15
Before I know exactly what I’m doing, I’ve dialed Richard back at the agency.
“Did the fax come through?” he asks.
“Um. Yes. Um …”
“The speech is a little heavy-handed I know, but you’ll be great!”
“I’m not sure I can do this.”
“Huh?”
“This—with the lingerie—everyone stops, because she’s so beautiful, I mean, please—and then at the end, I’m supposed to look both tired and defiant, how could anyone possibly—I’m sobbing, on top of everything? I don’t even understand …”
“Franny, you’re nervous. You haven’t had an audition in a while. Jeff and Jeff are good casting people, though, and they’re nice guys, too. They’ll know you haven’t had a ton of time with the material. They do other projects besides Pinetree Lodge. We just want to get you out there, to be seen. Of course, if you really aren’t comfortable with the material, I can tell Joe …”
“No, no,” I say, quickly backpedaling. “I’m just, uh, having a moment of … um … I’m sure I’m just nervous, like you said. Never mind. I’ll be going now.”
“Have fun with it, Franny, really. It’s just one audition.”
I’m on the D train heading over the Manhattan Bridge, going over my lines in my head. At least, I thought I was doing them in my head until I heard myself. “Oh!” I say, too loudly, and a girl across the subway car looks up from her book and stares at me, hungrily, as if she enjoys entertainment of the deranged subway-rider kind and is hoping I might say more.
I read the pages over and over again, trying to make them sound more real. But the script is so awkward. All those “sorrys,” and that speech with all the information about the character’s past. No one talks that way. I try to think of what Stavros would say: be truthful, say what you mean and mean what you say, don’t ignore the given circumstances. I just have to use what I’ve learned in class and I’ll be fine.
The given circumstances: abandoned child turns up to see her father. She’s become a success but has stayed away all this time. Why?
Stavros always tells us when we’re analyzing a script to ask, “Why is this day different from any other?” Why did she pick today to show up?
I don’t know; I don’t have enough information. In class we would have had the whole play, not just a single scene, and we’d have studied it for weeks. We would read what other people wrote about it; we would talk about how other directors and actors interpreted the material. How am I supposed to do that with four pages and a twenty-five-minute subway ride?
In a way, I’ve watched enough of the show in the past few weeks to have accidentally done this research already. I know the character she’s speaking to; I know the world they live in. Arkadia is brand-new in town, though. No one on the show has ever spoken about her before. Angela Bart recently had a cancer scare that turned out to be acid reflux, and has also been given a key to the city of Pinetree for all the humanitarian work she did, which she did only because she plans to run for mayor and siphon the campaign funds to pay for the special “youth pills” she gets from an illegal source in Guam. I know a lot about her world, but none of that helps me know how to play Arkadia.
Also, there’s the crying. I’ve never had to cry in an audition before, let alone “sob” like the stage directions say. In class I’ve been able to eke out a tear or two now and then, but I can’t imagine just bursting into tears in an audition room. I’ll have to be so otherwise riveting and compelling that the casting directors won’t notice. Make it your own, Stavros always says. That’s right! That’s all I have to do. I’ll show them who my Arkadia is. I will be the Arkadia who’s coming home for the first time, who’s been hurt and angry and discarded, who for some reason has bravely chosen this day to stand up for herself, and who does it all without crying.
By the time I sign in with the guard in the lobby (name, who I’m seeing, floor, time) and get my name tag (Frances Banks—Visitor, Jeff and Jeff Casting, 34th floor), I’m flying high. I’ve convinced myself that I know Arkadia Sloane as well as if she’s a real person. I have pushed to the back of my mind such annoying issues of reality as how she possibly found out who her real father was while isolated on a farm in Vermont, the likelihood of an eight-month-old infant swimming to safety, and why anyone would buy underwear that has “Lament” in the name. None of that matters now. I am Arkadia. I’m feeling pretty confident.
I realize on my way up that I forgot to change out of my lace-up Doc Martens. The elevator is almost full, so I have to scrunch myself into the corner to avoid hitting anyone while I switch into my heels. When I look up, we’re already at the thirtieth floor, next stop thirty-four. I jam my left heel onto my foot and stuff my chunky boot into my bag just as the doors open. I spill out of the elevator, almost losing my balance. I should have put my heels on outside and practiced for a block or so to get used to them, but it’s too late to worry about that now.
The elevator bank separates the building’s two wings: to my left is a large frosted-glass door with a shiny plaque that says “Sunshine Productions.” To my right is another large frosted-glass door with a piece of notebook paper taped to it. An arrow is drawn in thick marker and underneath it says “Casting.” That must be the place.
