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The Letdown: A Quiet Phone

Boy oh boy, there’s nothing more crushing as an actor than a quiet phone. Not a call, not a message. Nothing. And believe me, I’ve checked. Actually it’s become a favorite pastime of mine.

When I wake up in the morning I take a little stretch and pad my way into the kitchen, heading for the coffee maker. Somewhere between pulling out the coffee bean grinder and the brown sugar though, I imagine I’ve forgotten something. Of course that something just happens to be in the little nook where the answering machine is. I stroll by, pretending not to look directly at the little button that blinks when there’s a message. If it’s red, I dive for the phone like I’m entering the water to save a drowning child, if it’s not I casually waltz back into the kitchen, pretending not to care.

There have been more than a few false alarms this past week. In my zeal to hear from my agent about the horror film I’ve answered more than one phone-call I was later sorry about. Like the one from the telemarketer who kept asking if I lived here? I figured it was pretty obvious that I did considering I’m the one who answered the phone, so I refused to give him the satisfaction and answer his question. He couldn’t continue with his schtick until I confirmed I was indeed the lady of the manor so we went on like that for quite a while – him asking me if I lived here and me refusing to confirm the obvious – until he finally gave up and hung up on me. If only he knew.

It’s always difficult not getting the part, especially when you’ve had a great audition and a great callback. Especially when you’ve tucked your sensibility far, far away and crawled across a carpet pretending to have one arm. Especially when you have, against all societal laws of normal human behavior, pretended to cry into your bloody palm and begged an imaginary monster that’s really an amped-up version of a cricket to spare your life. What can I say? I feel used.

I’ll try to get on with things and forget about it but that will only last until I see the movie. That’s the worst – seeing the actress who got your part. It’s like being cheated on and seeing the other woman for the first time. I don’t usually mind so much if I think the actress has done a great job but if she’s terrible I can’t seem to stop the insult machine; it pours out of me like water from a bucket filled with holes. “Look at her face! Look! She’s totally blinking when she’s supposed to be dead” “She couldn’t fake a death even if her life really did depend on it!” “Fat ankles.”

That, I’m afraid, is all part of the game. Last week I was on cloud nine kicking it with my callback posse and this week I’ll be eating a lot of Oreo’s to manage my pain. At least I still have a little bruise on my upper leg from slamming into a chair at the audition that will continue to remind me that sometimes, love hurts.

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