After half an hour of waiting for the cast, only three of the six actors had shown up.
“Where is everybody?” Steve began to get nervous.
“They’re not coming,” I replied calmly.
“But….why wouldn’t they come? They auditioned and got the part and everything?”
“It’s the holiday season. I go thru this every year.”
I looked at our three remaining actors sitting in the rehearsal room and whispered to Steve.
“How much you wanna bet that at least one of these three is on the verge of quitting this business?”
Steve was silent; afraid the thespian gods would smite him for even suggesting such a thing.
“Excuse me, guys,” I began to the crowd of three. “Can I ask you all a question? As you can see, we’ve had a few cast members drop out of the show. Before we get into this any further, I just wanted to make sure that there weren’t going to be any more problems. Is everyone here one hundred percent committed to this show?”
The actors all looked at each other, waiting for the first one to crack. Finally, the guy playing Frank Bailey raised his hand.
“Um…are we still doing all the shows Christmas week? Because my Mom offered to buy me a ticket to fly home yesterday. And I haven’t seen my family for over a year…”
“There are no shows Christmas Eve or Christmas day, but all the other shows? Yes.”
“Okay,” he said as he put his hand in his pocket to help him think.
“Um…” the sole female actor raised her hand. What was this? Grade School? “I might be moving back home in January. And, well…if we’re not going to do the show, I could actually leave early and be home for the holidays.”
“Why are you leaving New York?” I asked as I kicked Steve under the table.
“Oh, my ex-boyfriend and I have been talking and there’s really nothing keeping me here. I mean, I’ve been here almost two years now and I haven’t been able to get one paying job outside of extra work. It’s just so hard, you know,” she looked to everyone in the room to confirm that this was indeed the case. No one took up the debate, but they nodded in agreement.
The third actor, a slightly older man in his forties named Marc, knew he was the next up.
“Well, I was born and raised in Queens. Where am I going to go?” he laughed a bit at his own misery and fate.
Within minutes, I ended rehearsal, advised Frank Bailey to take his mom up on her offer, wished Candace a happy life with her ex in Atlanta and told Marc that we’d be in touch. Steve was desolate. I was actually relieved.
“What are we going to do?” Steve asked over a pitcher of beer at a nearby bar a few minutes later.
“We can’t go thru casting again. It’ll kill a whole other week, and even then we could be right back in this spot.”
“What happened back there?”
“It’s the damn holidays. Everyone gets depressed. They just want to be home with family and old friends where they feel safe. They’re sick of New York. Sick of banging their heads against the wall. And, with the New Year coming up, they start to wonder if they can take another year of this crap.”
“Why haven’t you given up?” Steve asked.
“I can’t do anything else.”
“Don’t you have a back-up plan?”
“This is pretty much it,” I admitted. “What about you?”
“I got nuthin’. Just this pretty face.”
“Well, that’ll be gone in a few years.”
“Don’t joke about that.”
“Look, it’s the people who do have something to fall back on who drop out. It’s hard. And if they’ve got an engineering degree…when things get tough, they run right back. If there’s a family business and they can’t take it anymore---bam! They’re right back at the company store.”
“So we’re going to succeed because we have nothing else?”
“No. But it improves our chances of not giving up.”
He seemed satisfied with this answer. Our lack of marketable skills immunizing us against giving up too soon.
“Wow. How do you keep going?” he sighed, as if I’d just been stricken with cancer, AIDS and the Ebola virus and was sitting there still planning to sail around the world.
“I’m not dead. I’m just in theatre.”
“So, what do we do now?”
“We rip the script apart. Nate seems anxious to do something different, anyway. How do you feel about a one-man show?”
“Nervous.”
“How about a two-man show?”
“Better.”
“Give Nate a call tonight and let’s get started.”
The next morning, I woke up to the sound of “Feliz Navidad” blaring into my apartment. Then I heard a thud and plaster and sand came crumbling down onto the floor. I got out of bed, walked into the kitchen and opened the door. In the hallway, I saw the little Spanish guys, like a trail of ants, hauling roofing material three times their own body weight up the stairs.
And then, my phone rang. Over the mariachi Christmas music, I heard my mother’s cheery, acapella version of “Happy Birthday” sung into the phone as if I were still six years-old.
“Hi honey, it’s just Mom,” she said, apparently feeling the need to identify the unknown singing caller who just happened to know it was my birthday. “What’s going on there?” she asked. “It sounds like a party.”
