Pushing Upward

by Andrea Adler

  I went back to my room, lay down on the bed, and was just about to close my eyes and escape from my present state of bored frustration—when my eyes became fixated on a painting hanging directly across from me. It was a picture I’d seen every day, but never really looked at. For some reason, the small painting of the ocean, the expansive view of the pale beach dramatically juxtaposed against the vibrant aquamarine water, pulled me in now. It took hold of me, beckoned me to slide into it. And as my eyes became transfixed by the scene, I could feel myself at that beach, the hot sand, the clear water dancing on my toes. Squinting at the orange-and-blue sky surrounding the brilliant sun, I could feel the warmth of the rays. As I lay there, this warmth gently released all the tight muscles, one after the other, until I fell into a deep sleep …

  “Ah-hem.”

  I jumped straight up off the bed, I swear, three inches. It was Emma clearing her throat. I had no idea how long I had slept or how long she had been standing there. “I didn’t mean to disturb you,” she said. “I circled a few auditions you might be interested in.” She handed me a copy of Variety.

  “Where were you?” I asked with a tinge of anger, still shaken from the deep sleep and her surprise entrance.

  Trying to catch her breath, she said, “I went with Bert to the cemetery this morning. It was the anniversary of his mother’s death.”

  “Oh … that’s right. You were very close.”

  “Yes, she was my closest friend. We brushed off the grave and left her favorite flowers.”

  “That was so sweet of you … to go with him. He’s really lucky to have you … be there for him … Where did you get this?” I asked, referring to the Variety magazine. Still groggy, struggling to wake up. “I’ve been looking all over for this magazine!”

  “I started a subscription for you a few weeks ago.”

  “But I thought they only listed auditions for Equity members?”

  “That’s not true.”

  Big black Magic Marker circles were drawn all over the page. I read the circled entries out loud: “‘Non-Equity auditions: Young female jock needed, age twenty. Must work with tamed tigers for zoo movie.’ You aren’t serious?”

  “It’s never too late to learn a new trade.” She smiled.

  “‘Female teens needed for new horror film produced by USC seniors.’ No, thanks. I’ve paid my dues doing student films. And I hate scary movies.” I kept looking. “Oh, this is interesting. ‘Nineteen-year-old female needed for new play.’ It takes place in Georgia. Tryouts are next week.

  “‘Oh, mah, how ah simply love to feel the ga-lor-i-ous Califoh-nyah sun on mah peachy white body.’” Testing my Southern accent.

  “Not too bad, but it wouldn’t hurt to go to the library and listen to a Southern phonics tape and solidify that drawl,” Emma remarked as she stepped away from the door and headed toward her bedroom.

  “Well, maybe ah’ll jus’ mosey on ovah thayah and do that,” I called after her.

  I didn’t go to the library to listen to a Southern phonics tape, as Emma had suggested. I purchased one instead, and played it on my friend Calvin’s cassette player every day for a week while I exercised, while I walked from room to room through the apartment. I used my new Southern drawl on everyone I came in contact with: people on the street, people I met in stores, people I talked to on the phone. Every song that rang out on the radio was accompanied by this Southern gal’s voice.

  On the morning of the audition, I ran to Thrifty Drugs to buy some ruby-red nail polish and matching lipstick, a few pink bows for my puffed-up hair, and some atrocious perfume that I wouldn’t dare put on until I knew more about the character, but which I stuffed in my purse just in case. I found a long, full pink skirt at a secondhand store, and matched it with a short pink cardigan. Then I covered my cheeks with blush. I was going to show those producers exactly who they were dealing with. Before leaving the apartment, I did a few turns in front of Emma for her critique. She practically coughed up her tea when she saw me. Then she smiled, and gave me a thumbs-up. I was out the door to prove to myself—and the world—I had the goods.

