By the time Megan made it up to the street level, the muscles in her arms were throbbing and she was dripping with sweat. The air above ground did little to help the situation as the humidity -- now mixed with exhaust fumes -- filled her lungs. Megan pulled her bags over to a shady spot under the tattered awning of a small deli, dug into her pocket and pulled out her cell phone.
She considered calling the moving company again -- she was still pissed about the guy hanging up on her -- but she knew she was only three blocks away from her apartment so she might as well wait until she got there to confront the movers. Megan tapped the GPS app to make sure she was traveling in the right direction before stepping back into the bustling sidewalk traffic. She'd never actually been to the apartment -- risking the sublet sight unseen because it wasn't in her budget to fly to New York before school ended to see it in person. Now she needed a moment to get her bearings straight before continuing her journey.
"I think it's this way," she mumbled to herself and took a step forward.
"Watch it!" a voice yelled.
Megan quickly jumped back to her safe spot under the awning -- avoiding a crash collision with a woman rushing toward the subway stairs.
"Sorry," she said uttering yet another apology to a quickly passing stranger.
The woman didn't even turn back to acknowledge her but instead waved her hand in the air dismissively. Megan watched as a cascade of blond hair bound by a bright pink scarf disappeared down the subway stairs.
"If I can make it there, I'll make it anywhere." Megan hummed the New York anthem in an attempt to comfort herself but it didn't do much good.
Two lefts and a right later, Megan stood in front of her new home. She pulled her suitcases into the gated patio area in front of the classic Brooklyn brownstone and wiped the sweat from her forehead with the back of her hand. That's when she noticed the large crate sitting a few feet away.
"My piano!" Megan shrieked.
A surge hotter than what she'd experienced in the subway station washed over her. Fire burned in her eyes as she looked around for the persons responsible for this huge mistake. Not only was her piano off the truck but it was sitting unattended where anything could happen to it. The thought made Megan shutter. She took a deep breath trying to calm her nerves but the air only made her cough again.
"Hey there! You must be Megan."
Megan spun around and glared at the man walking toward her. He must have been sitting inside the cab of the truck parked across the street.
"I'm Ms. Green," Megan answered in a tone imitating the New York toughness she'd encountered thus far on her journey. Maybe if she talked like the people around her she'd feel a little less intimidated by her new environment?
The mover's eyebrows raised and he let out a chuckle that made it clear Megan's attempt at New York bravado had failed.
"We took your baby grand off the truck 'cause it's like an oven back there," he said before Megan could register her complaint. "Easiest way to ruin a good instrument is to let it get too hot."
Megan looked over at the large crate sitting in the shade of her building and clenched her lips together. She couldn't exactly complain about such a conscientious decision.
"It'll only take us a minute to get her inside once you open the door," he continued.
Megan nodded and stepped over to the stairs that lead to the apartments above hers. There hanging from the bottom of the wrought iron railing was a lockbox. She opened the cover revealing a keypad and punched in the numbers her landlord had emailed her.
"6 2 7 5 #," she whispered under her breath.
Even though she had the numbers saved in her phone, Megan didn't need to look them up. She'd been repeating those numbers in her mind for two weeks. She repeated them while she was getting dressed in the morning. She repeated them while she was teaching her elementary school music classes during the day. And she even repeated them as she sat with some of her near tone-deaf piano students after school. Those four numbers were more valuable to Megan than the numbers of the next winning lottery ticket. Those four numbers represented a chance for Megan to correct her past mistakes and finally follow her dreams.
With keys in hand, Megan unlocked the door to her apartment and stepped inside. She tucked her suitcases out of the way and then watched as the movers began maneuvering the large piano crate through the front door. The operation reminded her of a childhood game with the same name. The object of the game was to perform surgery on a patient -- lifting organs out of it's cavity without touching the sides and setting off a buzzer -- ostensibly killing the patient.
From Megan's point of view the toy patient stood a better chance at survival than her beloved piano but after a few false starts, the two men eventually slipped the crate through the door frame and sat it in the middle of the floor.
The movers' success made Megan feel a little bad about not trusting them to do their job correctly. Given the heat, she wished she had a cool drink to offer them but she hadn't stopped at the store to pick up any groceries yet.
"You got a piano tuner coming?" one of the men asked after they'd unpacked the piano and set it on it's feet. "She's going to need a good tuning," he said as he tapped one of the keys.
Megan clenched her teeth as a horrendously out of tune F reverberated through the apartment.
"Yes. I've got someone coming tomorrow morning at 10," she said realizing her vision of spending a little time playing in her new home tonight wasn't going to materialize.
