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Flo Fitzpatrick, click here
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Excerpt from romance/mystery Sweet Dreams
Note: This was originally written in 2003. Auditions for singers and actors have changed quite a bit since the early 2000s, especially since Covid and are now primarily videos sent to casting directors rather than “in person.” Since 2023, dance auditions are now more of a hybrid between virtual and “at the theater.” But in 2003 everything was up close and personal! Additionally, there are only four soap operas currently on TV, and none of them are filmed in New York City.
“I am depressed. I have no life. I will never get to dance on Broadway. I will never get to meet Johnny Gerard, with whom I am madly in love, but be forever doomed to watch him play Gregory Noble, Supercop on Endless Time until the soap gets cancelled or he goes on tour in a Broadway show I’ll never dance in. I need a chocolate bar. A large one. With nuts.”
Shay was sitting lotus style on the floor in front of me. She scowled at me. “Abby. You need to get your tiny rear end in gear. You need to quit worrying about elusive actors and their shyster lawyer parents. You need to check this week’s Backstage for the latest auditions. You need to get into a show. That’s why you hauled your five suitcases up from El Paso. “ She paused, then gleefully announced “ By George and Gregory Noble, I think I’ve got it! I will restrict how often you can watch Endless Time until you’ve auditioned for at least three shows. Heck, what’s the point? ‘Gregory Noble ‘has been in a coma for the last month.”
“I have not been watching Endless Time. Well, only like three times a week. And I’ve had it with auditions. The last three I went to were horrible. They stuck us in ancient, run-down studios that must have cost their producers like eight bucks for the day. I was pushed and mauled by snooty girls who looked at me like I was dirt because I’m short and I have a Texas accent. They sit there and turn themselves into pretzels when they’re warming up, but then can’t dance a lick because they have no rhythm and no energy. All they can do is stretch. And look tall. But do I get cast? Hell, no! They just want tall. And taller.”
I brightened a bit. “But all this worry about auditions has made me creative. Want to hear my brilliant Broadway bullet theory? Or have I told you?”
“Brilliant Broadway bullet theory. Nope. I don’t believe you’ve conned me into listening to that one. What are you talking about?”
I’d been working on the idea for the last couple of days and needed a willing, or at least captive, audience to hear it. Shay appeared interested.
“Okay. Remember the old soldier’s adage that ‘you never hear the one that gets you’? Bullets, that is. Know what I’m talking about?”
Shay nodded.
“Well, I have been so disgusted and discouraged with the auditions I’ve been going to that I’ve come up with a plausible theory to explain how Fate takes a hand when we go after jobs and don’t get them.” I paused for dramatic effect then continued, “I call this the Bullet Theory of Auditions. It applies to all auditions; not just Broadway although it sounds cooler to say Brilliant Broadway Bullet Theory.”
Shay was intrigued. She’d just been turned down to choreograph a commercial for dancing doughnuts and was afraid she’d never get a job. That one had me bummed as well. I was all set to play a tapping, kicking, glazed cinnamon cruller whenever she needed me.
“Care to tell me exactly what you mean by that? You can use the doughnut commercial job as an example.”
I stood up. “Your name wasn’t on the bullet.”
She stuck her tongue out at me. Clearly, she was frustrated by my response. “Excuse me?”
“Just listen. I swear it will all come together. Semi-logically. Oh yeah, it also applies to men as well as auditions.”
Shay picked up her favorite embroidered pillow and held it in a way that suggested I’d be hit with it soon. Or smothered.
“Don’t muddy the waters, Ms. Fouchet,” Shay said. “Just stick to this theory as applicable to jobs. We have enough trouble with you getting all gooey-eyed every time you see that actor. Forget the male species for the time being and get on with this thesis.”
“Okay. No men. By the way, I’m not sure they exactly qualify as being a separate species.”
Shay grinned. “You obviously haven’t met Cherry’s latest sleepover.”
Cherry was our third roommate. Cherry had a tendency to be a little…loose. I ignored Shay in favor of explaining my brilliant theory.
“Okay. Theatrical terms only. Ready? If the bullet has your name on it…it’ll find you. If it doesn’t…it won’t.”
