Bill Auditions for Blue Man Group; Vomiting Ensues.

It was Monday, March 5th and I was ready. All weekend I had been thinking about it and was semi-obsessing / picturing a new life for myself in Miami. I was a bit delusional, but sometimes that’s how you gotta be when an opportunity so juicy comes your way. But let’s go back to Friday when it all began.

It was Friday, March 3rd, and I was ready. I was driving to work and it was a little rainy out but that wasn’t about to get me down. What did, unfortunately, get me down was the car that pulled out slowly in front of me which lead to a nasty bang bang. This older fellow, we’ll call him Unk, decides to completely omit the meaning of STOP signs this day and sails through the middle of the road without a care in his geriatric world. Of course, I’m only going about 30MPH but I slam on the ole Taurus’ brakes and skid right into the side of his car with a resounding yet strangely satisfying crash.
In all honesty, the initial impact was exhilarating. I knew that it wasn’t my fault and it felt damn good hitting that fucking car. Poor Unk, however, was a bit disappointed, as he knew that there was no denying his complete lack of intelligence in the last five minutes. Well anyway, the front of my car is trashed. The bumper is in the street looking like a piece of the fuselage from “Lost” and there’s neon green anti-freeze just pouring from underneath my car and if you’ve never experienced that, you don’t want to. Anti-freeze looks like ectoplasm and it smells like imminent death. No visual aids necessary. Unk’s rear passenger-side door is bent in half like a faggot during Fleet Week and his rear tire is desperate for re-alignment. I get much satisfaction from watching him painfully move his squeakalicious vehicle to the side of the road.
Moving on in our story, insurance companies are called, cars are towed, blowjobs are given for auto-body repair discounts (or so I hear) and I rent a new car for the week while the Taurus gets a rhinoplasty. But, while I am at Freedom Rentals, I suddenly get a mysterious phone call from an unknown number! If it had still been stormy at the time, lightning would’ve struck and someone would’ve been stabbed in the back by a butler, but it had cleared up substantially. Well it turned out to be a casting company known as Telsey & Company, completely new to me but I live in my own world so lots of things are new every day. The smiley voice on the other end asks me if I would like to audition for Blue Man Group on Monday. Would I?! For once, the glut of headshots and resumes I’ve been sending out since September has finally paid off. But let’s remember, it’s only an audition.
Feeling celebratory in my new rental car, I get all excited and have a hell of a weekend, partying and drinking and not wearing proper outerwear to protect myself from the weather.
Monday morning rolls around and not only am I late for my first appointment but I’m also feeling a slight rumble in my tummy. Oh, pish. That must just be some indigestion from last night’s Entenmann’s binge at 2:00AM. No worries. My audition isn’t until 4:50 this afternoon so I have plenty of time to get rid of that chocolate butter cream.
As I drive from appointment to appointment, my bowels get more and more irritated until I start turtle-heading on Route 46 West, thirty minutes from my home. I speed the rest of the way to my last appointment of the day, not having eaten a single thing all morning, and rush into the apartment building, willing the shitty mess to give me just two more minutes of dryness. Placing my stuff down in the apartment, I pat the little autistic boy on the head and run past the plastic-covered couches to sit upon the porcelain throne. Three courtesy flushes later and a whole lot of anti-bacterial hand wash, I am feeling fine and dandy and ready to talk some Spanish. Little did I know that was only the first of many visits.
I race back home to get my hands on the nearest tablet of Imodium AD and sit down once more to relieve myself of the impending anal fury. Doubled over at the sink, washing my hands, I decide a nap is in order to wear off this Mayan bum curse. I’m lying in bed, shivering about as fast as I’m sweating and not ten minutes pass before I have to shit again. Oh, no. This is serious, now. So I get in about thirty minutes of good sleep, wake up still feeling “shitty” and make my way out to my rental car, shaking and tripping the entire way. I tell myself to suck it up. Would you rather lie in bed and feel somewhat better or take some pain and maybe take a step towards leaving Bogota once and for all? So I start my car.
