The Audition

The sheetpan lay neglected— clumps of congealed fat and crumbs — a once-smooth surface into an adhesive mess— hints of rust peeked through layers of grime. A noxious odor emanated from its surface, a foul salmon-y amalgamation of stale grease, charred bits of forgotten dinners, and countless meals gone wrong.

This was definitely an apathetic bachelor’s sheetpan.

Disregarding the mess, I covered the pan with aluminum foil. I tossed a tablespoon of olive oil with chopped red onion, beets, kale, and chicken andouille sausage in the pan. Then, I slid it into the oven preheated to four hundred degrees Fahrenheit. My plan was to garnish this dish with balsamic glaze and chevre.

Ugh, this floor has to be mopped sooner rather than later.

There lay what I initially mistook for a piece of charred kale on the grimy linoleum floor. Bending down to pick it up, I examined it closely, only to realize it wasn't kale at all. It was a tough, chitinous brown material, both lightweight and incredibly durable.

"That’s a cockroach shell, babe," my lover informed me, plucking the exoskeleton from my hand and tossing it into the garbage.

Filled with embarrassment, I retreated to another space entirely—the childhood foyer. It appeared unchanged from the last time I visited my parents’ house at the age of nineteen.

I found myself standing atop one of the many Kashan rugs in the house. This particular rug, faded vermillion and navy blue, a dense weave of Persian knots and wool. At its center sat a square medallion ornamentation. To my rear lay the closet for winter coats, leading to the living room, while my father’s office stood to the right and the formal dining room to the left. Positioned at all four corners were identical Corinthian fluted pedestals topped with doilies and pale resin cherub statues—my mother’s absurd taste.

The light in the foyer was natural yet harsh, its intensity almost nauseating under the sun's familiar heat. My gaze lifted to the olive and bronze Orthodox crucifix, a fixture that seemed to pass judgment on guests the moment they crossed the threshold of the six-panel door.

Above me, the foyer chandelier hung—a twenty-four karat gold-plated and full lead Strass crystal abomination that felt utterly incongruous in this house. As I stared at it, prismatic memories flooded back: countless altercations with my parents over grades, etiquette, or the length of my skirt.

The chandelier broke free from its mountings, plummeting down towards me, dazzling menacingly. I stumbled backward, but it was too late. The chandelier crushed me, my hobbled and maimed form enmeshed with splintered crystal and twisted metal.

All I could see were lucent shards in cerise pools.

I was immediately transported to the top floor of a spiral staircase in an Edwardian house in my original condition pre-injury. It ascended with its broad steps carpeted slate blue and its polished mahogany railing. Lit golden sconces flanked the staircase. Through stately wooden encasements, the subdued light filtering in hinted at a cloudy day.

A girl with doodle tattoos, bovine eyes, and heavy chola makeup greeted me with a smile. "Welcome to my place," she exclaimed. "It's always a party here."

With gleeful abandon, she mounted an unsheeted spring mattress and rode it down the staircase, each step a jolting descent.

In the next moment, I found myself in the mansion's parlor, tasked with mopping the floor. My attire had transformed into a black dress, its fitted bodice with lace trim and pintucks, featuring a high neckline that modestly covered my chest and shoulders. Long, narrow sleeves ended at my wrists, and atop the dress, I wore a stiff gray pinafore apron securely tied in a tight bow at my back. My hair was wrapped in a white linen bonnet.

"We have to clean this place up for guests," she instructed me, "That’s why you have reduced rent."

I nodded in compliance and continued mopping the floor alongside her until I made my way to what I presumed was the kitchen. Inside, a janitor in coveralls was mopping the walls.

The kitchen's walls were initially obscured by a thick layer of soot, but as the janitor diligently cleaned, the walls revealed blue and yellow ceramic Chinoiserie tiles with baby elephants.

Returning to the parlor, I found the chubby girl with doodle tattoos had accidentally spilt her bucket of never-ending gray mop water. The water flooded the entire house, rising from ankle length to just above my waist. My maid outfit was ruined, and my bonnet askew due to stress.

