Pushing Upward (23 page)

I'd wanted to get there early, before the others, to get a feel for the place again. I walked upstairs and followed the buzz of voices to a room where a line had already formed for the auditions. Beyond the eight or so women standing ahead of me was another woman in her fifties. She had long bleached-blonde hair, a weathered face, and a firm expression. Her name tag, pinned to her violet blouse, said FLORENCE. Florence sat on a stool signing in the other actresses. I waited patiently for my turn.

“Your name, please?”

I cleared my throat and then said confidently, “Sandra Billings.”

The strict-faced woman checked her list of names, but didn't find mine. She said she was sorry, perhaps there was a mistake and I had the wrong date.

“I have an appointment with Allen Cahill,” I replied sternly. I took out Jerry's rumpled card to reread it, and even though I'd read it a thousand times, I read it again to the lady, to Florence, out loud.

“Jerry Aldridge set up this appointment.”

While Florence searched through her papers, a film of sweat began to form on my forehead, the fingers on my right hand clutched the leather strap of my shoulder bag. I started shifting my weight from one foot to the other, scrunching my toes tightly inside my pumps, trying to think of what to say next. Florence kept searching through, around, and under a pile of papers for what seemed to be an eternity, and then she pulled out a piece of paper from underneath a notebook. A few words were scribbled on it. Her expression changed.

“Yes, Ms. Billings, there is an addendum here that was not brought to my attention. I apologize. You are scheduled to audition at five-thirty. As you can see, we're a little behind. A forty-five-minute wait at least.”

“Forty-five minutes? Not a problem.”

“Please, find a chair. I'll get you a script.”

“Thank you, thank you very much.”
Thank you, thank you, thank you, thank you, thank you
.

I sat down and tried to tune out the voices, but the hallway was narrow, with no carpet to absorb the sound. While I listened to the chattering auditioners, I realized this was the first audition I'd been to where I didn't have to wear a wig, or dress up like an old lady, or become an animal, or wear falsies. I could act my own age, look like myself, talk in my regular speaking voice.

In a loud whisper, one of the girls announced the play had been a hit in England, and Allen Cahill had won an award for his direction. It was scheduled to be the Los Angeles premiere, making it an absolute certainty that critics from all major newspapers would be attending.
And
rumor had it that Clifford Thorne himself would be attending one of the performances.

“Hi, my name is Cayman.” Tall, rangy, rough-and-ready, Cayman sat down next to me with his grizzled stubble and a cowboy hat too big for his head.

“Cayman, as in Cayman Islands?” I asked.

“Yep, you got it. First try. Pretty good.”

Where did this cowboy hail from? His accent was as thick as three layers of cheese on a nacho chip.

“Do you live around here?”

“Nope, just arrived from Kentucky.”

“Are you serious? Actors are flying in from out of state to audition for this play?”

“Well, I'll tell ya.” He slid around in his chair to face me. “There ain't too many opportunities these days for actors showcasing their work.
You
oughta know how tough it is. My agent told me about this here audition. And with Allen Cahill directing,
sheee-it,
I thought, why the hell not.”

“You, ah, had to have an agent to get in?”

“Yep, you got it! You new in town, too?” He laughed, with a grunting sound from the back of his throat. “I got me a good agent, I did. She even lined me up a few movie auditions while I'm out here. Yep, I feel real lucky in this town.”

Oh no, what if they ask me who my agent is? What if they say I can't audition? Why didn't Jerry tell me? I thought the planets were on my side. The astrologer said
… I could feel the sweat breaking out, soaking the material of the dress under my arms. I stood up and paced the narrow hallway. The thought of leaving was playing in my mind when a young man handed me a mimeographed sheet of paper that requested my name, phone number, guild affiliation, and agent. I was doomed. I could leave right now, spare myself the humiliation, or fill out the sheet and lie.

I decided to lie. I wrote down Emma's name as agent. I checked the square for Equity member. If they had any questions, they could call Emma.

We were given the script and told that we had thirty minutes to study our scenes. I excused myself from Cayman and marched into the restroom, knowing it would be the only place where I'd have some quiet. I sat down in the farthest stall, locked the door, and began to skim the script, concentrating on the scenes I'd be auditioning for. All of a sudden, I realized how much time I actually spent in bathrooms. (Did I really want to analyze that? Not at the moment.)

It took only a few minutes to figure out how to play each of the roles. Jerry was right. It was a double role. The first character was a young actress who had traveled a fair distance to meet a famous Russian playwright. The other was a shy medical student who spent her days listening to her professor argue with his wife. How could I not nail these parts? Schizophrenia was second nature to me, being a Gemini.

Once secure with each character's subtext and motivation, I looked over the lines again and again. I wanted to familiarize myself with them enough to feel comfortable looking away from the page. I had learned the art of cold reading from Walter Sheldon, and endless auditions.

Thirty-seven minutes passed before my amplified name was called over the loudspeaker: “Sandra Billings, please come backstage. Sandra Billings, backstage … now.” I closed my eyes and tried to center myself before leaving my peaceful potty haven.

The bleached-blond woman asked me to follow her. We went backstage, where another actress waited to audition, which allowed time for my nerves to take over and my mind to start worrying. I prayed that my thorax would relax enough to allow the dialogue to exit freely from my mouth. I leaned back against the black stucco wall, inhaled until my lungs were filled, and exhaled slowly. After repeating this a few times, I heard Emma's voice:
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
. I kept listening to her words. I remembered the
I Ching
's words:
The superior man composes his mind before he speaks.

