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

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?
....

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.

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.