Tuesday, February 12, 2002

Audition Day 3 (The Callback)

By the time I arrived I had to pee so badly I could see no further than the fantasy of a bathroom, and cared little for whether there was a job on the other side of it. Of course, being run by theater people, the production “office” opened 15 minutes late, and well I couldn’t wait. I took the slow elevator to the second floor where I had so cleverly discovered facilities before. Locked. So I stumbled onto the 4th floor, where I was confronted by a gatekeeper who I begged her to let me in the bathroom. Someone had to be called, who took their time arriving, and finally when I explained to the secretary I have a bladder disease she hopped right on it. The bathroom turned out to be an unlocked room literally 20 feet from where we were standing. Whatever.

I heard dogs barking down the elevator shaft and knew the production team had arrived.

There were about eight phases to this audition. After each one, conducted in a super-heated environment, (literally - it had to be 90 degrees - finally someone called to have the register shut off, which never happened) people were (politely) sent packing. First phase was dance, then tap, and then two or three cold readings each, which resulted in what seemed to be the final cut.

Now ten of us sat in a circle on the floor like kindergartners waiting for story time. The two remaining team members explained to us the details of the gig; we would be required to meet at ungodly hours of the morning and work closely as a team, which is why they wanted to get to know each of us individually.

dive for fresh air in the hallway by the elevator. I’m not the only one with this idea. The space is all a-clatter with female voices, which hush whenever it sounds like an announcement is being made in the other room.

1:15 pm A rumor filters though the posse of waiting women that the directors are going to “type” us. This means we are counted off in groups of 50, the production team looks at our resumes and photos, and tells most of us to go home. I’m liking this idea because it sound less likely that I’ll have to stay in here any longer, wasting my time.

2 pm Of course, as well all know it, *I* am the best person at wasting my time. Due to excessive chatter in the room I miss the call for #’s 100-150, a mistake which comes at the cost af about 2 hours. I’ll have to wait for the next round. I glance at who’s being kept, or “typed in.” They are predominantly skinny, blonde lookers. I’m thinking, this is the “Joseph and the ATD”, folks. And “The Music Man”. Do you think all the people in the Bible were good looking? Or in Iowa?

We were clearly given the impression we were all pretty much “in” at this point, (ten of us sat there for 8 positions) and now it was time to have “fun”. We learned two songs and soloed on each verse. We rapped. I rapped. I, white girl form suburban Wisconsin, I rapped my little heart out, went on about how cool it is to wear knee pads when you rollerblade.

Finally, I got to take out the rollerblades I had dragged across Manhattan. Yay! After singing about helmets and knee pads for about an hour, it seemed ironic that I was the only one who’d brought any protection.

Three of us dared to blade in these conditions. The floor was uneven; a laminate-looking layer which had warped and come up left three distinguishable, gaping horizontal gaps between the floor and the - other floor. The auditioners cheered me on with whoops and leftover rap energy as I demonstrated my in-line prowess. I was managing the rugged terrain quite well, thank you when one of the directors yelled jovially, “I want to see some arabesques!!!”

I was thinking, this room is pretty small to gain enough speed for that, when she followed with, “remember, some of the spaces you’ll be working in will be even smaller than this, so don’t go for it if you don’t feel confident!” I’m such a sucker for the egg-on.

One of the other rollerbladers smiled at me. “My mom said, ‘you wanted to be a performer...’” she winked. Her attempt was short-lived. Willing myself not to fall, I managed an entire half length of the room gliding on one foot. At the other end, I veritably fell into the nervous arms of my companions.

That did it for the afternoon’s fun. The directors thanked us for our time and implored us to let them know as soon as possible if we have any conflicts with the show (yet there was no exact schedule available at the moment - I asked.)

As I was walking away I asked some of the other performers if they were going to check out the situation at the Equity audition going on uptown. (Pittsburgh Light Opera) “Don’t even think about it,” he said, “I went in this morning before getting here. There were already 600 Equity people on the wait list, and 3 very, very optimistic non-Eq’s. That’s in addition to the people that already have appointments to audition. There’s no way.” This time, I believed my colleague. I went home to my cockroaches.

