Chapter 8: NEW BLOOD AUDITIONS

 Chapter 8: NEW BLOOD AUDITIONS

The Stage Manager approaches me to tell me that I need to appear for a meeting with the Director the next day. He looks deeply into my eyes and adds that the company casting director will be there too. "Is anyone else going to be there?" I ask, already sweating under my t-shirt. He shrugs. I spend the rest of the night tossing and turning.

I arrive for my meeting, prepared for anything. I’ve already packed my suitcase and several boxes. I’ve saved all the scripts and script changes given to me, which now total nine. I plan on selling them at the company’s yearly convention in Florida. I figure, if nothing else, I’ll make a ton of money doing this—even though the first page of each script outlines all the publishing and sales rights. Great, I’ll make tons of money but get a criminal record along the way.

The next morning, I arrive for the meeting and am asked to wait in the hallway. It feels like I’m back in high school, waiting for the principal. I rack my brain, trying to figure out what I might have done. Maybe I got caught rolling my eyes or sighing. I really need to watch that.

My name is called out, and I jump to my feet. Grabbing the doorknob, I whisper a prayer to the Magical Baby Jesus. “Dear Magical Baby Jesus, please make this quick and painless. Amen.” With that, I push open the door.

I enter the room and sit in the only chair, placed in the middle of the room. There’s nowhere else to sit. The director and casting director sit in front of me, looking down, not at me. I feel like I’m about to pass out. My pants are sticking to my legs. I clear my throat. The director lifts his head and, through his thick glasses, looks at the wall behind me. I glance behind me, only to realize that it must be me he’s about to speak to.

He smiles a pained smile, making his eyes grow wide and fill up his glasses. “We were worried about hiring you,” he says. “Your reputation for being a problem has followed you here.” I’m not sure what he’s talking about. Sure, I worked for the company at one of their theme parks and got into trouble a few times, but nothing crazy.

I quickly explain that I was an Equity Deputy when I worked at the parks. This means that as a performer, I’m protected by a union called Actors’ Equity. The company was using chemicals in one of their shows to create fog, and it was making the performers sick. The cast asked me to go to management, and then to Equity, which led to a “problem employee” label.

“Oh, that explains everything,” he says. “I just want you to know that we think you’re doing a fantastic job. You’re a credit to the cast.” My jaw drops. “That’s it?” I think. All that packing, sweating, and another sleepless night just to get a compliment? Unfortunately, I’ll need to remind the director of his words during my hearing months later.

They now seem very relaxed, excited to get back to work. “Do you have any questions?” the director asks, pushing back in his chair.

“Actually, I do,” I answer, looking at both of them. I take a breath and quietly ask, “When do the Broadway auditions begin?” The director’s eyes grow wide, and he leans in. “Who told you there would be special Broadway auditions set up for the cast?” he asks. Pointing to the casting director, I answer, “He did.” I explain that we were promised several things to get us to sign our contracts, and I want to follow up on them.

Now, I’ve been in constant contact with the casting director before I was hired, and he mentioned these auditions several times. “It’s one of the perks,” he’d said.

The director sighs and leans back in his chair. “There are no special Broadway auditions for the cast,” he says, shaking his head.

“Oh,” I say. I leave it at that. I’m not going to push it or follow up with a question about a second perk. I’ll ask later, but now’s clearly not the time. That’s how I got the reputation for being hard to work with—asking people to follow through on what they say. I look over at the casting director, who now has a bead of sweat rolling slowly down his face.

The web of promises slowly begins to unravel.

Quickly thanking them for their time, I stand up and leave the room. Several cast members are sitting out in the hallway, the next victims waiting to enter the room. They gather around me, and I tell them, “The director and casting director told me I’m a credit to the cast.” “Who told you that?” they ask, shocked. “They did,” I say, tilting my head toward the door. “And oh, by the way, there are more surprises. Number one—there are no special Broadway auditions for our cast,” I add. “We were told that during our contract negotiations.”

“What?” Everyone screams in unison.

“Ta-ta,” I say with a wave, and walk away. I don’t say anything else—I just go on my merry way. Let the next victim question them when they enter the room. Let someone else get in trouble. I plan on keeping my nose clean. Someone in the group throws a book at my head. It misses by an inch before hitting the floor. I don’t pay any more attention.

It’s time for another explanation. This is the only company I know where you can start as a dishwasher one day and become head of casting the next. Literally, that’s what happened to the casting director. He told me that during phone conversations. That alone should’ve been a red flag. It’s great that you can climb the ladder without experience in the field you’re entering.

One day, when things were getting tough in rehearsal, one of the producers gave us a pep talk. He explained that when he starred in community theater, things never went the way they should, and we should just roll with the punches. We found it funny that he felt the need to lecture professional actors and dancers on how to do their jobs. See? Dreams really do come true.

I return to rehearsal, where we are told it’s audition day for some lucky soul they flew in to replace one of the dancers we lost to the firings. We’re asked to leave the theater so they can audition him without us watching, so as not to make him nervous. The whole cast gathers up their things and heads into the hallway.

“Run for your life,” I mumble to him under my breath as we pass him on his way in.

The whole cast gathers in the lobby of the casino, and someone gets the idea to run up to the balcony and watch the auditions. Only the bravest step forward.

Nine of us crawl on our hands and knees up the stairs at the back of the theater to the balcony. Staying low, we hide below the rail at the back of the theater. If anyone looks up, we’ll be spotted—nine pairs of eyes watching.

They sing, dance, and make him read from the script. When they’re done, they offer him the job. I can think of no better way to punish him.

To add insult to injury, we later find out that he’s making more money than all of us. In the future, he’ll cower in fear with us when the second shoe drops.