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Cattle calls are a fabled phenomenon in Hollywood. They are the great equalizer, where starlet and stevedore alike have an equal shot at stardom. That's what the entertainment magazines like to portray, anyway.

In reality, cattle calls generally happen for the smaller, less-important roles - the ones that can't screw up a project. They're for the 'Silent Friend,' the 'Happy Customer,' or the 'Girl on the Bus.' And even then, nine times out of ten, they're just pro forma. Usually the part goes to the producer's nephew or current bed partner, who hopefully are not one and the same. But they tell you the part is available. Keeping the dream - the myth - alive is half of Howlywood's job. Squashing the dreams of an aspiring performer is the other half. It's a master at both.

Arden sat in the stuffy, tackily decorated dining room of the World-Famous Château Magique. At one o'clock on a June afternoon, it was almost 90 degrees outside, and the ancient air conditioning wasn't doing a great job of keeping the inside much cooler than that. True, there were more than fifty furs packed into the small room, dressed unseasonably in heavy tuxedos, three-piece suits, and at least one full wool kilt. But was it too much to expect that by some miracle it would stay cool enough indoors so that his fur wouldn't mat to his neck, causing a trickle of sweat to run down his back? Apparently, yes it was.

Arden shifted in his seat, trying to ignore the musky odors filling the space, which were only amplified by the old, upholstered chairs, the heavy draperies, and the ancient rugs; probably none of which had been cleaned since the club opened thirty years ago. The excitement at being allowed into the place - it was, after all, a private, members-only Mecca for magicians - had dulled somewhat today as the reality of the current situation had become clear. There were five roles being cast from the auditions being held over the course of three days. That worked out to over a hundred and fifty magicians for just five jobs. It was better odds than the lottery, but still kind of a long shot.

Even so, he had auditioned to join the Château as a magician member when he turned twenty-one a couple of years ago and had been accepted on the second try, Arden consoled himself. They thought his skill good enough to include him with some of the best performers in the world, so didn't that give him an edge? He looked around the room, and glumly realized that everyone here was a member. This was a cattle call by invitation, which had gone out to every magician member of the Château. And it wasn't even for a film role, but for live shows...at supermarkets and discount centers around the Southland. The chosen magicians would be nothing more than shills to get people to buy more packages of Boareos, a popular sandwich cookie.

And still, as unglamorous as it was, the black wolf wanted to be selected more than he could imagine. To be paid for your art is something that every performer lives for, whether you're a singer, actor, or sword swallower. This job, doing small magic shows to hawk junk food, would be the first step on the road to living the dream; being accepted and supporting himself as a performer.

"Please follow me into the Palace of Shadows," called a dapper, but beleaguered-looking lion. Rustling of fabrics and the shuffling of chairs and baggage accompanied the mass exodus, as all in attendance moved as one to follow the host. "Watch your step," he called again, as he navigated a narrow hallway down a short flight of stairs into a more dimly-lit section of the club, his tufted tail swaying gently behind him as he led the way. "Enter through the double doors, and take any seat. Your number will be called when you are the second to the next to perform. Numbers one, two, and three, you may go backstage and prepare."

Arden looked at the now-familiar decors which seemed so charming at night in the light of the old-fashioned gas lamps, but which during the day showed the threadbare carpet, the peeling wallpaper, and the faded paint. What a metaphor for this town, he thought, as he sat down next to a rather nervous raccoon dressed in a colorful, striped, Saville Row suit, a bowler hat cocked rakishly over his forehead. Arden suddenly felt underdressed in his thrift-store smoking jacket and black polyester slacks.

Reaching into the pockets of his coat, he fished out the call ticket and glanced at the number - 12. At least he was near the top of the pack. The house lights dimmed, and he sat back, his stomach fluttering with anticipation and a little dread.

The first couple of acts were, if he were honest, nothing special. Standard routines involving silks, billiard balls, and cards. Arden's confidence in his own act increased a little, even though he truly felt bad when a young coyote lost control of his dancing cane, and it went flying into the wings. The poor coyote's ears splayed despite himself, and he hurried through the rest of his routine, his timing and stage presence gone. Polite applause, the death-knell of the variety act, accompanied his rushed exit, stage left.

