The Dog Bites Audition: Les Misérables

11:05 a.m.: We enter the Robert Dollar Boardroom and get our numbers. Dog Bites is 129. The casting director, Dunya Vitolic (!), an enthusiastic, ponytailed, Lisa Loeb type, gives us a pep talk. "I want to see energy! We'll see you in groups of 20; be ready to come in as soon as the person before you goes out. We'll let you do up to 16 bars, and we'll give you a decision on the spot. We will see all of you! Callbacks are tomorrow. Have fun, people!" The girl at the table tells us to come back at noon. They are only on No. 30! Equity members grumble about not getting priority treatment. No. 151 says, "My mantra is 'Don't trip, and stay present!'" A couple of mothers hover over their teenage daughters, one of whom has already gotten a callback. Dog Bites feels ancient.

12:20 p.m.: A giant redheaded guy with a buzz cut is on the floor doing the full splits, stretching while he waits to sing. We almost trip over him. I ask the guy next to me what his number is. "One thousand two," he replies sarcastically. "I want a margarita and a nap!" the perky, buxom blonde chimes in. She is No. 126. At 12:40, the girl at the table announces they are taking a lunch break at 1, and anyone after No. 110 has to come back at 2:15. "Goddamned son of a BITCH!" growls an angelic, baby-faced platinum blonde who may be all of 20 years old. We're with Perky; we need a nap. We go out to our car. We decide to make use of the time and clean out months of clutter and find Dr. Phil's Self Matters. Dr. Phil! We bring him back with us for support.

1:35 p.m.: People are still discussing the Tonys and Aretha. We decide this is a sign from God that we should channel her. (Aretha, that is, not the female divinity.) A young guy who looks like the offspring of Chris Isaak and Alfred E. Neuman is eating Chicken McNuggets. His dipping sauce explodes all over his black dress slacks. "Great! FUCK!" he says, leaping up and running around in a circle. We offer to watch his stuff while he cleans up. He vocalizes in the bathroom.

2:20 p.m.: We are now seated in the "On-Deck Chairs," preparing to set sail on the good ship Les Miz. The Numbers Girl takes my picture and résumé. We are all vocalizing, practicing, warming up our tired pipes. "Ahhh, eee, hmmm, ooohhh ...."

2:40 p.m.: Nos. 121 through 130 go out into the hallway, waiting to enter the audition room. We watch the people before us through the small glass window on the door. Everyone delivers his best musical theater stuff; no one who comes out gets a callback. "I cracked on my last note. Break a leg everybody!" No. 125 cheers us on. Perky goes in and is cut off after eight bars. Dog Bites is doomed.

2:50 p.m.: Dog Bites gives our music to the accompanist, and we agree on a tempo. Our pal Dunya, Associate Director Evan Ensign, and Dale Rieling, the musical supervisor, are seated at the table. They are smiling, friendly. "How are you; what are you going to do for us?" the middle guy, whom we take to be Dale, asks. Total American Idol vibe. "Well, we figured since Aretha graced the Tonys last night, we'd go out on a limb and sing an Aretha classic, 'Natural Woman,' for this Tony Award-winning musical audition!" we tell them, praying they get it. Everyone laughs; we are winning them over! "Looking out on the morning rain ...," we offer up soulfully. They smile -- they like us! We get to the chorus, "You make me feel like a natural woman ...," preparing to be cut off, but no, they let us do a whole other verse and chorus, even though we almost crack midsong! "Good job, well done!" the nice middle guy who's probably Dale says. "Thank you!" they all say in near-unison.

We came, we saw, we cattle-called. We still didn't get a callback. Or health insurance. (Kimberlye Gold)