Marquette Street
The Audition He Didn’t Know He Was Having
Chapter Approved:
The current text demonstrates good continuity with the previous text, maintaining a similar theme and tone while introducing new elements that make sense within the context of the story. Both texts revolve around the character Eddie Marquette and his experiences with his hotdog cart in New Orleans.
The tone remains consistent, with a mix of humor, self-deprecation, and a touch of sarcasm. The theme of Eddie's struggle to make ends meet and his attempts to improve his situation are continued.
The narrative flow is logical, starting with Eddie's morning routine and leading into a new opportunity that aligns with the events of the previous text. The introduction of the television show audition is a natural progression from Eddie's encounter with Violet Desmarais.
Character consistency is maintained, with Eddie's reluctance to be in the spotlight and his improvisational nature being highlighted in both texts. The new elements introduced, such as the studio setting and the audition process, make sense within the context of Eddie's life and the story's setting.
There are no significant breaks in logic, tone, or narrative structure. The current text successfully builds on the previous text, providing a satisfying continuation of Eddie's story.
Overall, the continuity is excellent, with the new text aligning well with the established theme, tone, and character development.
Eddie woke before sunrise, which was unusual because most days he needed at least two snooze buttons, a cup of weak chicory coffee, and the existential dread of a late start to peel himself out of bed. But today, he snapped awake like someone had shaken him and yelled “Fame!” in his ear.
He spent a solid fifteen minutes staring at his reflection, arguing with himself about what a “television shirt” looked like. Eventually he settled on a button-down that technically counted as clean because the stain near the pocket was more of a shadow than a substance.
By the time he arrived at the studio—a sleek, modern building that looked like it charged rent just for standing too close—Eddie’s nerves were performing acrobatics. He held the little envelope Violet had given him like it might unlock a treasure chest.
The receptionist waved him through with a polite smile that Eddie was pretty sure was her “We get your type here a lot” smile. A production assistant met him at the elevator and ushered him down a hallway filled with posters from famous shows and framed awards that looked far too shiny to be real.
“We’ll just get you mic’d and seated,” the assistant said.
“Mic’d?” Eddie asked, alarmed. “I thought we was… talkin’. Words. With privacy.”
“Oh, this is private,” the assistant said cheerfully. “Only a small crew.”
Then she opened a door to reveal six people, three cameras, two booming lights, and one very cheerful host sitting at a café-style table.
Eddie froze. “Ma’am, this is not my definition of private.”
The host, a gregarious man with a million-watt smile, stood and extended his hand. “Cal Davenport. Pleasure, Eddie. Violet told me all about you.”
“Oh,” Eddie said suspiciously, “I’m sorry.”
Cal laughed so hard the crew chuckled too. “We’re just gonna have a casual conversation,” he said. “Nothing fancy. Imagine we’re sitting outside Jackson Square, just chatting about your day.”
Eddie glanced wildly at the lights. “Y’all got some very intense sunshine in your version of Jackson Square.”
Violet stepped onto the set from behind one of the cameras, dressed in a tailored suit and wearing an expression that suggested she’d been waiting all morning to watch chaos unfold.
“Eddie,” she said warmly, “just relax. You’re not being tested. We simply want to see how you and Cal interact.”
“That’s… that’s a test, ma’am,” Eddie pointed out.
“Yes,” she said without blinking, “but I lied because I didn’t want you running away.”
Before Eddie could find a retort, a production assistant clipped a microphone onto his shirt. The camera light blinked from green to red.
“Rolling!” someone called.
Cal gestured to the chair across from him. Eddie sat down, very aware that the chair was nicer than any furniture he’d ever owned.
“So, Eddie,” Cal began, “tell me—what’s your favorite part of running a hotdog cart in the French Quarter?”
Eddie opened his mouth.
Then the chair leg slipped on the slick studio flooring.
Eddie grabbed for the table. The table wobbled. The decorative coffee cup launched like a small, ceramic missile and landed in Cal’s lap with a dramatic plup. Cal yelped, hopped up, and nearly tripped over a lighting cable.
Absolute, unfiltered chaos.
The crew held their breath.
Cal paused… then burst out laughing. Big, hearty, can’t-catch-his-breath laughter.
“Oh, he’s perfect,” Cal wheezed. “Absolutely perfect.”
Violet’s face lit up like a woman who had just hit the jackpot at a very classy casino.
Eddie blinked. “I—uh—did I do somethin’ wrong?”
“Wrong?” Cal said, wiping tears from his eyes. “You just made more authentic television than half this building has made in five years.”
Violet stepped forward, clasping her hands. “Eddie, darling, if you’re willing… I’d like to offer you a recurring role. You’d be a featured New Orleans personality on our new series.”
