“Stage four: Depression,” the trio said in unison.
And that, my friends, is Hollywood.
Gerald the Avocado rolled closer. “Okay, Marcus. Here’s the deal. This isn’t a porno. It’s not a thriller. It’s a new immersive art installation called ‘The Couch of Truth.’ We need someone who can improvise the Seven Stages of Existential Dread while a live hamster observes.” weirdest-audition-ever-backroom-casting-couch
“He’s already moving to Stage two: Anger,” she noted.
That’s how I, Marcus Cole, a semi-employed actor with a resume thin as rice paper, ended up in a part of Hollywood that smelled like stale cigars and broken dreams. The address led to a warehouse behind a laundromat. No sign. Just a red door. “Stage four: Depression,” the trio said in unison
But not the one from the cautionary tales. This one was wrong .
I took a deep breath. “What’s stage five?” “Okay, Marcus
I sat back down. Not because I wanted to. Because my body had entered a state of shock.
The nun cackled. “Oh, honey. We wish it was that simple. Just sit.”