Pushing Upward (15 page)

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:

E
XPERIENCED
A
CTRESS
N
EEDED
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.

Rather than ask a particular question, I took out the three dimes from the silk pouch and simply
thought
the word
LaPapa.
Then I threw the coins. The hexagram that came up was:

64. Wei Chi / Before Completion

Above: Li, The Clinging, Fire
Below: K'an, The Abysmal, Water

The conditions are difficult. The task is great and full of responsibility … But it is a task that promises success, because there is a goal that can unite the forces now tending in different directions. At first, however, one must move warily, like an old fox walking over ice … His ears are constantly alert to the cracking of the ice, as he carefully and circumspectly searches out the safest spots. A young fox who as yet has not acquired this caution goes ahead boldly, and it may happen that he falls in and gets his tail wet when he is almost across the water.

Oh Jesus, that was all I needed.

Deliberation and caution are the prerequisites of success.

I thought about the implications of conditions being difficult, and the proverbial fox whose ears are constantly alert to the cracking of the ice, as I drove to LaPapa's rehearsal space. As I parked the car across the street and walked to the entrance, I found myself repeating:
Carefully and circumspectly searching out the safest spots … deliberation and caution are the prerequisites of success.
I hadn't told Emma about the audition—in case I came home with more bad news.

They'd told me, when I called, that the only reason I was able to get an audition was because of a cancellation. It was a sign. They'd instructed me to prepare a five-minute monologue, contemporary or classical. So I chose a scene from Shakespeare's
A Midsummer Night's Dream.
Helena's monologue was still in my brain from six months before, when I'd had to perform it for a critique in acting class. I loved the piece, understood the subtext, and was still familiar with the lines. I was anxious to strut my stuff.

L
A
P
APA
, 2
ND FLOOR
, it said on the mailbox. I walked up two flights of the creaky old stairs, paint chips falling off the walls; opened the door to the landing; and walked down the long hallway. There was a handwritten three-by-five card pinned on the door: Y
OU ARE HERE
, L
A
P
APA
. Underneath the card was a flyer: B
ARBARA'S
B
ALLET
& B
ATON
. The door was closed, so I knocked. No one answered, so I turned the knob. It was unlocked. I peeked in and entered. There was no stage, not even a platform, only ten chairs in a circle, with another chair placed in the middle. A long, wide, oversize mirror hung along one wall, and a wooden barre stretched the length of the room in front of the mirror.

My audition was scheduled for ten. I was two minutes early. I pulled my costume out of my bag and stood there nervously smoothing out the wrinkles, and then returned the costume to the bag. I waited about fifteen minutes before a woman in her forties walked in and introduced herself as Celia, a third-year member of LaPapa. She asked me to have a seat on the wooden chair in the center of the circle. One by one, the rest of the company entered in silence and sat down in the remaining chairs, encircling me. We all sat there, waiting. For what, I wasn't sure, until the door opened and a woman entered. I presumed she was the director. She had no smile, no words of welcome. She simply walked over to where I was sitting, circled around my chair three times, and asked me if I was prepared to communicate my name.

“I believe so,” I replied, surprised to see how much attention this woman commanded.

“Good.” Her hands folded across her chest, she continued to circle around me. “Why don't you tell us your name and then stand up.”

“Sandra Billings.”

“And what are you going to do for us, Sandra Billings?”

“Well,” I said, my voice quavering as I stood. I needed space, and a window wide enough for me to crawl out of.

I held on to the chair firmly. “I'm going to do a scene from
A Midsummer Night's Dream.
I will play Helena, and I have a costume.” I reached down and brought out the costume.

“A costume? That's very inventive,” the director said. “The costume won't be necessary.”

“Oh, okay.” I bundled the costume back in my bag; I was
very
nervous now.
Remember the fox, Sandra; remember the fox.

“Are you game for being spontaneous, Sandra Billings?”

“Well, that depends.”

“How about we set up a little improv for you, based on Shakespeare's play?”

“Well, I'd have to—”

“We're going to ask the audience for some suggestions. You decide what to do with the information. All right, Sandra Billings?” She left me no time to answer. “Let's give Sandra the name of an animal.”

Someone yelled out from the left: “Monkey!”

“Fabulous!” the director exclaimed. “How about an emotion?”

