense them they immediately began to attack and burrow down inside The Tool's shoes. They began to drag the shoes to their special hiding place near their corner litter pan.
It was then that I saw the litter was due for a change.

It was then that I got an idea.

I put on some gloves, took a paper towel, and wiped the freshest, slimiest waste from the top of the litter pan. Then, I stuffed it into the tiptoe of one of the shoes. Seeing that the majority of urine had accumulated at the corner of the pan, I poured it into the shoe as well. Once the litter pan was empty, I headed straight for the cage: the mother load of all things that come out the wrong end of a ferret.

I filled both shoes with waste and used the urine soaked paper towels to stuff the contents deep enough into each sneaker so that The Tool wouldn't be suspicious as he put them on. I figured that if he kept his sneakers by the door, then more than likely he was the type of person who mindlessly stuffed their feet into their shoes on their way out the door. In other words, he wouldn't even see it coming.

I poked my head out the front door, listening for activity on the floor below mine. Hearing nothing, I crept down the stairs with shoes in hand. The sound of a car alarm made me jump and hide under the stairwell. When the coast was clear, I focused my attention on The Tool's doorstep. It was a straight shot. There were no obstacles standing in between us. The time was now. I sprinted to the door, arranged the shoes as best I could, and sprinted back up the stairs and into my apartment, slamming the door behind me.

--

I came home from rehearsal the next evening and was delighted to see that the shoes were missing. I saw the friend who had originally thrown the party a few days later.
"So," I said, casually, "Has your toolbag, dead-ringer-for-Nick Jonas friend found anything interesting in his shoes lately?"
My friend looked over to me, his eyes widening.
"You didn't."
I smiled.
"Jas, what did you put in those shoes?"
"So he found them?"
"Yes, he found them."
"Do you know if he put his feet in them?"
"I'm pretty sure he did. What the hell did you put in there?"
"Well, you've met my ferrets, right?"
My friend was silent for all of two seconds before he burst out laughing.
"I won't say a word," he promised, catching his breath.

When I told Betty what I had done she hugged me and said,
"This is why we're friends."
Then, after a pause, she said,
"Ferret shit, though? Really?"

I only saw The Tool a couple of times after that; shortly after the shoes incident, the leasing office had him evicted for violating the terms of his lease. Basically, he threw a party of his own at which time the police came and caught him and all of his underage friends drinking alcohol and "disrupting the integrity of the lawn."

I have to give him a little credit, though: before I encountered The Tool, I had never considered considered myself a person of action. I was usually content to step back and avoid conflict. However, watching this asshole sense vulnerability in my friend and viciously go after her ignited a little retaliative streak in me. A good streak, a bad streak; there's no way to really tell.  Sooner or later, someone will be an insufferable ass. That's fine; I can handle myself. That said, enough turns into enough at some point.

Once it gets there, you'd better watch your shoes.

With all this change, who needs tradition?

I love the winter time. The cold air, while abrasive and uncomfortable, is a small price to pay for the only time of year when it truly makes sense to make a brisk entrance into a room and announce,"It's colder than a witch's titty!"

The holiday season was already in full swing by the time Thanksgiving rolled around and with it came the usual holiday fare: Christianity established its commercial hold on holidays by having an inflatable Santa and baby Jesus outside the Rite-Aid early morning on November 1st; Networks started airing holiday specials from from the first seasons of favorite programs because apparently it makes no sense for the characters to celebrate their respective cultures more than once, even as they get older; and people have already started to drunkenly stumble around the parking lot of the club beside my apartment building in Santa hats and scream carols while trying to coax the doorman that the joy of Christmas should fill him with enough generosity to abolish the idea of Last Call. Unlike the normal frivolity of years past, however, this holiday brought some changes. Namely, several new and creative ways to make sure I can pay my phone bill and afford an occasional luxury grocery item, like Nutella, instead of the canned chicken and expired mouthwash from Big Lots.

It's no secret that ever since Disoda Soda decided to inform me via email that they had terminated my 14 month temping stint for them, I have rigorously searched for new jobs. I faced interview after disastrous interview before learning that there was potential in promotions. Shortly thereafter, I discovered an opportunity to deal blackjack at casino parties. Babysitting for two club loving mommies, assistant house managing at the improv theater where I intern; the hope is that I can make enough money to get by until that fateful audition where the casting directors get knocked in the head with the smarty stick and realize that they need to book me.

Considering the status of the economy and the fact that over qualified applicants have flooded the hourly wage market, I understandably began to panic when I realized that none of the original seventeen job applications I sent out were eliciting any promising responses. Faced with the reality of my situation, I had to choose between lowering my job sights and applying to minimum wage slave jobs or using the down time to live off my savings and focus on finding gigs.

There's a reason they call me the odd job queen.

One of the first things I did as a newly unemployed youth was go and audition for a set of student films at the local state university.
"Student films? But you have an agent," one of my friends said, "Why doesn't she just, you know, get you a real movie?"

