“It happens to the best of us, girl, don’t worry about it.”
But that was unacceptable to Roz. It had been years since she was late for an audition, and if it wasn’t for Betsy waiting at the gate, she would not have been allowed in the door. Since auditions nowadays were few and far between, she knew she had no room for error. She had to be on point. She had to do better than this.
For years Roz had been doing all she could to break into the big time. Now she was soon to turn thirty-three and this so-called career of hers was still looking drab. She had some major moments, like when she won that plum role in the off-Broadway revival of A Raisin in the Sun, where she played Ruth Younger, Walter Lee’s wife. Or when she played second-lead in the off-Broadway production of Marcus Got His Gun. But both of those roles were nearly five years ago. The work remained steady after that, but nothing like it had been. Then the roles became more and more infrequent. Roles that barely registered. An extra, the no-name lady with a line or two, a member of the chorus. Sometimes she was even the understudy, who never got the call.
It was nothing like the life she had envisioned when she graduated Yale Drama School and made her way to New York City, ready to take this town by storm. She was going to make the big time, she declared, if it was the last thing she tried to do. And she tried and tried and tried. For a decade she’d been out here hustling and trying. Now she was in the final hour of her tries because it wasn’t happening for her anymore. She knew decisions had to be made. She knew she was going to have to face a harsh truth she often taught her students to always be willing to face: that this career she invested so much of her life into might actually be a fail for her. And she was going to have to face it sooner rather than later.
“How much time do we have?” They hurried into the overcrowded dressing room.
“Three minutes tops,” Betsy said. “First Call’s already come.”
“Damn,” Roz said as she slung off her satchel and she and Betsy hurriedly pulled out her leotards. “We won’t have time to rehearse our number.”
“No time at all,” Betsy said. “But we’ve got it down. We’ve rehearsed enough.”
“Rehearsed enough?” Roz was alarmed. “Bite your tongue. You can never rehearse enough.”
Betsy smiled. “Yes, Mother.”
“I’m serious.”
“Whatever you say Mother. Now hurry up.”
Roz smiled and shook her head as she struggled into those tight-ass tights. Betsy was only four years younger than Roz, but she acted as if she were decades younger. She was a beautiful blonde, with her hair framed the way Marilyn Monroe wore her hair: short with big curls.
But it had been a struggle for Betsy too. She turned to porn to help pay her bills and tried to recruit Roz, but Roz would never go there. She had many offers from slick photographers who insisted she had the perfect body for it, but she turned them down cold. Nobody was exploiting her body that way. These were do or die days for Roz too, but she was determined to get out of this, win or lose, with her self-respect intact.
The door to the dressing room opened swiftly, the Last Call was issued, and all of the girls, at least fifty strong, began hurrying like cattle toward the waiting area of the theater: they waited in the wings.
Roz and Betsy pulled up the rear, holding hands, saying a private prayer, but at least they were there. They had placed themselves in position to at least get a shot at it. Now they nervously, anxiously, prayerfully waited until they were called.
Inside the theater, in the aisle near the second row, Broadway Director Barry Acker was upset about unauthorized script changes by his playwright. He was doing all he could to contain his fury. “I don’t want clouds,” he said. “How many times do I have to tell you that?”
“They are enhancements, Barry.”
“No, they are not, Neal. They cheapen the production.” Then Barry frowned. “You aren’t the set director anyway. What’s with you and clouds? Why are you adding clouds?”
“It won’t cheapen anything,” Neal, the playwright, insisted. “And I added them because I’m convinced they will give more atmosphere to the showstopper. It doesn’t have enough punch. It doesn’t have enough ambience.”
“And clouds will take it over the top? Get real, Nealton! We’re going to keep this simple. The story, the songs, speak for themselves. No gimmicks.”
“Gimmicks? So you’re saying my suggestion is gimmicky?”
“Clouds? What do you think? Next thing I know you’ll want puppies and rainbows and stars on the side posts. Come on!”