Fire Escape Garden

There is a song to summer in Park Slope, Brooklyn. There's music everywhere; an old man playing a Japanese 2-stringed violin on the subway platform at Atlantic Avenue, Opera in Central Park, Latin dance beats coming from open car cars along Sackett Steet which rattle the glass sitting next to my bed. Today I'm drawn out the window of my kitchen by the sound of a woodwind quartet practicing. The sounds float upward for four stories, from a yard 48 feet down and exactly three postage stamp lawns to the West.

I love such an excuse to climb out the window and visit my Fire Escape. My haven - A.K.A. "my "deck." It's my little corner of paradise in rent stabilized Brooklyn where I can escape it all. As the ceiling to the bathroom literally implodes from an unabated flood in the building, and we try to blow up tiny inches of space inside the apartment as if they were some kind of balloon by re-organizing and micro-organizing each desktop, each closet, each cubical foot below the bed, the space OUTdoors gains and gains in importance. Thus, so does summer.

I know the fact I have ten- no, look! Eleven - tomatoes ripening on two vines on my little iron playground in the sky has nothing to do with the spate of 90 degree weather we had at the end of May; their performance must be solely because they know they are loved.

In the midafternoons I pull a rug out to soften metal rungs, place a pillow against the brick wall at my back, spread my legs out where my toes can touch the opposite rail and watch my tomatoes grow in the sun. All mine. (And yes I've been reading books on managing chronic illness and I'm learning about what to do after a stressful day.) I count them, I touch them, water them, dig around in their soil to make sure it is just loose enough, and most of all watch them for any nuance of change, however subtle, since yesterday or the day before, in their little fruits. These have to be the best loved tomatoes in New York City.

There are a few days each year, magical days, when trips out to bask in my green, mid-tree view are not accompanied by the low hum of air conditioners all around. It is not too hot, and not too cold. Someone practices singing in a building across the courtyard. A bluejay alights on the edge of my pea plants and pecks, and I fix the damage done by yesterday's hungry squirrels. In contrast to the competition for space, money and success in the whole of the city, two tiny tomatoes rising from even tinier yellow flowers which I planted in the dirt seems a small miracle.

Of course, I'm not supposed to have this. Any sort of obstruction on the fire escape is strictly vorboten by fire code and a million other laws of common sense, I suppose. But I'm careful to keep things arranged against the outer edge, or hanging; there is plenty room for passing foot traffic (which will surely be necessary in my life time, I'm not altogether naive.) And I figure my landlord will get around to officially forbidding my garden as soon as he fixes the doorknob which has fallen off once a week for three years, the fogged up windows, the broken heat registers, the dark, dangling hallway light and the imploded ceiling, which is about the same time hell will freeze over or thereabouts, so I'm not over worried about losing my little fragment of green just yet.

And the naughtiness of my fire escape garden is half of what is so appealing. I sink into it like a sensual dream. Eve probably felt similarly for her apple. So delicious. So tempting, to pick a tomato a little bit early or over-harvest the herbs. So unlike the rest of my world, where the financial realities of being an artist in NYC bite at my ankles with regularity and the noise of traffic and subways insult embarrassingly delicate ears. Where restless legs disturb sleep, only to become a true nightmare when one discovers a thumb-sized cochroach on one's side in the night. The crushing forces of the Big City have sharpened me, like a pencil, and now I am free to draw the outline of my destiny.

I took my first Indian singing class last Wednesday. Friday I watched a skilled chorus perform a piece written by a friend from Chicago. Last night I walked three blocks to hear an African fusion band. A friend played cello. Two weeks ago Reverie chose its annual playwriting competition winners. The winner is a favorite of mine, about a group of Vietnam Vets who reunion in a Northwestern Cabin and wind up talking about today's military engagements. A friend is premiering a short version her new company's manifestation of Orpheo et Euridice last week and next.

The woodwind players down on the ground are not very good - they squeak and squack with the telltale signs of adult beginners. But there is almost a scent to the air which carries such tones, and it gentles the aura of ineptitude to one of a private, happy, and lofty nostalgia. Here in my Escape in the trees, a reminder of all the good reasons I've come to live in this place of unrelenting fire - distinct challenges, unique opportunities and fine artists who make good music.

Dreams

The town car is quickly encroaching on my space in the cross walk. It's black, and it moves like an animal; impatient, and menacing. Hunting pedestrians, I presume.

It's 11am. I'm a block from home, and still wearing my pajamas. Colin has already made one valiant effort to get the drain in our shower working, and I've already made one valiant attempt at eating. Both have failed. I've come out here for stronger Draino and baby food.

"Hey!" I yell! I reach out my free hand to tap loudly any metal I can touch, which is what walkers and bikers in the city do when threatened as such. The predator/car stops before I get the chance.

It's then I notice the Jesus decals, affixed, one each, on the car's headlamps. I wonder fleetingly if those have been installed just so that when a pedestrian like me is finally run down, in the last moments of their life, they will see the face of Jesus. Getting closer and closer, and then , BOOM! Perhaps they will mistake it for the light at the end of the tunnel, with Jesus, just as they'd always thought he would look, floating at the center of the funnel of light. Perhaps the driver finds that comforting.

What I would find comforting right now is simple food. Having taken only 6 of the 14 required days of my course of two antibiotics for an infection of my ovaries and uterine lining, I must anticipate a bumpy week ahead. I've taken metrodinizole (flagyl) several times before, and always been treated to days on end of nausea and general stomach upset. Followed by months of chest pain, which no one believes, because no one else has ever reported it to Phizer. Now it's gone generic, and even Phizer balks and responding to any such report. This time I'm obliged to mix it with another antiobiotic, at half the dosage but twice the length of time, so I'm laying in supplies for the coming week. White bread, meat, rice, pasta, and sugar for when I need a quick boost.

Boost in energy or spirits, I'm not sure I can tell the difference. Colin came home last night from the theaters at 59 East 59th (called, incidentally, 59 East 59th theaters.) Dr. Ruth came to see Rearviewmirror, (http://www.reverieproductions.org/ ) and loved it (or so the person sitting in front of her said - "there was this little tiny woman sitting behind me who loved the show!") There have been three very positive reviews published. The director is well known and the writer, a brilliant, award-winning friend of ours, is also beginning to make a name for himself. The venue is equally reputable.

Yet the New York Times has not come. Normally a show with such a pedigree would attract the attention of the Times - After all Billboard, Reverie's last show, with less well-known actors, writer, and director, and at the same location but a smaller theater, at least scored a big photo and some coverage, if not a review. Half the Times review staff is on vacation, or so they tell the P.R. representative at 59 E. 59th, and they won't review a show a week before it closes.

The irony is that if The Times reviewed Rearviewmirror, it may not have to close, The theater is encouraging Colin to extend it, which, however attractive to the two actors who would get their Equity cards if that occurred, is tremendously financially risky. Colin is lamenting his fate when I get in the door. Bitterly lamenting.

When a child falls down and skins its knee, a parent has a couple of choices about how to respond. Does she coddle the child, smothering it in kisses and hugs and words of comfort? Or she can freak out and feed them anxiety about the risks of going out into the world with all those knees and elbows all over the place. Or shall she discipline the child, going on a tirade about the new jeans he's just ruined? Ignore said child until he calms down?

I usually choose a combination of coddling, judging and ignoring when Colin gets like this. Yes, it sucks but it's going to be OK, and yes, you should probably be more financially responsible and get a day job to support your theater company habit, and having said that I think I'll ignore you until you calm down.

Tonight I turned on him. (This may fit into the "freak out" category of coping with the hurt child.) "Aren't you just SICK TO DEATH of other people controlling our lives???" I think he was a little shocked. "I mean, I've been auditioning SOLIDLY for months now, and only ONE CALL BACK! And you labor and sweat over this theater company and the Times doesn't come and it's like some major tragedy, you leave the house early before I'm even up and come home after eleven and I never see you except tired and grumpy, we still can't pay fucking rent!!!"

