Why I always bring someone with me

I had the most bizarre audition this week. I'll preface by saying that when The Director called me in to audition, I couldn't understand a word he was saying. I pictured a very pretentious film student who cared more about The Art than diction, and shrugged a "sure" when he asked me to come in for a screen test.

I almost always have a companion when I'm auditioning, particularly at auditions that involve a casting couch at someone's personal home. I've been fortunate never to have experienced being mauled by a casting director, but a girl can never be too cautious. I had already considered going to this audition on my own, when a darling friend of mine asked if he could join me. I sighed with relief and nodded.

We drove to the small and fearful town of Glen Ellyn (median family income: $95,332). I was feeling good. I quickly looked through the condominium directory for The Director's name or number, but couldn't find either. So I called him, and was greeted with another charming encounter freckled with "Uh. Yeah." and "Huh?" But my good humor was not to be lost. I turned away from the foyer door to make a joke with my friend. Like a scene out of Jurassic Park, my friend stopped, looked up and breathed an almost inaudible "Oh, god." I whirled around.

Mechanically walking towards us was a most disconcerting combination of Michael Jackson and David Hasselhoff. The Director was in his 20's, tall and muscular, with a Dutch, square face, framed in Jheri curls. He wore a leather jacket for the band Disturbed that was highly reminiscent of Michael Jackson circa "Thriller," complete with cheap stretchy baby blue kid gloves – the kind that children wear. He walked with an arrogantly menacing pace, his chin slightly tucked down, almost glaring through bloodshot eyes.

He invited us in to his apartment. Start creepy music.

I walked into his apartment and immediately the rich smell of musky cologne hit me in the face - I'm sorry, I should say the rich smell of musky cologne poured on every possible surface, and possibly even circulated through the airshafts. The only light in the apartment comes from a yellowish kitchen. His walls were lined with clippings from gossip magazines and pictures of great method actors like Marilyn Monroe and Marlon Brando. Stanislavski books lined the single bookcase in his sparsely furnished apartment. His carpet was stained and looked like it hadn't seen the right side of a vacuum in months. The room was darkened by black material shrouding the bay windows. A white door leaned against the black material, blocking out any natural light.

As almost an afterthought, The Director impersonally asked my partner and I to take off our shoes. I glanced at the carpet again, shuddering and acquiesced. The Director took off his shoes and then his jacket, revealing a second layer of bizarre – an old, pink wife beater with his name spelled on it, minus one letter, barely covering his massive arms and pectorals. He kept his baby blue kid gloves on. As a second afterthought, he requested that the shoes not be kept by the door, but in the closet. Great ... that way they are harder to find when someone comes looking for our dead bodies.

He walked into his kitchen and distantly offered us a drink. We declined. Afterwards, I wonder if I might have accepted a drink, but only on the condition he took a drink first.

I casually asked him to tell me more about the project. He regarded me impersonally, almost like an animal or child, and ignored my request. I asked him again, and he mentioned with a trivial air that the project is still being completed and he can't really tell me anything about it. He started to play with the camera, pushing buttons and lining it up, all with his baby blue kid gloves still on. I stopped him again, and asked him to tell me exactly what we'd be doing. In a rather standoffish tone, he requested that we slate to the camera (saying our name and what we were auditioning for). He asked for two takes – the first one normal, and the second to convey that we are very confused and uncomfortable about something. I almost rolled my eyes in irony, but by the time I did the second take, I started to get the feeling we were really going to be axe-murdered. As my friend slates to the camera, I picture The Director watching our audition back as he eats our hard-boiled brains on a TV tray. I trembled.

The Director then declared that the three of us would improv a scene where my partner and I were meeting him in his home and were very suspicious and uncomfortable because he seemed very strange. I chirp, "Is this supposed to be method or something?" He ignored me and started talking to himself, looking over at the door leaned precariously against his windows, "I'll start by ... coming in ... no wait, this is my place ..."

It's at this point that I interrupted and said, "I don't think this project is for me ..." and got up to leave, turning my back to him.

"Since you're here," he started menacingly, "I wish you'd audition."

At this point, my friend interrupted and said, "You realize that the scenario you are asking us to do is what we are experiencing in real life?"

"Yeah," he said indifferently, but perhaps a little confused, looking for additional information. We left. And my friend said he had to take several showers just to wash off the cologne ... not to mention the creep.

Ann Marie Weinert is a Chicago based fashion and pin-up model, as well as Internet radio host for http://annmarieandkaty.com. More of her work can be seen at http://annmarieweinert.com.