But not ...before first stopping in at a “first care” clinic two blocks from my home. The white spots on the back of my throat had been becoming irritating. I’ve mostly had them all year, but they seemed like the LEAST important thing wrong with me this year, what with heart surgery and laproscopy and cystoscopy and attempted, failed endoscopy and all, and though I’d mentioned it to a few docs, they’d said it’s probably just stuck food. My allergist, however, had a different thought, though the spots weren’t visible when I visited her. “Sounds like Thrush -” she said. “-yeast in the throat. Though I doubt it. Babies get it, old people get it, people with HIV get it...I’d be surprised.”

So, of course the doc looks down my throat on this happy day and says, “ooooo, looks like Thrush! “ We’re waiting on the labs. Meanwhile, I’m swishing with antifungals. “Swishing with antifungals....” Is that a new sort of dance?
....

Monday, February 11, 2002

Audition Day 2

8:35 am - Alarm goes off. (Just think: It is 7:35 in Chicago.)
My goal: Be downtown by 10:15, get my name on the sign-up list for a touring company called “Earthtones,’ do the audition, get out. Go get headshots reproduced.

8:55 am - Out of bed

9:05 am - Start warming up shower

9:15 am - Get in shower

9:20 am - Get out of shower, put English muffins in toaster oven, press “toast,” set to “light.”

9:22 am - Dress, begin make-up. Eyes are already burning from mascara.

9:24 am - Smell smoke - (could that be why my eyes are burning?)

9:24:05 am - Walk (calmly) into kitchen to discover both English muffins BLAZING within the toaster oven.

Being the daughter of a fire investigator, I am thoroughly prepared for this situation. I unplug the oven while flames engulf muffins completely, quickly wet towels and wait to see if fire gets bigger or smaller.

9:27 am - Flames eat themselves up (once muffin fuel is devoured.) New smoke alarm goes off (it works!). Take batteries out of smoke alarm.

9:28 am - Put another couple of English muffins in the toaster oven. SET TIMER.

9:30 am - Quickly spread both muffins with butter and jelly, pack stuff.

9:31 am - Can’t find muffins. Where are they? Looking everywhere...find them in refrigerator.

9:35 am- At train station, ready to go downtown. Hesitate; did I turn off the toaster oven? Turn around.

9:36 am - Get on the train, deciding I was just being silly.

9:37 am - Begin to catastrophize; what if I started a fire? Batteries aren’t in smoke alarm...no one would hear. i was not in a lucid state of mind when I left. Obviously, because I put the muffins back in the fridge - Is there anyone I can call? Nope. Is this OK? I mean, really, if it comes down to the lives of small children and getting to this insignificant audition on time, which should it be???

9:40 am - get off train, go back the other direction.

9:50 am - get back to apartment, (5th floor) see that the toaster oven is fine, pee, leave.

10:03 am - On train going back the other direction.

10:45 am - Chilled completely, teeth chattering, wind-blown...after a long wait for the elevator walk into 3rd floor audition space. 30 actors are crammed into a hallway half the size of my living room. (plus would you believe it? TWO DOGS!) There is a bathroom AT THE VERY BACK.

10:50 am - Find bathroom satisfactory for all practical purposes, but as it has no mirror, and I am getting heady from the cold differential and claustrophobia, I go in search of another restroom.

11 am - Found one! I am so clever. Look at all those people, crammed up there, while I have the entire second floor hallway to myself. Dash into bathroom; alleluia chorus there is a mirror! ...but the light doesn’t work.

11:01 am - Punt on the lipstick.

12:15 pm - Back upstairs, non-Equity actors are actually auditioning, as there are NO equity actors here (they are not allowed.) My number is coming up - the big moment is getting closer. MY FIRST NEW YORK AUDITION. WHOO HOOO!

12:30 pm - Bathroom runs out of toilet paper.

12:45 pm - My number’s up. Wait! One of the producers has to pee. OK, NOW it’s my turn! I get to sing my entire 16 bars! I’m hoping they’ll ask me for another song - that’s what they’ve done with everybody else they’ve called back. I heard one girl sing three songs!

12:46 pm - Production team seems inclined to chat:

“Do you drum?”
“Yes.”

“Can you tap dance?”
“Ahhh, I can do a time step and a couple variations.”

“Can you rollerblade?”
“Why, yes.”

“Can you drive a car?”
(Is this a trick question?) “Yes.”

I’m feeling mighty good about myself just about now.

