Business Casual

Lisa at Nordstrom found a blue oxford shirt in the rack and I held it up to my face. "That looks good on you," she said.
"It's not too dark?"
"The lights will wash it out. And it's a good color for you anyway."
"Okay." I tucked the shirt under my arm and indicated the brown shoes I held--I'd dug them out of my closet an hour earlier. "Brown, or black?" I said.
She stood back, cradling her chin in her hand, looked down at the black shoes I wore. "Brown. It'll soften the look. She looked again at the brown shoes. "You..." she hesitated. "... could get them polished?"
"Oh, of course. Is there a place here?"
She pointed to another department.
"Great." I selected a brown belt to go with the shoes; she helped me find a pair of socks that tied everything together with the khaki slacks. The outfit screamed Business Casual--a look I had Googled before driving to Nordstrom. I headed over to get my shoes polished while she got my new shirt pressed, and a hundred and fifty-nine dollars later ("You get what you pay for," advised Lisa when I saw the $75 price tag on the belt) I was headed over the Bay Bridge.
I parked in an industrial area near AT&T Stadium and walked a couple of blocks to the address I'd been given. I was 45 minutes early, so I went up to the third floor and clicked in my stiff and shiny brown shoes down a long, wide corridor. Around a corner I found the office; a piece of white paper taped to the door said "Casting."
On the ground floor, I found a cafe and while the barista prepared an iced coffee for me, I used the rest room and when I emerged I saw a tell-tell dot of liquid on my pants, right where my... uhh... well, I could have splashed myself while I was washing my hands... couldn't I have?
Whatever the source of the liquid, I held my notebook at waist height as I made my way back to the cafe. Sitting, I crossed my legs as I drank my iced coffee and let the miracle of evaporation take place.
Ten minutes before my appointment I went again to the elevator. Coming through the door from the street was Young Businessman Incarnate: a handsome, dark-skinned guy with a neatly-trimmed three-day growth of chin stubble. I quietly regretted shaving. He wore a medium blue shirt, khakis, brown shoes, and a brown belt. I couldn't see his socks, but I'd wager they were a diamond pattern; tans with a dash of blue, just like mine. I smiled at him as I pressed the elevator button. "I bet we're here for the same thing." He looked at me like the competition I was, and we rode up the elevator together in silence.
Once again I found the office, but now there was a long line snaking out the door.
In the middle stood a stocky,  hispanic-looking man, with a shaved head, and he wore a black suit and a tie. I resisted the urge to shake my head and smirk. He was definitely not dressed in Business Casual. Didn't he read the notice? It explicitly said business casual. Boy, had he shot himself in the foot, I thought. Of course,  my competition was a lot younger than me--probably 42 or 43. And ethnic looks seem to be popular. This was an audition for print advertising for a big financial services company, and it stood to reason they would want to appeal to a wider audience than old white guys like me.
I shook myself out of it. Who knew what demographic the company was trying to appeal to? I certainly didn't--even though in my submission for the part, I had written, "I think I'm perfect for this part!"  
The casting agent was also looking for "Business Woman," and the majority of the people in the line were women in their early thirties to mid-forties. Unlike my elevator companion, they weren't my competition. If I got the part, maybe one of them would be my Business Partner. Or my wife. But given the age gap, probably my nurse. Were they casting nurses? No.
Two harried-looking women sat at a table, laptops open before them, and one of them motioned me forward. I crouched down to hear her as she opened a form on her computer and asked my name, contact information, measurements, and shoe size, entering the information in a form on the screen. Then she wrote my last name and first initial on a small whiteboard and directed me to the back of the line,
I stood behind a woman about 5' 4" tall, with long dark hair. She wore a shoulderless blue dress. "You do this often?" I asked. Only slightly less original than, "Do you come here often?" But I was really asking out of curiosity, and my own anxiety.
"Hmmm. A little. More for my kids."
"Ah. College fund."
"Exactly," she said.
She indicated no curiosity about me, and there seemed to be an unspoken code of silence here anyway, which was  just as well. I didn't particularly want to admit this was my first time.
In the center of the room, a photographer directed one of the women where to stand. First, she held the whiteboard up, chest high. This was more of a mugshot than a portrait. He shot a frame or two, then took the board from her. "Smile," he said, and shot a closeup. Then he stepped back and took a full-length shot. "Turn--face that way," he instructed, and when she was in position he shot a closeup and a full-body shot. Then he had her turn again to face the camera, and did one more full-body shot. "You're done," he said.
Next was a guy who looked like David Beckham: tousled blond hair, tan skin, fashionable stubble. Was that business casual... who could tell? I wondered if I should have shaved. He jutted his jaw forward for the closeup and bared his teeth. I thought, oh, c'mon! They're not looking for a super model, pal! They're looking for a businessman!
But who specifically was this businessman they were looking for? A tech entrepreneur, weeks out of college, launching his billion dollar startup and wanting to invest wisely? An inner-city merchant whose business is growing? A soon-to-retire executive worried about making his nest-egg last? From the group gathered here, it was impossible to tell. The notice said they were seeking "Extras," too, to pose as business people. Maybe David Beckham was auditioning as an Extra... but I doubted it. He seemed to know what he was doing.
My turn came and I stepped into the middle of the room and held the card in front of my chest. "Okay," said the photographer, stepping back.  (Smile. Shoulders back. Gut in. Hips forward. Chin forward.) Click. Click.
"Okay, turn facing here," the photographer ordered. I glanced at the computer monitor that displayed the images he had just captured. Gotta suck in that gut more! I turned. They say the camera adds fifteen pounds. (Shoulders back! Gut IN! Hips FORWARD--man, I'm glad that drop of water on my pants dried. Chin forward. SMILE, because business is BOOMING!). Click. Click. 
"Okay," the photographer said. "One more facing this way..." I turned, silently reciting my posing mantra. Click.
He looked at the computer monitor to make sure the images had recorded, then turned to me. "And you're done," he said.
As I stepped to the side I glanced at the images too. This may be bad luck in the world of advertising; Lot's wife looking back at Sodom and Gomorrah and turning to a pillar of salt--but I couldn't help myself. Well... no one was going to confuse me with David Beckham. And I didn't look like an earnest, upwardly-striving middle-manager, either. I looked... like a sixty-year-old guy--or maybe 58 year-old one--dressed in Business Casual attire, with neat gray hair of medium length, some lines in my face and forehead, a nice, though somewhat crooked smile. In each pose, my head is cocked jauntily to the side; something I was completely unaware I was doing. Business must be really great!
Leaving the office, I picked up the remains of my iced coffee, and the envelope I had brought, containing a couple of head shots, in case they wanted them.
I went down the elevator and as I passed people in the lobby and then on the sidewalk outside, I thought, "To these people, I probably look just look like a businessman, dressed in Business Casual, coming from a meeting. Had I made some different choices long ago, I might very well be that person, instead of pretending to be one for the afternoon.
I found my car and got into it. I'd been so utterly confident when I'd applied for the job, and really pleased when I'd gotten the audition. Now I had no idea whether I'd be cast or not.
But it's okay. I have an important task ahead: growing my beard. I have three and a half days until I go to a shoot, where I'll be an Organic Farmer. They want the stubbly look.