Well, that's not exactly what I said, but you get the idea. Maybe it's because my infected female organs have not been dutiful in producing whatever happy hormones keep me sane (or deluded) on a regular basis. I feel I've been given a dose of empathy, these past few weeks, for my friends with clinical depression. It's as though someone picked me up by the scruff of the neck, lifted me over a pot of depression, and dunked me in. I wake each morning for my daily dose. So I have to tell it like I see it.

Colin sat on the couch. Silence. "Are you ready?" I asked. "Are you ready to give this all up and have a reasonable life? We both have masters degrees and I haven't been able to buy a new pair of tennis shoes in four years! What the fuck is WRONG with us, anyway?"

We watched Little Miss Sunshine last night. The thing that struck me was that by the end of the movie, every single character had a dream they held dear utterly shattered. Sometimes it was their fault, but most the time it was due to circumstances beyond their control. The teenage boy was colorblind, the father didn't have a recognizable name, the little girl had a bad coach for her routine. But at the end of the day, everybody was fine. Just fine. 'There are winners and losers in this world," the father kept repeating. "The winners never quit." But despite heroic efforts on his part, even he could not force events to shape as he'd wanted them.

Thanks be to Grandpa, who sets Olive straight. "The real losers are the ones who never tried."

I've never suffered delusions of grandeur. All I've wanted in coming to the city was to work in my chosen field, grow in knowledge and skill, and be part of high-quality work. Because the pursuit is artistic doesn't make me different from anyone else. If you were an enterprising scientist, you would want to go where all the best scientists go, right? If you were into space, you'd settle in Houston. If you had cancer, you'd be heading to the best cancer center in the world if it could be afforded.

I was inborn with the skill of singing and communicative movement, therefore naturally I ended up in New York. I've always enjoyed sharing my talent, and honing it. Indeed, it's made up the greater part of my life's work. As a child I was counseled by my father to "Do something you love, and you'll never work a day in your life!" and so I did. And it was fun. When I was actually doing it.

Now I spend 90 percent of my time auditioning for work, and almost none actually doing it.

I had a few regional jobs and a stint on a Broadway National Tour, (which I quit) and since then I've been involved with a few start-up shows in town, all produced on a shoe-string, with material of lower quality than anything I ever did in the middle of the country. At what point does having a dream become counter-productive? When pursuing it causes you to be unable to grow?

Clearly we're not alone on this rambling existential path. Last month I noticed a sign up at the Equity Building: "Starting: A support group for those in their 30's who are thinking of giving up the business. Meets first Tuesday of every month. 7pm, Room 204." Pretty much ALL my actor friends in their 30's are thinking of giving it up. They begin to pine over things like children, a stable a home, and health insurance. And then things get - interesting. Some keep going. Some continue thier waitressing job and continue to train and audition. Some move to Montana, get a job at an architecture firm, and buy a house.

I'm picturing myself, around 80 years old, sitting on my chair, reflective (what are the odds I won't be the reflective type even when I'm 80?) I'm trying to predict which action I take today will produce more regret - not having given to the end of my talents with my very last breath, or not having savings to live comfortably, or even afford that oxygen tube I need up my nose at all times. Or will I wish for something in between?

Then again I may not make it to 80. One of those town cars with Jesus on the headlamps could end my dull if somewhat bizarre life today, or, people apparently die each year from coconuts falling on their heads. (http://www.straightdope.com/columns/020719.html)

For years I've joked about any number of alternate paths I could take. I could dismantle my entire life and moved from the city, on my own or not. With Colin, I could move upstate, where our mortgage on our three bedroom house would be less than what we pay in rent for our one-bedroom apartment here. I or we could open a B & B in the Caribbean - Colin could take people our on sailboat rides for an extra fee.. With my leftover college/retirement fund, I could start a school of International Folk Music in the City. ("World Institute of Music," or WIM - I have already named it.) Would Colin, for his part, be willing to take a right turn or a left with me?

And would turning to a different path produce regrets, or instant and life-long bliss?

"Maybe." Colin says to my query, for the first time in our acquaintance.

Lost and Found

Diaries, 2-13-07

Lost and Found


Above: Mr. Hammond with my Wallet. Alex with his phone


I pack the box carefully. Two white pillar candles and one yellow scented one which I made by hand, wrapped in several layers of bubble wrap and nestled between inches of crisp, shredded paper. Gently, I place a naked kandles business card on top. Next to it, I press a twenty dollar bill. Now to the next box.

These boxes are made of the strands of the fabric of the un-torn part of the universe, I remind myself. No sense shirking on the good stuff. I put a silver phone in one, and close them, snug.

Flashback to last Wednesday, when neither Colin nor I could catch a break. I was in Brooklyn, which, like most of the northeast, has been held under a spell of intense cold for weeks. No cold snap, it promises to linger for weeks to come.

My car, Striker, is beginning to show sure signs of transmission failure. Sure signs. Knowing the cost of a new transmission, I begin to sort out my options. Buy a new car? Out of the question. Buy a used one? Possible, but what would I really get on my meager budget? More problems, for sure.

Leave it parked in a neighborhood where I can be almost certain of its meeting with a chop shop within hours? An interesting consideration. But, oh, morals.

A little disappointed to abandon my exciting plan for insurance fraud, I turn to Alex, proprietor of the body shop which fixed my car after I totaled it in the rain on Flatbush Avenue last year.

How did Alex get in the picture? It's the friends network, of course, working again. My friend Amber knows this girl, Jessica. Jessica used to live across the street from this Turkish repair shop. I don't know how they did it, but they fixed my car for one third the cost I'd been quoted at any other shop. Of course I paid in cash. Of course there were splatters of silver paint all over the car, and used parts left inside. But what did I care? It ran.

This time I show up with baklava in hand. "Sure, we feex transmissions!" says Alex, Turkish accent heavier than usual in the cold. Then he looks down. "Nooo. actually we don't." he smiles. "But I take care of you, Nee-Kee, I take care of you."

He hurries to the door, where there are a number of numbers written down. He picks up the phone. I think years of working in a body shop have erased Alex's ability to speak at medium volume. "Hey! Nikolai! I got nee-Kee here, she is my bes, bes-bes-bessst customer! '95 Satrrun! WHAAT can you do?"

And I find myself promising to bring it back Monday, for a transmission fix at half the price and twice the warrantee time I'd previously been quoted.

"Where should I drop it off? " I ask.

"Oh, no," says Alex, "I drive! *I* take it to da place! You bring it, HERE and I will take it for you!" Big smile. MAybe too big. What, is it going to some witness protection hideout, some top secret warehouse in New Jersey? To a member of the Turkish mafia?

It should be ready Tuesday, he says - plenty of time for me to drive down to Richmond, VA for a call-back audition for Into the Woods next week. Plenty.

I will bring cash, of course.

Back to last Wednesday, the air in the apartment on Sackett Street is dry as the Sahara Desert. I've been waking with my mouth so dry it hurts too much to sleep. Time to get a humidifier.

So I put on my winter suit: two pairs of socks, (one wool), two pair of pants (one polartech) , a long cotton tank, a long-sleeve shirt, a polartech sweatshirt, a large polartech scarf, and wool hat with polartech inlay, boots, and my big, black winter coat. I take most the bulk out of my wallet, carrying only essentials, and I head out.

Which sets in motion the following sequence of events:

Walked 5 blocks, up the hill, bought humidifier.

Walked 5 blocks, down the hill, to bank. Oh, no! I don't have my wallet!

(Stuffed in layer up on layer of winter clothing, the Almighty only knows where I might have dropped it and not noticed.)

But do have a large, cumbersome box dangling from my arm. Need to ditch.

