The booth stood before me like some strange and fantastical monument in the middle of the city, the bright beams of the afternoon sun reflecting off its metal frame, almost creating a halo around it. Without waiting for the light to change, we crossed the street, dodging a few speeding cars as we scurried over to it. After a supportive nod from Lyla, I stepped inside, a warmth engulfing me like a hug from an old friend, and I couldn’t keep my hand from trembling as I reached for the phone.
I picked up the receiver, dialed the number the ghost guard gave me on Christmas, a phone number forever etched in my brain, as my heartbeat sped up like a racehorse just before the starting shot. I closed my eyes, took a deep breath, listened for the two rings, and waited for the sound of the familiar click.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Lyla almost decided to skip her Bumble date to accompany me to the mystery address, but I insisted she go ahead and told her I’d be okay to do some digging on my own. According to my phone’s GPS, the address the phone booth gave, 27 Barrow Street, wasn’t far, but it also didn’t give me any indication of what kind of building I was being directed to.
I rounded the corner looking down at my phone and almost caused a domino effect when I practically rear-ended a young woman who was waiting in a verrrrrrry long line snaking up the block.
“Whoa! ’Scuse me,” I blurted out, maneuvering around her.
The young woman pulled a pair of AirPods from her ears. “Sorry, what?”
“Oh, never mind,” I said, continuing down the street. But with each step closer to 27 Barrow, I realized the line was queuing to enter that very address. I surveyed the people who were waiting like a line of ants at a picnic, a mix of men and women of all colors, shapes, and sizes, carrying headshots, listening to music, and muttering to themselves.
Curiosity getting the better of me, I searched for someone on the line without headphones. After zeroing in on a young guy in a long-sleeve waffle shirt, puffer jacket, and jeans, I tapped him squarely on his shoulder. He was scanning a piece of paper, putting it down and reciting passages from it to himself as I approached.
“Excuse me? Um . . . what’s this for?” I asked, motioning to the people waiting behind him.
Startled by the interruption, he took a second to respond. “It’s a line to the Greenwich House Theater. There’s an open call today.”
My ears perked up at open call. Open-call auditions usually meant that non-equity actors would be seen along with equity ones, and since I was still trying to get my equity card, it was currently the only type of audition I could go on.
I glanced up and down the line again, and asked, “Do you know who they’re auditioning?”
“It’s apparently a very open ‘open call’ for a new show coming in from the West End called Marley Is Dead. Do you know it?” He didn’t wait for my response before continuing, “With the director’s modern take and the show’s twist on traditional roles, not to mention the rave reviews coming out of London, I think half of the New York theater scene is here today . . . hence, the long line,” he grumbled as he gestured to the queue behind him.
Marley Is Dead?! The show I was supposed to see with Adam in London on New Year’s? Was this a coincidence, or had the phone booth sent me here so I could audition? The excitement of the latter, the possibility that this audition could be something as special as my encounter with Gabe turned out to be, made my heart pound against my rib cage and my legs tingle with anticipation.
“Do you know what they’re looking for?” I asked the guy now struggling to get his jacket hood back over his ears, probably in an attempt to return to his warm-up preparations.
He sighed, pulled his coat back down, and waved the papers he was holding as he said, “The usual. Sixteen bars and a short monologue. Just nothing too classic.”
“Okay, well, thanks for the info. And . . . break a leg,” I said.
Backing away from him and the line, my eyes scanned what looked like an endless stream of people winding all the way down Barrow Street. Sixteen bars? I could pull something from my repertoire. Monologue? I had a few in my arsenal and, judging by the size of this line, a lot of time to settle on the right one. But, I could also end up waiting for hours and not even get seen. Either way, it seemed the phone booth wanted me here for one reason or another, and I wouldn’t know what that reason was unless I was willing to stick around and find out. I jogged to the end of the line, popped in my AirPods, and settled onto the sidewalk to wait.
Close to three and a half hours later, I could finally see the front of the Greenwich House Theater, a beautiful six-story red-brick building with ivy climbing up the walls that looked like it had been transported straight out of London’s West End. As the sun started to set and the temperature dropped into the forties, people slowly started trickling out of line. I thought about leaving too, but I was too torn to actually move. Maybe if I give it just ten more minutes, I’d reasoned—every ten minutes for the past hour. Certain the phone booth meant for me to be here, I wasn’t ready to give up, but I also wasn’t sure if I was putting all of my faith into a ridiculous and fantastical goose chase.
My calves ached and I desperately needed to pee. I decided I’d give it five more minutes and then call it. At this point, it didn’t look like I’d be given the opportunity to audition, and I hadn’t had any chance encounters while waiting in line. Maybe I just needed to accept that this time the address was just an address and the phone booth got it wrong? Or, I was simply delusional for having put my faith in an archaic hunk of junk. Maybe there was no bigger meaning to any of it? Considering all that transpired over the last few months of my life, I was probably just reaching out for anything to help me find my way. The disappointment settled in my stomach like liquid metal, sloshing around for a moment before it turned to lead.
Just as the series of doubts flooded my mind, the front door of the Greenwich House Theater cracked open, and a woman hugging a clipboard peeked her head through. “Okay, we have time to see eight more. To the rest of you, thank you for waiting.”
I popped up on my toes and counted the heads in front of me. Okay . . . five, six, seven, and . . . and . . . me! I was lucky number eight!
HOLY. CRAP. This was unbelievable. Un-freakin’-believable. My lead stomach lightened so quickly I practically floated up the steps like a hot-air balloon into the theater’s impressive vestibule. I yanked my hair out of its elastic, gave it a shake, and tucked a few pieces behind my ears. As the eight of us moved forward in the queue toward the audition room, I started my warm-up routine.
I silently stretched my mouth to form a tall O like one of those strange Byers’ Choice Christmas caroling dolls to a wide, toothy grin, the apples of my cheeks pert and round. I moved my jaw back and forth, back and forth, loosening up my face muscles. I chewed on my tongue, an old trick to help increase the flow of saliva now completely drained from my mouth, a common occurrence whenever I grew nervous.