Letter of introduction written in 1997/ The Letter

 Dear Friends,

It’s taken me quite a while to sit down and write this. Recently, I received an email from someone who had a terrible experience in the theatre world, and it stirred something in me. After much reflection, I’ve decided to share a story of my own. It’s not easy to tell—and perhaps, by doing so, I’m committing a kind of theatre suicide—but here it goes.

This journey began over a year ago, with an audition for what was described as an exciting new project from an established company. I won’t name the company directly—though by the end, you may be able to guess.

I auditioned alongside about 100 other hopefuls. We danced, sang, and were slowly whittled down through cut after cut. My photo was taken with a Polaroid, and I was even measured for costumes. Then came the words every performer longs to hear: “You got the job.” I was given a start date and told to be ready.

Six months passed. Nothing. Not a word. The start date came and went. I found myself shouting at the TV every time I saw one of their commercials.

Then, out of the blue, I received a voicemail from the casting director: I was being called back in for a role. Not just any role—a specific one. I prepped. I trained. I showed up, only to find myself auditioning for a completely different part. Still, I embraced the unexpected and gave it my all.

Again, I was told, “You’ve got the job.” But this time, when casting asked why I didn’t look excited, I replied honestly: “I will be—when I see the contract.”

What followed was a whirlwind of promises: weekly Broadway audition opportunities, top-tier dance instructors flown in from across the country, oceanfront condos with private bedrooms, sword-fighting lessons, and leading roles in two shows. Despite having worked for this company before—and having left with a rather rough reputation due to my time serving as Equity deputy—I bought into the dream. I was told this was a separate branch, a fresh start.

When I asked about Equity involvement, I was told we’d be working far outside the U.S., beyond Equity’s jurisdiction. For context: during my last stint with this company, I had to fight for the basics—dry costumes, water backstage, even mediating absurd disputes like cast members refusing to keep shirts on because of body hair complaints.

Departure day arrived. I had sublet my apartment, redirected my bills and calls, and said goodbye to my agent. I took a cab to the airport and boarded a flight to the Bahamas, where I’d be living and working for the next few months.

Upon landing, I was picked up by a friend and taken to my new condo. So far, things seemed legit. But then I met my roommate, who introduced himself and casually listed off the exact roles I’d been promised. My heart sank. I said nothing. Just a week earlier, I’d committed to a personal goal: to keep quiet and roll with whatever punches came my way.

That night, there was a welcome pizza party. I met the full cast and a few producers. I left the event with a spinning head, an empty stomach (I never did get any pizza), and a beer buzz. I walked back to my condo in a daze.

It was late September. A breeze drifted through my open window as I crawled into bed.

“Thank you, God,” I whispered, and fell asleep.

 The story begins.