Yeah, I decided to throw a birthday party at eight o’clock in the morning.
“It’s just some guys fixing the roof, Mom.”
“Oh, okay. So honey, did you get your ticket yet?”
“No, not yet.”
“Well, your father and I sent you some money for your birthday so if that’s why you haven’t gotten your ticket yet...well, you’ll have some extra money now.”
I thanked her. Like I did every year. Money was my birthday present every single year. Surprise. Not that I wasn’t grateful, but I was a grown woman. I should be getting cookware and a nice sweater by now. Today I am thirty-five, I thought as I opened a can of tuna and looked for the cat. Being my birthday, I thought I’d give her a little treat. But between the construction and the ringing phone, Heidi wouldn’t come out. She’d likely be under wraps for hours. What was the point of having a pet if you never saw it? I went out of my way to provide this cat with a good home, clean litter, fresh water and quality cat food every day and what did I get in return? Nothing. Not even a cat I could see. A phantom food-eater that pooped and peed. Seriously, what was wrong with this cat? It’s my birthday. At least she could rub up against my leg and purr or something.
Down at the coffee shop, apparently Mommy and Daddy were mad. And nobody was getting nothing for Christmas.
“I just made a fresh pot of the Christmas blend!” Sunshine said in her cheeriest voice ever.
“Okay. Sure,” I said, trying to match at least a bit of her enthusiasm. “So… how have you been?” I tried to make conversation.
“Great!” she practically broke my eardrum with her squeal. “Really great! I just got accepted into grad school and I’m so excited!”
“Oh, that’s…awesome. What are you studying?”
“Musical Theatre. I start in January. I can’t wait!”
It took all of my strength not to set up a Reality Booth right there in front of the cash register. Hmmm…Musical Theatre. That’s great, but how about retail? Have you considered retail?
But that was Jamie’s voice. I wasn’t becoming a Dream Killer, was I? After all, if anyone could make it in musical theatre, it just had to be Little Miss Sunshine.
“How about you? What’s going on with you?” she asked.
After her joyful news, I hated to bring down the crowd. So I pulled out the only good news I had.
“It’s my birthday!” I said with the appropriate amount of cheer and festivity.
“Oh!” she squealed like someone just stepped on her tail. “That’s so wonderful! Happy birthday! Do you have big plans?”
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br /> “Well, I’m going to a private party a friend of mine invited me to. It should be fun,” I said with a certain amount of laissez-faire, sangfroid and just a hint of blasé.
Because that’s how you’re supposed to say you’re going to a fabulous Private Party.
The party in question was at a club called Shenanigans, not far from my apartment. Celia was a friend of the owner, Antoine; and knowing I’d likely spend my birthday alone with a pint of ice cream, she asked me to come along. It was Saturday night, it was my birthday, and a party was an open car door I couldn’t refuse.
At exactly eight o’clock, I walked up to the doorman at Shenanigans. He checked the name Dorrie Krakowski off the list, removed the red, velvet rope and opened the door.
Oh no.
Celia had neglected to mention that it was a Christmas party.
The place was all dolled up like Christmas in the back seat of Snoop Dogg’s pimp-mobile, but with a distinct Caribbean flair. My tasteful blue sweater dress didn’t seem to fit in with the ladies in their red bikinis trimmed with white fur and the men’s Hawaiian Santa shirts----that is, if they chose to wear a shirt as they sang rappin’ and hip-hop Christmas songs for the drunken karaoke.
A waitress walked by and handed me a coconut shell filled with a strong, but fruity drink with a peppermint stick poking out of the top.
“Happy Birthday, sweetie!” Celia pushed her way thru the crowd and gave me a hug. Alex followed her example, giving me a hug and a kiss on the cheek.
“Happy Birthday to my other girlfriend,” he said; and then quickly turned away realizing that it was probably an inappropriate thing to say under the circumstances.
“How’s the roof going?” Celia asked.
“They started work today. Crack of dawn.”
“See!” Celia said as she patted Alex lightly on the chest. “I told you he’d fix everything. Oh!----Antoine!” she waved across the room to what must have been Antoine, a very tall Haitian man wearing a Santa cap tilted jauntily to the side.
“Antoine, this is my friend Dorrie I was telling you about.”
