Chapter 1: Pandora’s Box — Part 2

 

Chapter 1: Pandora’s Box — Part 2

This audition was for what I like to call the Company. The name alone gave me pause. Could I really do it again? Could I swallow my pride, ignore the ghosts of the past, and go back for another round? My brain wasn’t sure, but my bank account was screaming yes.

There weren’t many listings in Backstage that week, and this one did boast a new show with music by a known Broadway composer. On paper, it sounded promising. But in my gut, all I could feel was the heavy memory of how things had gone the last time I worked for them. Was it really as bad as I remembered?

Maybe I’d exaggerated it over time. I mean, I did make friends, and I did love the weather and the apartment we were crammed into. Had I let the frustration of crappy treatment erase all of that? Had I thrown out the baby with the bathwater?

My head was spinning. I sat down on someone’s stoop and lit a cigarette, watching the smoke curl above me like some kind of omen. The audition was still three weeks away. Plenty of time to talk myself in—or out—of it.

“Oh well,” I told myself, “I’ve got time to figure it out.”

But this is New York City. Time disappears like cab fare and warm bagels. Before I knew it, three weeks had flown by, and I was standing in the cramped waiting room of New Dance Group on 47th Street.

Dressed like every other dancer in the city back then: black turtleneck leotard, black jazz pants, black jazz sneakers—the unofficial uniform of audition warriors. I had three songs prepared and a monologue in my back pocket, just in case. I’d auditioned in L.A. and Vegas before, where the vibe was totally different. In L.A., people showed up looking like they’d wandered in from a brunch. In Vegas, they barely wore anything at all. Come to think of it, my Vegas costume had two modes: no shirt, and vest with no shirt.

I looked around and realized just how small this city really is. I knew everyone in the room. Boys were everywhere—stretching, chatting, flirting, swapping numbers, hugging like long-lost siblings. It was a sea of black and nervous energy.

“Jesus,” I thought. “Are there no other jobs right now?” It felt like every male dancer in the tri-state area had turned up, and we were all vying for the same role.

I’d stopped warming up twenty minutes earlier. At some point, it becomes less about flexibility and more about mental games. You strike a few impressive poses, maybe do some slow, focused pliés by the piano—just enough to psych out the competition. It’s a time-honored tradition. Or, my favorite: find a corner and go silent. Nothing unsettles people more than someone who looks too calm, too confident, like they’ve got an inside track the rest of us don’t.

Truth was, I was nervous. I’m always a wreck before auditions—on the way there, sitting in the waiting room, pretending to be chill. But the moment I walk into the room, everything shifts. At least then, I know what I’m dealing with. I can focus.

As I sat waiting, my mind drifted. I started thinking about what I’d do after the audition. I wasn’t even fully present. Maybe because deep down I knew—it’s never really about the audition. It’s about who you know, who they know, and what everyone remembers about you. I was sure I’d recognize a few people behind the table. I was equally sure a few of them would recognize me.

Did they like me?

Was I nice?

Oh crap, now I’m spiraling.

The Company had a habit of recycling the same performers. Once, they even ran an ad looking for people with “The Company Look.” Whatever that meant. It got them in a bit of hot water, but the damage was done. We all joked about it for months.

Sitting there, I was reminded of that old Tracey Ullman sketch—she plays an actress auditioning for Peter Pan, and she can literally fly. But the casting team just doesn’t see “it.” She's soaring around the room and still doesn’t book the role. Sometimes, that’s exactly what this industry feels like.

Lost in thought, I didn’t hear my name the first time the casting assistant called it. Suddenly, the room exploded into motion. Bags flying, voices rising, everyone scrambling to line up. I jumped off the floor, grabbed my bag, and found my place—number fifteen, right between fourteen and sixteen.

With our numbers pinned and nerves buzzing, we filed into the hallway.

Audition time.