Page 2 of Her Alien Neighbor

God forbid the cast of a sitcom about six thirty-something friends look like normal people. It’s not the first time I’ve lost a role because of my size, but it feels like a knife through the heart every time.

There was a short period when I first started going on auditions that I tried all the drastic weight loss tricks. I tried making myself smaller, so I stood a better chance of getting lead roles. It didn’t take. Any weight I lost would come right back the moment I ate a normal meal. After I graduated from UCLA with a theater degree, I continued taking acting classes, I tried improv, took on roles in indie films that paid nothing, and networked with as many industry people as I possibly could. I have the talent to slay a comedic role or a dramatic one. That should be enough.

But after a decade of relentless disappointment, I’m starting to wonder why I continue putting myself through this. What am I still doing in a place that doesn’t want me?

“Things are getting better,” Tia says as she attempts to reassure me. “Shows are becoming more diverse every year in terms of race, gender, and body type. All the shows you auditioned for this pilot season had a role that was written for a plus-sized woman without her being the butt of every joke. That’s progress.”

“Sure,” I reply, biting my lip to hold the tears back. “I just wasn’t good enough to be in any of them.” The wet drops fall anyway, dripping onto my teal T-shirt as I hastily unlock my car door and crawl inside. I hold the phone away from my face as I sniffle, hoping Tia doesn’t hear it. I know she won’t judge me for being disappointed; it’s the number of times she’s heard me sob over the phone that I find embarrassing. I’ve let her down, again, and I wonder how many more rejections it will take before she deems me a lost cause and has no choice but to drop me as a client.

“I could line up some commercial auditions for next week, if you’d like,” Tia offers.

It’s not an offer I have any right to refuse. Commercial spots pay well, sometimes really, really well, and there are plenty of actors who make a living off just doing ads. About six years ago, I booked a campaign with a well-known car manufacturer for their new hybrid vehicle they had just released. I had one line that was: “That stick has some power!” as I comically put the car in drive and put my foot on the gas. I felt like I nailed it. It was a ridiculous ad, and I was funny in it.

However, the line became a meme, and soon I was known as the girl in the car commercial who seemed horny for a hybrid. As humiliating as it was, the money I made from the ad covered my rent for two years. I’ve reached a point where I can’t afford to be picky about the roles I go after. I need to try them all and hope somebody’s looking for a fat girl with short brown hair and bangs who has a sense of humor.

“Yeah. Let me think about it, okay?” I ask Tia.

“Of course. Call me over the weekend if you need anything, ’K?”

“Thanks. I will,” I say as I hang up.

Over the years, she’s become a friend. She’s a fantastic agent, too, but it’s impossible to put yourself out there in this business and not have at least a few moments of heartbreak. It’s a given, and Tia is always the one who sees it first. Together, we feel the disappointment, the hurt, and the betrayal.

Like the time I booked a role as a series regular on a new sitcom about a group of twenty-somethings who hated their jobs and decided to open a bookstore that sold weed in the back. It was the biggest role I’d ever gotten, and a week before we were supposed to start filming, I broke my leg, and the role went to someone else. I haven’t gotten anything close to that role since.

Pressing my forehead against my steering wheel, I take a deep breath. Wiping away my tears, I ponder my next move. I need instant comfort, but what kind? The warm numbness only a bottle of wine could summon? Or should I eat my feelings?

Both sound nice, honestly, and I could send myself into a solid booze-and-sugar coma that lasts until tomorrow afternoon. However, with this type of rejection looming large in my head, I need to do something that won’t make me hate my body even more when I wake up. I deserve to feel good.

Booty call it is, then.

I scroll through my recent texts until I find “Brian G.” We met through a dating app, and one date turned into more of a casual hookup than a relationship, but he’s not terribly boring, and his dick is nice and big, so I haven’t written him off yet. He’s also surprisingly okay with the fact that I never want to have penetrative sex, which is rare. Most have gotten annoyed by my hesitation and bailed the second I said no.

Me:You busy atm?

Brian G.:…

When the dots disappear, and no response pops up, I send another text.

Me:Come over. Rough day and I want that D in my mouth.

I add a tongue emoji and an eggplant emoji, ensuring the nature of my request is clear, and not even three seconds later, I get a reply that has my mouth falling open.

Brian G.:Wtf? Brian’s in the shower. This is his gf.

Oh shit. Shit. Shit!

Me:…

I have no idea what to say. Brian certainly never disclosed that he was in a relationship. If he had, I wouldn’t have gone on a date with him, and I certainly wouldn’t still be hooking up with him. The knot in my stomach continues to twist until I feel like I’m about to be sick.

I can’t imagine what his girlfriend must think of me. To my knowledge, I’ve never been “the other woman.” This is a first. A horrible first.

After I berate myself for not asking Brian directly if he was involved with someone, my guilt transforms into anger. This isn’t on me. Not entirely, anyway. This is Brian’s fault. He’s a grown-ass man, and he should’ve been honest with me. But he wasn’t, because he’s a manipulative, philandering scumbag.

Me:I’m sorry. Truly. I had no idea he had a gf. If I had, I would’ve blown him off immediately.

Several minutes pass before I get a response. And then––

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