"Ignore that," she said, now floating towards me on a mochachino cloud slope arm modular left-arm L sectional, "This is perfect for the party. Has anyone told you that you should become an actress?"

I shook my head no.

I found myself in a room devoid of conventional boundaries—the glaring lights obscured any sense of depth or distance, leaving no space for shadows or ambiguity. Every movement, every expression was liable for scrutiny. The room was completely featureless, entirely white, and devoid of flooring and walls, save for the circular platform at its center dubbed "The Table of Camelot."

A short, unremarkable-looking man addressed a group of girls, myself included, all wearing one-shoulder cherry dresses with shirred sides and asymmetrical hems. He announced, "If any of you are selected in this round, you will sit at the table with the Chosen Ones. I am the casting director, and this is for a very exclusive Max Mara campaign."

Chosen Ones? Jews?

Not quite. Not entirely at least.

Other women were seated at the Table of Camelot, all clad in the same dresses we were wearing. Among them were some of the world’s biggest sex symbols and A-list actresses in their prime—Monica Bellucci, Halle Berry, and Natalie Portman.

"Indeed, I am the casting director, but these ladies are the judges," the unremarkable man gestured to the women at the table.

It was evident that Portman held sway for whatever reason, while Monica sat there smiling idly, seemingly content with any outcome, and Halle was occupied with filing her nails.

I found myself at the back of the line.

One by one, each woman was rejected by Natalie Portman, flitting out of this blank easel of a room, the only strokes of color in this monochromatic canvas.

They were weeping, wilting rose petals, dejected beyond belief.

Meanwhile, the casting director remained seated in a white banquet conference room chair, with a pile of paper on his lap that materialized out of nowhere.

It was my turn.

"Front profile," Portman instructed me, "Okay now, three-quarter turn."

I complied, striving to exude confidence and sagacity.

Portman narrowed her eyes at me as I turned to face her.

"Close enough," she said, her voice low, "But no can do. Look at your hair."

I untied my hair, which had been styled to editorial perfection but now showed signs of being sixty percent gray.

Glancing down at my hands, I noticed they weren’t wrinkled.

I ran my fingers along my neck, which still retained its taut and youthful appearance.

Usually, I was okay with failure. My life was filled with rejection, after all. But this time, for some reason, I wasn't okay.

I stormed up to the casting director, who seemed completely out to lunch, and snatched the stack of papers from his grubby little hands—forms dubbed the Devil’s Pact—and scattered them haphazardly.

He shot up in anger, the whites of his eyes visible around his irises. "What the hell are you doing?" he demanded.

"I don’t care!" I screamed, thrusting my finger toward Natalie Portman, who was now laughing. "Screw that woman!"

"What makes you think you’re better than everyone else?" the casting director exclaimed, waving his arms.

"I don’t know!" I struggled to rationalize my actions. "I just know Natalie is insufferable, and I have rent to pay for my mansion. I couldn’t care less about being eighty-six’d from any establishment. Last week, I went to a bathhouse and threw a champaca-bergamot bath bomb into the hot tub just to watch it fizz everywhere. I’m tired of pretending to care."

"You’ve completely sabotaged any chance of making it in Hollywood, you dumb cunt!" he shouted at me.

"Fuck you, man. You don’t even do your job. Auditions are a humiliation ritual," I directed my anger at Portman now, Halle Berry and Monica Belluci were in a catatonic state, encased in the memory of celebrity, "And you, you uppity V for Vendetta vamp. You’re forty-two now. You’re not fooling anyone. I don’t care for your evaluation because this audition turned my hair gray. Why couldn’t I have casting couched Weinstein instead like you did? Like a proper whore! Your ballerina husband porks eighteen-year-olds. PORTMAN MORE LIKE PORKMAN. HE’S PORKING. STICKING HIS SCHLONG IN NUBILES MAINTAINING AN ARABESQUE. HE A PIG EVEN THOUGH HE CONVERTED FOR YOU. OINK! OINK! OINK!"

Portman's eyes welled up with tears, her delicate features contorted in silent anguish as her lips quivered.

Continuing on as I left the room, I added, "You could be Helen of Troy, and Paris would still cheat on you."