The Call Back. 
 
The Call back came at three o' clock. It was unexpected, everyone else got theirs the day before but apparently the director had an oversight or change of heart or something. Jack didn't really care, he'd ask him when he was famous- when his nipple hair became the new fashionable thing like the time freckles were in fashion and girls spent twenty quid on special pencils to draw them across their noses. He'd approach the director as he queued up at the Lancôme counter with an overpriced fake hair to purchase and ask him- "say why didn't you call me back immediately, when I auditioned for that first movie we did together". He suspected he was just too good, too intimidating and too good looking. Brad Pitt probably saw him audition and threw a fit because he wanted to be the movie heart throb- like the woman who played Doctor Quinn Medicine woman who was rumoured to have had the girl who played her daughter replaced by a plainer model. That was what happen. Brad was shivering in his boots cause Jack was just that hot. 
 
Jack arrived at the casting at exactly half three, he had left in such a hurry that he didn't quite finish his coffee, but still his stomach was in knots, like it felt when he drank ten cups of the stuff. Taking a deep breath he walked through the door, he could not let them know about yesterday. 
 
On walking through the door he was paired up with another guy and given a number, he would no longer be Jack, but number 37. Number 37 scanned the stage for celebrities, but saw no one of any interest- Mr Pitt was running scared. Number 38 introduced himself. He was obviously going for the part of the disfigured friend, not that he was ugly or anything but he could hardly be described as having the perfect chiselled features. The cartilage of his nose seemed to veer slightly to the left, not noticeable to the average observer but to a refined directors eye it would be obvious. Jack could spot this sort of thing, he could tell peoples flaws from a mile away; the brow over number 38's left eye was slightly thinner and higher up than the right and he had three extra eyelashes on that side. He was clearly un-groomed, definitely not lead male material. 
 
Despite his obvious lacking number 38 proved to be an interesting enough sort of guy to talk to, he yapped on and on about the guy he'd been partnered with the day before. He had suddenly pulled out for no reason, he reckoned it was a family thing but who'd miss a part in such a large movie for their family. Number 38 had been in three movies before, obscure arty ones, even a nudie flick- though how he was cast in porn with such small knuckles confused Jack. Jack didn't really have an actors resume as such, but that would go in his favour as opposed to these guys who acted and acted forever doing small bit parts. Who wants a proven failure? No, directors wanted fresh blood, untapped potential. Another Hollywood story of a waitress or guy in a chicken suit spotted doing their ordinary everyday jobs. That's what Jack would be, the hidden talented in an unlikely place. An ordinary Joe pulled from obscurity with a story that would sell magazines. The cancerous growth in his breast that threatened his life removed as he rose to fame. 
 
The director called them to the stage, 37 and 38. They took their places, number 37 stared nervously at 38, then he began. The scene was set in Venice. They were brothers, estranged. Carrying around a weight of resentment and old rivalry. They hadn't seen each other in five years. But their sister had been kidnapped by a dashing young criminal(played by Brad Pitt) who would only return her if they could find some magical canoe or gondola or something that allows people travel through time when paddled under the Rialto Bridge at midnight. Number 38 shook 37 with tears in his eyes, 37 was unresponsive. How could jack respond? The idea was absurd, this guy had a time travelling canoe and was gonna give it up for a bitch sister who hadn't written in years. It was too unlikely. 
 
The casting director yelled "okay that's enough", number 38 threw a chair at him. Jack knew he'd nailed it, he'd get that part and put the nipple hair on the map. It was his day. Then she walked in, the baby painter. 
 
The baby painter sat next to the director twirling her hair and playing with his fingers. Everyone in the room could see it. She was screwing him. Suddenly the world collapsed and it was yesterday again. Jack knew he couldn't get the part, being too good looking was one thing, but being too good looking when the directors girlfriend was in love with him was another. The whole room would see it, how could she not- he did the sun beds three times a week and had a cute button nose, she couldn't help it. 
 
Jack stared vacantly at the wall as the director called out a list of names, the room seemed larger, air staler. Jack could feel his oesophagus move up and down. It was yesterday and the day before and the day before that. His nipple grew itchy, he could feel the growth as he grew more and more numb. He would never get anywhere with that nipple hair, it had to be removed. Because yesterday he cried.