Finally—my first real audition in ages. I’m back on track. Today is the first day of my actual career. “I remember the day things turned around for me,” I will say to the packed house at the 92nd Street Y. “Ironically, given the amount of theater I’ve been lucky enough to do over the years, the audition wasn’t for a play; it was actually for a soap opera.” And the audience will laugh, amused, surprised.
The elevator chimes and the doors open, bringing a new flood of people into the hallway and me back to reality. I can’t stand here forever imagining wonderful things that haven’t happened yet. I have to go in there and make them happen. My heart is pounding so hard that I feel a little dizzy, and I’m so shaky that it takes all my effort to push open the massive door.
There is a large receptionist’s desk, behind which sits a pale young man wearing a tie, his thin face almost buried behind several stacks of scripts and a giant bouquet of flowers. A clipboard faces out on his desk with the words SIGN IN written in bold letters at the top, and I go straight for it, not wanting to look hesitant or inexperienced. My hand jerks as I try to write my name and social security number, but I feel a burst of pride when, for the first time, I can fill in something under the AGENCY column. “Absolute Artists,” I write, and I feel a bit steadier.
Maybe it’s my imagination, but the pale receptionist seems to be staring, looking at me with something like curiosity, or is it disdain? Is it that obvious I’m still brand-new?
I don’t care. I’m not going to let him intimidate me. I look at him with a smile, but with a little challenge, too, and I think of Arkadia at the end of the scene, who has to look defiant yet vulnerable, and I understand that now in a way I didn’t only a few hours ago. A lucky sign! I will remember this feeling, I will use it in my work. The receptionist seems about to say something to me but I’m not going to let him steal my confidence, so I turn away from him, like Arkadia would, sure of herself.
Only then do I realize I am the only white person in the room.
There are two couches that form an L-shape around the receptionist’s desk, and on them sit about fifteen of the most beautiful black women I have ever seen. Young and thin and striking, dressed in the tiniest tops and the shortest skirts.
I want to run out of the room, back to Brooklyn, back to my curtainless room, and hide. To say I’m not what they’re looking for is an understatement. I had no idea this kind of beauty even existed, in New York or the whole world, and I’m obviously not right for this part. I’m not even the right color.
But, it’s strange … how are they going to explain the daughter of Peter Sloane being black? I guess they can do anything on a soap, bring people back from the dead, wake them up from comas. But I thought Arkadia’s mother was the now deceased, but thoroughly Caucasian, Mary Marlowe, the heiress to the …
“Excuse me?” The pale receptionist pushes his glasses up on the bridge of his nose, eyeing me suspiciously.
“Yes?”
“Are you in the right place?”
I square my shoulders and look down my nose at him. I am not going to let him make me feel bad. I am not.
“Yes, I believe I am,” I say firmly. I am strong. I am confident. I’m Arkadia Sloane.
“Are you sure? You’re here for Ebony Breeze perfume?”
What?
“Oh. No. I’m, uh, here for Pinetree Lodge?”
“I thought so. You’re on the wrong floor. P.L. is on thirty-four, one more up.”
“Oh. Oh! Thank God!” I sputter, “I mean, I didn’t, uh, I got out too … I was confused because … uh …” I gesture helplessly to the room behind me.
The receptionist pushes his glasses up his nose once more and waves me closer to him.
“Don’t feel bad,” he whispers. “They’re models.”
By the time I get to the right floor and sign in on the correct audition sheet, I’m almost too drained to dwell on the girls I’m actually going up against, who at first glance are less exotic but just as intimidating as the models on the thirty-third floor. How does everyone know what to wear? They all seem to have studied the same hair and makeup handbook, which apparently involves long straight ironed—looking hair and a dark red matte lipstick. They’re all so individually striking that it makes them almost blend together into one big beautiful blur. The group becomes one: The Beautifuls. I try to block them out, keeping my head down, studying my lines over and over, gripping the pages too tightly, the flimsy fax paper starting to look crumpled.
A stocky man with short curly hair and a tight blue V-neck sweater opens the door to the audition room, leading one of The Beautifuls out. Her face is shiny and a little damp. She’s clearly been crying. My stomach lurches.
“Beautiful work, Taylor,” he says quietly. “Really excellent.”
“Thanks, Jeff.” Taylor uses the ring finger of her right hand to dab delicately under her eyes, so as not to disturb the copious amount of eyeliner that seems to have miraculously remained intact. “It was my honor to say her words,” she says, and walks away, glowing with pride.
