BIG CITY OF DREAMS – PART 17

 

BIG CITY OF DREAMS – PART 17

I wake to the sound of a garbage truck backfiring, the sun filtering through the dirt streaked windows. My mind stirs, trying to get its bearings. "What am I supposed to be doing today?" I murmur to myself, still groggy.

I stumble into the living room. My subletters are snoring loudly on the couch. Empty beer bottles and half-eaten food are scattered on the counter where I had cleaned just the night before. The cats are nudging my legs, demanding food. A new day has begun.

I get to work, making phone calls to gather my dancers for rehearsal. I rush to the newsstand to buy the latest copy of Backstage, flipping through it frantically to search for any auditions I can go to over the next three weeks. I circle every relevant listing. African American Women Wanted for Ain't Misbehavin’, I note, circling it eagerly. I’ll spend the next few weeks hitting up every possible audition I can find. I call all the casting people I know. My new agent won’t even speak to me. She’s still mad that I took a job with the company. When I see people I know, they all ask, “Don’t you have a job already?”

At some auditions, I run into a few familiar faces from the cast. “I’ve got a call for Titanic,” says one. Walking the streets of New York, I see the company’s logo everywhere. It’s taken over the city. 42nd Street, once brimming with character, now feels hollow, transformed. The street that used to be home to hookers and junkies is now replaced with this new corporate icon. I can’t help but mutter under my breath, “Fuck you,” as I pass a theater. A new company show has taken over, and it’s hard not to feel like I’m doomed.

Turning on the TV, I see the company’s logo plastered on everything—from diapers to television stations. I pick up the phone and call my parents. They’ve bought into the myth, still believing the glossy narrative the company has spun. They ask, "Why would the company do anything you’re telling us? That’s not possible." The world believes what it wants, doesn’t it?

I see starving children in Africa clutching the company’s logo while flies buzz around them. Kids in Mexico, addicted to sniffing glue, are wearing t-shirts with that same logo. A junkie falls asleep standing up, his head drooping over his shirt—the company logo stares back at me. I used to buy into the myth too. I believed everything they told me, until I worked for them. I think they produce a great product, but I can’t stand the way they get there. How many people do they have to step on before anyone starts to notice?

I stop at a hamburger joint for lunch but skip the Happy Meal. I can’t bring myself to stomach another plastic company face glaring back at me.

Later, I walk into a bookstore and buy every Italian language tape and book I can find. I plan on being fluent by the time I get there. This is one of the reasons I took the job: money and Italy.

I end up at a party, where I see some of the “dead” ones—those who were let go from the company. We laugh and joke about everything we’ve been through. There’s an invisible stigma attached to being fired from the company, and some of them still feel it. They think they’re not good enough, but that couldn’t be further from the truth. I’ve never seen a more talented group of people in my life. Many have managed to find new jobs, but some are so depressed that they’ve locked themselves away, not even leaving the house. One of the “dead” had sublet his apartment and came back to find himself homeless. The media doesn’t care about their stories. The heads of several unions express their condolences, but they still allow actors to work for these companies, and the cycle continues.

The stories are making their way to New York, and everyone is in disbelief.

I bump into several actors who have been offered second-cast contracts with the company. "Mop floors," I tell them. "It’s less heartbreaking."

When I get home, the message light is blinking on my phone. It’s company casting. “I’ll be sending you information on surviving Italy,” says the voice on the other end. I can’t help but wonder, Is there a pamphlet for surviving the company itself?