My parents bought a couple of bus tickets, and my brother and I got ready for our day trip. We packed extra batteries for our Walkmen, the family cell phone “for emergencies,” two Lunchables, and this time—drumroll!—I wore a cardigan. I was gonna totally look the part. The one cardigan I owned was chunky and black with a jewel-toned pattern that looked so much like jet fighters from the Star Wars universe, I referred to it as my X-Wing sweater. I paired it with wide-leg jeans and black lace-up boots with thick rubber soles. How classy was I?
When my callback went well, I was asked to come in again the next day. This put a small wrinkle in our plan since my brother and I only had the clothes on our backs and a bunch of dead batteries, and by the way, we needed to get back to Port Authority by four p.m. or we would miss our connecting bus in Boston. Naturally, we told them it would be no problem and we were looking forward to coming in again the next day! My parents had given us about forty dollars, so they faxed a copy of their credit card to a squalid hotel and convinced the hotel manager that although their children were checking in now, they themselves would of course be along later that day; what kind of children would be staying in a hotel room in New York City alone?
The next morning, against our parents’ explicit orders, we went out in search of the Village—specifically, Bleecker and MacDougal. Our dad had talked about that corner with affection and awe, and we could see why. Each corner of the intersection had a café that looked like something we’d only seen in movies. My dad probably meant, like, the music scene in the sixties, but we shared a plate of pancakes and figured life would never get better than this. None of those cafés are there anymore, and I don’t want to sound like one of those people who complains, “Oh, New York has changed so much, it isn’t what it used to be,” except that that’s a LIE. I have ALWAYS wanted to be one of those people, and now I am!
After our adventure, we went to my second callback. I could tell it was going well, because they were keeping me in the room for a long time. This is the only metric I have; I black out in auditions, even to this day. As my brother and I left, an assistant jogged after us. She caught up to us at the elevator and said, “You’re doing great, and we want to bring you back again tomorrow”—she swallowed and lowered her voice—“but we were wondering if you had anything else to wear? Maybe we could see you in some nicer shoes or something?”
Instead of saying, “No, bitch, I came down here on a bus and I washed my socks and underwear in a hotel sink this morning,” we assured her that we were all over it, no problem, message received. I had no idea what they were looking for, but I knew that no matter what a casting director said, you were supposed to agree and figure it out later. It was dark out when we left the casting office, so we decided to wake up early the next day to buy me some respectable shoes with what was left of our cash.
The next morning we asked the receptionist at the hotel where to find the nearest Payless. At this point in our program, I’d like to gently remind anyone who thought that was a punch line to check yourself. Finding respectable shoes for girls at Payless is perfectly normal for lots of families. I mention it by name in this story because it makes me feel sentimental, not because it’s supposed to be ironic. To the people reading this thinking, We already knew it was normal, don’t be so preachy, I apologize; I have been around rich people too long and it has made me defensive.
It took almost all morning and into the afternoon to find a pair of shoes that looked dressy but left us with enough cash to get McDonald’s before we caught the bus home. Eventually, we found a pair of white strappy sandals that were a size too big, but they were on sale, so they were coming with me! I slipped them on with my wide-leg jeans and my ratty sweater and thought, I’ve done it! I look like a rich girl! I still looked like a delinquent who didn’t know how to brush her hair, but now I had white shoes.
I went to my final audition. I blacked out. We caught the bus home.
My brother and I kept repeating that I shouldn’t get too excited. I shouldn’t count my chickens. I was twelve, but I’d experienced enough rejection that I had a system in place for managing my expectations. Somewhere around Hartford, we turned on the “for emergencies” phone. I had a voice mail saying I got the job. We celebrated for however long it takes a busload of people to wake up and scream at you.
jaded old chorus girl
I lost a Tony Award to Broadway legend Audra McDonald when I was twelve, so I’ve been a bitter bitch since before my first period. I’m very proud to have lost that Tony to Ms. McDonald. She is one of the finest talents in the theater world and genuine Broadway royalty. I also feel that if I had won and made a televised speech at age twelve, the delayed embarrassment would have been so severe, I’d currently be a Howard Hughes–style shut-in, but without the money for the mansion or the planes or the legion of servants to take away bottles of my urine.