  The Southern phonics cassette blasted over the traffic noise all the way to Pasadena. I went over and over my accent until I pulled up to the theater, sashayed in, and took one look around the hall. Sixteen girls were waiting for their names to be called, and every one of them had blonde hair, blue eyes, and humongous breasts. I was in a Barbie-doll nightmare. Auditioning would be a total waste of my time.

  Halfway back out the door, about to make my grand Southern exit, it hit me: how great I’d felt walking into this place—so sure of myself, so confident that I could blow every actress auditioning for this role out of the water. And now, looking at all these blondes, I was a total wreck. Hmm … what are my choices? I could leave—or I could use this explosive emotion for the audition.

  I decided to use the rage and not let my dark hair and absence of substantial breasts get in the way. I turned around and walked back to where the girls were standing—all the while repeating the words: I am an actress. I am going to act as if my breasts are the most magnificent, sculpted breasts God ever created. In my sexiest, most seductive saunter, pushing out my lips and my chest as far as they could go, I strolled on over to the man sitting behind the sign-in table and said in my breathiest Southern accent, fluttering my lids, “Hi. I’m Sandra Billings. I’m here to audition for …”

  The nice-looking middle-aged man matter-of-factly handed me a few sheets of dialogue and said, “I hope you don’t mind waitin’ awhile; there’s a few girls ahead a you.”

  “Ah don’t mind.” I fluttered my fingers bye-bye and slowly turned, not moving my eyes from his lips while I ambled over to an empty seat. Giggling to myself, pleased my accent had worked, I read the sides he’d given me and began to explore the subtext for Jasmine, the character. The play was awful. I was tempted to leave. But it was time to build my auditioning muscle.

  An hour passed, and most of the Barbie dolls had been called. When there was only me and one last blonde left in the room, a man with a long goatee asked me if I would follow him. I did. He took me through a narrow hallway and onto the stage. The lights were dimmed. The only object on the stage was a chair. The man with the goatee asked if I was ready.

  “Yes,” I replied.

  He said, “A man is gonna come out of the wings. He’ll be playing your husband. Just go with it …” Another man, sitting near him, whose face I couldn’t see, asked me to have a seat and begin my reading.

  I took a moment, centered myself, and in my very best Southern drawl, I read the lines for Jasmine. Then I stood up, ran to the phone for help (per the script directions), and—collapsed convincingly on the cold stage floor: Jasmine was shot by her jealous husband. All I could hear after I fell were two sets of hands applauding from the audience.

  I got up, and then the invisible man asked me: “Would you mind wearing a wig and reading the scene again?”

  “Ah, sure,” I said.

  I put on the wig and read the part again. The two men applauded, louder this time. Then one of the men asked me to remove my cardigan.

  “Now?” I asked, taken aback by his request.

  “Yes, please.”

  “Ahhh, well …”

  “Work with me, Sandra. Start removing your sweater and ease yourself into feeling the nakedness of the character.”

  They must have noticed my sculpted breasts and wanted to see more.

  I began to undo the first button, trying to listen to my own thoughts—evaluate whether or not I felt comfortable with this.

  “To be true to Jasmine,” he continued, “you must feel naked, be naked. She’s just come out of the shower. She doesn’t know her husband has a gun. Get into Jasmine’s head. What is she thinking?”

  I undid the second button. I was just about to move my fingers to the third when I stopped. I couldn’t go any further. This play wasn’t close to being an artistic endeavor; the script was an embarrassment to the Eng
lish language, and it was the pinnacle of exploitation!

  “I’m sorry, I can’t do this.” I buttoned up my sweater.

  “But we liked your reading. You’re one hell of an actress.”

  “Well, you know. This hair”—I removed the wig and put it on the chair—“may go with this reading, but my naked body is not going to be exposed to you or your audience. Not for this … script.” I handed the sides back to the goateed man and made my grand Southern exit, back to the hallway and out the door.

  God, it felt good to storm out of there!

  The next few weeks I literally had to force myself out of bed, out the door, out of the apartment. I was determined to find other actors who might know where non-union auditions were being held. On a mission, I would stomp into coffee shops and diners and talk to other actors, only to realize they were no better off than I was. We were all struggling to find a role, an agent, and an entrée into getting our SAG card.