“CAN YOU ...SKELETON??”
“Uh,” (Do I admit I have no idea what they’re talking about? Is it a new dance? Is this it? Am I out of the race? Damn! It was going so well!) “No, I don’t think so. Definitely not... Uh, what is it?”

An awkward silence. They look down at their papers, which is often a sign you’re dismissed, or are about to be.

“OK then, see ya!” I wave goodbye.

“Oh, no! Wait!” one of them says. “We were joking. Skeleton is a new Olympic sport.”
(They wanted to see if I was just a “Yes” man, I guess.)

12:56 pm - Apparently, they are still inclined to chat. About nothing in particular, with ME. Perhaps they want to see if they “like” me. Perhaps after seeing so many people sing some folks just need a break and I seem like a good - chatter-upper? I don’t know. But it’s making me uncomfortable.

“Can you come back tomorrow?”
“Sure.”
“Oh, and - bring your rollerblades.”



To be continued.

Friday, February 8, 2002

My First Week in New York

So, here it is. Here’s my big story about my first week in New York City. This is about what happened once I actually got around to the business of auditioning, after I got lost because the lights on the signs to the highway were burned out, got my first ticket in the first 10 minutes of being here, got a working smoke alarm, got the tub to drain and bled the radiator so it wouldn’t clank all night and keep me up. This is what happened after the first meeting with the resident cockroaches in my one-bedroom sublet in Flushing, who have now become a little like pets that I kill (funny how the words “pet” and “pest” have only one letter different.) This is how it’s been since I unloaded my luggage, learned my way around on the train, and began to get settled, well sort of.

My First Week in New York

Friday, Feb. 8
I’m sitting on a bench in dirty New York subway station, eating the driest double chocolate cookie. Slouched over, feeling sorry for myself, I am dressed to the nines, with black cookie crumbs falling all over my mouth, sticking to the lipstick where they don’t fall. I don't usually wear lipstick so I'm annoyed by the inconvenience.

I have Interstitial Cystitis and so am not supposed to have chocolate. So I try to save it for occasions that are truly celebratory or sad. Typically that amounts to approximately three doses of chocolate per day.

Today warranted the purchase of THREE chocolate cookies in a bakery near times Square. The bakery gets high points for location, but the cookies - well I’ve had so much better in Iowa.

Across from me on the gray cement subway wall there is a sign with block letters going vertically down which state: “DRAIN.” In my nullified state I misread it as “BRAIN,” and wonder why they have to label, in New York, where the brains are on the subway.

Then I see it for what it is: brain = drain. Oh. That’s exactly what I feel like I have a case of: Brain-drain.

This morning I rose with one thing on my mind: accomplish my first New York audition. It was exciting and scary. I reviewed my materials carefully the night before, made sure all the words were in place in my brain for my monologue and assured my music was all in order, 3-hole punched, labeled and taped at the edges and clearly marked with cuts and repeats for the accompanists, who from my experience can get very surly if things aren’t just right.

While in the shower I spilled shampoo in my right eye. I haven’t done that since I was about eight. Yet surely it would have to happen the morning of my first New York audition, my hands simply too affected by anxious disorientation to get the stuff on top of my head where it belongs. I warmed up body and voice, knowing I (am over 30 and) had about an hour to the audition and god knows how long to wait after that.

I said goodbye to the cockroaches ("I'll be home by 7, call if there're any emergencies") and embarked on my Big Mission in the Big City.

The long rides on the subway are good for doing Kegel exercises, if that’s what you’re into, but little else. It’s hard to read because it makes me seasick, and if you look at the ads you’re liable to get hypnotized by the repetition. About the best thing to look at is the graffiti, and you have to wonder, how did somebody get way down here to do that? Wouldn't you get hit by a train?

Thus I discover why New Yorkers talk so much about what other people wear on their feet. In my effort to avoid eye contact on the train I am not surprised to observe that I am undoubtedly the only woman in all of New York City wearing rubber soled hiking boots. (My audition clothes are in my bag - I never wear them to an audition lest I get them all sweaty or have a long walk along the way.)

To the best that I can figure there's only one shoemaker in all of New York. Every single last one of the women on the train is wearing squared black leather boots, the ones with those heels with the flat front edge, which look chic, I guess, but have about the support of those old Chinese flats we wore in the 80’s. I don’t know how they do it. There, perhaps lies the reason for the proliferation of massage therapists and chiropractors here - miles of women walking on cement, wearing - leggos with heels.

