Husk by Corey Redekop

duh. This is
television
reality, buddy. No one wants just
you
, they want you to the
eckthtreme
.” She gave up her lisp and wiped down her chin, sighing. “It’s been a long day, buddy, and I can’t deal with another ‘actor’” she air-quoted that one “with some oblique moral objection as to what the job requires. It’s all the same. You think I wanted this? I want to direct dramas, not coach actors on how to better flutter their eyes. I spent all day yesterday yelling myself hoarse to get blondes to be blonder, nerds to be spazzier, and brunettes to be smarter. Ironically, the ‘smart brunette’ we’ve lined up is probably the dumbest person on the show, and that is saying something. I mean, this isn’t MENSA , but wow, so dense she could run for Congress. You want this gig? I won’t lie, you’ve got a good shot, you fit the age bracket we want, but you’ve got to play to get the pay. Your call. Tick-tock on this one, I got” another heavy sigh of self-animus “twelve other faggots outside, and then the old people. Oh, god, the old people.”
    I stood mutely for a few tension-suffused moments. “Would I have to wear eyeliner?” I asked after a spell of sufficient portentousness had passed.
    â€œWhat do you think?”
    I gathered up my belongings and left.
    I watched the world speed past the head of my still-sleeping seatmate. He had dozed through every rest stop, as well as the half-hour we sat at the border as the bus slowly inched forward in the auto lineup until a border guard could be bothered to come aboard, share a tired laugh with the driver, give the riders a bored yet vaguely threatening once-over with his eyes, and waved us through. Homeland Security, protecting your interests with the best of the best. Guess he didn’t see a turban.
    I envied him his coma, my seatmate. My id would not accede to my demands of sleep, obsessively walking through the events of the day over and over.
Would it have killed me, a little bending? Two months’ work, a steady paycheck even if I didn’t win, and enough money to cover the rest of mom’s draining life if I did. But that was too much to ask. Too much. No one would have watched the thing. Barely anyone.
    Enough people would
, I argued.
Agents would. Directors. Actors. They’d know. I’d carry the taint always. Marked like Cain, or Snookie, doomed to walk the Earth until the end of days.
    A little melodramatic, even for you. Too bad you couldn’t have been that queeny during the audition.
    Oh, fuck you. And go take a piss, you’ve been holding it for hours.
    Fine
.
But I’m only going because I’ve been sitting for a while and don’t want to get thrombosis.
    Whatever.
    I stood up, my joints popping with the bus-bends, and prepared myself for the humiliating trek to the restroom.
Look, everyone, someone has to expel urine!
I wavered and wobbled my way toward the washroom, guided by the gloomy illumination emitted through its entranceway, its door open and swaying slightly with the constant motion of the bus. An old ’N Sync ballad chirped in my headphones, a cheesy ode that I saved from deletion in a bout of sentimentality. This was not helping my nausea.
Pizza was probably off
, I cursed, remembering the abundance of slices I had absconded with after the audition, picking off the meat and willing myself to ignore the lingering taste of processed pepperoni.
Cheapskate producers couldn’t even spring for a decent spread for the applicants, had to get fucking Sbarro, worst pizza on the planet
.
Probably going to bring Ebola to Canada.
    Halfway to my destination, a set of legs bisected the aisle, their master a snoring pimple-jockey who had managed through a combination of teenage surliness and pubescent stank to procure a pair of seats all to himself. I fumed, the thought of returning to my chocolate cushion while this future frat boy had