whatever the gig is, i want it

sasha brown

I’m sorry I’m late, I know you have to charge me for the full session. I had a thing that went long. Yeah, I guess an acting thing? I don’t know, it was weird. You don’t want to hear about my fucked up acting stuff. It was fuckin weird, though.

          Okay fine, you know about green screen? Special effects? Like Andy Serkis? It’s like, they put you in a green bodysuit, right? Even your face is in a see-through green hood. You look like a creepy frog. There are sensors on the suit so they can feed your body movements into the computer, and they put you in front of a green screen, and then they can fill in whatever scene they want, you know? So they’ll get your natural body movements, but the body can be King Kong or a Pokémon or whatever.

          So that’s what the gig was. I mean, I had no idea what the real gig was. They made me sign the biggest NDA ever and then they still wouldn’t tell me anything. There weren’t even any other actors! They gave me a volleyball on a stick to interact with. That’ll be CG later, too. So some PA’s holding the stick, and the volleyball is wobbling around and the director’s like “Okay, attack the volleyball! It’s a fight scene! Go crazy!” And like I don’t know what the volleyball is! Maybe it’s the tooth fairy. Maybe it’s an underground toddler fighting ring! I have no idea. I’m flailing around, sort of hissing and pawing at the volleyball. I don’t know, it was all I could think of.

          So I’m figuring they’ll yell cut any minute and tell me what I’m doing wrong, but nope. They let it go on and on. And you gotta understand, I can’t even see anyone. There are like fifteen cameras on me, and all these blinding-ass lights, and they’re behind the lights. I’m sweating in my mask and trying to make the fight go somewhere. Trying to escalate it, like I’m getting hurt and angry, and then out of nowhere the director yells: “Now it’s getting sexy!”

          I’m just assuming it’s the director, by the way. Didn’t meet them. It’s a voice.

          I’m like, “What?”

          “Make love to the volleyball!”

          I’m like what the fuck, this is not the storyline I was making up in my head at all … but, I mean, look, Doc, you know me. I’m not successful at acting. Sorry, I’m not. I’m not quitting my day job. Getting any work at all is like a huge event for me. And I don’t know what this gig is! It could be anything! Yeah, I’ll probably end up as a goblin in the background. But they made me sign so many papers! Why all the fuss? Maybe I am King Kong! It could happen! This could be my big break, you know? People get breaks!

          So I make out with the fuckin volleyball. Look, I’ve still got the green hood on, I’m not like frenching it.           But I’m gripping it like it’s going away to war, I can tell you that. Rubbing my face on it.

          So here’s where it gets weird. No, that wasn’t the weird part, this is the weird part. All of a sudden the ball jerks up, like so fast I stumble forward, and the director’s like, “Open wide like a baby bird!” I open wide and the volleyball goes behind me, like the kind of magic trick uncles do. “It’s banging around inside you!” I jiggle around like a Jenga tower at a coke party. Whatever. This is nuts, but am I the kind of person to cause a scene? No! I’m a professional! The director knows what they’re doing. I can handle it.

          “It’s too heavy!” comes the voice, and I sink to my knees. “It’s squashing your organs! It’s tearing you up inside!” I reach to the heavens, a pleading look on my face. All the anguish I’ve trained myself to muster, all the pain.

          “Now,” the director calls. “Poop it out!”

          I almost walk, I swear to God. I think about it. I mean what the fuck, right? Isn’t it about time somebody told me what’s going on? There has to be a line, right? Isn’t there a line? This feels humiliating.

          But I’m committed, honestly, at this point. I’ve been here for a while. And besides … this is what you sign up for. The full range of human experience. Struggle, and anguish, and … and shitting, too. This, too, is human. Trust the vision, I tell myself. Art is art. This is the job. As long as the cameras are on, I’ll perform.

          So I hoist myself into a squat, and I ball my fists up on my knees and I strain, and I concentrate on shitting that ball out. Whoever’s holding the pole scuttles around back; I can hear their sneakers squeak. The volleyball starts to emerge below my body. Slow, like a meerkat watching for hawks. I moan and quiver, tensing every muscle. I imagine it as an epiphany. Like childbirth. Agony, ecstasy. Whatever it is, it’s magic, Doc: real tears spring to my eyes. No one will see them, of course. But the pathos will show; the cameras will pick it up in my body language. I’m sure of it. My thighs are burning and my mask smells gross—I’m staring into those lights and cameras, whining with effort—but something profound is happening in this room.

          The volleyball bounces to the floor. It makes this dinky little dribbling noise when it lands.

          Everything’s quiet for a minute.

          The cameras shut off. The lights clunk down one by one. I slump, panting inside my mask, exhausted.

          There’s the sound of shuffling and low voices. I imagine—this is how silly I am—for a sec I imagine that someone’s going to congratulate me. Amazing work, you know? We got it. That was a keeper.

          Welp. What they actually say is, “Great! Thanks! We’ll let you know!” And this is the worst part of the whole story: only now do I realize this wasn’t even a gig. It was an audition. I must have misread the email.

          I get out of the studio and there’s a line around the block. Everyone’s there. I’m one of a million. Just another aspirant.

          So look, I know I’m probably not gonna get the gig, okay. It’s funny: back when I thought I had it, I almost walked out, but now I feel like I want it super bad. I tried so hard, you know? And, I mean, all the way over to your office, I kept seeing posters and stuff. Some movie about robot dragons. That could be me! I mean not this exact monster, obviously, but the next one! It could be me! There’s an ad with the insurance lizard. Is it cocking its head the same way I did, in my suit? I can’t tell. Maybe. Next time, next year, that could be me! That’s the thing about it all, you know? People get breaks. This could be my break. Any of this. Any of it! It could be me!