Foot Porn

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When I first moved to NYC after college, I was still clueless enough to think that I could go to casting calls from Craigslist. Don’t get me wrong, some can be legit, but not usually. I was eagerly looking for anything that said “Casting Feature Film.” I found many. I opened one written by a director who described himself as the next Quentin Tarantino. I submitted my headshot and resume. He responded almost right away saying that I was what he was looking for, but that he would have to meet me in person. He also asked if I was willing to show my  bare feet on camera, I said that would be fine.

The audition, much like the shady scene in the movie Fame, was at this guy’s apartment. I was lucky that I brought my boyfriend, but only because we were going to Indian food afterwards. We walked up a shabby stairwell to the guy’s front door and rang the buzzer. A voice yelled, “I’ll be there in a minute!” and then he made us wait in the hallway. We heard him open the peep hole to look at us, but he did not open the door. Finally, this creepy-looking guy opened the door. He had the purple-ringed eyes of a junkie. He invited us inside. We crossed the threshold into the pit of hell. Then he pulled me aside and said “you brought your boyfriend??” I was confused, and suddenly nervous. The apartment was atrocious. It was a filthy shoebox that seemed covered  in cat feces. I looked around and finally noticed a dirty white cat sitting on top of its own shit in the litter box. Being a cat person, I was instantly pissed. My only thoughts were about saving the cat. I already had the number for the ASPCA saved on my phone (I tried to rescue a dying squirrel once) so I would call them once we left. The director sat us down and nervously proceeded to tell us about the film, but the information was quite vague. He talked forever about his favorite films and his previous experience. He asked me a few general questions about my resume, but all I could focus on was the cat that I was going to save. I wanted to leave. Then the guy started talking about Quentin Tarantino. Apparently Tarantino has a foot fetish. My boyfriend and I were both creeped out at this point, so we explained that we were late and had to go dinner.

Once we left, we laughed in relief and went across the street for Indian food. I hadn’t yet started on my naan when my phone rang. It was faux Quentin. He said I was silly to have brought my boyfriend because he couldn’t really audition me properly. Then, after a pause, he asked “are you free to stop by alone tomorrow so I can look at your feet?” I said no, hung up immediately and ate my chicken tikka masala. Then I called the ASPCA.

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