The rockabilly woman looked like she was trying to be a zombie, while barista girl was a zombie. All of a sudden, her body language changed; her legs drooped; her arms moved effortlessly. Bearded Sons of Anarchy man’s amble was practiced, pronounced, and, frankly, not good; painted guy, however, meandered in a way that suggested that, yes, his hunger for your neck was real and merciless and true. And black mohawk guy? One glance and you knew he meant business, and his business was eating human flesh, and holy hell, you better grab a nail-abetted baseball bat, because if not, your business and his business would soon be one.
By the time it was my turn, I tried to take what I'd learned and go with it. But even as I did my first audition, I knew I wasn't going to get it: my legs were not limp enough, my head was not tilted correctly; I kept wondering if my zombie was too flamboyant. And it also became obvious to me WHY I wasn’t going to get it: I hadn’t worked at it, forever, like these people had, and I hadn’t put in hours to a passion for acting, whether it was playing Macbeth or, well, committing to scaring the shit out of tourists at Universal. It didn’t matter to barista girl or mohawk guy what the audition was for: they had spent years in improv classes, and dance classes, and possibly zombie-walking classes, perfecting the way to make their body move just right to get the part, whatever that part was.