“Dorrie,” he said as he kissed my hand. “Celia tells me it’s your birthday.” and then mumbled something in Creole to a waitress who walked by. “Thank you for spending your special day with us. We are honored.”
A moment later, the waitress appeared with a large cake. “A traditional Haitian birthday cake,” Antoine explained. There was another round of happy birthday singing. More coconut drinks got passed around. A man dressed as a voodoo priest came out and performed a ritual blessing on me. But even stranger than voodoo, I actually found myself having fun. Maybe Dr. Prince was onto something. Maybe it was the fruity drinks, but it felt as if some bad hoodoo had been lifted from me.
“How do you know Antoine?” I asked Celia as I sipped out of my peppermint straw.
“He’s actually one of the top art directors in the city. He just always wanted to own a bar. He’s brilliant,” she sang his praises as Alex’s cell phone rang. “Who is it now?” she asked Alex as he glanced at his phone.
“Work.”
“Again? On a Saturday?”
“Money never sleeps, hon. I’ll be right back,” he said as he wandered off.
“So, let me ask you something,” I said as I pulled a copy of Timmy’s elf photo out of my bag. “You know fashion. Do you think this guy could get work as a model?”
“Well, he’s got something,” she replied as she looked across the room.
“My boss says he’ll never make it,”
“Making it is not all it’s cracked up to be,” she said wistfully. “I’m sorry….I’m a little distracted.”
“What’s wrong?”
“Between you and me, I think Alex is seeing another woman.”
“What?” I tried to respond with the appropriate amount of surprise.
“His phone’s been going off all day, and he’s very careful not to let me see who’s calling. And….other signs. I don’t understand. He just proposed last month. Is he bored with me already?”
Suddenly, from the next room, we heard a bunch of men shouting and turned around. In the middle of the men was a young woman, bent over backwards, with a guy leaning over her and sucking a shot of tequila out of her mid-section.
“See---that’s the kind of woman men like,” she looked on sadly.
“Oh my god! Dorrie!” the shot lady called out as she stood up.
It was Dr. Prince.
“You know her?” Celia asked.
“That’s my psychiatrist.”
“Hey boo!” she said as she marched her fine self and her black fuck-me pumps on over. “What are you doing here?”
“It’s my birthday,” I nervously explained.
“Happy Birthday, mama!” she smiled and gave me a hug. “Hi,” she turned to Celia. “I’m Emily.”
“Celia. Nice to meet you,” she mumbled as she glanced around the room. “I’m so sorry. Excuse me,” she said as she wandered off.
“She okay?” Dr. Prince asked.
“Yeah. She’s fine. What are you doing here?” I tried to make conversation.
“I’m a bartender.”
“But you’re a psychiatrist.”
“A psychiatrist who only gets patients with lousy insurance. And apparently my futon isn’t good enough for some people. I’m kidding,” she said as she wiped tequila residue out of her navel.
“Um… Is this proper? I mean, in public, aren’t we supposed to pretend we don’t know each other?”
“Excuse me,” she said as the chicken head came out. “Did I say you were a patient? Did you hear me say that? Because I do not recall those words leaving these lips.”
Even dressed in a mistletoe bikini, she was scary.
“Look,” she explained, “I only get about fifty bucks a session for most of my patients. Barely covers the rent---let alone a receptionist, insurance, student loans. And MY salary? Hello?”
“I pay an extra fifteen dollar co-pay,” I tried to be helpful.
“Please. I just got fifty bucks for letting Junior over there suck Cuervo out of my belly. You think I like doing this? What do I look like? Spring Break? I graduated with honors. Life’s hard, boo.”
“Excuse me, ladies and gentlemen,” Antoine said into the mike. “There is a lovely young lady here tonight who is celebrating her birthday with us. Her name is Dorrie, so let’s all encourage Dorrie to come up here and sing for us.
Sing? What?
Suddenly the whole place began chanting, “Dor-rie! Dor-rie! Dor-rie! Dor-rie!”
“Go get ‘em, tiger” she winked.
I took a deep breath and made my way to the garland-draped stage. Antoine handed me a small book of songs. All Christmas tunes. Great. The room got silent as I perused the book. The whole place was staring at me. I paged thru the book quicker and quicker, getting more nervous with every second of silence that passed. Why did they keep staring at me? Can’t a girl have a minute to choose a song?
Just North of Whoville Page 13
