Marquette Street
The Studio Smell Test
Chapter Approved:
The current text maintains a good continuity with the previous text, aligning well with the theme and tone established earlier. The story progresses logically from Eddie's initial encounter with Violet Desmarais to his participation in a television show audition. The narrative flow is smooth, and the new elements introduced, such as the chemistry test and the audition scene, make sense within the context of Eddie's journey towards a potential career in television.
The tone remains consistent with Eddie's character, portraying his nervousness and awkwardness in new situations. The story continues to build on the idea of Eddie being thrust into unexpected opportunities, which was hinted at in the previous text when he mentioned forgetting to clean his shirt.
However, there is a slight shift in the level of formality and the pace of the story. The previous text had a more casual and slightly comedic tone, while the current text adopts a more structured and scripted approach, reflecting the television audition setting. This change is appropriate and adds depth to the story, but it does introduce a slight variation in tone.
Overall, the continuity is strong, with the new elements fitting well within the established narrative and character development. The story maintains a coherent progression from Eddie's accidental introduction to Violet to his participation in a television show audition.
Eddie spent the night oscillating between panic and optimism, like a ceiling fan that refused to pick a speed. He laid out three shirts—one with a mustard stain shaped like Florida, one with a ketchup smear that looked almost intentional, and one miraculously clean shirt he’d forgotten he owned. He chose the clean one, though it felt dishonest, like borrowing someone else’s luck.
By morning, he’d worked himself into a mild frenzy. On the streetcar to the studio, he kept practicing how to introduce himself, but every attempt came out sounding like he was either confessing to a crime or advertising a questionable coupon deal.
The studio building itself was sleek and modern—glass, chrome, and a lobby that smelled faintly of fresh paint and expensive coffee. Eddie felt like a hotdog in a jewelry store. A receptionist with perfect hair directed him down a long hallway.
“Ms. Desmarais is expecting you,” she said, smiling in a way that suggested she wasn’t sure if he was here for a meeting or had accidentally wandered in from a propane safety workshop.
Eddie followed the hallway until he reached a set of double doors. He took a breath, pushed them open, and froze.
Inside, a camera crew was set up. Lights pointed toward a small set decorated to look like a café patio. Violet Desmarais stood at the center of it all, wearing a suit that probably cost more than Eddie’s cart — new wheels included.
“There you are!” she said, spotting him immediately. “Eddie Marquette, meet your future coworkers.”
“Cowork—?” Eddie didn’t finish because a man in a headset appeared beside him with a clipboard.
“Sir, stand here please. We’re doing a chemistry test.”
“A what?” Eddie asked.
“Chemistry. We’re seeing if you and the host vibe naturally. Don’t worry—just be yourself.”
Eddie opened his mouth to say that being himself was precisely what people should worry about, but the man was already herding him toward the set. Violet gave him a reassuring nod.
Standing across from him was a sharply dressed, charismatic television host named Cal Davenport, who had the kind of smile that made you wonder if he practiced it in the mirror or had simply been born with premium-level charm.
“Eddie!” Cal said warmly. “Heard you’ve got the best hotdogs in Jackson Square.”
Eddie swallowed. “Well… they’re edible,” he offered.
A silence fell. The crew watched. Cal blinked.
Then Cal burst into laughter.
Genuine, delighted laughter.
“Oh, I like him,” Cal said. “Let’s roll.”
The lights flared to life. A camera blinked red. Someone yelled, “ACTION!”
Cal began with a smooth introduction. Eddie tried smiling but ended up looking like he’d smelled something suspicious. Cal asked him about his cart, his customers, his signature techniques.
And Eddie—who had planned to be calm—accidentally knocked over a prop coffee cup, apologized to it, got his foot stuck around a chair leg, and somehow turned a simple answer about condiments into a philosophical discussion about mustard’s role in human destiny.
The crew was dying.
Cal wiped tears from his eyes. Violet watched from behind the cameras, wearing a smirk that said this is gold.
When the test finally ended, Violet stepped forward.
“Eddie,” she said, “I think we may have something very special here.”
Eddie’s pulse thudded. “Was… was I okay?”
Violet’s smile widened.
“Darling, you were perfect. Utterly, magnificently unprepared—and that’s exactly what America will love.”
Eddie, bewildered but hopeful, clutched the back of a chair to steady himself. He wasn’t sure how, but he’d blundered his way into opportunity again—this time under studio lights.
And for the first time, he wondered if maybe, just maybe, he belonged here.
By morning, he’d worked himself into a mild frenzy. On the streetcar to the studio, he kept practicing how to introduce himself, but every attempt came out sounding like he was either confessing to a crime or advertising a questionable coupon deal.
The studio building itself was sleek and modern—glass, chrome, and a lobby that smelled faintly of fresh paint and expensive coffee. Eddie felt like a hotdog in a jewelry store. A receptionist with perfect hair directed him down a long hallway.
“Ms. Desmarais is expecting you,” she said, smiling in a way that suggested she wasn’t sure if he was here for a meeting or had accidentally wandered in from a propane safety workshop.
Eddie followed the hallway until he reached a set of double doors. He took a breath, pushed them open, and froze.
Inside, a camera crew was set up. Lights pointed toward a small set decorated to look like a café patio. Violet Desmarais stood at the center of it all, wearing a suit that probably cost more than Eddie’s cart — new wheels included.
“There you are!” she said, spotting him immediately. “Eddie Marquette, meet your future coworkers.”
“Cowork—?” Eddie didn’t finish because a man in a headset appeared beside him with a clipboard.
“Sir, stand here please. We’re doing a chemistry test.”
“A what?” Eddie asked.
“Chemistry. We’re seeing if you and the host vibe naturally. Don’t worry—just be yourself.”
Eddie opened his mouth to say that being himself was precisely what people should worry about, but the man was already herding him toward the set. Violet gave him a reassuring nod.
Standing across from him was a sharply dressed, charismatic television host named Cal Davenport, who had the kind of smile that made you wonder if he practiced it in the mirror or had simply been born with premium-level charm.
“Eddie!” Cal said warmly. “Heard you’ve got the best hotdogs in Jackson Square.”
Eddie swallowed. “Well… they’re edible,” he offered.
A silence fell. The crew watched. Cal blinked.
Then Cal burst into laughter.
Genuine, delighted laughter.
“Oh, I like him,” Cal said. “Let’s roll.”
The lights flared to life. A camera blinked red. Someone yelled, “ACTION!”
Cal began with a smooth introduction. Eddie tried smiling but ended up looking like he’d smelled something suspicious. Cal asked him about his cart, his customers, his signature techniques.
And Eddie—who had planned to be calm—accidentally knocked over a prop coffee cup, apologized to it, got his foot stuck around a chair leg, and somehow turned a simple answer about condiments into a philosophical discussion about mustard’s role in human destiny.
The crew was dying.
Cal wiped tears from his eyes. Violet watched from behind the cameras, wearing a smirk that said this is gold.
When the test finally ended, Violet stepped forward.
“Eddie,” she said, “I think we may have something very special here.”
Eddie’s pulse thudded. “Was… was I okay?”
Violet’s smile widened.
“Darling, you were perfect. Utterly, magnificently unprepared—and that’s exactly what America will love.”
Eddie, bewildered but hopeful, clutched the back of a chair to steady himself. He wasn’t sure how, but he’d blundered his way into opportunity again—this time under studio lights.
And for the first time, he wondered if maybe, just maybe, he belonged here.