the beginning, or: how i came to love the convicts

  So it’s official. I have given up a life of safety and security in the Happy Valley to move to the Windy City – with nothing in hand save a lease and too many clothes to carry by myself to the third-floor walk up.  No job, very few contacts in the city, just a faint hope that, with persistence, someone will discover just how great I am.  Or at least give me a minimum wage job waiting tables.

 We got to Chicago on Sunday night after driving for two days. What I learned on my drive through the Midwest is that I am a truly judgmental East Coaster. The lack of teeth per capita was directly proportionate to the number of greasy fast food chains and dangerously obese Americans.  And lack of high school diplomas, for that matter. However, the land itself was quite beautiful and, if all else fails here in Chi-town, I have plans of becoming a farmer in Ohio.

The apartment is as beautiful as I remembered, and our landlord seems very dedicated.  We decided to hire movers to carry everything upstairs, which turned out to be the smartest investment I’ve ever made.  I’m still getting winded climbing the stairs, which will at least save me money on a gym membership.  The next few days were spent cleaning, unpacking and color-coordinating the bookcase (following Redbook’s suggestion). I applied to theater jobs and responded to some of the Craigslist ads my father forwarded to me.  This is where things got interesting…

 I replied to an ad for a casting call in downtown Chicago (400 South State Street, 4^th floor, room 4S-7, to be exact) – movies, TV, music videos.  I really had no idea what to expect, except that I would probably be very out of place and perhaps not up to the level of experience they would require.  In lieu of professional headshots, we set up a makeshift studio in the dining room and Shira indulged my vanity.  We actually got a few good shots and had them printed at CVS. Who wouldn’t want to hire the girl with unpacked boxes and a dining room molding in her headshot? The next issue to tackle? What (not) to wear.  The jeans I had planned on wearing were long, dark, added the illusion of height – perfect.  However, they seemed to fit a lot differently here, out of the store, in a different time zone.  With no time to tailor, I very discreetly stapled the bottom of the jeans to hem them.  The waist had either expanded or, despite living on a well-balanced diet of hot chocolate and chips and salsa, I had lost some significant amount of weight.  Luckily, Shira has the entire stock of Staples office supplies in her desk. We settled on a small binder clip to secure the pants, and I was ready to go.  The sweater was  so long that it was barely noticeable that I was a walking Office Max.  I was the ideal professional woman, if ever so slightly manic.

 Turns out that “downtown” translated into “South Side.”  Clearly, I fit right in.  “Yo, excuse me? Can I ask you a question? Can I ask you a question?” “Sorry, I’m in a hurry!” “What the f*ck’s wrong with you, girl? You can’t let me ask you a question?” I tried not to trip in my heels as I quickened my pace. I had survived my first encounter. I reached the corner of State and Jackson, a major cross-street, only to be berated literally across the great divide.  “Hey! You! Baaaaaaaaaaag!” This homeless gentleman had a black bag sitting beside him on the ground. I looked at the bag, looked back to him, cocking my head questioningly. “Yeah! You! Baaaaaaaaaaag! Hahahaha!” It was at this moment that I learned the valuable “Pretend You Are On the Phone Having a Very Engaging Conversation” trick. “Oh, yes! I’m here, in the city! Oh, that’s great news, so exciting. Thrilled for you, really.” I conversed my way over to 400 S. State.

 So as it turns out, 400 S. State is the Chicago Public Library. No one of theater renown was there, nor is anyone with any type of sign for a “Casting Call.”  I venture up the escalator to the fourth floor – business and medicine.  Clearly, I’m out of my element.  I find the bathroom, hoping to spruce up before making my big showbiz break, adjust my binder clip, and find a woman who appears to have either fallen asleep or died at her automatic hand dryer.  I nudge her to see if I can find a spark of life, adjust my lifeless hair in the mirror, exit the bathroom and come face to face with Room 4S-7: Study Room 4S-7, that is.  I couldn’t fit the contents of my fridge in this box of a room.  I resign myself to the fact that today may not be the day I get discovered, straighten my stapled pants and haul my homemade headshots back down to the main level to await further direction from… anyone, really.  At five of three, I’ve been scrutinized, leered at, and have listened to so many stupid teenagers ask the receptionist where the non-fiction section is that my face has permanently contorted back into its Barnes & Noble grimace.  I begin to lose hope.  At 3:05 I decide to make one last-ditch effort and go back to broom closet 4S-7.  I find three people waiting by the door: two African-Americans, and one man who looks like Alec Baldwin’s retarded brother.  Baldwin grunts at me “You here for the casting call?” I nod.  “Well, there’s a line, see? They’re taking people in the order they got here.” Luckily, this meant some serious quality time with Baldwin, as he was third in line.  As the elusive agents made their way through the two applicants preceding him, Baldie fidgeted and sweated in preparation for his turn.  I breathed a sigh of relief as he entered the room, partly because of the grunting, but mostly because of the smell.  His was a brief interview – I saw the look of disappointment on his face and felt for him – until I heard him say, “Oh, sorry, I didn’t mean to offend you, it’s just that…” He left shortly thereafter.  Finally, my turn had come – after all these years of harboring this undiscovered talent, here in the Chicago Public Library, the world was about to be introduced to – “Gianfresco? Is that, like, Hispanic?” So close.  We did the introductions – they seemed very sweet and had worn their fanciest doo-rags for the occasion.  The shorter cohort, Al, went on to tell me about their project – it was reality TV, an established show, a spin-off of – guess what?! – America’s Most Wanted!  A perfect fit for the 5’2” upper-middle class Italian girl.  He explained that they needed both short and long-term roles – a host, investigators (“convicts,” I inwardly filled in the blank).  He said that meeting them could open up doors for me – they were involved in movies, TV and music videos (although, he noted, music videos weren’t about talent so much as look – no offense, he knew I’d understand).  “Neat!” I said, showing my true command of the Most Wanted vernacular.  “Of course I’d be interested!” and “What an exciting project!” and they could “count on me.”  When I’m trying to keep my filter in check, I suddenly become the world’s most agreeable human being.  I quickly shook their hands and they said they’ve give me a call on Sunday. Oh great, I thought.  That gives me exactly two days to have my phone disconnected.  I took the train home and made myself a few well-deserved White Russians.

In the meantime, I actually got offers from different theaters.  An internship at one, a stage management job at another. Things are going a lot better than I had imagined they would. Barnes & Noble even called, to offer me a cash lead position. I’m meeting with them on Thursday, but all my energies right now are focused on tonight – I have a callback, my dear friends, to be the new host of the America’s Most Wanted spin-off.