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?
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