Shay threw the pillow at my head. She missed. “And this is supposed to explain why the doughnut guys didn’t hire me? You just lost me.” She paused, then yelled, “Yo! Cherry, would you mind seeing if there’s a couple of diet sodas in the fridge and if so, bringing them when you come back? Abby’s getting philosophical and I’m getting thirsty.”
Less than sixty seconds later, Cherry popped into the living room, balancing three sodas, a pack of cigarettes, and eight out of my latest batch of chocolate chip cookies. I may not admire Cherry’s taste in men (probably mobbed up) or careers (topless… and possibly bottomless….gyrating) but anyone who can balance all that and not spill a drop or a crumb has my utmost respect. Especially when I’m on the receiving end of the beverage or cookie.
Cherry and I have gradually declared a truce over the last couple of weeks. I wouldn’t call us friends, but I wouldn’t call us enemies either. She has the street smarts I’ll never have, but would still love to cultivate. She’s fearless. For her part, she’s admitted I’m pretty easy to get along with and I do make a mean batch of Texas chili (along with pretty fabulous chocolate chip cookies.)
I smiled at her, then took a bite of one of those cookies, leaving chocolate stains on my teeth. An impatient Shay raised her volume a notch. “Abby! Auditions? Bullets? Fate? Theories?”
“Oops. Sorry. Stuffing my face here. Okay. First, let’s look at this from the military standpoint since we’re talking about bullets. During the American Revolution, George Washington spent half his time dodging British musket balls. When he wasn’t sleeping somewhere around the colonies. Fine. Quit laughing.”
Shay stopped chuckling, sipped her soda, and gave me a suspicious look. “What does George Washington have to do with why I’m not teaching hordes of little doughnuts how to leap and twirl?”
I munched my cookie and mumbled, “Will you quit interrupting? Let me finish. Washington never got shot, right? Why? Because the bullet flying around did not have his name on them. Make sense? Now take the same theory and apply it to theatrical auditions and casting. Um. Here’s an example.” I thought for a moment while I swallowed another bite. “Let’s imagine an absolute nightmare audition. You forgot your monologue. You were asked to sing a song in a key about an octave removed from anything your voice can handle. Your tap shoe flew off and bounced on the director’s head. But…oh my! Just look. Your name was etched on that particular bullet. So….Hello, Broadway.”
Shay was getting excited. “I think I’m catching on but let me take it from the other side to be sure I really understand the concept. Let’s see. You actually had a fabulous audition. You nailed the singing part by hitting high C…twice! You kicked higher than a Jets field goal kicker on a good day. But if your name is Ethel Merman and the bullet says Mary Martin, then tomorrow Mary’s crowing in Peter Pan and Ethel’s back on line.”
Cherry applauded. “I got it! That’s why every time we get raided at the club, I don’t get picked up. My name’s not on one of them bullets! I gotta go call Vito and Guido about this. They’ll just die!”
Cherry headed off for the bathroom (her private phone space) and Shay and I just looked at each other. Shay sighed. “She’s amazing, ya know. Understands things in a way nobody else could…or would. But this is good, Abby. I think you’re on to something that could put performers’ therapists and shrinks out of business. No more miserable actors and singers and dancers dropping in sobbing they didn’t get cast. They just blame the bullets. Sort of like no-fault divorce. It’s all just fate.”
She popped the top off the can of soda I hadn’t touched. “So genius, if you believe all this, and you also have all those wonderful genetic second-sight traits from your Mom and Grandma to guide you, why aren’t you out there auditioning like mad? I mean, the more auditions, the more bullets, right? The more bullets the better chance of getting cast.”
I rolled my eyes. “Okay. Fine. I’ll go to the audition for the revival of Hair that’s supposed to make the original from the Sixties look tame. Watch. This will be the bullet that hits. I’ll end up having to do a nude scene and my mom will come up from Texas and drag me back in chains.”
Shay threw a cookie at me. I caught it with one hand and immediately devoured it.
“Go to the audition.” She added, a bit too casually. “By the way, your friend Gregory Noble, uh, excuse me…Johnny Gerard… is supposed to be there.
That perked me up. “How do you know that?”
“I heard him telling Ricky the other day when Mr. Gerard was leaving his beginner dance class. Said he hoped he’d get out of Hair auditions early enough to do some photo shoot for Endless Time. I gather he’s interested in doing Claude.”