It was her honor? To say those words? Is that how I’m supposed to act? Do people really buy that?
Jeff looks at his clipboard. “Frances Banks? You’re next.”
I take a deep breath and try to float up from the chair gracefully, like Arkadia would. But one of my heels catches on the shag carpet and the shoe pops off my foot.
“Oopsy,” Jeff says, holding the door open for me as I jam my shoe back on.
“Got to quit drinking at lunch,” I sputter.
“Not me, honey,” Jeff says smoothly. “It’s the only way.”
“I don’t really—I didn’t mean …”
But we’re through the door already, and Jeff is taking his seat.
“Jeff, this is Franny Banks,” tight-sweater-wearing Jeff says to open-collar-wearing Jeff. “Joe Melville sent her.”
“Fancy. No, no, not so far back, sweetie, your mark is right there, where the chair is. That’s it.”
“Here? So, should I stand? Or sit? In the chair?”
“Whatever you like, Angel—the camera sees everything.”
I’d never thought of it that way before. It sounds ominous. For a minute, I stare into the camera, which is set up on a tripod facing the chair. Then I realize that if the camera sees everything, it’s seeing me now stare dumbly into it. I’ve had cameras at auditions before, of course, but for commercials you generally look directly into them, a man-versus-machine staring contest. Today, however, I’m going to be reading with a person while the camera regards me from another angle, and I’m supposed to pretend that doesn’t make me feel self-conscious. The camera is my friend, I think. But when I catch the cold black lens from out of the corner of my eye, it makes me sit up straighter and hold my head in a way I hope looks natural, as I try to impress the camera while also trying to pretend it isn’t there.
“Have we met her before, Jeff? Do we know her?”
“You’re thinking of the other Franny.”
“There’s another Franny? Who’s that?”
“Oh, Franny’s her name? I’m thinking of Annie.”
“Which Annie?”
“Annie O’Donnell? Er, McDonnell? I forget.”
“Who?”
“You know. She has red hair. We put her in that Lars Vogel movie?”
“Another Love Story?”
“That’s the one.”
“Annie MacDonald!”
“Yes!”
“Annie and Franny are totally different people, Jeff. You’re the worst with names.”
“So, we don’t know this Franny. Franny—not Annie—we don’t know you.”
They’ve been talking to each other for so long, I’m not sure whether this is a question that demands a response from me or just an observation I’m privy to. Before I can decide, shirt Jeff says, “How old is she?”
“You can’t ask her that, Jeff.”
“Franny, I’m not supposed to know your age, apparently.” He rolls his eyes and winks at sweater Jeff.
“Well, I guess I can’t tell you, then,” I say, attempting a smile, but it feels a little wobbly.
“But why don’t we know her? Franny, why don’t we know you?”
I pause, not sure if I should tell them they don’t know me because this is my first real audition ever, and if I say the wrong thing I’m afraid it could also be my last.
“Well, I guess it’s because I’ve only recently joined the ranks of the knowable,” I manage to spit out.
The Jeffs pause, then break into a small giggling fit.
“The Ranks of the Knowable! Ahahahahaha! That’s the name of my new band!”
“You’re too old to be in a band, sweetheart.”
“I’m not too old to name one, am I?”
The Jeffs giggle some more then sigh and finally pull themselves together.
“Sorry, we’re a little punchy. We’ve been at this for three days straight. We’ve had to reshoot some scenes, which just isn’t done on a soap.”
“Unless someone throws up during a take, we use it. We’d probably use it even with the throwing up. There’s just no time.”
“What happened to the other actress?” I ask, and the Jeffs give each other a look. “She was found to be in possession of a giant amount of cocai …”
“Cocaaaa … Cola. Right, Jeff?”
“Oh. Yes. That’s what I was going to say.”
“She did enjoy her soda pop—didn’t she, Jeff?”
“Sorry, yes. What a fan she was of the carbonated beverage!”
“So. Back to Franny. She’s tall, isn’t she, Jeff?”
“Mm-hmm. Tall, and pretty.”
“Thank you,” I say, beaming.
“Franny, how tall are you?”
“Jeff, you can’t ask her that.”
“But is she too tall for Angela? You know how she can get.”
“And that hair! Franny, what ethnicity are you?”
“You can’t ask her that either, Jeff. Behave.”
“Uchh, please. All these laws.”
“I don’t mind. I’ll tell you. I’m Irish.”
They nod, and smile expectantly. I feel they’re waiting for more.