“Sandra Billings, onstage, please.” I jumped at the summons, regained my composure, and walked onto the stage.
Okay. This is it.
Time to take control and fill that stage.

Within seconds, I felt conscious of every move my body was making. I was in the moment, capturing the intimacies of one character and moving effortlessly to the other. On target when the actress revealed her embarrassment; on cue when the medical student was supposed to laugh and at the same time conceal the outburst; knowing when the dialogue had to speed up, when to idle. There was no separation between me and the characters; we were one. It was a cosmic, out-of-body experience.

As one of the company's actors stood in the corner feeding me lines, I imagined the character he was reading to be close, standing next to me, sitting near me. The pulse of the play was like my own heartbeat. I wanted to embellish every nuance of the character, finish the entire script, but someone in the audience said, “Thank you, Miss Billings. Thank you very much.”

I'd lost all sense of time. I looked out to see if I could detect a face, but it was too dark. All I could see was a spotlight and a man coming closer, down the aisle. He walked into the light, down in front of the stage, and there, standing before me, was the most beautiful dark-complected, dark-haired, neatly bearded Greek god I'd ever seen. My legs felt wobbly. Maybe he was the stage manager coming to tell me to get off the stage and go home. Maybe he was the producer coming to tell me the same. Whoever he was, he was gorgeous—and walking my way.

“Hi, I'm Allen Cahill.”

“Hi.” My face turned twenty million shades of red.

“Very good audition.”

“Are you sure … ? I mean, thank you!”

“So, you're Jerry's ‘replacement'?”

“
Ahhh,
yes. He insisted that I come, and I, uh … let him … insist.”

“Would you be available for a callback?”

“When do you think that might be?”

“We'll, if you're busy, we can arrange …”

“No, no, call whenever you want.”

“Are you in another production now?”

“Not that I can think of.” I caught myself. “No, not at the moment.”

“We may start rehearsing right away. Is that a problem for you?”

“I can't think of a problem.”

“Good, then. We'll be in touch.”

God, I hope so.
I managed to find the door. I somehow made my way to the exit and back past the narrow hallway where other actors and actresses were still waiting. I glided down the stairs, and by some mystical movement that propelled me forward, I reached the door that led outside, where the cool early-evening air brushed across my face and shoulders, reminding me that I was still a part of the universe, the earth, still living in Los Angeles, standing in front of the Windmill Theater.

I walked for hours down Sunset Boulevard with no hint of fatigue, in a state of euphoria. The evening gradually deepened around me to a violet dusk. Streetlights winked on, and somewhere above, the invisible stars emerged unseen. Traffic was hushed. Storefront displays shimmered, and the warmth of convivial restaurants glowed in invitation. It wasn't until after nine, when I looked at my watch, that I knew Emma would be concerned. I picked up speed and started jogging back to the Fiat.

Emma was asleep, snoring gently in her room. So I took an eternally long bath and crawled into bed. Relieved that the whole ordeal was over, still vibrating from the rush, I went through the audition again and again. Did I go too far? Did I not go far enough? Should I have spoken in a Russian accent?
Allen Cahill, Allen Cahill, Allen Cahill. What a hunk! Oh, Sandra, go to sleep
. Who could sleep? All I could think about was his face and his neatly trimmed dark beard and the way his eyes sparkled in the spotlight.

I couldn't tell from the stage. But I was pretty sure he was taller than me.

The next morning I stumbled into the bathroom without turning on a light. The glare would have blinded me for sure. Clutching the sink, fumbling for my toothbrush in the cabinet, I tore off a piece of paper that was taped to the mirror and swept it into the wastebasket. It wasn't until I started to brush my teeth that I thought there might have been a reason the paper was taped to the mirror. I pulled it back out of the basket, uncrumpled the scrunches, and read Emma's slightly shaky handwriting:

Congratulations, you got the part! They called this morning. You start tomorrow at 10:00
A.M.

I gasped, almost fainted.
They made their decision so soon? Not even a callback? I guess I
didn't
go too far. The director liked me. He really liked me! There were so many girls. Oh my God!
I sat down on the sink counter and read the paper three more times to make sure that what I read was correct, and then I yelled at the top of my lungs, “Yahoo! I did it! We did it!”

I went to Emma's bedroom door to see if she was there, but the door was open and she wasn't inside. She was in the living room, in her chair, reading, of course, the
New York Times.

“Wahoo! We did it!” I screamed again. Then I gave her a big hug and started dancing around the living room like a lunatic, doing jumping jacks. “We have to celebrate! How are we going to celebrate? I know, let's go out for breakfast. Come on, I'll take you to Denny's. I wish I could afford the Polo Lounge at the Beverly Hills Hotel, but Denny's will have to do for now. Come on, Emma.” I grabbed her arm to gently pull her up.

“This is great news, Sandra, but I can't leave the house right now. I'm expecting a call.”

“Okay, okay.” I stepped back and thought for a second. “How about I make you breakfast in bed?”

“I'm already up,” Emma said.

“Okay! Why don't you go back to bed? I want to have the honor of making you breakfast in bed.”

“That's ridiculous; I'm dressed. If you want to go through the needless trouble of preparing breakfast, I'll sit in my chair and eat it.”

“Fine, sit in your chair. I am going to make you the most awesome Hawaiian French toast and coffee and scrambled eggs and fruit salad and … what else?”

I turned on the radio and danced around the kitchen while I prepared Emma's breakfast: pouring orange juice into wineglasses, taking out the gold silverware, and borrowing a plastic flower from one of the arrangements sitting on the windowsill to place in a vase.