Chapter 1: Pandora’s Box — Part 1

 

Chapter 1: Pandora’s Box — Part 1

Every Thursday morning, I made my usual trip to the neighborhood newsstand to pick up the latest issue of Backstage. For those outside the business, Backstage is the go-to trade paper for the entertainment industry. Back then, it was one of the few essential resources for finding auditions and staying connected to the ever-changing pulse of show business. Nestled between ads for voice coaches, dance studios, and acting classes, you'd find pages packed with audition notices—if you were lucky.

This paper, along with a healthy dose of ambition, had the power to transform a chorus dancer into a headliner overnight.

Timing was everything. You had to grab it first thing in the morning—before the listings went cold. We used to joke that the auditions were “fresher” before noon. But living in an artist-heavy neighborhood came with its disadvantages. My local stand often had a line, and worse, it sometimes sold out.

There was a rumor that the stand on Astor Place got Backstage before anyone else in Manhattan. There was another rumor that their line was longer than the wait for Shakespeare in the Park tickets. Either way, I stuck to my spot.

My eyes skimmed over the chaos of the magazine rack—everything from porn to Better Homes and Gardens. The dusty shelves were jam-packed with periodicals no one ever seemed to buy. Kathy Lee Gifford’s smiling face stared back at me from at least three covers. I pushed her aside and finally found what I was looking for.

I rummaged through my pocket, tossed a crumpled five-dollar bill onto the counter, scooped up my change, and headed up the block. I couldn’t wait to dive in. Walking and flipping through the pages, my fingers brushed past the usual clutter—open calls for off-off-Broadway, generic cruise ship gigs, student films with no pay—until one ad stopped me cold.

It looked innocent enough at first. The headline practically leapt off the page:

“WANTED: Seasoned Performers for an Established Company”

I scanned the bullet points—every detail seemed tailored to me. Experience required? Check. Strong singer/dancer? Check. Immediate availability? Double check.

Then I reached the final line of the ad, and everything shifted.

“Contracts begin with international travel. Must have valid passport. Rehearsals begin immediately. Housing provided. Auditions held Friday.”

International travel?

That one phrase stopped me in my tracks. My heart did a little double beat—half excitement, half suspicion. I’d seen my fair share of vague ads, but something about this one felt like a secret waiting to be cracked open.

I circled the ad with a pen I always kept tucked behind my ear. Housing provided, immediate rehearsals, overseas contract… it sounded too good to be true. But in this business, that’s often the bait. And I was already reaching for the hook.

Friday couldn’t come fast enough.

I arrived early at the audition—earlier than usual, even for me. The lobby was already buzzing. There were dancers stretching against the walls, singers sipping tea from travel mugs, and that anxious-but-hopeful look plastered across every face in the room. We were all chasing something. For some, it was just a job. For others, maybe redemption. For me? I think I was chasing a way out of the rut I’d been quietly sinking into.

We were called in by groups. The first round was dance. The cuts came fast. One combination, thank you. Next. Another group, another round. People were dropping like flies.

But I held on.

Then came the singing. The pianist plunked out the first few bars of my piece, and I sang like my future depended on it. Because, in a way, it did.

Another cut. Fewer of us now.

Then a Polaroid. Measurements. A brief meeting with someone who looked far too polished to be on this side of the casting table. She smiled in a way that made you want to believe everything was just as it seemed.

“You’ve got the job,” she said, scribbling something onto a clipboard. “We’ll be in touch with contract details.”

I smiled back. But I’d been in this business long enough to know: nothing is real until it’s signed.

Still, I left the building with a rare mix of skepticism and hope wrestling inside me. Something had cracked open. A door I didn’t know I’d been standing in front of. A new chapter was calling.

And like the story of Pandora herself, I had just lifted the lid.