“My hair won’t tell you anything, though. My hair is very sensitive, and known to be somewhat litigious.”
The Jeffs start giggling again.
“Ahahahahaha! The hair is from someplace different!”
“The hair is Jewish maybe!”
“She’s got loud Italian hair!”
“The hair sues!”
“Ahahahahahahahaha!”
By the time we get to the scene, I’m feeling pretty relaxed. Sweater Jeff reads with me, mouthing some of my lines as I say them. It’s distracting, but I try my best to focus. I get through the giant speech pretty smoothly. I wasn’t perfect, but I think I managed to radiate some of Arkadia’s hurt, some of her pride.
“Well, I like her. What do you think, Jeff?”
“Mmmhmm, me too. Try it again, just for fun, Franny. Go a little deeper, maybe?”
Shit. He wants me to cry. That’s what “go a little deeper” means. He’s probably seeing if I’ll cry on the second take. I have to find a way for it to make sense that she doesn’t.
The second time, the speech comes out softer somehow, and quieter, but I still can’t quite get myself to tear up. It’s okay though, I think, because I do feel something more the second time. I didn’t intend to change the volume, but I felt as if, as Arkadia, I’d been practicing what I wanted to say to Angela Bart on this day for years, and now that I had my chance, I didn’t need to shout to be heard. This version of Arkadia wouldn’t cry, I thought, because her armor was up. It makes sense that she wouldn’t want Angela Bart to see her true feelings. It makes sense to me, anyway, and that’s the most important thing. I made Arkadia my own.
When I finish the speech, the Jeffs look at each other, both smiling, as if they liked what they saw.
“Great, sweetheart.”
“Glad you came in.”
“Your reading was excellent.”
“The hair wasn’t bad, either.”
“Shut up, Jeff.”
“You shut up, Jeff.”
Outside, it feels like it’s going to thunderstorm and the wind has picked up. I have to lean forward to make any progress as I make my way up 66th Street. When I realize part of the leaning feeling is due to the fact that I still have my heels on, I stop on the corner to change my shoes. Even if I weren’t being whipped by the cold wind, I know my cheeks would still be burning.
“Excellent,” they said. The reading went well, they said so. And they were fun to talk to. And they didn’t say anything about the not-crying.
I wonder if I’ll get the role. I wonder how long it takes them to call once they decide who gets it. I should check the home machine. But it’s probably too soon. There were still a few girls in the waiting area. They probably have to see everyone before they decide. Or do they? Maybe they’re calling the agency already. “We didn’t need to see anyone else after we saw her read,” they’re saying to Richard or Joe right now. “She’s perfect for the part.”
Maybe I should call Joe, or Richard at least. No. I should wait. Just sit back and be cool.
But, then again, maybe I should call Richard just to tell him it went well, so when he talks to them he has more information. Maybe he’s already left me a message and wants me to call him back. Maybe he’s trying to reach me right at this very moment.
I finally stop at a pay phone to check the home machine.
You have three messages.
I can hardly breathe as I punch in my code and wait for the tape to unwind.
BEEEP
Hi, Franny, it’s Gina from Brill. Just wondering—can you juggle? Or ice-skate? They need an ice-skating juggler for a beer ad. Also, do you have a problem with beer? Let us know!
BEEEP
Frances, it’s me, your father. I figured maybe they got rid of all of the telephones in Manhattan, but it seems they still exist. Please call me, your father, back.
BEEEP
Hi, Franny, it’s Clark. Sorry we keep missing each other. I’ll try you back later.
BEEEP
I don’t want to call my dad and talk about Katie’s wedding, or call Clark, or anyone else, until I see if there’s good news to tell. I strike a deal with myself that I will not make any other calls until I buy the paper, go to a diner, get a coffee, and complete the entire New York Times crossword puzzle. Only then will I allow myself to call Richard or check the home machine again.
On the way to the diner, I stop at a newsstand and buy the paper and some Marlboro Lights. I haven’t bought a pack in three days, and I recently vowed again that I wouldn’t smoke anymore, but I’m too worked up right now to quit smoking. I’ll quit again next week.
I’m almost done with my coffee and grilled cheese sandwich when I realize what the problem is. It’s Friday. I should have thought about what day it was before I made the deal with myself where I have to finish the New York Times crossword before I can make a call. From my seat in the booth, I can see the pay phone through the window of the diner—it’s free, ready and waiting for me to make the call. I can always get through the Wednesday puzzle at least, and sometimes Thursday. But not always on Friday, and today’s is an especially hard one. I’m not even close, not even halfway through it. Maybe this doesn’t count since I made the deal before I realized what day it was. But I don’t want to ruin my chances by breaking the deal. I’m itching to try the machine again. My leg shakes nervously underneath the table, and my hand grips the idle pencil too tightly.