I’m doing well. I make it down to Weehawken, park my car and walk to the bus stop. I’ve packed my headshot, my resume, a copy of TIME magazine for the waiting room, a bottle of water, my iPod and a plastic Shop Rite bag in case I need to vomit. You never know when and where these situations will occur so one has to be prepared. I board the little version of the Special Education bus painted white and sit down next to my brethren; the other underemployed Spanish speakers. We race down 495 East and as soon as I see the Lincoln Tunnel, I get queasy. There’s no air. There’s no natural light. And all I can smell is the strong odor of Goya Adobo coming from about every person on this bus. Thankfully, we pull into Port Authority in under ten minutes and I’m weaving in and out of the immense rush hour crowds so I can just get outside to 8th Avenue and breathe some fresh air.
I succeed. The audition is only a five-minute walk from here. I can do this. I have my oversized scarf. I have my winter hat. I have my leather gloves. I can take on the world right now. I just can’t do it that quickly and I might need a bathroom break every now and then. The audition space is on the tenth floor which means a two minute, stomach-jostling elevator ride in an elevator shaft that had to have been designed by the architects who built Rolling Thunder. I am nauseated.
I walk into the office and it is fag city. Everywhere you look, gay men are either reciting monologues, staring in mirrors or looking at my unkempt self in a most disdainful manner. So I sign my name on the Blue Man Group audition list and make my way to the nearest bathroom, narrowly escaping further scrutiny from the Homosquad. You guessed it. The Cosby’s are once again dropped off at the pool; however this time it’s in Manhattan. Movin’ on up, I guess.
Looking a bit more presentable, I return to the waiting room, whip out my TIME and get to work ignoring the sneaky glances and snickers about the suburban boy in the city. Thankfully, my name is called and I get up and switch my hips into that audition room as if I were a Blue Man myself. Ok, well maybe I didn’t switch my hips because I don’t really technically know how to do that, but it sure felt good walking in that room. I’m greeted immediately by the drumming instructor, a girl named Julie who’s wearing a skirt and army boots and looks like she, herself, just tried out for the Yeah Yeah Yeahs. Anyway, she has me copy her rhythms on a drum pad and I perform quite well even though my cheeks are squeezed tighter than prag’s in Oz just to prevent a Hershey waterfall. Next up is a silly improvisational exercise in which I must walk around the room in a completely neutral fashion, think zombie-like, and tell, only using my eyes, the following story: I am a cowboy walking into a saloon and I’ve just spotted two outlaws. I can take them. But just as I’m about to consider drawing my guns, I realize I forgot to load them that morning. Yup. Only using my eyes. Thankfully, I’ve taken an acting workshop with Jeff and if you’ve had Jeff, you’re prepared to do outlandish activities like this one. I rock the cowboy scenario and I’m done.
I’m back on the first bus to Weehawken and I’m the first one off as soon as we get back into Jersey. However, we passed once more through the Lincoln Tunnel and this bus’s shocks were in nowhere near as good condition as the first bus’. So I’m ready to bust and there are no toilets for at least another twenty minutes. I’m walking briskly down Hudson Street when I pass a very good-looking Chad Michael Murray-ish kid waiting for the same bus I just de-boarded. He’s obviously gay. His head is shaved, his lips are pursed and he’s bobbing his head up and down to techno music on his iPod. So I decide to work my famous Bill Reilly magic, no matter how badly I have to expunge my innards.
I’m about ten feet away, walking directly towards him with my eyes fixed on his. He notices and smiles at me. I smile right back and reach into my bag. As I get closer to this little hipster, his eyes get wider and a strange look crosses his face. I pull out the plastic Shop Rite bag, roll it up to a decent size and vomit right in front of him, filling the bag with a foul, greenish bile. As if that wasn’t bad enough, I had chosen the only plastic Shop Rite bag with several holes punched in the bottom of it. So not only am I vomiting in front of this gorgeous guy, but it’s also spilling all over my scarf, my suede jacket and my jeans at the same time. I am mortified.
I run around the corner, spilling bile from my trusty vom-bag everywhere, and seeing more people coming my way, I duck into an alley and continue to vomit all over the wall. People are looking at me. People are laughing at me. I am not having a good time.
It’s now 2:46AM on Tuesday morning. I am not going to work tomorrow. I’ve been lying in bed all night, sucking ice cubes and rolling around on a heating pad. But there’s always a bright side to things. Maybe next time, I’ll get up the nerve to ask him out.

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