She thanked the movers and gave each one a five dollar bill. It wasn't much of a tip given all the work the two men had done but at least they could use it to buy something cold to drink at the convenience store around the corner.
Once she was alone, Megan stood in the middle of the living room floor turning in circles. Was it possible that she was finally here -- in New York? And in her own apartment? She kicked off her shoes and dug her toes into the plush area rug in the middle of the floor. Unlike some of the subletting horror stories she'd read online, this apartment seemed to be meticulously clean and uncluttered -- and for that Megan was grateful.
She didn't know much about the tenant who usually lived there. The landlord said he'd booked a tour so she guessed he was an actor or something. Megan stepped into the kitchen and opened the fridge. To her surprise, she found a bottle of wine and a six pack of artisanal water both wrapped with a red bow. She pulled off the note taped to the water's cardboard carrying case.
"I hope you enjoy your stay in New York! Best regards, Tony."
How nice, Megan thought. She took it as a good omen and began unpacking her bags. A few hours later -- after taking a shower and putting on some boy shorts and a tank top to beat the heat -- Megan called her sister since she didn't have anyone else to talk to in the city.
"Are you sure the locks work?" Kim asked in her usually protective manner.
"Yes, I'm sure. The door is very secure," Megan said as she got up and checked the deadbolt lock for the third time -- just incase.
Even though she felt sure the neighborhood was safe, a little bit of her sister's anxiety was starting to wear off on her.
"Okay. Well, just know you'll always have a room here if you change your mind and want to come back to New Jersey."
After assuring Kim once again that she was fine, Megan hung up the phone and walked over to the large window that looked out onto the patio. She peered out into the night but other than a stray cat trying unsuccessfully to get into one of the garbage cans there was nothing outside to see. There wasn't even any pedestrian traffic out on the sidewalk but even if there had been Megan was pretty sure her apartment sat far enough back from the street to prevent anyone from seeing her standing inside. Just as she'd assured Kim, she was safe and sound in her new home.
"Home," she whispered as she slid onto her piano bench.
And tomorrow her apartment would be filled with her favorite sound, she thought as she rubbed her hand across the shiny black piano top. Megan knew the p
iano was too out of tune to start playing any of her favorite classical pieces but she couldn't bare not touching the keys at all. She slowly lifted the keyboard cover and tapped a few notes.
"Start spreading the news. I'm leaving today."
Megan never claimed to have the greatest voice but this was a song she'd been quietly humming to herself for months. Now in the privacy of her New York apartment she felt free to sing a little louder. She closed the keyboard cover and instead tapped the piano like a drum.
"I'm gonna make a brand new start of it. In old New York!"
Megan's voice bounced off the walls and as if suddenly possessed by Liza Minelli she jumped to her feet as she sang.
"If I can make it there! I'll make it anywhere!"
By the time she reached the final stanza Megan had slid on top of the piano like the singers in the old movies she used to watch with her grandmother. She kicked her legs in the air along with the words to the song.
"It's up to you. New. York. New York!"
Megan held the last note as long as she could and then collapsed in laughter. The coolness of the piano top felt reassuring against her bare legs and shoulders. For the first time in months she felt like she was right where she belonged.
"I'm gonna make it," she whispered to herself. "It's my time and I'm gonna make it!"
Chapter 3
Halfway through Act 1, Stacey climbed up the catwalk ladder and sat down in her favorite hideaway spot. Her next cue didn't happen until twenty minutes into Act 2, and from this vantage point, she could see everything happening on stage and in the wings. With her legs dangling over the edge of the catwalk, Stacy moved her feet in time with the music below marking out the steps of the lead character she understudied along with her part in the ensemble. She knew the choreography so well she could dance the part in her sleep -- and that was probably the only place she'd ever get a chance to perform it.
Monica Shelby, the actress who was cast in the lead role was too vigilant about her health to ever miss a performance. She warded off germs by constantly popping vitamin C tablets and carrying a bottle of hand sanitizer where ever she went. She'd even tried to get the costume designer to add gloves to all of her character's costumes so she wouldn't have to touch any potentially contaminated doorknobs or props while she was on stage. It was a lot but Stacey couldn't be mad at Monica's over-zealous behavior. The woman had toiled away in the chorus of more than a dozen Off-Broadway shows before landing the female lead in this four-week workshop and Monica wasn't going to miss a moment of being downstage center if she could help it.
Stacey wondered if her acting career was going to follow a similar pattern. At 28, it had already been three years since she'd finished grad-school and thus far she hadn't booked anything but ensemble parts in small non-union productions like this one. Stacey had to wonder if her big break was going to come or if the Tony Award speech she'd been practicing since childhood would only be delivered in front of her bedroom mirror.