Right after paying the check, I hurry outside to call Richard. I’m waiting on hold in the phone booth, shivering with nerves and the cold air, unfinished crossword puzzle still in my hand. I make a new deal with myself. I’ll never break a deal again, I swear, if just this once, breaking a deal didn’t jinx anything. Let it be good news just this once, and then never again—
“Franny! Did you get my message?”
“No. I haven’t checked them yet.”
“Well—I just left it—listen, they loved you at Pinetree Lodge.”
It worked! Even though I didn’t finish the puzzle. Thank you, thank you.
“They did?” I’m attempting to sound casual, but my voice is tight.
“Yes! They said you made sense out of a crappy scene—their words—and they thought you seemed smart and full of personality.”
“They did?”
“They did! Great job for a first read!”
“Thanks!”
“So, I can’t wait to keep getting you out there!”
I’m confused. It almost sounds like the conversation is over.
“Wait. That’s it?”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean,” I say, and a little wobble creeps into my voice. I try to control it by clearing my throat. “I mean, I didn’t get the job?”
“The job?” Richard says, confused. “Oh, no, this was just a first read for the casting people. There’s a bunch of steps that have to happen after that.”
“Oh,” I say, relieved there’s more to come. “So, what’s the next step?”
“Well, they loved you, like I said. I mean, you know that no matter how well you did today, Jeff and Jeff don’t have the power to just give you the job anyway.”
“They don’t?”
“No, no. Sorry, I didn’t realize Joe never—well, anyway, let me walk you through it. They’re the casting guys, the first people you have to get past, and sometimes the hardest. They bring people in to read and then pass the best choices, the best people, on to the producers. That doesn’t just mean the best actors—it’s the people who best fit the part. Then you have to read for the producers, or sometimes you have to read for the director, or with another actor—you know, to see if there’s chemistry … I’ve had people have to go back for callbacks three or four times just for a small part, a few lines in something, and not even in something that good. It’s so competitive out there, they can afford to be choosy and get exactly the right person. It’s rarely a short process.”
I didn’t know any of this. It makes sense now that he says it, but it didn’t occur to me that there would be more to face after today, even if today had gone better.
“It’s just, that first time, when I got the job, it seemed like it was going to be so easy.”
“Yeah, I know. That was pretty unusual, though.”
“So I didn’t even make it to the next cut?”
“Not this time. It’s not going any further. This time.”
“Okay,” I say, making an involuntary sound somewhere between a cough and a hiccup.
“Franny, you did really well. This is positive feedback. You did great for a first reading. You said yourself this part wasn’t really your thing, right? You did a great reading for a part you’re not totally right for, and now they’ve met you and they like you and they’ll bring you in next time for something you are right for.”
I feel so stupid. Of course he’s right. I could hardly see myself in the part—how could anyone else? It would make no sense if I had gotten it. But still, there was a part of me that thought I would somehow. I have to introduce the part of me that feels like a winner to the part of me convinced I’m a loser, and see if they can’t agree to exist somewhere closer to the middle.
“Franny. This is a win. Just getting you in a room like that is something we’ve been working on for weeks, and now it’s happened, and you made a great impression. If it makes you feel any better, and you did not hear this from me, they’re already close to making a deal with somebody. One of our clients, actually. They had a last-minute session today just in case it doesn’t go through. But they basically have their choice already. This was, like, a backup session.”
It makes me feel even worse to know this whole thing was never a real possibility.
“Oh. Great. Thanks. That does make me feel better.”
“Look at it this way, Franny. You lost a job you never had. It’s not like you got fired, right?”
As I stand there clutching the phone, it’s as if I can hear some kind of siren or alarm, but far off in the distance. It’s a feeling I’m not sure I’ve had before, one in which I know something bad is about to happen but I don’t know what it is yet. The alarm is getting louder, and I’m suddenly nervous, not the audition kind of excited/nervous, but nervous like I’ve done something wrong, something I regret. What is it? Something Richard said: “lost a job you never had … not like you got fired.”
It hits me all at once, the alarm, right next to my ear now, ringing full blast: the realization of what I’ve done, and the certainty of what the outcome will be.
It’s Friday, well past four thirty—past when my coveted shift at the club starts.
It’s Friday past four thirty, and I’m 100 percent certain I’ve been fired.