“Well, but he won’t be there for the Open Call.”
“Who knows? Maybe the casting director will be squeezing in the big guns in between all the unagented hopefuls?”
“This is nuts. Johnny G. is hardly ever at the studio and the one time he’s skipping around doing single pirouettes, I’m not there to see him. I will never get the chance to meet him. Talk about bullets flying in the other direction. Away from me.” I suddenly shivered and reached for the pillow Shay had thrown to steady me.
Shay was quick to notice. “Abby? What?”
“Nothing. It’s just…a vision of me in Central Park with ‘Gregory Noble’. Uh. Johnny Gerard. And there are bullets whizzing by. Real ones. And snow on the ground. Never mind. I probably just have bullets on the brain.”
Shay grinned at me. “I’d stay here with you and try and keep you from zoning into precognition land, but I actually have another producer about a jam commercial. Maybe I’d have a better chance of choreographing all-fruit raspberry preserves than powdered doughnuts.”
I was glad Shay had left me with the image of dancing red jelly bits the day after our bullet theory chat when I summoned my courage and headed down to the 44th Street Theater where they were holding auditions for Hair. And, I confess, I was also hoping to see Johnny Gerard.
I’d gone to the audition at noon, directly after teaching exercise at the health club. Changed into a cute burgundy-colored corduroy pants and blazer. Before leaving work, I’d bundled up in a parka, knit cap, scarf and pulled on my suede boots. It was February. To say it was cold would be understating temperatures not fit for an Arctic ground squirrel. (Yeah, there is such a beast.)
There was a line inside the 44th Street Theater. There was a line outside the 44th Street Theater. For the next three hours I stood in the cold trying to avoid frostbite. I jumped up and down. I tap danced in my boots. People passing by threw dollars into my open dance bag thinking I was a street performer. I ended up with a total of fifteen bucks.
Once I finally made it inside the theater, I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry or take pictures. The auditionees were dressed up as though they were participating in the Village Halloween parade. There were dreadlocks, love beads, headbands adorning hippie wannabees stuffed into tie-dyed bell-bottoms and midriff tops. Afros hidden since the mid-60s graced every ethnicity and gender. Granny gowns, granny glasses, possibly Granny herself, had been raided from Salvation Army bins. A whiff of Eau de Mary Jane lingered in the air.
I began talking to myself just to calm down. I must be hallucinating. Must be the extreme cold I’d endured the last few hours.
Ignoring the masquerade party around me, I did a few warm-up stretches. Then I waited another two hours. Two hours spent listening to the ghastly screeches emanating from inside the theater house. Finally, at 5:35 p.m., one of the audition monitors, who seemed to be impersonating Jimi Hendrix called my name. I guessed the staff had to look like 60s rockers to be employed here. I walked into the theater house, gave my headshot and resume to a girl who looked like Twiggy, then headed up onto the stage. I handed my sheet music, Fleetwood Mac’s “Gold Dust Woman” (audition notice had stated folks need to sing a rock song from 60s or early 70s) to the accompanist at the piano. He looked normal. To be honest, he looked like my dad. I felt reassured.
I turned to face the casting folks, who were seated in the front row just behind the orchestra pit and prepared to start my song. I’d barely opened my mouth when a very nasty voice sliced through me. “Sorry, honey. You don’t need to sing. You can leave now.”
“I beg your pardon,” I asked, “Is there a problem? Are y’all taking a break?”
“No. You’re just not right for Hair. You’re far too sweet looking.”
I glanced down into the front row where a kid not much older than I (and I turned twenty-one six months ago) sat, gnawing on a hamburger and fries while tossing headshots/resumes into a trash bag next to him. I’d just spent hours in the freezing cold for this chance to sing. I was ticked. It takes a lot to get me mad but when I do, I lose it like a hibernating bear getting poked by a stick during a mid-winter nap.
“Have you ever heard of make-up?” I raged. “Or…God forbid…acting? I’ve been outside for hours in the stinking cold waiting to sing sixteen bars. And I’m going to sing sixteen bars. And you can shove my headshot and resume up your…up that disgustingly greasy burger if you don’t damn well agree!”
