And then it hit me.
In my haste to show how quickly I could learn the song, I hadn’t really stopped to consider what the song was about, which was someone joyously playing the bass fiddle. I mean, I sort of knew that, but in my nervousness, I didn’t pronounce “bass” like the instrument—like “face,” “place,” or even “ace,” a word that was actually in the song. I pronounced it like “pass,” “grass,” or “ass”—which was also what I now felt like. Fueled by adrenaline and dreams of my Equity card, I’d turned a song about playing an instrument into a song about abusing a fish. Over and over, I’d just gleefully sung about hitting the poor fishy upside the head. I’d given “slapping a bass” a whole new meaning. No wonder they were laughing so hard.
In my mind’s eye, I removed my framed headshot from the theater lobby. My plaque faded into the wings. My Equity card evaporated in the glare of the footlights.
But eventually I recovered, and managed to get into the summer stock routine. The apprentices worked very, very hard. In addition to rehearsing during the afternoon, our duties included anything and everything it took to keep the theater going, including costume sewing, set building, and floor mopping. Mornings were spent doing chores like cleaning the bathrooms and painting the fence that surrounded the property. I lucked out and for a few weeks got a coveted job working in the box office taking ticket orders over the phone. The box office was luxurious compared to the outdoor activities we performed in the 100-degree heat. It had both air-conditioning and a constant influx of baked goods from the theater-loving locals. The baked goods were supposed to be sent directly to the Equity actors, but most never made it past whoever was manning the phones. Every day I’d have stolen cakes and cookies for breakfast, a Chinese chicken salad from McDonald’s for lunch (do they still make this? It was so good), and then came “dinner,” or what passed for dinner on an apprentice’s nonexistent salary, a combination of food and beverage that I loved more than I’ve loved some meals I’ve had at restaurants with Michelin stars. I’ll tell you what it was in a second, but I warn you—it appeals only to those with the most discerning palates.
After the main stage shows, there was a sort of bar that opened next door to the theater called the Shed, where the apprentices performed cabaret-type songs and skits for any audience members who didn’t yet want to call it a night. On the main stage we were chorus members, bit players at best, but at the Shed show afterward, we were the stars. I personally wowed audiences by accompanying myself on songs with the acoustic guitar I’d brought from home, my greatness limited only by my dreams and the fact that I knew how to play just three chords. But that’s all you need for “Leaving on a Jet Plane,” my friends! At the Shed, the “stars” were also the waiters, so the storeroom in the back doubled as our backstage area and locker room. It was a chaotic jumble of costume pieces for our upcoming numbers, bar supplies, and personal stuff. The back room was also where they kept the Snak-Ens, an evil mix of delicious seasoned crackers and pretzels that I’m pretty sure the dastardly Gardetto’s company invented in an attempt to ruin my career, even though at the time I had no career to speak of. We weren’t allowed to indulge in the Snak-Ens, which were kept in giant garbage-bin-sized tubs in the storeroom—those were only for the PAYING CUSTOMERS. The theater owners were VERY strict about this. So I’m here to tell you, and any former employers (or health inspectors) who may be reading this, that we 100 percent DID NOT reach our grubby hands into the giant bins OVER AND OVER every night until we were sick with salt bloat. How DARE you imply such a thing! That summer, I also discovered the first alcoholic drink I actually liked the taste of, a drink that was very hip and happening at the time, and is still a sign of intellect and sophistication. I’m talking, of course, about the Fuzzy Navel. This nutrient-packed, classy combination of Snak-Ens and Fuzzy Navels was my dinner for two whole months.
Halfway through the summer, an incredible opportunity came up. An Equity part was going to be given to one of the apprentices. It was a smallish part, so to bring an Equity actor all the way from New York would be too costly. It was cheaper to just give one of the apprentices their card and pay them Equity wages for the two-week run. This was exactly the scenario I’d imagined, precisely the break I’d been hoping for! There was much excitement and discussion among the apprentices about the part, and also about what it required. The play was a farce, a broad comedy about two cheating husbands and the wives they’re lying to, and the role was a French maid that one of the husbands is caught having an affair with. When the maid and the husband are discovered in bed, the maid stands up in fright, and as she’s facing upstage, babbling in French, the blanket that’s been covering her falls, exposing her bare backside to the audience.
The rumor was that the director would only be bringing a few girls in to audition, and we wondered nervously whom he’d choose. The next day, a short list was posted, and my name was on it. I was thrilled and flattered. We then learned that the entire audition would consist of being brought into a room and showing our bare butts to the director. I wasn’t sure exactly how that would work (enter walking backward?), and I thought it was a little odd that we weren’t being asked to read even a small part of the actual scene, but I was still both thrilled and flattered. This was the sort of thing professional actresses were asked to do all the time. My Equity card was just a bare-butt-flash away!
The Chosen Butts became an instant club of sorts. We tried our best to be professional and not act overly excited, but it was clear we were bonded because of our excellent butts I mean acting ability. We didn’t want those of lesser butt to feel left out, but we’d subtly smile at each other in the hallways, pleased at having been singled out for our shapely butts I mean talent. The phrase “butt buddies” had never made so much sense!
The day of the audition came. We were asked to disrobe from the waist down in private, and when we were ready, two girls holding a sheet walked out slightly in front of us. We walked up behind them and turned around, the girls dropped the sheet for a brief moment for the director, then they put it back up and we all walked out together. During the entrance and exit, the director made innocuous small talk. His wife was sitting beside him, there to ensure we were comfortable. Everyone was very respectful. The whole thing was over so quickly, I barely had time to register any feelings about it at all. I walked out smiling, waved to the rest of my BBs, who were waiting to go in, got dressed, and went to a secluded place behind the theater, where I burst into tears.
There was nothing wrong with the way anyone conducted themselves that day. The audition process was thoughtfully executed. The play was silly and full of sexual innuendo, and nudity was called for in the script.