Walked 5 blocks home, up the stairs, deposited humidifier.

Retraced my steps, up the hill, hoping to find wallet. Asked several crossing guards if they'd seen it.

Back at humidifier place, searched boxes of humidifiers - just in case I left it on top.

Guy there suggests perhaps I left it in the box with my humidifier.

Seems like reasonable suggestion; I walk back home. Down the hill, up the stairs.

No wallet. Went back to bank.

Cancelled my ATM card, along with other errands I'd originally intended at the bank.

I kid you not - LEFT MY GLOVES at the bank.

I don't know if I can blame this day on the well-known phenomena of CFS/fibromyalgia "brain fog," or not. Surely we all have times when we walk into a room and can't remember why we're there, but incidents like this have been multiplied many fold for me, ever since I got mono in 10th grade.

Like, I remember, before 10th grade, math was not so easy-breezey like all the other subjects. I had to concentrate, and sometimes got confused. But after returning to school post having mono, I remember sitting in alg/trig class, with the distinct sensation that my teacher had suddenly started expressing herself in Russian. Her copious, curly blonde hair became tentacles which zoomed in and out of focus as I wildly tried to grasp at the merest notion of what she was trying to say. Then I gave up, sitting up, sleeping. Then and there, a whole swath of career paths closed their doors to me. I heard the thud.

Anyone who's ever watched The Princess Bride will remember the scene when Inigo finally comes face-to-face with the six-fingered count. Cornered, the Count promises him fame, riches, power - anything he wants.

"I want my father back, you son of a bitch!"' Inigo says, as he rams the knife into his victim's gut. How many times I have imagined that scene; I am facing my illness, I have cornered it, it is up against a wall, perhaps one of us -or both- is dying.

"I want my BRAIN back you son of a bitch!" And I kill it, right there, on the slope of my semi-consciousness.

It makes me feel better, every time.

Meanwhile, across town, and despite the fact that he appears to have access to most his brain cells, Colin's not faring much better than I.

Two nights ago at 59 E. 59th Theaters, several of us stayed until well after midnight, tearing down the last remnants of Billboard, Reverie's latest show. It was a sleek set, and thankfully not very involved, but lights have to come down, equipment organized and returned, garbage disposed of, workers fed, and lastly, the floor of the theater re-painted. Several hours' work for several people. We made it fun. (Until my car, driven into Manahttan expressly for sherpa duties, was ticketed to the tune of $115. But that's another rant.)

By Wednesday, Colin had but one thing to return - a sound board which would not fit into my ailing Saturn or Dave's hatchback. So, on Wednesday, Colin:

Called a cab service for a van. Set aside the quoted $30 to go 2 miles to the shop.

Van showed up, only it wasn't a van - was a car.

Driver wouldn't help by calling in for a van (as if that would lose him his fare???).

Called the cab company. They told him sure, they'd send a van - in 30 minutes, and now $50.

Said, "fuck that!" So started hailing vans on Park Avenue.

All refused to lower seats in the back for the sound board.

Trekked to U-haul, a mile away, rented a van for $19.99.

Van was in a separate lot, with 7/8 tank of gas... Know where this is going?

Dropped off the sound equipment, put two gallons of gas in the van.

I kid you not, that U-Haul is still trying to charge him $30 for gas!!!


A week later, thinking it would perhaps have been better if I'd never gotten out of bed for the duration of the cold spell, I was still trying to pick up my car. Twice I actually showed up with my $800 in cash, in 50's, to pick it up, and it wasn't ready. Friday at 2:50 I come again, and it'll be ready in 1/2 hour.

So I go to Dunkin Donuts, burning with the cash. Cash feels like a strobe light, especially in such a "transitional" neighborhood. At least they have a bathroom...

doh! psyche! "Out of order" signs posted on BOTH of them. Out of Dunkin's mood, is more like it. Explaining that I'm not a vagrant, I try to gain access. No dice. I go back to Alex's. "I bring it to you tonight, at home!" Promises Alex, an hour later. I am not thrilled; I'm meant to leave for Richmond in the morning.

That night the car never arrives. The next morning, sweetly, Colin offers to pick it up. And he does.

So I'm driving down the New Jersey Turnpike, thinking, wow, this week has been a pain in the ass.

But all is as rectified, as much as it will be. I guess. Credit cards are cancelled, sound board returned, and the car, except for a few intermittent rattles and pings, appears to be in good health. Striker, now over 113,000 miles old, will live to crash another day.

I'm listening to a book on my ipod when I hear some strange music emanating, I think, from somewhere in the car. Radio? Should be over-ridden by my ipod. Pod? Must be some sort of mal-function. Maybe from a passing vehicle. It stops. I begin to peer around me in the car. No - focus on driving.

My phone takes a message. It's Alex. "Nee-Kee! Hello! How arrr you? Listen, I tink I left my phone in your car!" Calllll me, let me know!"

You see what this was, don't you? Perhaps it's because you're reading a streamlined (really!) story, and you know I wouldn't give you any information which was not relevant to the telling of it. Because I, unlike the universe, value your time. (Meanwhile, my real life has plenty of irrelevant information passing through it, and plenty of wastes of time.)

So I didn't put it together. Even when the strange, dance-mix music started up again, and again, I totally figured I'd imagined it. (Another common side-effect associated with chronic illnesses like IC, fibromyalgia and CFS - spontaneous lack of belief in your own perceptions...)

But in the end I did figure it out, find the phone, called Alex, arrived at Rick's In D.C., ran down to Richmond to do the audition, drove back via Amanda's place on the opposite side of D.C., and headed home a day early, in order to beat the "COMING! WINTER STORM!" Two and a half days after picking up my car, exhausted and barely able to sit down, I listened to my messages in Brooklyn.

This is nearly the end. Really.

Beep. "Hi, Nicole? This is _____ from Commerce Bank calling. We've been contacted by a person who found your wallet? If you would like to contact him, his number is..."

No. Way. No WAY did I lose my wallet on the street in Brooklyn, and someone not only didn't steal it, but made the effort to locate me using the few clues available to them.

But it's true.

I called the Hammonds. They regaled me with tales of trying to find me, based on a Colorado driver's license, a Commerce Bank ATM Card, my inhaler, and a receipt from J & R, where I bought the humidifier. A retired couple, clearly they had little else to entertain them for a few days. That, and the impending "COMING! WINTER STORM!!!" Mrs. Hammond tried to make it sound like it was a bit daunting, but really, you could tell it was fun for her.

"I was like a private investigator!" says Mrs. Hammond. "he found it on the ground, on 7th Avenue, and first we wondered if it was someone in the bank..."

So today, I am not going to try to accomplish anything - it seems that by trying, I only pull myself in deeper. Instead I strive only to mend what was unraveled in the past two weeks. Rewind the stopwatch to zero. Return what's lost and retrieve my own. I have packed a little box of my most attractive candles for both the Hammonds and for Alex.

I will set out by foot to pick up my wallet, swing by the bank to retrieve the gloves I left, (and by then my hands will be nearly frozen, so that's a good thing) then get in my car and drive to the body shop, where Alex's phone will be returned to him.

As the Narrator in Into the Woods says, "ALL IS ...REPAIRED!!" And then he dies.

Dreaming of a White Christmas in Middle America

Dreaming of a White Christmas in Middle America - '06


First of all, Christmas in the Hinterlands of Wisconsin - - it's supposed to be snowing, right?

I peer out the window of my mom's suburban, two story house into its huge back yard, and I can barely see the neighboring house on the far side. Socked in by fog, and bathed in a soft drizzle which hasn't stopped in two days, the neighborhood gives the impression of a soaked, small-ish American town suspended not only between being small and being large, but between continents, perhaps on its way to Cork, or London.

