“So tell me the most interesting thing about yourself. What makes you, you.” Just my luck, I was sitting right next to the interviewer and was up to bat first out of seven twenty-something-year-olds.
“Well, I did live in London for seven years and I went to an all-girls school in New York for twelve,” I said, my voice still raspy from too much “class participation.”
I thought I managed to make a good impression on Heather Allyn, the choppy-haired interviewer I was hoping to impress. But three people down from my seat at the table, Ashley, an unusually quiet girl in a crowd of hopefuls, piped up: “Well, I am a recovering sex addict.”
The job description strongly encouraged those with certain life challenges to apply. Recruiters were on the lookout for those “struggling with weight issues, affected by a natural disaster, products of home or alternative schooling, recent graduates affected by the economic downturn, those involved with goth, emo, or punk subculture, and those who are recently single due to a tragedy.” Clearly these are not qualities I thought I’d ever need applying for a job in the real world, but this was The Real World. MTV’s first and longest-running reality television program, The Real World began airing in 1992. In each of the 26 seasons to date, seven to eight cast members from diverse backgrounds, who must be at least 20 years of age but “appear to be between the ages of 20 and 24,” live in a house together for four months. People stop being polite and start getting real.
Local casting for Season 27 (the location is still under wraps) was held Oct. 22 at The Downtown Sports Bar and Grill in Raleigh, N.C. I nixed the pantsuit I had recently purchased for job interviews in favor of some day-to-day items: a lacy orange blouse, blue jeans and a grey jacket. By the time I got to the casting, there were roughly 30 Real World potentials waiting to audition. I figured I would go up and talk to some of the applicants. The first person I talked to ended up being one of the bartenders. But as it turned out, his girlfriend was applying and we ended up having an impromptu conversation mostly about parties, Raleigh and my raspy voice.
I hailed down the casting director to ask if I could share my experience in a student publication and take some photos of the process.
“Sure, there’s no problem,” she replied. “Does anyone mind having their picture taken?” she asked, addressing the crowd. A round of shouts and hoots made it clear that no one minded being on camera.
Before being sent in small groups to a casting director, seated at long tables set up in the middle of the bar, all candidates were asked to fill out a preliminary application. The questions ranged from the mundane (“Where are you from?”) to the uncomfortable (“How would someone who really knows you describe your worst traits?”). The friend and photographer who accompanied me was happy to help with that one. The last page of the application asked applicants to sign a clause absolving Bunim/Murray Productions, the company that created the show, from any liability related to sexually-transmitted diseases acquired during filming.
After a 30-minute wait, I was called to the casting table.
“Sit wherever you want, except you.” Heather meant me. She requested I sit in the seat nearest her so she’d be able to hear me, in spite of my inability to project that day.
After my turn, talking about my upbringing, high school stereotypes, driving and the tribulations of attending Duke, Devin told us her story. Devin is a gym trainer from North Carolina. She is also a recovering alcoholic. Her best friend Ashley, seated beside her, a punkish 21-year old with a bull-style nose ring, worked at a hotel and was another recovering alcoholic. Then a second Ashley, the aforementioned sex addict, talked about how being a “roommate” could pose problems for her as she was attracted to both men and women. The rest of the table was unmemorable.
After the audition, four of us, including myself, were asked to fill out a longer 16-page application. Heather asked me if I would be able to take a semester off school.
I didn’t really know how to respond. I was flattered to be asked about my availability for next year—though I came with no intention of becoming a Real World cast member, an hour spent in this dimly-lit bar had begun to convince me that this was a worthy goal. Our photos were taken like mug shots, and we were told we’d be asked to return the next day if we had earned a callback.
Walking back to the car, the sunlight and fresh air shook me back to reality, the kind without cameras. I didn’t finish the application and was never called back.
The Real World will probably be the most competitive “job” I’ll apply to this year. Thousands in the country audition every season for only seven spots. I hope my chances in the real world are better.
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