The wolf was so focused on what was happening onstage, that he hadn't noticed the raccoon had left his seat. He did, however, notice that his act was spectacular. He did a pickpocket routine in the British style, fast-talking cockney accent and all, his natural facemask the perfect foil for his bandit-like character. Arden was torn. He loved the act, and clapped enthusiastically, but part of him despaired a little, sure that there were now only four positions left to fill.

The afternoon continued in similar fashion, and soon he heard his number called. Jumping up, he made his way backstage, and quickly went over his routine in his head, checking his coat to make sure his props were still loaded...properly. Satisfied, he then double-checked everything, silently praying to Houndini that he wouldn't make a fool of himself. He smoothed his headfur, ran his paws up his ears out of habit for good luck, and put on a slightly toothy smile. He was ready.

"Up next, Arden Montgomery." The lights onstage went out, and Arden took his place. The music started as the glaring spotlight momentarily blinded him, and he began his routine.

Taking a long, white silk scarf from around his dark neck, he waved it softly in front of himself in time to the music, the air current holding it aloft as it gracefully traced the motion of his arm. Gathering it between his paws, he gently folded it in half, and pulled the resulting length taut, one end above the other. He flashed a brief, pointed glance of his azure blue eyes at the audience, and without looking back at the scarf, let go of the top. It fluttered downward to reveal a single, perfect red rose. The audience clapped enthusiastically.

Plucking the rose from its stem, and depositing scarf and stem into the upturned hat on a nearby table, Arden proceeded to make mystical passes over the flower with his free paw. Gradually, the bloom began to shudder, and suddenly...rose off his palm and floated in midair between his outstretched paws to another round of applause. When finally it had levitated into his upper paw, the wolf crushed the bloom, the petals visibly melding into a red pocket square, which he placed with aplomb into his left breast pocket.

The rest of the act went by in a blur for Arden, as he hit all his marks, waited at each applause point, and finally, triumphantly took his bow, having produced, one after another, a seemingly endless supply of Boareo cookies at his fingertips for his finale. At last, as the rousing clapping died down, he walked offstage, nearly running into a flustered and very thin fennec fox. The poor man seemed to be near tears, his fur on end, and he was trying desperately to load a dove into a prop. Arden quickly stepped aside as the fennec's name was called, and the vulpine looked to the stage with alarm.

"David Tyler and Company."

By the time Arden had found his seat in the audience again, David Tyler and Company had begun their act. The tuxedo-clad, goth-makeup-wearing fox stood center stage. Something seemed very wrong, however. The ashen-furred fennec was making gestures toward a cake pan, as an assistant tore up bits of paper, and doused them with lighter fluid. The fox pulled a match from under his lapel, but it did not light. He tried again - nothing. Using a lighter handed to him by his assistant, he successfully ignited the materials in the cake pan. But with his paw so close, he singed the fur on his fingers when the potent mixture immediately exploded into flame.

The audience gasped a bit as the fox quickly put his finger in his muzzle, and with his other paw, clapped a lid onto the pan. Arden thought that his comedic timing was a bit off, but as he was just getting started after a stressful wait offstage, maybe it was to be expected. However, when the fennec removed the lid...there was nothing. No fire, but also no flowers, no scarves, no dove - nothing. The expression on the weary vulpine's muzzle was strained, his hazel eyes somewhat dull, though his large ears remained upright - the mark of a professional. His scraggly tail drooped. The trick had failed.

Play it off as comedy, thought Arden. Come on, no one will know.

Running a paw through his thinning headfur, the fox simply hurried on to the next setup, which proved no more mystifying than the first. And so it went; trick after trick, production after production...failed. Whoever was responsible for loading the illusions would never work with David Tyler and Company again, surely.

And then, mercifully, came the last effect of the fox's act. The fennec gestured toward a large square of what appeared to be solid wood, painted a deep and velvety black. It had been onstage the entire time, and no one, Arden thought, would have taken notice of it, since the train wreck of mistakes had been much more diverting. Now as he looked at it critically, the wolf wondered what embarrassing outcome would befall the poor, bedraggled fox.

The lights onstage began to dim, and as they did so, a bright spark flew across the face of the dark square. As the fennec waved his paw, another and another followed suit. The audience, not expecting anything resembling success, let alone real magic, took in a collective breath, and the surface of the square began to sparkle and glisten, as if dozens of pixies had decided to assemble in full view.

