graey mondaey

i auditioned for a spec this morn. specs are normally shot to either sell an idea to a client or else pad a director's reel. this one is of the latter ilk.
i arrived exactly on time, toppling two curbside garbage cans with my bumper. the air was misty with light rain. this casting director's waiting room, usually swollen with hopefuls, was empty. twelve director's chairs line the walls. so close to the walls in fact that i always wrack my back-head-neck into the window sill. i yanked my chair out a few inches and waited.
coming from within the other room were two familiar voices, casting agent melissa and hopeful jamie. i listened to this exchange:
"jamie, you farted."
"i did not!"
"it's unpleasant."
"it's coming from over there, melissa. nowhere near me."
"hoo."
jamie continued the audition, playing a reverend. a real fire and brimstone delivery. an overabundancy of effort.
before i went in melissa left the door open, airing the space out. i'm a sort of a connoiseur of stink. it was neither butt nor armpit. decay. an unfortunate squirrel in a wall. that's my guess.
i ran into my buddy george afterward, and we talked guns. he competed in a target event. his favorite was the IPSC. i sat down to chat about this and nailed the small of my back against the molding. george went on about moving targets, highlighting the mime with 'bang'.
outside a steady drizzle. that monstrous, toothy cat they care for was splayed out on the hood of a car. it didn't give a fuck about the rain.