  I heard about a few auditions from one generous actor and drove to Hollywood, Culver City, downtown L.A., the Valley, and Ventura County. I tried out for the role of a pregnant teen, a deaf girl who drowns herself, a lawyer who gets pushed off the George Washington Bridge. I humbled myself and went back to USC to audition for a student film—something I’d sworn I’d never do again—a comedy about two goofy waitresses. But no matter where I went, no matter how well I read, I was either too tall, too short, or too brunette.

  One evening, just back from a tryout for the lead role as a schizophrenic nurse, Emma came into my room and told me she’d seen an ad in Variety. The character was a suicidal teenage rock star. I was confident I could portray this one.

  The next day, I drove an hour and a half through heavy traffic to Pacific Palisades and arrived early, so I could review the script. So did fifty other girls. I did my best to concentrate, focus on the character’s lines, but it was impossible. Twenty actresses of different shapes and sizes kept talking and giggling, their voices reverberating throughout the cavernous lobby. I tried to block out the sound, but the lobby was an echo chamber. Then, without warning, there was silence—the waves of voices died away, and a hush fell over the anteroom. All ears pricked to attention as we listened to two girls describing what they had heard: The director’s daughter had already been given the lead role. The producers were auditioning only to satisfy the union.

  The rumor was undoubtedly true. Very depressed now, I didn’t know if I should run through a red light, find a bridge and jump off like the character I had auditioned for, or drive head-on into the Pacific Ocean. I decided to stop at a local diner and buy three doughnuts, two muffins, and a chocolate-chip cookie and return to Emma’s, knowing I could get rid of everything I had just eaten.

  Emma was on the phone with Bert when I walked in. I didn’t make eye contact. I walked by her chair and went straight to the bathroom, only to find a plumber in overalls sitting on the floor with a wrench in his hands, working on the sink. There’d be no water for hours, he told me. My stomach was about to burst. I walked into my room, but I couldn’t settle myself: I was too distended, too agitated. Back to the living room; Emma was still on the phone. I opened the apartment door, strode to the elevator, took a ride to the basement, and then came back up and paced around the living room again, hoping she’d get the hint.

  “In scene four,” Emma was telling Bert, “why not have the protagonist attend the horse race? No one is expecting him to be there. In scene five, I think it’s best that he disappear altogether. Bert, have you thought about …”

  Filled with rage, not knowing where to go, I went to the kitchen, got a glass of orange juice, drank half of it, and poured the rest down the drain; stalked to my room and threw down my purse; looked into the bathroom to see if the plumber had made any progress; and walked back to the living room, and finally heard her say “Good-bye.”

  I really should have warned her to duck. My words were speeding darts with flame-tips, and they were shooting out at record velocity:

  “I just drove to Pacific Palisades. It took me three hours to audition for a lead role that I was perfect for—perfect! I could have given the best reading of my life. But it was already cast. Can you believe that? I’ve studied for years with the best acting teachers in Los Angeles. I’ve taken improv classes, scene study, character-development classes. I was in every play my high school ever put on—with great reviews, I might add. After years of study, I have refined my ability to pick up a script and within moments, moments, move into the fullness of the character. I’ve been trained to sniff out emotional and physical attributes, understand the character’s motivation. And yet—I am incapable of getting a part. What the hell is wrong with this picture?” Tears were flowing. I kept pacing the small living room.

  Emma put down Bert’s script, lowered her chin so her eyes could focus on me over the rims of her bifocals, and watched me move restlessly from one end of the living room to the other. “Why do you allow these daggers of doubt to puncture your heart? Just let them bounce off you like pellets of water. Only then can you be fearless.”

  What was she talking about?

  “You can’t see this now. But these rejections will make you strong; they’ll build your character.”