And as if given excuse by the rain, though surely not truly explained by it, we lost power yesterday. Frenzied shoppers waited in long lines and blinking traffic lights - (aka "stop and gohhh lights" in Wisconsonian.) Christmas revelers, desperate for boofy do's to look their best for the relatives they see only once a year, were stranded at the hair salon, with nary a curling iron or a "blowdryer" to assist in expanding their curls still further skyward.

Every time I come home for the holidays, I expect that it will feel like some sort of coming home. Indeed, it always feels slightly more like being abducted by aliens. Aliens who have been observing me - very closely - and taking meticulous notes since before I was born. I return roughly annually for further inspection.

Upon descent into the alien midwestern landscape, one is immediately impressed that whole blocks of streets in a modest-sized town are lit with tiny bright lights. Like Times Square, but a personal, not a commercial endeavor. In NYC very few people even bother with lights or knick-knacks... where would they store them the rest of the year? Plus, most are renters, only loosely attached to the places in which they live. And I am hard-pressed to find, among my acquaintances here, practicing Christians. I did see one building with mardi gras beads and a few bows strung along the stark tree in front, and a few wreaths. Could have been more for the art than any religious sentiment. For the most part, most New Yorkers don't have time to bother.

Macy's does, of course, for the tourists.

This reminds me that it seems at no time is the divide between middle and urban America greater than around Christmas. We know there's a difference - just look at the last presidential election - but somehow we are all puzzled by this polarity in our day-to-day lives. Residents of Washington, D.C., 98% democrats, were shocked to discover that a Republican president who couldn't pronounce the word, "nuclear" properly was actually elected. Folks in Iowa were similarly puzzled that there was ever any doubt.

To the eyes of an alien, Christmas manifests itself with many miracles in the midwest. Christmas paints itself like a watercolor before us. The local Kiwanis club sponsors a literal waterfall of lights displayed at the zoo. People plant life-sized reindeer and sleighs atop their roofs. People actually wear matching Christmas clothes, and pins and hairpieces, and sweaters.

Around Christmas, the midwest shows, proudly, its Christian feathers. We are Christians, the farmlands and suburbs and midwest cities proclaim. Further, we are going to Heaven, and the rest of you are not. Now we will celebrate that fact by opening our malls at 2am, maxing out our credit cards and giving away electric gadgets and toys beyond our means. (My seven-year-old niece will tell you all about it, when she talks about "all the bad people who don't love Jesus.")

Meanwhile, NYC residents are busy walking the streets in protest of a police shooting of an unarmed man in a bar last week. And shoppers from out of town are perturbed that they cannot walk across the street for lunch due to the rabble-rousers.

The contrast is striking.

Coming home feels like a return to innocence to me, to a place where, even in hectic holiday traffic, drivers wait for hours to make a left rather than disobey the law (and - holy patience, Batman! - no one honks!) people make time to go to church, (whether they enjoy it or not,) people still make skating rinks in their back yards, (and mostly don't expect to get sued,) keep treasures in a scrapbook and, in general, are more interested in being nice than really anything else.

My favorite of the miracles most mid-westerners take for granted is otherwise known as Customer Service. My Dad and I spent an hour in Best Buy - not a place known for speedy help - and every time we stood in one place for more than 30 seconds, somebody (very clean-looking) approached us and politely asked us if we had any questions. Not only did they answer questions, they answered the ones we asked, which just about blew me horizontal, just like that. And then they'd stand there and ask you if you wanted to ask more! They would pick up the thing you were looking at, and demonstrate it for you. And then they'd answer more questions. Sure, they might step away, but before that, they'd say "I'll be right back." And then they would be. Just like that. And as if that weren't enough, if you were interested in an item they'd ask, "Can I go get it for you?"

It nearly made me cry.

I realized how often I feel invisible in the city. Part of a large, undulating amoeba. A needle in a haystack. A feather on the belly of a large, hungry, very nervous bird.

Nowadays I'm never quite certain how to behave properly inside a Wisconin home fully decorated for Christmas. It seemed intuitive when I was a child. But now I keep my hands by my sides at all times to prevent sure disaster. There are always a million tiny things which seem especially attracted to my elbows; glass snowmen, nutcrackers, Santa candles, families of snowmen and houses which can be added to every year, poofy 4-foot sitting Santa Clauses, (weighted so they can sit outside in the wind) clocks with figurines of tiny carolers attached, ceramic lions dressed up to look like they had anything to do with the birth of Jesus, (as the snowmen surely did,) and, of course, the ever-fragile ornaments.

As you can imagine, for the non-resident alien the experience can be daunting.

In the bathroom, there are special soaps, color-matched and shaped like Christmas trees and snowmen, snowflakes and Santas. I'm never sure whether I should really use them - they never lather, and I know mom puts them back in the cupboard after everyone, including me, leaves so she can re-use them next year. And the special folded hand-towels, you mess those up once and you'll never get them folded back they way they were when you found them.

Someday I'll ask Mom for a tour of all the bottles, brushes, tubes and creams she has, but for now it looks like a daunting array of things which could, possibly, torture me. I tried some moisturizer from one of the bottles this morning; concluded seconds later that the people who design these products must count on a female population of the age where they have begun to lose their sense of smell. It made my eyes water.

I know my mom is not alone in her zeal for decorating the house for the holidays. The added items only increase the sense that perhaps I need some re-orientation. Everything in my mom's house is small, adding to the impression that wherever I am, it is not inhabited by Earthlings. Though her house dwarfs my apartment in square feet, there are aspects of it which make me feel like I've been shoveled into a fun house. My mom stands five foot two -on her toes, in the morning, after stretching. In her house, everything is suited to her stature; all the pictures hang low, bathroom countertops feel like they're suited more for wheelchair access than for a standing person, and when I look in the full-length mirror, I can only see up to the tops of my shoulders. I never know if I have something stuck in my teeth. At night I sleep in a twin-sized bed, to which my lanky limbs are not accustomed.

Then again there's the ample counter space. No mice in the kitchen, no cochroaches. And windows I can see out of that also go up and down. A fireplace -mmmmmm - a really nice tree with bright, bubbly things on top. Knobs stay in place when you use them and there's no one stomping overhead, all of which makes me feel like at least I've been abducted by benevolent aliens.

Then there's my bedroom - clear evidence that I must have grown up here. (The fact that I regain my accent after a few days is absolute proof.) This is the same room I slept in from ages one and a half through eighteen, and it is a monument - to me.

The only time you see memorabilia like that around Brooklyn is when someone dies. Families collect pictures and trinkets, combine them with candles and put them on the sidewalk in front of the home of the deceased.

In my room pictures - of me - hang everywhere. I'm surrounded by images of myself. I keep banging the ones hanging on the wall in my sleep - me in a wedding dress, as Irene Molloy in the high school production of Hello, Dolly....me on the cover of a program from the Theater Guild - mom had that one framed....a sketch of me a friend made in Africa....and hundreds more photos sleep inside the custom-made cupboards below. Mom even keeps plaque, in which she has engraved the names of shows and characters I've played since college.

The creepiest thing by far in my room are memorabilia provided by a very dedicated 7th grade math teacher. The #1 winner in creepiness factor is the two foot high doll which looks like me. (There's also ceramic plates in Alice in Wonderland theme, provided after I played Alice and literally hundreds of 8x12 photos he took of my friends and me.) The doll's costume was replicated down to the last detail- sequins, fringe, precise colors, and little ballet shoes - from a costume I wore in a dance recital. The doll's scrappy, dark-blonde hair was modeled after mine, too. Eeeeeew!

Mom always thought this teacher was "just a lonely man who was very involved with his students," and I followed along. (Remember, in Wisconsin it's more important to be nice than admit you're creeped out.) He was probably not a child molester, but after about the 100th index card I got with a joke on it in my locker, I began to wish I could avoid him. So did my pre-teen friends.

He still brings Christmas presents to our door.


