Alone on the Edge of Seventeen (Catch-Up Part 2)
Also in November: I
went to the mass cattle call audition for Star Wars, Episode 7.
Chicago had been buzzing about it for at least two
weeks. TV news stations, and any and all
print and web publications geared toward teens and twenty-somethings had run
the following open-call notice from the Walt Disney film division:
“Seeking: Young woman
to play 17-18 years old. Must be
beautiful, smart and athletic. Open to
all ethnicities, including bi- and multi-racial.”
“Young man to play 19-23 years old. Must be handsome, smart, and athletic.”
Having a role in the final Star Wars trilogy was something
I’d daydreamed about on an almost daily basis from ages 11 to 14. That fantasy had been dashed when 1) I
realized Hollywood was never going to come and pluck me out of rural Missouri
and 2) Lucas announced that “Revenge of the Sith” would be his last. The rest of the story (and then some) had
been told in numerous paperbacks that now crowded the sci-fi shelves at any
given Barnes & Noble.
Then Mickey Mouse came in and scooped up all viable
Lucasfilm properties, I found myself in a city where you can actually audition
for huge studio movies, and the flickering spark of my fantasy was slightly
rekindled, even if I laughed at the possibility of anything actually coming to
fruition. I had no real film experience,
and the notice called for females who could pass for 17-18. There were times when I had trouble passing
for 17 when I was 17. Athletic? Maybe.
Bi- or Multi-racial? Yeah,
nope. Oh, the college scholarships,
acting roles (and honestly, men) that might have been mine if only my mother
had been into black guys. Never mind the
harassment and ridicule she would’ve received down south 30 years ago, we’re
talking about my career here.
Do it anyway, or
you’ll regret it, I told myself. At the very least, you can rack it up as
experience and it might make for a good story.
On the day of the audition, I arrived at the Park West
theater on Armitage fully prepared to wait outside in the cold all day and not
see the casting director, but in a good mood nonetheless. Though I couldn’t say why; I didn’t automatically assume I’d buddy up
with the people in line next to me. If
anything, I felt I was out of my league.
Maybe the place would be packed with pro child actors who had casting
agents in LA and so forth . . maybe I’d be forced to stand at the end of the
line behind those with special invitations or union cards. Then there would be the die-hard fans who had
most assuredly camped out all night to be first in line.
But as I approached the theatre front at 10 AM, I saw no
tents. A line around the corner already,
to be sure; people wrapped in Star Wars blankets and camped out in lawnchairs,
but otherwise a rather calm scene. No one with a bullhorn yelling for non-union
talent to move to another holding area, no fencing or police barricades, no
stage parents hovering around overdressed adolescents. It looked as though I would blend in better
than I thought – except for the fact that the crowd was mostly college-aged.
Smiling and nodding at those in crowd, I rounded the next
street corner in search of the end of the line.
I found it after about a block and a half. There, crouched alone against the brick wall
of a small parking garage, was a dark-haired boy wearing topsiders with his
gloved hands tucked under his arms.
He looked up at me
and I stopped midstride, struck with an odd compulsion to sit close to him and
warm his hands in mine. I couldn’t
decide if it was protectiveness, sympathy, attraction, or a weird mix of all
three. But in terms of someone to stand
next to all day, I could do a lot worse.
“Is this the end of the line?”
“Looks like it, yeah.”
“Are you saving a spot for anybody?”
“Just my friend, he’s parking the car.”
“All right, then.” I
sidled up to the wall a few feet from him, and introduced myself. He stood and shook my hand. Not knowing what else to do, I sat down. He followed.
“So it begins,” he said.
“Indeed.”
We were soon joined by the Driver of the aforementioned
vehicle, followed closely by a young Arkansan couple who looked, appropriately, like they had
just walked out of a CW show. She,
despite everyone’s encouragement, was not auditioning; had come all the way
from Harding University for moral support.
After the exchange of pleasantries, conversation shifted to everyone’s
previous acting experience, speculation as to what the audition would involve,
and party stories.
By 5 PM, Topsiders, Driver, the Arkansan and I had made it
through the line (which eventually stretched on for 13 blocks behind us) and shook hands with the casting director, who politely
glanced at our photos, put them in one of many huge piles, and said “Thank you
for coming.” It was more than I expected
would happen. We emerged from the
theatre, parted ways with the Harding couple, and realized we still had some
daylight left. I suggested beer and
sandwiches to the remaining two.
“So,” said Driver, leaning back in his chair after dinner and
grinning slightly. “Help us understand
women.”
I turned to Topsiders to see if this was a joke, but he was
looking at me straight-faced and silent, deep chocolate eyes fixed on
me. I flinched; I wasn’t quite able to
meet them.
Chuckling awkwardly, I made some obscure references to
Waiter and Calvin Klein, and admitted I had no business giving romantic advice.
Shut up! I hissed at myself. They
asked to better understand the female psyche,
not to hear you whine about your mediocre dating life. Help out some poor girls back at UW-Madison
who might encounter these impressionable minds later.
Silently hoping I didn’t sound too much like a jaded, sage,
beer-swilling old broad, I lamely related a few observations which my limited
experience has made me fairly certain of:
1. The
appeal of countless books and movies, from "Pride & Prejudice" to "Twilight": We idealize the fantasy of the
unattainable, mysterious Byronic hero somehow miraculously choosing and
pursuing the Plain Jane, out of all other women, because we identify with
her. We love the idea of this male hero
somehow sensing how captivating, bewitching and “unique” we are inside, the demure
diamond-in-the-rough, waiting for the one who’s brave and romantic and
chivalrous enough to come into our lives and unearth us from an unadventurous,
dispassionate existence because of some ephemeral quality that only he sees in us,
that we don’t even see in ourselves. We
all want to be made to feel like inexplicably unique, one-of-a-kind snowflakes –
and that common desire makes us all that much more the same.