Eddie stared. “Recurring as in—more than once?”
“As in regularly,” she said with a grin. “America will adore you.”
He felt lightheaded. A little dizzy. Possibly in need of a chair that didn’t move.
“But,” he said quietly, “I wasn’t tryin’ to… be anything.”
“That,” Violet said, “is exactly why it works.”
Cal clapped him on the back. “Welcome aboard, Eddie.”
Eddie swallowed hard.
Somehow, without meaning to, wanting to, or preparing in any way whatsoever…
he had passed the audition he didn’t even know he was having.
And as he left the studio clutching a visitor badge and a shaky sense of disbelief, one thought rose above the rest:
“Lord help me… I think my life just tripped over somethin’ big.”
He spent a solid fifteen minutes staring at his reflection, arguing with himself about what a “television shirt” looked like. Eventually he settled on a button-down that technically counted as clean because the stain near the pocket was more of a shadow than a substance.
By the time he arrived at the studio—a sleek, modern building that looked like it charged rent just for standing too close—Eddie’s nerves were performing acrobatics. He held the little envelope Violet had given him like it might unlock a treasure chest.
The receptionist waved him through with a polite smile that Eddie was pretty sure was her “We get your type here a lot” smile. A production assistant met him at the elevator and ushered him down a hallway filled with posters from famous shows and framed awards that looked far too shiny to be real.
“We’ll just get you mic’d and seated,” the assistant said.
“Mic’d?” Eddie asked, alarmed. “I thought we was… talkin’. Words. With privacy.”
“Oh, this is private,” the assistant said cheerfully. “Only a small crew.”
Then she opened a door to reveal six people, three cameras, two booming lights, and one very cheerful host sitting at a café-style table.
Eddie froze. “Ma’am, this is not my definition of private.”
The host, a gregarious man with a million-watt smile, stood and extended his hand. “Cal Davenport. Pleasure, Eddie. Violet told me all about you.”
“Oh,” Eddie said suspiciously, “I’m sorry.”
Cal laughed so hard the crew chuckled too. “We’re just gonna have a casual conversation,” he said. “Nothing fancy. Imagine we’re sitting outside Jackson Square, just chatting about your day.”
Eddie glanced wildly at the lights. “Y’all got some very intense sunshine in your version of Jackson Square.”
Violet stepped onto the set from behind one of the cameras, dressed in a tailored suit and wearing an expression that suggested she’d been waiting all morning to watch chaos unfold.
“Eddie,” she said warmly, “just relax. You’re not being tested. We simply want to see how you and Cal interact.”
“That’s… that’s a test, ma’am,” Eddie pointed out.
“Yes,” she said without blinking, “but I lied because I didn’t want you running away.”
Before Eddie could find a retort, a production assistant clipped a microphone onto his shirt. The camera light blinked from green to red.
“Rolling!” someone called.
Cal gestured to the chair across from him. Eddie sat down, very aware that the chair was nicer than any furniture he’d ever owned.
“So, Eddie,” Cal began, “tell me—what’s your favorite part of running a hotdog cart in the French Quarter?”
Eddie opened his mouth.
Then the chair leg slipped on the slick studio flooring.
Eddie grabbed for the table. The table wobbled. The decorative coffee cup launched like a small, ceramic missile and landed in Cal’s lap with a dramatic plup. Cal yelped, hopped up, and nearly tripped over a lighting cable.
Absolute, unfiltered chaos.
The crew held their breath.
Cal paused… then burst out laughing. Big, hearty, can’t-catch-his-breath laughter.
“Oh, he’s perfect,” Cal wheezed. “Absolutely perfect.”
Violet’s face lit up like a woman who had just hit the jackpot at a very classy casino.
Eddie blinked. “I—uh—did I do somethin’ wrong?”
“Wrong?” Cal said, wiping tears from his eyes. “You just made more authentic television than half this building has made in five years.”
Violet stepped forward, clasping her hands. “Eddie, darling, if you’re willing… I’d like to offer you a recurring role. You’d be a featured New Orleans personality on our new series.”
Eddie stared. “Recurring as in—more than once?”
“As in regularly,” she said with a grin. “America will adore you.”
He felt lightheaded. A little dizzy. Possibly in need of a chair that didn’t move.
“But,” he said quietly, “I wasn’t tryin’ to… be anything.”
“That,” Violet said, “is exactly why it works.”
Cal clapped him on the back. “Welcome aboard, Eddie.”
Eddie swallowed hard.
Somehow, without meaning to, wanting to, or preparing in any way whatsoever…
he had passed the audition he didn’t even know he was having.
And as he left the studio clutching a visitor badge and a shaky sense of disbelief, one thought rose above the rest:
“Lord help me… I think my life just tripped over somethin’ big.”