It's culture shock for anyone from the east coast, who will, naturally, tell someone to BACK OFF before considering the background, intent and feelings of a person who's crowding their space. Just a little survival tactic, not considered rude or unusual at all. One I could have used in 7th grade, I guess.

My friends from NY like to poke fun at me for being from Wisconsin, the proverbial "naive" state (this happens when I actually wait for a walk signal or occasionally bust out with phrases like "ohhhh, jeeeeez!") Then they ask me, "Now, Wisconsin, where is that again?"

But I think they don't know what they are missing. Even without snow, America's core land is a wonder world of fog and mist, a moonscape land of "Tyme Machines", "bubblers" and matching candy-striped socks, marred only by the fact that many children have never heard of Hanukkah. Or Ramadan. Or know why we celebrate Christmas when we do, around the time of the Winter Solstice.

It's a place where a person can afford to build one's own home. Learn English. Get a good job and raise a family. Love that family. Where kids can grow up with - seriously - not one immigrant in their classroom. A body can breathe. Can take responsibility for one's own actions. And disapprove of Islam. And birth control. And gay marriage. All in good company.

It's a mixture of experiences I never forget. And as the airbus A319 closes its door on Middle America for another year, I open my fantasy novel so I don't think about my roots too hard.

Wuthering Heights - a post-script


So it's over. I have Wuthered and gone to emotional heights alongside a brillaint ensemble and my character died and no one cared because I was just Someone's Mother.

Was it a success, you ask? Well, if by success you mean: did audiences like it? would YOU have liked it if you saw it? it would seem that depended on the color of your hair.

If you look in the mirror and notice that the top of your head is yellow, reddish, black, or some shade in between, chances are good you would not have liked our show. You would have found the dialogue cliche´, the romance over-played, the deaths repetitious. you may even have found the whole thing so overly-dramatic as to tickle your funny bone, as many blonde and blue and black-haired people did.

However, if you peer into the mirror and see perhaps a strand of gray, or two, or maybe a whole headful (or perhaps you must admit to yourself that it is white-ish underneath the Feria) you may have come to our show and found yourself muttering things like "WONderful!' under your breath after every song. Which some people with gray were known to do. These were often the same people found to be saying to one another things like, "Who's that?" "that's the SISter! he's marrying the SISTER!" "Ohhh!" loudly enough during the touching, quiet moments that we could hear it backstage. These were generally, overwhelmingly the same people who filled the seats in the lobby to capacity more than one hour before the show, (indeed they were there long before the cast) and could be heard arguing about the six dollars they had to pay for tickets (the irony of it being that if you'd been one of those who liked it less you'd have paid the full fare of eighteen dollars.)

My explanation for this preference by hair color is that the show, being written by a man in his 80's, at least, simply used an older language than that of Genertion X and Y-ers, dramatically, verbally and musically. This language is more heightened, more melodramatic, and uses more legit singing than modern plays. It harkens from the innocent days of silent movies and vaudeville and operetta. And a population with gray hair is far less cynical and willing to accept on stage things as truth, things which those of us in the younger crowd, assimilated to television and reality shows and "The Lion King" from an early age, simply cannot.

But was it a success? If by success you mean did i have a good time, it was quite smashing. I found every member of the cast to be someone I wanted to get to know; interesting and varied people. REAL people, with lives and stuff. It was especially fun for me during the run of the show because I had such a small role and so little to sing I had absolutely nothing to stress about (except the day after i nearly ripped the toenail off my big toe with the door to the deli across the street and i had to stuff that foot into high heels for a few minutes on stage, somehow). i also had, therefore, plenty of attention to give to chatting with my fellow cast members backstage, in whispers, of course, who proved themselves to be an unusually stable bunch. Three had homes in the suburbs, two had families, all but one of the cast (and the children) was attached, romantically (and i set him up with my friend who lives upstairs, with initially stunning and five days after, disastrous results.) The director also turned out to be a very competent guy, and he brought in a set and costume designer, both Yale grads like him (and colin - he approved) and they also proved themselves to be extremely professional and accommodating.

This made for a highly friendly, functional group, lacking in sensibility only at the very top. Our shining producer and her husband, the composer/lyricist, thankfully paid us our meager wages on time and secured the space. And also thankfully there were less hearing-related misunderstandings in person than we'd all had over the phone as they were trying to hire us. (When Kimberly called to accept the role of Catherine, our producer became determined her name was Tim, and for five minutes demanded to know how she'd gotten this number.) Alas, each teetering on the threshhold of both sanity and health, they were a bit out of touch, and though inexperienced as producers, believed with all their hearts their mode of operation was "the standard." They sometimes gave us a littel something to moan about.

One night we virtually forced the composer to call an ambulance for his nearly unresponsive wife. Usually very, um, feisty, she had been slumped in a chair all evening; it took me 10 minutes to walk her 12 feet to a more comfortable chair. She lacked balance and coordination, and seemed to forget what she was doing every few seconds. (Amid this, horror of horrors, the stage manager mumbled to me, "you're the closest thing to a nurse we've got...") Well, that would just not do. We placed a phone call to the mother of one of the children, a real nurse by trade, and she came over from her hovel at Starbucks, where she waited for her daughter to do the show every night, and she took control of Mrs. Producer during that night's show. She recommended immediate hospitalization. Still they both refused medical assistance.

To us, it seemed incomprehensible for Mr. Composer to deny Mrs. Producer's illness and pretend it would go away with going home. Anyone with eyes could clearly see she was not herself, and very sick. Finally, after a recommendation from a male friend and doctor, our esteemed producer went kicking and yelling away from the theater toward the hospital, to be diagnosed with pneumonia, and kept for further testing.

After that we missed her relative competency at the ticket booth, as her creatively inspired husband would rather chat with one of us, (especially if we were pretty,) for 10 minutes than attend to the crowds of people with walkers lined up to buy tickets to his show. One practically had to beat him with an umbrella to get a seat.

As annoyed as we could all be with the antics of the couple, we couldn't help but be inspired by their admiration for one another. As Kimberly put it, "I can only hope that when I'm that age, I'll love someone as much as they love one another." Indeed the composer credited his love for his wife for his ability to write two characters so desperately in love, one haunts the other after her death. And indeed the main characters of Wuthering Heights are both indeed, flawed. As is my writing, as I repeat certain words too much. Perhaps, then, we can all love one another, flawed, and maybe until death do us part.

My First Equity Gig

My First Equity Gig

"Hello."

"Hi, Shirley?"

"Yes..."

"Shirley, this is Niki Naeve. You called me yesterday evening to offer me the role of mrs. Linton in Wuthering heights."

"Yes, Niki. You didn't call me back."

'Well, I got your message late last night and I left you an email; then I called you this morning."

"Yes, and what were your questions?"

"Well, I wanted to say I'm very interested, and where can I get a script and a score to take a look at at the role?"

"Oh, we don't give those out in a workshop. No, no, you get those on the first day of rehearsal."

"It's not available electronically? Or I'm happy to pick up a copy somewhere?'

"No. No we don't give that out. You'll get it the first day of rehearsal."

Long pause.

"OK...I'm sorry, it's just very unusual to not be able to look at a script and score before acceptaing a role."

"No, that's the way it always is." (It's not; that I can say with certainty.)

"Uh, well, can you give me some details about the rehearsal schedule?"

"What's there to know, dear? It's six days a week 4 hours per day, 10-2 for three weeks. We'll let you know when you have your days off."

We'll let you know?

"And the stipend?"

"What?"

"The stipend?"

"Oh, there's no stipend. This is a workshop" (Later I learned there is a REIMBURSEMENT in the order of 200 bucks, but I get ahead of myself.)

"And how many performances? Oh what dates?"

"It sounds like you have doubts, dear. You should get involved with the company if you have doubts...."


