Full of brio, she cabbed it to the audition, although it was only seven blocks away in the offices of a well-known casting director. Going into the building, Lola found herself riding up in the elevator with a pack of eight other girls, who were obviously also going to audition. Lola assessed them and decided she was prettier and had nothing to worry about. When the elevator doors opened on the fifteenth floor, there were even more young women, in every shape and size, lined up along the wall in the hallway.
This had to be a mistake. The line snaked through a doorway and into a small waiting room. A girl walked by with a clipboard. Lola stopped her. “Excuse me,” she said. “I’m Lola Fabrikant. I have an appointment for an audition at two.”
“Sorry,” the young woman said. “It’s an open call. You have to wait in line.”
“I don’t wait in lines,” Lola said. “I write a sex column. The producers contacted me personally.”
“If you don’t wait in line, you won’t get to audition.”
Lola huffed and puffed but went to the end of the line.
She was stuck on the line for two hours. Finally, after she inched through the hallway and into the waiting room, it was her turn. She went into a rehearsal room, where four people sat behind a long table. “Name?” one of them asked.
“Lola Fabrikant,” she said, tossing her head.
“Do you have a photo and résumé?”
“I don’t need one,” Lola scoffed, surprised that they didn’t seem to know who she was. “I have my own column online. My picture is on it every week.”
She was asked to sit in a small chair. A man aimed a video camera at her while the producers began asking questions.
“Why did you come to New York?”
“I…” Lola opened her mouth and froze.
“Let’s start again. Why did you come to New York?”
“Because…” Lola tried to continue but was stifled by all the possible explanations. Should she tell them about Windsor Pines and how she’d always thought she was destined for bigger things? Or was that too arrogant? Maybe she should start with Philip. Or how she had always seen herself as a character in Sex and the City. But that wasn’t exactly true. Those women were old and she was young.
“Er…Lola?” someone asked.
“Yes?” she said.
“Can you answer the question?”
Lola reddened. “I came to New York,” she began again stiffly, and then her mind went blank.
“Thank you,” one of the producers said.
“What?” she asked, startled.
“You can go.”
“Am I done?”
“Yes.”
Lola stood up. “Is that it?”
“Yes, Lola. You’re not what we’re looking for, but thank you for coming in.”
“But…”
“Thank you.”
Opening the door, she heard one of them call out, “Next.”
In a state of confusion, Lola stepped into the elevator. What had just happened? Had she blown it? Wandering down Ninth Avenue toward her apartment, she felt numb, then angry, then full of grief, as if someone had just died. Climbing the worn steps to her apartment, she wondered if the person who had just died was her.