Temper, Temper

Despite being told - in writing - exactly where the audition was to be, what to bring, what to expect, that there would be no cost or obligation and first and foremost that the gates would not open until 3:55, the calls start coming at 3:30.

How do I get through the gates?

I'm at MacDonald's, can you give me directions?

Where am I supposed to come?

Am I supposed to bring a picture?

Is this gonna cost anything?

Michael is feeling wretched with flu-like symptoms, regretting that he didn't follow his impulse to cancel the session entirely.  He's sweating his makeup off and bad tempered.  The dogs are agitated and barking restlessly and without letup.  The yard crew arrives in the middle of it all and brings their own special brand of chaos. I'm headachy and out of patience.

Four of the seven wannbe actors/models who confirmed actually show up.  Only one brings a picture as instructed.  One brings her entire tribe - a collection of scruffy, unshaved, smirky and tragically dressed young men who slouch into chairs with a distinct air of contempt - another can barely walk for the heavy weight of makeup. One wants to know if there's food.  Of the two parents who have chosen to accompany their underage offspring, one spends the entire time on his cell phone and the other appears to be in a drug-induced stupor. She actually nods off halfway through filling out the paperwork.  It's a dismal and uninspiring assemblage and while I am feeling edgy, irritable and not encouraged, Michael is nearly ready to flee.

I gather up paperwork, completely un-surprised at the number of blank spaces on the forms - from the look of them I'm not convinced that they can all read or write - and Michael composes himself and begins his pitch. He's a half hour in when the front door opens and a late arrival strolls casually in, carrying a paper Taco Bell bag and a drink.  I prepare myself for the worst and although there's a fraction of a second when I think Michael might marginally keep it together, I then see his fists clenching and unclenching and I know we're in for it.

If you can't manage to be on time, he says in a voice that could freeze hell over, You may leave.

There's a shocked silence and all I can hear is my own breath.  The teenager in the doorway hesitates, takes a tentative step toward the group, tries to put together a smile.

THIS IS HOW YOU TAKE DIRECTION???  Michael shouts, OUT! NOW!  AND DON'T COME BACK!

The girl clutches her Taco Bell bag in a death grip, her eyes fill with humiliated tears, she runs.

Michael takes several deep breaths, runs a distracted hand through his hair then straightens his shoulders, tugs at the hem of his sports coat, sighs and turns to face the stunned but now very attentive faces before him.

If you can't be on time for an audition here, he says with a deadly calm, Then what would make me think you'd be on time for a job if I were to send you?  if you can't take direction, you have no business being here and you're more than free to leave.

Several heads nod but no one says a word.

This, he continues, is like a job interview. And even if this were not my home as well as my business,  YOU DO NOT BRING NACHOS.  Have I made my point?

There is just the smallest hint of a smile or two as the shock wears off.  He looks into each face directly, I suspect judging their reactions, and after a moment or two more, he shakes his head and regains his equilibrium.

Now. Where was I? he inquires.

And a small voice says, Talking about the hazards of the business?

It's enough to break the tension and make everyone laugh.  Though it takes a little effort, even Michael manages a smile.  Later he will rant and rave about stupidity and entitlements and literacy and feel badly about his outburst - although not too badly - and he'll get over it.  It's only his sense of how the world should be that's offended.

Temper is a weapon we hold by the blade ~ James M. Barrie