The various sparks and glints began to coalesce, and as they did, formed a twinkling, glittering, multi-color version of the Boareo logo - a hoof print surrounded by the culturally dubious slogan, "Make a pig of yourself!" The audience went wild. Arden began applauding spontaneously, partly because he felt so bad for the fox, and partly because he was truly impressed. Never had he anticipated anyone would go to the considerable time and steep expense of making a custom fiber-optic display for a mere audition - and certainly not one for a job that paid as little as this. Such dedication needed to be acknowledged, he thought. Plus, he felt a little guilty for judging the drab fox's performance so harshly.

A couple of hours later, after the last act, the lion invited everyone to return to the dining room for a complimentary lunch. The Château was not known for fine food even for its paying customers, so Arden was not inclined to stay for a free lunch. Then he caught sight of the fennec. He and a couple of other furs were talking dejectedly while waiting in the buffet line. The little fox's eyes seemed slightly unfocused, as if he were replaying in his mind's eye the dreadful audition he'd just completed.

Normally shy to a fault, curiosity got the better of the jet wolf, and he too joined the queue. Lunch amounted to no more than thin sandwiches and fries, but Arden didn't care as he approached the table where David Tyler and Company sat. "Is this seat taken?" he asked, looking directly at the fox, whose ears perked at the question. Neither he nor Arden noticed the fur on a rather overweight opossum begin to puff out, making him appear even more rotund.

"Yeah. Of course. I mean, um, no, please," the fennec stammered, gesturing to the chair. "You're welcome to join us." His voice was shaky at first, but held a warm tone.

Arden wondered, as he sat across from the fox, whether the haunted look in the fox's eyes might not be completely due to the makeup he was wearing.

"I'm Dave," said the smaller vulpine, smiling shyly as he thrust a paw across to the wolf.

"Arden," replied the lupine, firmly clasping the delicate fennec paw.

"This is Tim," said David, gesturing to the aloof opossum, "and this is Jenny," he continued, putting a paw on the shoulder of a willowy pine marten seated to his left.

"We're the 'and Company,' she said with a smirk, and grabbed Arden's paw in turn, winking at him. "Your act was really good!"

"Thanks, I'm really glad you liked it," said Arden in a hushed voice. "Your fiber optic was incredible! Who made it for you?" he asked with more conviction.

David jumped in. "Oh, I did. It's kind of my job. I do special effects and stuff for theme parks."

Oh my Gods, thought Arden, this is unbearably cool. He had always been a nerd for techy stuff, and if it lit up or spun around - so much the better. "That is so...really? How long did it take you to make that?"

"A couple of weeks. It's not that hard. You just need some epoxy, several hundred feet of fiber, some copier toner--"

"It's a trade secret," interrupted the opossum, whose eyes seemed a little dilated and redder than normal for his species. He looked hard at Arden, and then returned with vigor to his over-laden plate.

"Well, not really," countered the fox, whose ears had fallen somewhat.

"You've worked on your technique for years," Tim continued, talking loudly through a mouthful of sandwich, "you shouldn't just give away everything to your competition." The opossum eyed the uncomfortable wolf, who now felt as if he had stumbled into the middle of something.

"Oh, you always think everybody's gonna rip off Dave's secrets," laughed Jenny. "Arden looks pretty..." she let the word hang for a beat as she regarded him with a leer, "trustworthy to me," she finished, winking again.

Arden felt his fur bristle a bit, though in his dark smoking jacket he doubted if anyone would notice. Why did he get the impression that Jenny was flirting with him, and that Tim was jealous? He hadn't said anything to anyone - he never did. David, at least, didn't seem to notice anything amiss, and picked up where he'd been interrupted.

"If you'd like to come by my place and see how to do it, I'd be happy to show you." His voice was sincere, and he looked directly at Arden. "Come play with us! It'd be great to go over some ideas with another magician. I'd love to get your opinion on some things I'm working on."

Flattered, and more than a little intrigued, Arden immediately replied, "That would be great!"

"How about this weekend? Are you free?"

The competition almost forgotten at this point, Arden and his new acquaintances finished their lunch amid excited conversation, exchanging contact information and promising to meet early that weekend to get a start on some new illusions.

As Arden drove away, he marveled at how fate sometimes gives you exactly what you didn't know you needed.

What an understatement that would turn out to be.