Waiting at the Bus Stop: An Actor’s Reality
- Apr 7
- 3 min read
A callback at 200 La Brea turns into a quiet test of endurance, comparison, and perspective for an actor navigating the unpredictability of the business. Between awkward waiting rooms, imperfect auditions, and identity confusion, a deeper truth emerges. Success isn’t about being the best—it’s about showing up consistently until your moment arrives.
The Actor’s Callback Colosseum
Another audition, another waiting room. I walk up the stairs and scan the giant chalkboard. There it is: number eight. I sign in—name, agent, role—and check the box for “2nd audition.” Callback. Always a little thrill, always a little dread.
Four other actresses are scattered around the cavernous space that is 200 S La Brea, the commercial audition hub of Los Angeles. Long padded benches line the walls like we’re all waiting for jury duty or a delayed flight. The ceiling is a maze of silver air-conditioning tubes, blasting just enough cold air to keep everyone slightly tense and underdressed.
The women ahead of me are completely different—older, younger, bigger, smaller, silver hair, brown hair, curls, straight. Good. They’re not looking for one type. Nobody smiles. Everyone sits hunched, serious, like we’ve all collectively agreed this is not a place for joy. At the Latina auditions, there’s hugging, laughing, full-on catch-ups like a family reunion. Here? Silence. Maybe callbacks bring out the gladiator in everyone. We sit there like we’re about to be called into the colosseum. May the best woman win—and preferably without eye contact.
On Deck and Under Pressure
I’m pulled out of my Roman fantasy by a voice.
“Pilar? You’re on deck.”
Hmm. Someone didn’t show. I slide down the hall, out of sight, and start my quiet warm-up—shaking, stretching, waking up the body. No need to subject the others to my interpretive pre-game ritual. A little mental prep by the door, and then I’m called in.
The casting director and the actual director are both there. No pressure. I’ve brought my items, but they hand me theirs—pens and Post-its, the official tools of commercial storytelling. I get a thirty-second explanation and we’re off. It’s a little bumpy, but I get through it and do another take. For the self-tape, we had a whole choreography of actions. Here, it’s more contained. Answer questions, then wrap it up with a heartfelt testimonial.
“Just tell us how it makes you feel,” the CD says, encouragingly.
Charlie Brown flashes through my mind. Good grief.
Almost Grandma, Not Quite
The following week, I’m back at 200. This time I’m auditioning for a grandma with two lines. I’ve worked with this casting director before, and his direction actually makes sense, which already feels like a win. I sit in the same big room, waiting my turn, surrounded by a sea of women who look like they’ve earned their grandma stripes.
Meanwhile, I have exactly five gray hairs. Five. The rest is natural chocolate brown. Everyone tells me I don’t look my age. Tell that to my agents, who keep sending me to stand next to women with a full head of silver and a lifetime of wisdom in their posture. This used to happen in Miami too—I didn’t quite read “mom.” In LA, I’m apparently “almost grandma.” Close, but no knitting needles.
Maybe it’s time to invest in a wig.
There’s all kinds of talent in this town. Truly. And I’ve come to realize something: the people who make it aren’t necessarily more talented or more beautiful or more anything. They’re the ones who keep showing up—again and again—standing at the bus stop long after everyone else has left. Because eventually, the bus comes.