Now that I've joined the Actors' Union I'm filled with trepidation and hope. Trepidation, because for so many getting their equity Card seems to be the kiss of death to previously booming careers - suddenly, they are never cast in anything again. Hope, because from now on, in theory, every job I take will have a regimented and sane rehearsal schedule, minimum rest times, maximum travel miles per day, relatively clean and safe conditions, more visibility, higher quality, and better pay. And more upward mobility.

Not to mention much more civilized auditions. I'm in.

So I've been auditioning for several months now, for companies all over the map. I was considered for Irene Malloy in Hello Dolly for a company in Maine (Irene Malloy! I thought. Can it be possible I'm old enough to play Irene Malloy? oh well i'll do anything for a summer in Maine!) and also considered for the elder Andrews sister in a musical about their lives. (Note: Elder.) I auditioned for Fontine in Les Mis... aware that I am, alas, no no longer eligible for the innocent Cosette, but managed instead, I hope, to belt out a convincing downtrodden, older, heroine.

As it turned out, other choices were made, and I continued my life as a professional auditioner.

Thus it is that as I make my transition into Unionized life, it it also true that I have perhaps officially outgrown my ingenueity. Ingenueism? The role of the ingenue. Some people would be saddened; I'm relieved. I can't WAIT to play somebody with some brains, and somebody with something else to say besides, "oh, dear me! If I don't get this man to marry me I'll simply DIE!!!" Like tonight I'm performing in a reading where I get to play a nurse at a women's health clinic where protesters get violent over the issue of abortion rights. Now, THAT'S a role! Whew!

But I get ahead of myself. My first Equity gig. I showed up to the audition at the Equity office bright and early one morning. The notice read, "a musical version of Wuthering Heights," and I thought that might make nice use of my legit singing skills. An educated guess. I mean, would it be a rhythm and blues version? As I made my appointment with the monitor, a by-stander asked her a question.

"I don't know," she answered, "I've worked for this company a couple of times, and they've always been a little strange." Around nine thirty we saw an older woman, short hair died red, seeming a little lost but determined, wander about the entrance to the room. Eventually she popped in, along with a half dozen other people, of varying shapes and sizes. Then auditions began.

I sang my song, they asked me for another, I sang it, the director asked me how I knew Harry Silverstein and said he know him, too, and that was that. The monitor seemed surprised they were running on time. Always a good sign, and noted. I went home.

A few days later I got a phone call - it could only have been the older lady speaking. "Niki, I left you a message once already. We want to call you back for Wuthering Heights. Tuesday morning, 11am." I had received no previous message, but chalked it up to Verizon's stellar voicemail service. And nice to know I had no choice of audition times.

People milled about at the callback. No holding room had been arranged, (though in truth one down the hall was secured somehow for a couple hours) and they were running an hour behind when I arrived. Reading the list of characters, I figured I was a shoe in for Nellie, the maid who tells the story. I'm too old for the younger and too young for the older characters. After I sang, (and was cut off near the end of my cut,) I was surprised when they called me back into the room to read a bit of music. No, dialogue. Dialogue which looked like music, because it was printed in little poetic stanzas and in capital letters. And the character? Isabella. (A girl in her teens.) Go figure. Maybe I'm NOT too old! Ha-ha! I feel my inner ingenue humming.

"Niki and Dominick, in the room NOW!" demanded the older lady as she struggled to find us among the remaining bodies in the hallway. I knew they must be serious about Dominick, because I'd seen him reading the same scene with a few other women. They would eventually cast him as Heathcliff. (The women were generally acting horribly, I thought snarkily.) We read the scene twice for the group in the room - an interesting cast, themselves: The batty old lady - Shirley - now clearly the producer, her equally elderly husband - the composer, a middle aged, plump man with a jolly sense of irony who was giggling when we walked in the room - the director, and a thin young woman with blonde hair swinging about the piano keys - music director. Where oh where had the stage manager gone, who handled the original auditions so smoothly? Alas, she was gone, and as Isabella I put on my best, sincere imitation of a female being flattered at being proposed to. I thought I did well.

"YOU'RE ANGELINA, RIGHT???" the old lady said much too loudly as I left the room. The director was still discussing things with Dominick.

"No, I'm Niki."

"OHHHH." She looked confused, and not entirely convinced.

"Niki NAEVE." I spoke as directly into her ear as I could politely.

She looked down at her notes. "OK." She put down her pen. I felt believed. And so I left.

I actually rode the elevator down with the REAL Angelina - a heavily accented Brazilian woman with long, flowing dark hair. Understandable, I look JUST like her. (?!?) Clearly they called me in by mistake. This wan an interesting waste of time.

So imagine my surprise when a few days later I get a voice message from the same woman who called me before. "NIKI. THIS IS SHIRLEY. We WANT TO OFFER YOU THE ROLE OF...uhhh. MRS. LINTON." Mrs. Linton. Isabella's MOTHER. Character description 45-50 years old, and proper. Ah well. "You'll have one song, and -ah- sing with the CHOrus. I'M WAITING FOR YOUR CALL *TONIGHT* TO ACCEPT THE ROLE. GOODBYE."

I got the message at 11:30pm. Now, you don't call anybody over 80 back after 9 o'clock, everyone knows that, so I crawled around on the web and tried to find an email address for the company. In so doing I learned that the musical had been workshopped before, in 1999, and the reviewer, though not liking any of the composer's other works, did like this one. Encouraging. But I will not accept a role until I've seen a script and a score.

Made that mistake once. Colin sat in the back row of the worst show I have EVER had the misfortune to get involved with, his hand in his head, trying desperately to make it go, go away. The same man wrote, choregraphed, directed, produced and starred in his show. Tap dancing, and this man who was a judge who wanted to be a dancer, and then he gets called up for the supreme court. Then more self-indulgent singing and dancing for the worst sort. he cast his mother, who had never acted before, as his mother in the show, and didn't rehearse her until the day before we opened.

Meanwhile I was compelled to do some of my first "serious" straight acting of my life, trying desperately to produce an honest depiction of a woman who has lost her only child. In the context of a script so absurdly bad it was like a carousel gone tilted - funny and sad and so horrible you almost had to watch it go down - this was not my best performance. Then I was called into the cast of the Music Man (who would try to fire me for my health conditions a week later, but that's another tale) and some poor, poor wretch had to take my place.

No one picked up the press packages at the door. But Colin did pick up his head every once and a while when the poor, young, inexperienced but talented and very cute dancers came out for a number.

No I do not wish a repeat performance.

Then again, I review my cast of chracters. Everyone in the room EXCEPT the producer seemed relatively competent and sane. It's not unheard of for the crazy lady to have the money, and could she also have insisted she make the phone calls? Could it be that if I accept, this experience could be a good one? The director has some decent credits. And, well, a life without risk...

"All right, I'll accept the role."

"What?"

"I'll play Mrs. Linton. Sure. Thanks. That's great."

""Are you sure? We can't have you showing up for the first rehearsal, deciding you don't like it, and walking out on us, you know! You PROMISE to do this." Well, they could go a long way toward preventing this if they'd give me a script and a score. And what, does she think I'm 8 years old?

"Yes, I'm committed. I understand. Thank you. Will I be getting a call from the stage manager? can I get an email address?" I can only hope I'll talk to someone reasonable before the first rehearsal. Maybe I can even get a script from them.

"No, you just show up for rehearsal on the 17th at 10am."

So much for standards.

Niki

License To Drive -or- How Terrorism Made Me Lose Hair Today

So, do I have a valid drivers license yet?

Heh. Nope, not yet. No license. Not at all. Not really. Come to think of it. No.

Some of you know the beginning of the story - my driver's license disappeared, along with a couple of credit cards, in February. Don't have any explanation as to how; they were just gone one day. Unluckily was a few days before I was about to embark on a relaxing vacation to Florida.

