From LA Nights to Euphoria: An Actor's Tale
- Jun 16
- 4 min read
An audition for a mysterious project called LA Nights begins with a single line, Goodwill scrubs, and a borrowed walker. Weeks later, after letting go of any expectation of booking it, an actor gets the call every performer hopes for: you're hired. What follows is a rush of paperwork, fittings, and early-morning nerves before discovering that LA Nights is actually Euphoria—a reminder that the jobs you least expect can become the ones you never forget.
The Actor’s Art of Letting Go
August 20, 2025. I get an email from my agent. First, I have to sign an NDA. Then they'll send me the sides for an audition for a role in LA Nights. While waiting, I Google it. Usually there's some buzz online about shows in production, or it's a code name for a popular series. This time, nothing.
A little while later, I receive half a page of script: a clinic nurse pushing a gurney who says one line: "¿Eres el conductor?" ("Are you the driver?")
I set up my space: iPhone, camera, lights, and a curtain pulled across to hide my galley kitchen. I put on the blue scrubs I bought at Goodwill during the pandemic, apply minimal makeup, and do a run-through.
Hmm. Something's missing.
I ask my landlady if I can borrow the walker she used while recovering from back surgery. It has tennis balls on the bottom, so it glides silently across the floor. I run the scene again. Perfect. I've got the action, the line, and I'm ready to self-tape.
I record two versions, do my slate, and send everything off.
Then comes my usual ritual: pretending to let go of wanting the job.
My brain is sneaky. I've trained it to release the work and move on to the next audition. The odds of booking are so low that I look at each audition as an opportunity to get a few more eyeballs on my work. That's the win.
But every now and then, I fantasize.
I imagine the casting director watching the tape with her assistant. Will they pass it along? Will they delete it? I make up little movies in my head where they call at the last minute and say, "We need you, Pilar! We need you desperately!"
That has yet to happen.
After a week, I let it go completely. I assume I didn't book it because I haven't heard anything.
It's okay.
It's the business.
The Actor’s Favorite Two Words: You Booked
September 4, 2:00 p.m. My agent sends me an email.
"You've booked the role. It shoots tomorrow."
Not pinned. Not on hold. Not avail.
Booked.
I immediately say yes, and the paperwork flood begins. Another NDA arrives, along with tax forms and onboarding documents. Texts start coming in from costume and makeup asking for my measurements and clean-faced photos. I run to the bathroom and remove the little bit of mascara I put on that morning.
The script arrives.
My line has been reduced from four words to one:
"Sígueme." ("Follow me.")
Easy peasy.
I settle in to write. A little while later, another email notification pops up.
It's from my agent.
"Would you mind going for a fitting tonight?"
I glance at the clock. It's 4:45 p.m. Traffic is hideous at this hour. I think about it for maybe five seconds. If they booked me at the last minute, I figure they're scrambling to get ready for tomorrow.
I write back: yes.
An hour later, I'm on the Warner Bros. lot trying on different-colored nurse scrubs. The two women in the costume department photograph several combinations before settling on a tan set with a matching scrub cap, sturdy tennis shoes, and thick socks.
I'll be comfortable.
And because the scrubs are roomy, I don't have to wear a thong.
It's always the little things that make a difference.
Traffic is slightly less hideous on the way home. I arrive around 8:00 p.m., make dinner, and feed Paco.
I'm still wondering what show I'll be working on tomorrow.
Then the call sheet arrives. My call time is 6:30 a.m.
I look up the director, Sam Levinson, and immediately see: "American filmmaker best known for creating, writing, and directing the hit HBO teen drama series Euphoria."
LA Nights is code for Euphoria.
Got it.
I check Apple Maps. The location is far from me.
Very far.
I set my alarm for 5:00 a.m.
Then I try to fall asleep.
Like a dog turning around three times before lying down—and Paco, periodically—I shift positions over and over, but sleep refuses to cooperate. I'm excited to be working and terrified I won't wake up in time.
I change the alarm to 4:45.
Then add another for 5:15.
Then a final one for 5:30, by which point I need to be out the door and in the car if I'm going to give myself enough time to get there.
Note to self: buy two alarm clocks.
I hug Paco, take a few deep breaths, and roll over.
As I close my eyes, I say a small prayer:
Please let me wake up when I'm supposed to.
To be continued...