2. All women are capable of being crazy bitches (I
partially blame Mother Nature and the Oxytocin Effect, if you’ve ever had that
discussion with me), and all men have a raging dickbrain
within them. For a more serious
perspective on the problems inherent with the constant practice of calling
ex-girlfriends “crazy,” I highly recommend this article:
3. Guys hit a phase roughly 19-22 where they really
want to fall in love and get married, but it's not talked about. Somewhere in there, a girl he feels really
strongly about breaks his heart.
Afterward, at best, he never looks at women quite the same. At worst, he
goes through a drugs/alcohol/depression stint that can last for months or even
years.
4. I agree:
It’s not fair that a girl will act like a fool for an asshole who clearly doesn’t care about her that much, yet she will friend-zone the nice
guy who genuinely cares about her. Desire
is not rational, and it cannot be bestowed like a gift, even on those who most
deserve it . However, how “nice” those
friend-zoned dudes are can actually be debated.
In the end, they’re after a lot of the same stuff that Asshole Bad Boy
is. The just use the “nice guy” excuse
because all their life, movies and TV have taught them that if they are Nice,
they will be rewarded with the girl at the end, regardless of how she actually
feels.
5. Men and women want a lot of the same things, but
we think and view the world in fundamentally different ways. Sometimes, sadly, no amount of communication
and empathy and good intentions can overcome that.
HIM: “Just tell me what I did
wrong and I’ll fix it.”
HER: “No, you should know what you did wrong.” (“Yes!
Yes,” chimed in Driver. “Oh my
God, I have had this argument!”) “And if it’s not obvious to you, and if you
can’t see how selfish and mean and wrong you’re being toward me, then that
makes you even more of a jerk.”
HIM: “I didn’t even do anything
wrong! Why are you making this all about
you?”
HER: “How could this not be about me, and how are you not
seeing that?”
“And!” added Topsiders, “If a girl
ever says ‘It’s fine, whatever,’” – he turned to Driver across the table and both
simultaneously proclaimed – “You f**ked
up.”
Correct, gentlemen, I thought.
You’re learning.
6. Finally: The
“Eternal Courtship” Fantasy vs. the
“Task Completed” Mentality. The fantasy
of a male going to great lengths to get the female to fall in love with him
over and over again -- It’s why movies like “50 First Dates,” “The Notebook” and “The Vow” are so popular. However, as we all know, male minds tend to
work on a case-by-case basis; they will focus on one thing
until they’ve achieved it, then they’ll move on to something else. Women are multitaskers and jugglers; they
will rapid-cycle from Relationship to Friends to Career to Family to Self and
back again, each time wondering “What can I do better?” Because they’re constantly re-visiting their
relationship and their desirability like this, they want/need men to continue
to pursue them indefinitely, preferably with a similar energy that they did
when they were first dating. Even after
they’re committed or married, women want to be treated like a new girlfriend,
be surprised, be courted. Men tend to
see this as an exhausting, potentially expensive, unrealistic, high-maintenance
fairy tale. Once he’s achieved a certain
level of gratification, he considers his task done, he’s “got” the woman. (“The blood goes back to your brain and you
can finally focus on other stuff,” I laughed.
“It’s not really your fault; it’s biology. Mother Nature’s a bitch.”) The female is no longer the center of his
focus, and he’ll move onto the next pressing thing in his life.
“This, I think, is why otherwise well-meaning,
decent ladies will play games and do/say things to make their boyfriends
jealous, to create conflict and drama and obstacles – even on a subconscious level
-- to keep him fighting for her,” I concluded.
“So that’s why they do that,” muttered Driver, looking at his
plate. It seemed to be a bit of a
revelation for my two-man audience. Perhaps it was the most immediately-valuable observation I could pass onto them.
“It’s messed up,” I added. “But you value what you work for, right?”
“But everyone knows that,” retorted
Topsiders.
“Yeah, if you give a shit, you
gotta keep making an effort, or she’ll leave you for someone who will,” said
Driver.
“I feel like that’s just common
sense,” continued Topsiders. “I mean,
yeah, a lot of guys will just throw in the towel once they’re confident the
girl’s really into them. But those guys
are the obvious douchebags.”
It was my turn to examine my
dinnerware.
This is nothing new, people have
been making these analogies for years: It’s
like dangling yarn just out of a cat’s reach.
The moment he catches the string and you stop creating that resistance,
he loses interest and the game isn’t fun anymore. Or like dogs chasing cars: that dog has no
idea what to do with the car if/when it stops, but he couldn’t care less at the
moment, he’s having the time of his life chasing it. (Of course, in reality, the Hard-to-Get Act can be exhausting and frustrating for everyone involved.)
“I don’t know if some girls are
born with this innate knowledge, or if they pick up on it early in life, but I know The Game, the Unwritten Rules, come easier to them. They’re pros by the age of 17.” (Meanwhile, I
was apparently too busy fantasizing about lightsaber duels.) “Then there are those of us who are left
alone to learn this stuff the hard way, even though it seems cruel and
old-fashioned and anti-feminist. I
don’t like it, I don’t agree with it, but it is what it is.”
“So what you’re saying,” said
Driver, looking a bit more sure of himself, “is that nobody really has this figured out.”
“Anyone who says otherwise is
either lying or selling something.”
Driver paid the bill despite my multiple protestations. I passed off one of my old business cards,
remarking that they should give me a call the next time they came to the city. St. Patrick’s Day, perhaps; an excellent day
to be in Chicago if any. I wasn’t
working in the restaurant industry anymore, I might be able to celebrate this
year.
They went back to Madison, I went back to work.
For a while, anyway.
To Be Continued.
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