Stacey let her head drop to her forearms -- which were crossed on the metal railing in front of her. That metal bar was the only thing standing between her and a crash landing on the stage forty feet below. At least if I fell from here I'd be remembered for a dramatic exit, she mused. Unfortunately, if she died before ever hitting an actual Broadway stage, she wouldn't qualify for the cherished in memoriam of having Broadway theatre lights dimmed in her honor.
Of course in some respects, Stacey knew she was lucky. At least she was working, even if the Ladder -- a former firehouse and her current theatrical home -- wasn't one of the 40 theaters that made up Broadway. The Ladder wasn't even Off-Broadway, it was Off Off-Broadway which meant the less than one hundred seat house was usually filled with friends of the cast or out-of-town patrons who couldn't afford tickets to Hamilton.
It's not like Stacey expected the road to success to be easy. It wasn't the hard work that bothered her. She rarely complained about the long rehearsal hours, sometimes difficult cast members or low pay. What had really been bothering her lately was that hard work alone was no guarantee of success. She knew all too well that some actors only got their break because of who they knew -- or who they were willing to know better.
Thoughts of Karen Grigsby -- an overrated actress and mediocre dancer with a distinct pitch problem -- flashed through Stacey's mind.
The two women had both been in the ensemble of the last workshop Stacey was in. After months of rewrites, word came down the pike that an adapted version of the show was actually moving to an Off-Broadway house. Almost everyone in the cast was left wondering if their role made the final cut. Everyone except Stacey. She knew her character was too central in the arc of the story to be left on the cutting room floor. The only question was would Stacey be invited to reprise the role she'd helped the producers develop.
When the Off-Broadway cast was finally announced Stacey was shocked to find out that Karen had assumed her role and the character Karen previously played had been cut from the show.
"Let's just say Karen and the director became real good friends," one of the other cast members told Stacey over lunch. "There's no way she could play that part better than you so she obviously did what she had to do to get it."
The whole situation pissed Stacey off but she knew she wasn't willing to do what Karen had done to stay in the show. She couldn't sacrifice her integrity in that way. Stacey was determined to make it on her talent alone. But, what if talent wasn't enough?
"You gonna jump before your solo?" a weathered voice whispered behind her.
The friendly sound momentarily brought Stacey out of her funk. She turned and offered a genuine smile in the speaker's direction. Bill Yeats was one of the theatre's permanent crew and since Stacey didn't have a lot of stage time and Bill only had one big set piece to hoist into the air at the end of Act Two, the pair had regular whispered catwalk conversation about life while suspended in mid-air.
"No, Bill. I'm not gonna jump today," Stacey said as she swung her legs back onto the catwalk and rose to her feet. "I'll wait until you take a day off. That way you won't have to clean up the mess."
The two chuckled at the joke that had been shared on more than one occasion since the show moved into the theatre. Bill -- who'd been working at the Ladder for more than ten years -- had seen dozens of shows and hundreds of actors cross this stage but he frequently told Stacey that she was one of the best.
"There's no way to control the timing of things," he always said. "You just have to be patient, keep at it and be ready when your big break comes."
Stacey knew Bill was right but historically patience wasn't something Stacey had an abundance of.
Even as a kid she always wanted to move forward as quickly as possible. Whether it was advancing in her dance classes, wanting to audition for the high school play while still in junior high or bugging her choir director about letting her sing a solo only months after joining the choir. Whatever it was, Stacey always wanted to be moving forward -- in a hurry.
"I'm just glad to hear you're planning to be with us a little longer," the older man whispered. "I thought maybe you heard the news and decided to end it all," he said with a snicker.
Stacey's eyes grew large. "News? What news?" she asked in a worried voice.
She hoped the show wasn't closing early. Stacey was looking forward to the next two weeks of guaranteed pay even if the checks were small.
Bill shook his head like he was sorry that he brought it up. "Well," he said with a sigh. "I heard the producers are talking about remounting the workshop in a few months with a new actress in the lead role."
Stacey exhaled slightly. Making cast changes wasn't that unusual while a show was being workshopped. The whole reason for the workshop process was to help the producers find the magical formula that would make a show profitable in a full production.
Even though Stacey hadn't heard anything about a casting change she'd been doing theatre long enough to know that the crew often heard information about show o
penings, closings, auditions and cast changes long before the news trickled down to the performers.
Christmas All Around Us ; The Perfect Time for Love ; Playing for Keeps Page 19