Here's a story with a lesson: if you travel ANYwhere, get an alternate form of I.D. and bring it with you! If I had been a visitor in NYC, without a passport, with money for a hotel for maybe just a few days - not uncommon- I would have been SCREWED!

Because I had a passport, I could fly. But this was Thursday. On Saturday I was supposed to pick up a rental car in Ft. Lauderdale and drive it across the State to where we were staying, near Naples. (The place where we usually stay in Ft. Lauderdale was uninhabitable due to one of those hurricanes that went through this past year. By the way my mom was there when it hit, but that's her story.)

I decided the quickest end to this was to apply for NY State drivers license. I went to drivers License Express, a well kept secret on 34th street where it typically takes less than 30 minutes to get your driver's license!

But since I was replacing a missing out of state license, first I had to get my Driving Record from Colorado.

You'd think that'd be a cinch - you know, send a FAX, get a FAX. Well, turns out the DMV folks in Colorado won't receive a FAX unless it's from a State DMV, and the DMV in NY won't send a FAX. There's also some skee-doodle about it having to be an original document. Go figure. I decide to give up and do ti when I come home. I call my mom and give her the news - like it or not, she's going to have to drive the rental car in Florida.

Enter my mom's friend's daughter's husband - I kid you not - Joe, who lives in Denver, and who I've never met. Turns out he was at home, and, incidentally, unemployed that day. At my mom's encouragement, I actually asked him to perform for me a task worse than death for any American citizen - go to the DMV.

Luckily Denver is two hours behind new York. In cell phone contact with me every 15 minutes or so, Joe drove the 45 minutes to the DMV in Denver and followed instructions I made up for him by sitting at my desk in Brooklyn, googling, FAXing and making phone calls. He sweet-talked himself to the front of the line, where he was able to pick up a FAX I had waiting for him. (I'd FAXed it to my friend Jessica in Red Hook and had her FAX it, since my machine - well, we don't have long distance service on our phone, i'm used to putting in my calling card and - it's a long story made shorter by saying it was of course freaking out that day. And so was theirs- several phone calls to the DMV and FAXes sent by jessica finally got it through on an alternate machine.)

I brought a map up on my computer and managed to get Joe to the nearest fed-Ex facility, where he called me, i gave my credit card number to the lady, and we got it in the overnight mail with 20 minutes to spare. Now my only hope was to get that in and get a license the next day.

The "original document" - nothing but a bubble-printer black and white office-fed piece of paper - arrived before 10am. (At the Mailboxes place down the street, of course - i can't get mail delivered here lest it be stolen.) I got back on the subway and went back to the Driver's License Express Place in Manhattan.

I'd been there 20 minutes - my eyes were checked, my picture was taken, the lady was sitting with my papers in her hand and they were stamped and stapled, and suddenly she said, "there's a problem."

I called the DMV in Colorado. Turns out I had to clear my record of a speeding ticket I got in Indiana in 2002. I don't remember the incident in particular, but i can entirely see myself speeding. And I can certainly see myself saying, "gee, i don't plan to be driving in INDIANA, of all places, any time soon. I don't have 125 bucks laying around today. I think I'll just ignore this." And so i did.

This "cleansing" of my driving record entailed: send a cashier's check to Indiana, then when the receipt arrives, send it to colorado, along with a request for a cleared record. i later discovered that if I requested, also, a duplicate license, it would prevent me from having to take the written and driver's test all over again in NYC. Ok, Who wants to take their road test in NYC??? Oh, and a couple more checks (that's over 200 bucks and counting...) By now we were well beyond the point where I'd have a driver's license before my trip. Mom would have to rent the car and we would deal with her anxiety about driving on criss-crossy highways - well, when we had to.

I found a bank and sent the cashier's check. I went on my trip, had a good time, I did the old switcheroo into the driver's seat when the rental car folks weren't looking, then freaked out about how if I had an accident in this car I was not officially allowed to drive my current problems would seem miniscule.) and did all that was asked of me regarding the receipt and all. Then I waited.

Apparently the cleared driver record and the license were sent April 14. (Picture yourself a tourist stranded in NYC for 6, 8 weeks. Where would you sleep? How could you afford to eat? Where would you find the bank, the post office, the FAX machine, necessary to accomplish these tasks???)

I got the Cleared Driver's Record yesterday (could have done without that), after it was apparently delivered to the wrong address, first. The license is another thing entirely, I've found out. I almost gave it up for lost, today, figuring it should have come with the other document and was probably pilfered by a mail carrier with a relative in need of a legal U.S. Document. But the nice folks in CO (who you actually CAN get on the phone, unlike NY where every line rings busy all the time) tell me it actually has to come through Washington State. Go figure. So it may take another couple weeks.

Meanwhile...

When I had the accident in January, (I had an accident in January) I got a ticket for not having registration in the car. (I suspect it was stolen when it was broken into last year and i didn't notice.)

The officer told me to send in a copy of my registration with the ticket and it would be cleared. Like a good girl, I did that the very next day.

A few weeks later a notice arrived to my mom's house which threatened all sorts of nasty things if i didn't come right down to the DMV in NYC and show them my registration right away! (What if I'd gone back to Wisconsin, as would be expected of someone with Wisconsin plates?)

So I did, just to spite them, yesterday. I stood in the wrong line for 20 minutes, then got set up in front of a judge. He cleared the ticket. But since I'd been assigned a court date and missed it (notification was sent to 514 jefferson St. in Rayne, WI - mom lives at 1514 jefferson St. in racine, WI) my driving privileges have been SUSPENDED in NY state. That means, I get pulled over for something i could be chucked in JAIL.

Unless, of course, I paid a $35 fine.

35 bucks is a lot to me these days. I just bought a house, I'm financed to my ears, and I'm paying a monologue coach so I can get an agent so I can get work as an actor. Actors are not known for their financial fruitfulness. I'm not even really exactly a working actor right now. I explained as much to the man behind the desk. He was sympathetic, saw the craziness of it, and even went back to a supervisor - or so he said- to try and get it cleared.

No dice. And so i paid the $35, with tears in my eyes. I handed my credit card to the man behind the machine.

"I have one question," I said. He was all ears.

"WHAT motivation is there, what motivation at ALL, for me to obey the law?"

He did not have an answer.

So that's my tale. i expect you'll hear from me again when i get my License to Drive!


My First Equity Gig
5-17-06

"Hello."

"Hi, Shirley?"

"Yes..."

"Shirley, this is Niki Naeve. You called me yesterday evening to offer me the role of Mrs. Linton in Wuthering heights."

"Yes, Niki. You didn't call me back."

'Well, I got your message late last night and I left you an email; then I called you this morning."

"Yes, and you had some questions?" She sounds very annoyed.

"Well, I wanted to say I'm very interested, and where can I get a script and a score to take a look at at the role?"

"Oh, we don't give those out in a workshop. No, no, you get those on the first day of rehearsal."

"It's not available electronically? Or I'm happy to pick up a copy somewhere?'

"No. No we don't give that out." She sounds like I'm the KGB hoping to get her to divulge cold war secrets. "You'll get it the first day of rehearsal."

Long pause.

"OK...I'm sorry, it's just very unusual to not be able to look at a script and score before accepting a role."

"No, that's the way it always is." (maybe with HER company. But "It" is not; that I can say with certainty.)

"Uh, well," I guess we'll get back to that. "Can you give me some details about the rehearsal schedule?"

"What's there to know, dear? It's six days a week 4 hours per day, 10-2 for three weeks. We'll let you know when you have your days off." As if I'd known that before. as if it had been posted anywhere at either audition.

And...We'll let you know? Has this woman never held a job?

well, speaking of money... "And the stipend?"

"What?"

"The stipend?"

"Oh, there's no stipend. This is a workshop" (Later I learned there is a REIMBURSEMENT in the order of 200 bucks, but I get ahead of myself.)

