He’d done worse. Last month, he’d auditioned for a toothpaste commercial by pretending to be a “constipated squirrel.” This, at least, had a whiff of real art.
The hallway was narrow, lined with peeling wallpaper of faded roses. Behind the first door, someone was weeping—loud, theatrical sobs that cut off mid-gasp. Behind the second, a voice recited prime numbers in a monotone. Leo’s pulse went from nervous to what-did-I-sign-up-for . backroomcasting brooklyn
“For you .” The man smiled, and for the first time, Leo saw his teeth—too white, too even, like a row of little headstones. “The backroom doesn’t cast for movies, Leo. It casts for moments . And a good, honest moment? That’s currency.” He’d done worse
The man set down the microphone. “Beautiful,” he whispered. “Absolutely raw.” “For you
And then he opened his mouth.
Behind the man, a red light blinked on one of the cameras. Recording.