Exhausting that fascinating train of thought, I have little to think of aside from various (and all rational) reasons why I should get really nervous for this upcoming audition. And whether I’m on the right train. To my frustration, maps aren't available at the stations (I would find out later you have to ask a booth attendant for one,) and the maps inside the train are placed low, such that in order to get close enough to read them I would have to thrust my boobs into the direct line of sight of two large Italian men. I was taught in early adolescence to keep my boobies to myself.

I remember it clearly. Elliot Johnson, generally seated on the opposite perimeter of the 6th grade class from me, stood up one day while I was leaning over some project during free time and shouted, “My God, Niki, you have BIG BOOBS!” Thus I never escaped what has to be the most ironic Nick-name ever given a girl: “Double D”., which resulted in a number of embarrassing incidents, including the delivery of a used double D bra to me during a high school lunch hour packed with hormone-seething teenagers much more popular (and aptly nick-named, I assure you) than I.

Thus the choice is clear: I shall hope I’m on the right train, going in the right direction, rather than initiate another embarrassing incident.

I’m running late. Anyone who’s ever said that New Yorkers aren’t friendly, I think, have never actually talked to a New Yorker. This morning on the way downtown - I mean midtown - I stopped at the 1-hour photo place to inquire whether they’d make a few copies of my headshot. The owner of the corner store, an Arab man who has had the misfortune of marrying an Irishwoman who adores cats, treated me to a 20 minute rendition of how his house is now unliveable. He threw up his hands and raised his voice in imitation of his lovely wife. “She feeds them everywhere, ‘here, kitty! here, kitty...’ she is in love with them!” the man laments. “Now I have this drippy nose and eyes ...I never had that before. It’s going to have to be me or the cats, I told her, and she thinks maybe I should move next door.” He seems inconsolable, moreover, unamenable to my suggestion that he should do some of his own cleaning to be rid of the dander, however, so I run down into the train station.

As I walk down Broadway to Times Square I can’t help but have a thousand “New York” songs running through my head. I feel like the girl from Kansas who first laid her eyes on the lit rows of a big city. I look up, gawking, singing “Give My Regards to Broadway,” and “You’re Never Fully Dressed Without a Smile” (“who cares what they’re wearing on Main Street...”) simultaneously in my head, impressed that I’ve actually seen all these places in the past 48 hours. I feel like a clashing cliché of actresses; hundreds, thousands who have come before me, walking down this street with lipstick on their lips, V-0-5 in their hair, hope in their hearts and something like 70 cents in their pocket.

Nowadays you wouldn’t think of making such a trip without at least a couple thousand in the bank. I certainly didn’t. This is a rare opportunity which will probably never happen again. I’m sucking up my courage and doing what I always wanted to do: strike out on the Broadway audition circuit.

So here I am, looking up at daunting flashing lights and wondering what’s going to happen to me next. I find the Actors Equity office right in the heart of Times Square. In case you don't know what Equity is, it’s the actors’ union, designed to bring safety, dignity and decent wages to actors, who are otherwise typically the first kind of employee who can be trod upon. Desperation breeds endurance of many indignities. I took a deep breath and the elevator to the second floor, where the audition purportedly was happening.

A lady with a worn face and curly hair that had been died to an unreal shade of red didn’t greet me at the entrance, but told me where I could and couldn’t wait once I asked. “Over here is the Actors Equity lounge,” she explained, “but you can’t go in there unless you have your Equity card.” I smiled at her and explained that I would like to be a member of Equity, but alas have not been hired in any equity shows, the only way to gain enough “points” to become a member, and I would happily wait in the hallway-like area reserved for “non-Equity” actors.

But I did ask her to point me to the bathroom. “It’s in the Equity lounge,” she explained, “but you can’t go in there. You’ll have to go to McDonald’s.” This surprised me, as I understand the whole point of the actors’ union is to increase the level of dignity afforded to actors. And there's that bladder disease i have.

