I could have been the seafood guy

One reporter’s brush with hawking Hannaford

By Noah Bruce

I was almost in a Hannaford Brothers commercial. Yes, those incredibly annoying, yet eerily catchy, “you’ll never know what you’ll find,” cheese fests. Have you seen the new one where two sets of twins cause a ruckus in the store? Well, I was almost the seafood guy.

When I signed up for the audition, I figured the ad would be corny, corn being one of the main ingredients in all grocery store commercials. But I had never seen a Hannaford ad, and it wasn’t until I told my then editor why I would be missing a Tuesday morning of work, and he burst into hysterics, that I realized there was something special about Hannaford.

In case you’ve never seen the commercials in question, they feature people, who, as my current editor says, “behave as if they have eaten rocks all their lives and are suddenly released in a grocery store.”

This rather embarrassing chapter in my life began back in October. At the time, I was working as a production assistant (a.k.a. do-boy) on a low-budget movie being filmed in southern Maine. This particular night, I had brought my wife, Amrita, along to check out what a movie set looks like, and she had been roped into serving as an extra – without pay, of course.

Then I noticed something. My wife, an Indian (from India, not a Native American) stuck out like a sore thumb. Hers was the only brown face in a crowd of honky extras. I realized that in Maine an exotic looking girl like Amrita is a rarity, a potentially bankable rarity.

After a quick huddle with Amrita, I approached the agent, Dee Cooke, who had supplied the extras, about getting Amrita some modeling work. She said she was interested in having Amrita “on file.”

I Become a Model.

So, a few weeks later we drove to the bustling entertainment center of Belgrade, Maine, where Dee Cooke has her office. We went that day, not so Amrita could audition for a particular role, but to enter her into Dee’s roster.

This is where my acting career began. One of Dee’s assistants, a feisty grandmotherly type named Nancy, suckered me in.

The prospect of registering with the agency — becoming a model — introduced a complex problem of self-image. On one hand, I was immensely flattered – I was being asked to try out to be a model. I was hot shit! On the other hand, though, I imagined explaining the career move to my friends: “So, dude, I’m a model now.”

Man, that sounded pretty fucking lame.

After some hemming and hawing, I relented.

Then Nancy went through the rather degrading process of grading me. She asked me to smile and took down little notes. She asked to see my hands and again scribbled in her little pad. “Any scars?” she asked. I have a fairly prominent scar on my forehead, the result of a an incident involving a drunken man in Prague a few years ago.

“Just this one,” I said pointing above my eye.

“I don’t see anything,” she said.

Dee called Amrita into the studio. Fifteen minutes later, Amrita came out seemingly cheerful and Dee called me in.

In the middle of the room was a camera, and towards the front of the room near the door I had just entered was a desk and chair. Dee told me to sit down.

First though I had to clarify things.

“I didn’t plan on auditioning today,” I said. “Nancy convinced me. So I’m not sure if I’m wearing the right clothes or whatever.”

“You’re fine,” said Dee.

Dee turned on the camera, and asked me to say my name, where I lived, and an activity I enjoyed. I couldn’t think of anything cool to say so I copped out and said something I thought would make me look like a nice guy:

“My name is Noah Bruce, I live in Portland, and I enjoy cooking a meal for my wife on a Saturday night.”

Weak, I know, but the camera makes me freeze up.

I read this scene with Dee for the camera in which I found out that I didn’t use enough “facial expressions.” But all I really wanted to find out was if Dee thought I had a future in the acting/modeling world. “If you don’t think so, please tell me. I wasn’t planning on auditioning today, so if you don’t think I have a chance, it won’t hurt my feelings.”

I was giving myself an out by allowing Dee to tell me if I sucked. I was also, however, lying. Of course, I didn’t want to be told that I didn’t have the goods. Dee didn’t tell me that, though. “I think you could get some roles,” she said.

And she was almost right. About a month later, Dee’s assistant called and asked if Amrita and I would audition for a Hannaford commercial.

First Hannaford Audition

The preliminary audition was to be held back in Belgrade. I was expecting some Hannaford commercial people, but there was nobody else in the studio beside Amrita, me, and Dee. She explained that she was going to film us role-playing a few scenes, and then send the tape to the Hannaford people for call-backs.

In the first scenario, Amrita was to play a woman who worked in the bakery. I was an annoyingly cheerful customer who was making extensive inquiries about birthday cakes with no actual plans to purchase the cake. We were to ad-lib a scene.

“One tip before you begin,” said Dee, “Hannaford commercials tend to be a little over the top so be a little exaggerated, you know, big smiles.” Again, at this point, I had never actually seen the commercials in question, which is why I didn’t laugh when she said that.

Here are the highlights:

AMRITA, (wearing phony-ass smile): Hi, welcome to Hannaford. How can I help you?

NOAH: “Well, it’s my Aunt Edna’s birthday soon and I wanted to ask you about birthday cakes.”

AMRITA, (pointing at white plaster wall): Oh we have all different flavors of cakes — chocolate, vanilla, even strawberry. They come in all kinds of styles too. These are just some of our different kinds of cakes.

NOAH: Hmmm. Yeah, those look great! But my Aunt Edna really likes roses, do you think I could order something with roses on it?

AMRITA: Sure! We can do flowers or just about any type of decoration you want.

NOAH: Well, can I get her name on it?

AMRITA, (rambling): Of course. We use quality ingredients in our cakes, and people really like them. You should probably place an order a day in advance to give our cake artists time to do their best. We can do a cake in just about any style you want, like roses, but you could also choose from some set styles.