“Jealousy!” someone yelled from the right.

“Thank you. And now, a location for Helena?”

A young male with a Southern drawl hollered, from the front of the circle, “Supermarket!”

“Wonderful.”

The director seemed to be in egotistical heaven, and the group played along with her little game. I refused to feel intimidated. I sat down, closed my eyes, and prayed to the Lord of Compassion,
any
Lord of Compassion, that I become nothing but an open vessel to receive the suggestions and let go of the results. After centering myself, I stood up, faced the director squarely, and said, “I will perform Helena, from Shakespeare's
A Midsummer Night's Dream,
as a jealous monkey, revealing my undying love to my beloved Demetrius while pursuing him through the supermarket.”

I proceeded to get down on all fours and make monkey sounds while I commenced with the dialogue: “‘You draw me, you hard-hearted' … hee, hee … ‘adamant …'”

I scratched my head and underarms while jumping around the imaginary supermarket. I was the monkey, grabbing make-believe bananas off imaginary counters, tearing food down from the shelves along the invisible aisles. And as the monkey, I went around the circle scratching everyone's heads. Then I brought one of the male members onto the make-believe stage to play the part of Demetrius. I began to scratch
his
head and underarms. Seeing one of the female members staring at my beloved Demetrius, I became the irate, jealous lover and pushed her off her chair. All the while passionately reciting Shakespeare's words:

“‘But yet you draw not iron, for my heart is true as steel' … hee, hee, hee.”

The LaPapa ensemble thought the audition was hilarious, and without further deliberation the director, Ginger Pompidou, asked me to join their elite community.

I was ecstatic!
I got in!
I flew down the stairs and couldn't wait to tell Emma, call Rachel. I wanted to scream out to the universe:
“I GOT IN!”
All those classes, and scripts, and monologues. All the jogging and swimming and wine corks! God, it felt good to be acknowledged.

When I got home and told Emma, who was at the time making spaghetti for a few guests she'd invited over for lunch, she was not at all surprised. She listened attentively.

“You should have seen me, Emma; I was steady as a rock. I kept my equipoise throughout the entire audition. Even when they threw me hurdles, I jumped through them like a trained circus tiger. Or was I the proverbial fox
‘
whose ears are constantly alert to the cracking of the ice'?” She looked at me as if I were from another galaxy. “Emma, you would have been proud.” I helped her bring the salad and soup bowls into the living room and placed them on the snack tables she'd already set up.

“I
am
proud,” she said. “But I know how talented you are. Patience is a virtue.”

“Rachel. I have to call her.” I ran over to the phone and dialed her number. But there was no answer. No strange recording anymore … but no answer either.

This is very weird. I'll have to investigate this later.
I followed Emma back into the kitchen and helped her carry the serving dishes into the dining room. I was happy to help,
thrilled
to help. I could have cooked an entire meal from scratch, painted the apartment building, inside and out, climbed the Himalayas. But I had to stay grounded. Emma was having one of those serve-yourself-from-the-buffet-table lunches, and the least I could do was lend my support.

So I brought out the gold silverware and the paper plates, and shared every microscopic detail of the audition with her. She asked about the other cast members and how they'd reacted to the audition. She wanted to know when there'd be a production, how often the group would meet. I told her I wasn't sure. “But I think every day,” I added.

“Every day?” She was surprised and didn't seem pleased. But she didn't say another word. The doorbell rang. Her first guest had arrived.

“Who's coming over?” I asked, anxious to know whom she'd invited.

“Just some friends.”

Cool,
I thought. Maybe Bert, the producer, had been invited, or Zelda, or some of her celebrity friends she'd talked about when we first met at the retirement home. Maybe some famous producers and directors were coming so she could brag about my theatrical triumph. But when Joe the mailman walked in without his uniform, and Max and Louise Silverman, an elderly couple from the second floor, came bustling into the kitchen, the anticipation of meeting new and exciting people pretty much dwindled. The doorbell rang two more times before her five guests had arrived, and with each entrance, I knew my chances of meeting someone “from the industry,” or anyone creative or unconventional—anyone I could relate to—were diminishing. Besides Joe the mailman and Max and Louise, there was Suzanne, an eighteen-year-old flute player from the fifth floor, and Marion, a recent widow from down the block.