“Moj son?ek!”
“What does that mean?” she called after me, as I jogged to the front door.
But I didn’t answer. I knew it would frustrate the hell out of her—she was so cute when she was annoyed. Her smile lit the dark corners inside me.
I’d been too wired to eat breakfast, even though that was a big no-no for auditions. It could be a long day, with maybe as many as four call backs.
I stopped at a convenience store and bought six tired-looking bananas: sugar and carbs. Can’t beat it.
The line at the theater was as long as the day before, which was kind of depressing. Quite a few people were in pairs, and there was also a bunch of six guys who were practicing some street dance moves. They looked good, but unless they had technique to go with it, they probably wouldn’t get through the audition. No technique usually means injuries, and no dance director will want that when you’ve got eight shows a week.
I’d worn a tight t-shirt to show off my pecs and abs—something working construction had actually helped.
The theater was heated, but I kept my sweatshirt on while I did warm-up exercises. They were taking people through in batches of 30 which meant for a fairly over-crowded stage. When my name was called, everyone in my group had the same idea—get to the front so you can see what’s being taught by the choreographer, and the casting director can see you. Several short girls used their elbows to push past me. Yep, the dance world is competitive.
I hung at the back, knowing that they’d probably switch lines during the audition so everyone gets a chance to see and be seen. I was tall—it wasn’t a problem.
I pulled off my sweatshirt and tossed it to the side. This was it. I needed to buckle up and focus. Pay attention, look, listen, learn—get the style, so the choreographer would know I could do the show, whatever it was going to be.
The run was a mash-up of various Latin styles with some jazz thrown in. It was immediately obvious who was trained and who wasn’t, not that I spent a lot of time watching other people—that was a sure way to make a mistake. And if you’re not thinking about the music, about the dance, you’ll end up with a blank expression.
Four of the street dance guys had no clue how to follow steps—the others weren’t bad, but I didn’t think they’d get called back. I was the only guy in my group who did the run all the way through. You don’t stop in an audition, even if you’re all over the place. What are you going to do in a live show? Walk off? No, you’ve got to keep going unless you’re physically unable.
And then I remembered Gary telling me about dancing through the pain of a broken foot. I lost focus, wondering if he was okay, and earned a frown from the choreographer.
Even so, my name was called at the end of the round, so I got to stay. For now.
I guessed there’d be maybe three more rounds. It was going to be tough.
I had 20 minutes to go eat my food and hydrate before round two. This time it was a rootsy, Hip Hop style and the guy next to me who’d nailed it in the first round was struggling. I guessed he was classically trained and couldn’t connect with the earthy style and loose, bent knees. No matter what he tried, he was too upright, too straight-legged. He didn’t make the cut.
By now I was sweating freely, and the remaining guys had taken off their shirts. I couldn’t do that. The cuts on my back were healed, but the scars were fresh, and I didn’t feel like answering questions. I wanted to forget.
When that woman I met in the pub had scratched down my chest, I almost knocked her over, pushing her away from me. Too many bad memories to let anyone mark me again. She hadn’t been happy. I wasn’t all that into her anyway. I went back to the pub and stayed until it closed.
I’d started doing that every time the prick came over. I didn’t want to hear him with Laney. At least it never lasted long. Why the hell did she put up with the one-minute wonder?
Round three was pair work and they tried us out with different partners. The music was salsa and we had to get up close and sexy with someone we’d just met. A tiny blonde girl was rubbing herself all over me.
Non-dance friends always ask if I get turned on by that, but if you’re doing this all the time, there’s not much risk of getting a hard-on unintentionally. Maybe for a while when I was a teenager, but mostly there isn’t any energy left to think about anything apart from the dance. It’s running a sprint followed by a marathon, while you’re smiling and making it look effortless at the same time. Plus, she’s sweaty, you’re sweaty, so you’ve got two sweaty, stinky, slippery, grunting people, each depending on the other to do their job.