  “Character, shmaracter, I just want to work! What am I supposed to do with all this energy? How many miles can I run? How many laps can I swim? How many push-ups and leg raises can I master? I’m so sick of nepotism and prejudice, and if you don’t have the perfect breasts and cobalt-blue eyes or thighs without cellulite, you’re nothing, nothing. Why am I still drawing these low-life people to me? These slimeballs, who get their rocks off by looking at women with big tits and … sorry, Emma. But I thought my bad karma was over. I found you, didn’t I? I thought by moving in here, my life would change …

  “You know what I’m going to do?” The pacing was starting to feel a little theatrical, but I continued: “I’m going to sell my Fiat and move to Zihuatanejo. I heard it’s magnificent there. Cheap! Very cheap! I’ll move into a hut and eat fruit and nuts all day. I’ll meet a beautiful rich Latino and fall madly in love. I won’t have to worry about my hair or the color of my eyes or the size of my bosoms—Latinos love small-busted women … When’s the plumber going to be finished?” My tirade ended in a whisper.

  “Soon. Sit down.”

  I did as she asked.

  “Do you think you’re the only artist who has ever been rejected?”

  “No, but I’m always being rejected.”

  “Do you know how many times Josef’s paintings were snubbed by art galleries and shows? How many art critics rejected his work? In Germany, France, and the States? He never complained, not once. Do you know what he did instead? He came home and took out his paints. He experimented with new colors, tried new techniques. He read books and studied other artists. He didn’t waste his energy on anger; he channeled it into perfecting himself and his work.”

  “I study all the time. I just need a break.”

  “You’ll get your break. What you need is equipoise.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “A firm posture.”

  “You mean I don’t stand straight?” I straightened my spine as much as I could.

  “No, dear. I’m referring to your inner posture. How steady do you hold your emotions? Are your heart, your mind, and your spirit in alignment? Are you poised so that whatever happens to you, you are not thrown off balance?”

  “That’s the problem. I never feel balanced.” I felt sick to my stomach.

  “Do you get pleasure out of feeling sorry for yourself? Do you like feeling like a victim? Where are those emotions coming from? It’s not only your thoughts that you need to change. You have to change your attitude, then the circumstances in your life will change. Stop seeing everyone as your enemy. You don’t have to labor at being an actress. You already are one. Work on your inner life.”

  Emma’s big blue eyes pierced right through me. I couldn’t stop crying. I felt so ashamed; I didn’t
want her to stop caring or give up on me. I didn’t want to appear as a failure. Mostly I was ashamed because the only thing I wanted right now was to get rid of the muffins.

  “Emma, I need to go to the gym.”

  “What’s at the gym? A bathroom?”

  How did she know?

  “What is it that’s making you eat?”

  “I don’t know,” I told her. And I was too ill to talk about it. I got up and went to the Y.

  Chapter 13

  If we wish to achieve an effect,

  we must first investigate the nature of the forces in question …

  Moving to Zihuatanejo was not part of my destiny, not yet anyway. A flyer hanging at the local deli spared me the fantasy of a futile life. The flyer read:

  EXPERIENCED ACTRESS NEEDED

  For LaPapa

  Call for an appointment

  555-6546

  LaPapa was a popular bicoastal theater company, with branches in New York and Los Angeles. They were a small group, well known for being avant-garde, seeking out obscure new playwrights and presenting their works as readings or as full-fledged productions. They were non-union, but they had a great reputation. The name LaPapa had come up several times in conversation on the tryout circuit, most memorably when I’d spoken to actors who had auditioned for the company and didn’t make the cut.

  This was just the challenge I needed. I had to prove to Emma, and to myself, that my posture could be steady; my heart, mind, and spirit could be balanced—poised, so that whatever happened to me, I wouldn’t be thrown off center. I could no longer afford to see these directors and casting people as my enemy. Emma was right. I had to break the cycle.

  The only way to combat the psychological obstacles and emotional barriers that might stand in my way for a successful audition was to understand what the obstacles were. In other words, it was time to consult the oracle.