NOAH, (attempting to be scene savior, with grin appropriate only for someone about to receive sex): Oh, that’s great! Thanks, so much for all the information. I’m going to talk to my family about it and then I’ll come back and place an order.

“Well . . . that was . . . good,” said Dee.

Then we did another scene where I was the seafood guy and Amrita was asking for some dinner recommendations. I recommended “some jumbo-size Maine rock shrimp,” a product I made up.

Second Hannaford Audition

A week later I got a call from Dee’s assistant at work. After some pleasantries he cut to the chase. “Noah, Hannaford would like to see you again for another audition.” He told me the place — Channel 2 studios on Oak Street — and we set up a time. I just had one question. “So is Amrita auditioning, too?”

“No, unfortunately they just wanted to see you.”

“Holy shit,” I thought after the initial rush of pride subsided, “this could be bad for my marriage.”

Luckily, Amrita’s ego wasn’t damaged. In fact, she didn’t seem to care at all. Maybe she had seen a Hannaford commercial.

At about this time I realized that this acting gig was not going to be the goldmine I thought it was going to be. To land a crummy $300 dollar part in the Hannaford ad I would have to go through two sets of interviews, one in Belgrade, and then spend a whole night (for some reason they were filming the ad at night) shooting the thing. If you work it out to an hourly rate, I might as well be hauling clams down on the docks, assuming they do that.

Walking from the Phoenix building on Congress to the audition on Oak, I noticed something — I was nervous. My heart was not racing but it was beating faster than normal. In my head, I didn’t care if I got the part. Hell, I’d heard how ridiculous these commercials were and I knew I’d be a laughingstock if I appeared in a Hannaford commercial. I would forever after be known as the fruit boy or the seafood boy around the office. Yet on some level I must have wanted the ego gratification of being chosen, else why would I have that flighty feeling in my stomach?

I walked into the studio waiting room. There were six or seven people sitting in chairs, and they all looked like TV people. Everybody was good looking, or if they weren’t, they had a kind of wholesome all-American look about them. Shoes were shined and hair seemed to be sitting just right, no errant cowlicks or curls. I was feeling nice and superior, with my khakis and old shoes and my finger-styled hair. I felt like I stood out in my shabbiness.

Then Dee entered the waiting room from the studio and called me and four others — two men and two women — to audition. We followed Dee through a short corridor and into a large, white, rectangular room. As I entered the studio I was assaulted by bright, theatre-style lights shining down on me. The lights, combined with the white of the room made for a slightly confusing, dream-like setting.

There was a table set up in the middle of the room with three men sitting behind it. Behind the table, against the wall was a sofa with three more men. It was not clear who was who. Then a man behind the table asked us to line up shoulder to shoulder in the spot directly under the lights.

I did not like standing under the lights. First of all, I felt unnatural assuming the appropriate stance — standing straight, no hands on hips or in pockets. Second, the whole idea of being observed like a squirming bug before a scientist was uncomfortable and my imagination began to swim. We were all murder suspects in a police lineup. The men on the couch were slave traders picking us over. Perhaps worst of all, we were a bunch of ho’s being paraded out for the enjoyment of Jabba the Hut.

The man who told us to line up — I supposed he was the director — told the women to stand to one side, the first scene would be all men.

“Noah and Sam you will be customers in this scene,” he said. “Bob you will play a butcher. Bob, please put on the apron. In this scene, Noah and Sam, you are standing in for two burly customers. Bob, you suggest different kinds of meat. Then you both start ordering these massive amounts of meat, both at the same time, and Bob, you are overwhelmed, but you’re doing your best to keep up.”

Sam and Bob were both middle-aged guys, about 40. They both oozed this everyday, respectable, bland, white collar, Americaness. I would have believed they were pediatricians, accountants, or middle management.

“Is this going to be a silent scene?” asked Bob. “Yes,” said the director, “no lips flapping.”

I was perplexed. I should have just figured it out as I went along, but there was a part of me that almost wanted everyone to know I was an amateur and I didn’t take any of this seriously.

“How can I order a filet mignon without speaking?” I asked the director. In response he began pointing in the air. “Use your digits,” said Bob.

So we did the scene. Sam and I approached and pointed at all the meat we wanted and Bob, his eyebrows raising every time we pointed, and his head turning frantically between Sam and I, did his best to accommodate all our imaginary meat requests.

Then the director told Sam and Bob to switch places. At one point, though I basically had no role except pointing at imaginary meat, I managed to make myself look like an ass by walking in front of the camera. They had to cut the scene. “Just walk this way so you don’t cross the camera,” said the director.

“Yeah, don’t step in front of the camera,” Bob added helpfully.

After the second run of this scene, where I successfully navigated around the camera, the director dismissed all of us. “Thank you gentlemen” he said, “you can go.”

I couldn’t believe it. I’d made it all the way to the second round of auditions only to be used as a stand-in. What a waste.

I was on my way out of the studio when an effeminate young man sitting on the couch saved me. He was wearing a blue turtleneck and I don’t know who he was, but he said “I’d like to see him” — pointing at me — “as the seafood guy.” The director listened, and it was my turn to put on the apron and be filmed. Now, Bob and Sam were twins and I was helping one when the other came up and I did this exaggerated double-take and put on a doofy “Huh?” look of perplexity.

And that was it. Bob, Sam, and I were dismissed, and I never heard back from Hannaford, Dee, or anybody about it. But, hell, I didn’t want those sour grapes anyway.

Noah Bruce can be reached at nbruce@phx.com.