Good question. I, too, once thought that having an agent was the secret ingredient to a fruitful career. Then I got one and realized that so much more goes into it than that. People who make movies like to pay people who have a good track record. You aren't just born with credits on your resume unless you're Willow Smith or your parents start using you to realize their unfulfilled dreams the second you popped out of the womb. Those first credits have to come from somewhere and I don't care who they are; half of the actors who claim they were the lucky ones who went to a couple of auditions and took off over night are lying. Every famous performer started somewhere that was only a fraction of where they are now.

The casting blurb read:

ATTENTION: YEAR TWO GRADUATE FILM THESIS AUDITIONS

The location of the first two auditions was in the heart of downtown. Instead of taking the train like any sane person would have done, I decided to drive and spent half hour trying to find a parking lot that didn't scream, "I will send someone to pillage your car!" After settling on a small pay lot, I couldn't figure out how to make the pay slip machine work. I poked it. I hit it. I pressed a bunch of keys at once. I stood in front of it and waved my arms like a born again Christian in hopes that it had a motion sensor. Finally, I stood to the side and pretended to check out an interesting spot on my arm until someone else came and, by magic, managed to get a parking slip from the mysterious box.
"Hey," I asked, "How did you get that thing to work? I tried for ages and got nothing."
"Oh, you just have to start with the number of the spot you're parked in," the man said.
"Really? It's that simple?"
"Yeah, dawg, it actually says so," he trailed, scoping out the machine, "Oh, damn; here it is. It says to just put in your spot. It'll go from there."
"Oh, wow," I said, embarrassed, "Thanks."
"Nah, don't thank me," he said, brushing it off. "Hey, you like rap?"

My new "delicious symposium of phat beatz" from a certain Mr. J-Traz and I made our way up to the 8th Floor and into the holding room.
"Hi," I said, sitting down at the same table as a short, Asian girl. She looked up. I couldn't help but notice that her make-up looked as though she had been wearing it for days. She had one of those manicures with bright, neon green fingertips. Fake nails say a little bit about a person. The type of fake nails say even more. Fake nails with neon pink or green tips tend to say, "Girl, I can dance real nasty."
"You here for the movie?" I asked.
"Well. Yeah."
"Oh, that's cool. Me, too. Both of them, actually. I signed up for all six, but these are the only two that called me back so far."
"Pretty crazy," she said, thumbing through her script.
"Yeah, well. It's not like I'm going to be doing much else with my time. I got laid off a week ago."
"Yeah?"
"I worked at the Disoda Soda Museum. They laid me off in an e-mail."
"Bummer."
"Yeah. So now I'm trying to fill out my resume. You know. Trying to book stuff. Trying to get a job, too. I'm dabbling in promotions. I was trying to to get one today at the civic center."
Her eyes shot up.
"The Playboy Trojan Wonders Condoms promo?"
"Um, they didn't say what it was for."
"I bet that's what it was for. I worked it this morning and the guy was talking about a total newbie who sent him a request to work with literally no experience," she laughed. "It was great and all, but some of those girls looked rough. You can't just let a saggy broad hand out condoms."
A guy came from the office and motioned to her. She rapped her papers and stood, her hip cocked to one side.
"Anyway," she said, turning to me, "hop on that gravy train. It's good money. Good luck."

When it was my turn, my scene partner was already inside. It was a man in his mid to late 30's with a face that read, "Rich Uncle Percy." I don't know; he was the sort of guy who you'd always expect to find in an office and wearing a suit. It's always strange when you run across another actor that puts his or herself into a piece with such a reckless abandon. He had already memorized the lines and the blocking, meticulously hitting each movement and miming the complicated directions. There was supposed to be a kiss in there somewhere, but I chose to knock foreheads instead.

I was cast in three out of the four films I was called in to read for. Out of those three films, two required me to pee on the floor. Out of those two, one required me to wear a fake, pregnant belly. The other had a line that went, "It smells like dead pee in here." Between the peeing, the awesome crew that I worked with, and the promising footage that I peeked at, I am beyond satisfied.

From the set of Love by Escobar Productions
(the only film I didn't have to urinate in)
Photo by Jessica Harney

More from Love

From the set of The Deaf and the Mute by Diego Bruno
(That's my happy Prego face)

Setting up the exterior shots for The Deaf and the Mute

Now I'm still coming back from the realization that the shoots have finished and I won't be seeing these people on a semi-regular basis anymore. It's not often that I meet a cast of characters that I sync up with immediately. Somewhere between the continuous nods to Arrested Development and that time that I interrupted a serious, somber moment with a loud fart, I felt as though I had another one of those rare instances on my hands where I fit right in.

Such is life, I suppose.

Countering my set-withdrawals is the fact that I'm not returning all the way back to square one. Unlike when I started the films, I now have a regular part time job in a Pop!Fitness Center. In addition to decent pay, I now have a free gym membership and get to observe some of the most peculiar people of the five-mile radius. I also worked my first night of blackjack dealing recently. You haven't seen delightful until you've seen a forty-something woman in a cowboy hat tell you that, not only is she dressed up as the neighbor from Footloose for the holiday costume party, but that she's feeling frisky and wants to hit when she clearly should stay.

Do you hear what I hear? It's probably the fast rapping, smooth daddy DJ J-Traz.

Do you smell what I smell? It's that changing of of the seasons I was talking about, bringing in a whiff of hearty fodder as it begins to simmer.