"And how many performances? On what dates?"

Now she's convinced I'm a cold war spy. And a communist. "It sounds like you have doubts, dear. You shouldn't get involved with the company if you have doubts...."


Now that I've joined the Actors' Union I'm filled with trepidation and hope. Trepidation, because for so many getting their equity Card seems to be the kiss of death to previously booming careers - suddenly, they are never cast in anything again. Hope, because from now on, in theory, every job I take will have a regimented and sane rehearsal schedule, minimum rest times, maximum travel miles per day, relatively clean and safe conditions, more visibility, higher quality, and better pay. And more upward mobility.

Not to mention much more civilized auditions. I'm in.

So I've been auditioning for several months now, for companies all over the map. I was considered for Irene Malloy in Hello Dolly for a company in Maine (Irene Malloy! I thought. Can it be possible I'm old enough to play Irene Malloy? oh well i'll do anything for a summer in Maine!) and also considered for the elder Andrews sister in a musical about their lives. (Note: Elder.) I auditioned for Fontine in Les Mis... aware that I am, alas, no no longer eligible for the innocent Cosette, but managed instead, I hope, to belt out a convincing downtrodden, older, heroine.

As it turned out, other choices were made, and I continued my life as a professional auditioner.

Thus it is that as I make my transition into Unionized life, it it also true that I have perhaps officially outgrown my ingenueity. Ingenueism? The role of the ingenue. Some people would be saddened; I'm relieved. I can't WAIT to play somebody with some brains, and somebody with something else to say besides, "oh, dear me! If I don't get this man to marry me I'll simply DIE!!!" Like tonight I'm performing in a reading where I get to play a nurse at a women's health clinic where protesters get violent over the issue of abortion rights. Now, THAT'S a role! Whew!

But I get ahead of myself. My first Equity gig. I showed up to the audition at the Equity office bright and early one morning. The notice read, "a musical version of Wuthering Heights." A workshop production to be held in the old Mint theater in NYC. I thought that might make nice use of my legit singing skills. An educated guess. I mean, would it be a rhythm and blues version? As I made my appointment with the monitor, a by-stander asked her a question.

"I don't know," she answered, "I've worked for this company a couple of times, and they've always been a little strange." Around nine thirty we saw an older woman, short hair died red, seeming a little lost but determined, wander about the entrance to the room. Eventually she popped in, along with a half dozen other people, of varying shapes and sizes. Then auditions began.

I sang my song, they asked me for another, I sang it, the director asked me how I knew Harry Silverstein and said he know him, too, and that was that. The monitor seemed surprised they were running on time. Always a good sign, and noted. I went home.

A few days later I got a phone call - it could only have been the older lady speaking. "Niki, I left you a message once already. We want to call you back for Wuthering Heights. Tuesday morning, 11am." I had received no previous message, but chalked it up to Verizon's stellar voicemail service. And nice to know I had no choice of audition times.

People milled about at the callback. No holding room had been arranged, (though in truth one down the hall was secured somehow for a couple hours) and they were running an hour behind when I arrived. Reading the list of characters, I figured I was a shoe in for Nellie, the maid who tells the story. I'm too old for the younger and too young for the older characters. After I sang, (and was cut off near the end of my cut,) I was surprised when they called me back into the room to read a bit of music. No, dialogue. Dialogue which looked like music, because it was printed in little poetic stanzas and in capital letters. And the character? Isabella. (A girl in her teens.) Go figure. Maybe I'm NOT too old! Ha-ha! I feel my inner ingenue humming.

"Niki and Dominick, in the room NOW!" demanded the older lady as she struggled to find us among the remaining bodies in the hallway. I knew they must be serious about Dominick, because I'd seen him reading the same scene with a few other women. They would eventually cast him as Heathcliff. (The women were generally acting horribly, I thought snarkily.) We read the scene twice for the group in the room - an interesting cast, themselves: The batty old lady - Shirley - now clearly the producer, her equally elderly husband - the composer, a middle aged, plump man with a jolly sense of irony who was giggling when we walked in the room - the director, and a thin young woman with blonde hair swinging about the piano keys - music director. Where oh where had the stage manager gone, who handled the original auditions so smoothly? Alas, she was gone, and as Isabella I put on my best, sincere imitation of a female being flattered at being proposed to. I thought I did well.

"YOU'RE ANGELINA, RIGHT???" the old lady said much too loudly as I left the room. The director was still discussing things with Dominick.

"No, I'm Niki."

"OHHHH." She looked confused, and not entirely convinced.

"Niki NAEVE." I spoke as directly into her ear as I could politely.

She looked down at her notes. "OK." She put down her pen. I felt believed. And so I left.

I actually rode the elevator down with the REAL Angelina - a heavily accented Brazilian woman with long, flowing dark hair. Understandable, I look JUST like her. (?!?) Clearly they called me in by mistake. This wan an interesting waste of time.

So imagine my surprise when a few days later I get a voice message from the same woman who called me before. "NIKI. THIS IS SHIRLEY. We WANT TO OFFER YOU THE ROLE OF...uhhh. MRS. LINTON." Mrs. Linton. Isabella's MOTHER. Character description 45-50 years old, and proper. Ah well. "You'll have one song, and -ah- sing with the CHOrus. I'M WAITING FOR YOUR CALL *TONIGHT* TO ACCEPT THE ROLE. GOODBYE."

I got the message at 11:30pm. Now, you don't call anybody over 80 back after 9 o'clock, everyone knows that, so I crawled around on the web and tried to find an email address for the company. In so doing I learned that the musical had been workshopped before, in 1999, and the reviewer, though not liking any of the composer's other works, did like this one. Encouraging. But I will not accept a role until I've seen a script and a score.

Made that mistake once. Colin sat in the back row of the worst show I have EVER had the misfortune to get involved with, his hand in his head, trying desperately to make it go, go away. The same man wrote, choreographed, directed, produced and starred in his show. Tap dancing, and this man who was a judge who wanted to be a dancer, and then he gets called up for the supreme court. Then more self-indulgent singing and dancing for the worst sort. he cast his mother, who had never acted before, as his mother in the show, and didn't rehearse her until the day before we opened.

Meanwhile I was compelled to do some of my first "serious" straight acting of my life, trying desperately to produce an honest depiction of a woman who has lost her only child. In the context of a script so absurdly bad it was like a carousel gone tilted - funny and sad and so horrible you almost had to watch it go down - this was not my best performance. Then I was called into the cast of the Music Man (who would try to fire me for my health conditions a week later, but that's another tale) and some poor, poor wretch had to take my place.

No one picked up the press packages at the door. But Colin did pick up his head every once and a while when the poor, young, inexperienced but talented and very cute dancers came out for a number.

No I do not wish a repeat performance. So I have set standards. I must see a script.

Then again, I review my cast of characters. Everyone in the room EXCEPT the producer seemed relatively competent and sane. It's not unheard of for the crazy lady to have the money, and could she also have insisted she make the phone calls? Could it be that if I accept, this experience could be a good one? The director has some decent credits. And, well, a life without risk...

"All right, I'll accept the role."

"What?"

"I'll play Mrs. Linton. Sure. Thanks. That's great."

"Are you sure? We can't have you showing up for the first rehearsal, deciding you don't like it, and walking out on us, you know! You PROMISE to do this." Well, they could go a long way toward preventing that if they'd give me a script and a score today. And what, does she think I'm 8 years old? "And it's sixteen performances. Did I mention that?" Now, is she trying to talk me out of it?

"Yes, I'm committed. I understand. Thank you. Will I be getting a call from the stage manager? Can I get an email address?" I can only hope I'll talk to someone reasonable before the first rehearsal. Maybe I can even get a script from them.

"No, you just show up for rehearsal on the 17th at 10am."

So much for standards.

Niki