I signed my name on the list, hoped my name wouldn’t be called while I was going down the steps, down the hall, out the door, around the corner and up two more flights of steps with all my stuff to wait in line with the patrons of McDonald’s. There is a door which leads to the restaurant more directly, but that is locked, apparently on account of all the non-Equity grubs trying to get in and use the bathroom. There was little room between the stalls for my 4 pairs of shoes (compulsory black heeled boots for the singing audition, a pair each of character shoes and jazz shoes in case I have to dance -that would be lucky- and my hiking boots, the stable force which remind every moment I’m in New York exactly where I’m from.)

I needn’t have worried. Not one name on the non-equity sign up list has been crossed off when I arrive back, dressed in a pair of slick, flared spandex/polyester pants and a flouncy blue top, which I hope will indicate both my infinite coolness and my feminine confidence all at once. I settle myself down to wait.

An hour later (I mark the time by numbers of trips to the oh-so-distant bathroom, hauling my gear and refreshing my lipstick each time while trying to remain simultaneously warmed up, positive, poised and relaxed) the woman seated next to me leans over -I’m seated on the floor- and says, “I’ve heard bad news for non-Equity’s. Apparently they’re booked and they have 60 Equity members, on a waiting list, who they have to see before us. “ It’s 3 o’clock. That means that in two hours (for directors and producers never stay late) they have to fit in 60 auditions - BEYOND what they’d originally scheduled, mind you- before they can even dream of getting to us.

Now, I’m not entirely sure I trust this woman. Not that I'm the suspicious type. it's just that I’ve heard of actors trying to flush out the competition before they ever get their 16 bars in the studio, by hook or by crook, by discouragement or intimidation, by any means possible. Which is why I generally don't talk to people before an audition. Besides, I’m pretty smart. I know that in Chicago there is an Equity practice where they set aside at lest 2 auditions per hour specifically for non-equity actors. When I explain this, the girl next to me blurts out, “I’m moving to Chicago!”

She, as well as several other waiting non-equity actors who have now joined in the conversation, explains how she’ s attended several auditions per week for over a year now in the city, and often isn’t even seen. She’s quite familiar now with the group of elderly actors who show up here - and bring their dogs.

I had wondered about the folks with the dogs: two poodles, one wearing a striking red leather jacket and matching leggings. “Yeah, they have great stories, these old folks,” she says, “like they’ll say, ‘that day I acted with Betty Davis...’ and how the trollies used to take them all over town.”

Silently I think what is more shocking to me than people who bring their dogs to an audition is the fact that they have been doing this long enough to have acted with Betty Davis and apparently STILL HAVEN’T EARNED THEIR EQUITY CARD - in other words don’t get the health insurance benefits, can’t make an appointment for an audition, don’t get the free tickets and other free perks afforded to members, indeed still can’t use that bathroom in the all-exclusive Equity lounge. I make another trip to the McDonald’s.

Another hour later the lady with the red hair presents herself in front of us. “We still have 28 equity actors on the waiting list we have to see before we get to all of you,” she announces. “You are all welcome to hang around if you want to, but,” she adds knowingly, “if it was me, I wouldn't.”

Everybody leaves. Except the small crowd with the dogs, who seem to be content that they have waited a lifetime already, so why not several more. Maybe dogs aren't allowed it he lounge.

I am all dressed up, with no place to go.

Actors in the old days didn’t have to audition. There used to be companies, ensembles who not only trained you, they practically RAISED you. They would teach you how to hold a sword, you’d do bit parts and learn how to act from the ground up, which is the right way to learn. And then, if they had the right actresses to play Juliet and the Nurse at the same time they had the right actor to play Romeo, why, they’d DO Romeo and Juliet.

Since 9-11 there has been a call for the “soul” of the American theater. It’s been said it has, for a long time, “suffered from a lack of cohesive spirit, of social purpose, political engagement, moral debate and ethical linkage” (Laurence Luckinbill, if you’re curious) - in short, any sense of “What’s it all for?” My friends who act in Argentina and Africa, for instance, seem never to have this question. There is some kind umbrella they are constantly trying to open with their art, an economic ceiling, a democracy, equal rights, someone’s bank account records, someone’s mind.

What’s it all for? I’ve officially lived with this industry all of one day and I already wonder if it’s a very healthy relationship. I feel I am entitled to my cookie, (and I’ll have to check with my shrink even to make sure of that) and I’m not sure what else.

I’ll go back home and ask the cockroaches.