Cattle call

The studio was bare. Hard wood floors and mirrored walls, so the music thumping from the ridiculously overbuilt boom box filled the room with harsh echoes. A single folding table had been erected below the high windows that spilled in midday light that seemed to be both overly bright and yet somehow watery and thin.

Roberto stood in line. Again. He was quite certain that even if he seriously put his mind to it, there was no way he could count how many times he's stood in lines like this, how many cattle calls he'd answered - and how many times he'd been turned away. Before and behind him stood the typical crop of fresh-faced hopefuls, eager to show their stuff, certain they had a special something that would catch a director or producer's eye. Roberto had done this too many times to have any such illusions: he knew what they were looking for - a well-trained monkey. Those stony souls sitting with their asses smarting on the metal folding chairs weren't looking for the Next Big Thing - they wanted bodies to fill a line, nothing more. They wanted perfectly-functioning animatronic zombies that could move just as they were told, and tired muscles and sore joints and bad days and money problem be damned. They didn't want people, they wanted dancers.

The eager young man in front of Roberto stepped up to the table when called and placed his 8x10 photo and bio on the table, announced his name, then pranced to his spot and waited for the music cue. He began an explosive move, then faltered and stopped when he realized that the song was the wrong one. He scurried over to the boom box and reset the cd, apologizing all the while to the suits behind the table, but Roberto could tell it was too late; they'd already dismissed this kid. Roberto watched him finish his routine; solid enough, and if he had the stuff to handle the constant rejection and keep at it, he'd probably get his turn eventually. But not this time.

The suits thanked the young man perfunctorily, assured him they'd be in touch, then called, "Next!".

Roberto stepped forward to his spot, photo in hand - and stopped. He stood staring at the men in suits, his routine running through his head - every step, every turn, every move that had been modified to avoid his bad knee, every jump that had been lowered to keep from reinjuring his trick ankle. He felt the ache in his lower back and the throb in his left shoulder. And above all, he felt tired. Bone-deep, can't-hold-your-head-up tired.

"Well?", one of the suits asked, "You got anything for us?"

Roberto looked at the man for a second, then replied,

"You know what? I don't believe I do."

He turned and walked out of the room.