Shaking, I nodded to the accompanist before anyone could stop me and I sang. The stage manager (the girl who looked like Twiggy) started grinning. The accompanist started grinning. I finished sixteen bars. He kept on playing. I kept on singing. Twiggy kept on grinning. I sang the entire song, reached down, picked up my bag, then marched down the steps and the aisle to the lobby without a glance at the casting table.
I heard footsteps behind me. Twiggy grabbed my arm. “Hey,” she gasped out. “I had to tell you. You’re the only person today who could actually sing. It’s been one big horror show.”
“I can see that. What on earth is going on?”
She appeared embarrassed. “The twitty, underage casting director is enthralled by costumes; not talent. But the accompanist and I both wanted to say ‘thanks’for having guts and a great voice. “
“Bless you. That helps.”
I should have known the day wouldn’t end there. The next person I saw was Johnny Gerard. He was entering the theater wearing jeans and an old Carousel show jacket. I almost called out to him to forget it, since he looked too normal, but decided to let the great soap star find out for himself, although since he was “known” from both his soap opera and previous Broadway shows, he’d probably be welcomed. He either didn’t recognize me from the dance studio, or didn’t see me, or just didn’t care to say “hello.” He was right up there in my bullet theory. Apparently my name wasn’t etched on his gun either.
I stopped by my favorite pastry shop, La Mirage, on the way back to the apartment and bought a dozen chocolate eclairs and ate three of them before Shay got home. She looked at me. “What happened? Bad?”
I told her the tale of the nightmare audition, including seeing the snooty Johnny Gerard.
Shay grinned. “You’re just ticked because he didn’t notice you.”
I glared at her. “I wasn’t concerned with him, thank you. I was too upset after dealing with those horrible people.”
She smiled at me, and took the chocolate eclair I offered her. I smiled back. We know each other too well. “What about you?” I asked.
“My bullets weren’t flying either. I didn’t get the jam commercial.” She smirked. “I’ll wager, though, if the voices were as bad as you say, that the show will be in sore need of medical attention.”
(She was right. The revival of Hair opened four months later. It closed after one performance. Critics destroyed it, noting that the singing and acting were atrocious, although the costumes were great.)
Shay grabbed another eclair. So did I. She finished a bite then asked, “Did you see the notice for the revival of Jesus Christ Superstar? Of course, with your track record on revivals this might not be something you want to try. But it is headed for Broadway after a brief tour. And, rumor has it that Johnny Gerard has been offered the role of Pilate.”
“I don’t know. I did see it but….whacha think? Should I go? After today’s fiasco, I’m hesitant. Should I test those bullets again?”
In response, Shay handed me this weeks’ Backstage where she’d circled the audition notice. “Apart from the fact that your overly-protective mother will probably disown you if you’re in something racier than The Sound of Music, I think you should go. Abby, what have you got to lose? If nothing else, you’ll be seen by some of the top people in the business. I hear Dewitt Dwyer is doing the choreography. He’s a nutjob, but if you can make it into a show of his…you’re set.”
I nodded. “Yep. Heard the same thing.” I pointed at the paper. “Wait. Look at this. Are they serious? This is going to Broadway but they’re having the audition at that awful space on 43rd between 9th and 10th? It’s above two porn shops and a topless bar!”
“Who knows? There was probably some mix up with the Cort Theater. It doesn’t matter. Go!”
I chuckled. “Watch. They’ll get inspired by the venue below and add a sexy nude scene for the dancing hookers in the Temple and Mom really will come up and drag me back to Texas in chains. Or send me to the nearest convent for reprogramming. Not sure which would be worse.”
Shay snorted. “You are so full of it. You barely wear a midriff top in class in hot weather. No way anyone is stripping you on stage. But for the record, I’d personally opt for Texas.”
I trudged over to the rehearsal studio on W. 43rd and 9th Avenue at the appointed day and time. I was in the process of buckling my character shoes when they called me in to sing. I didn’t feel ready, but one never says that to a casting director.
I”d chosen “I Don’t Know How to Love Him” to sing since the audition notice requested a song from the show and there’s not a lot to choose from for women’s numbers. I considered doing one of Judas’ songs but decided a female alto version of “Damned for All Time” might not be appreciated.
I gave my headshot and resume to a smiling young man wearing a ponytail, headed over to the piano, didn’t bother with sheet music (if the guy didn’t know this song by now he should be fired) stood as tall as my five-feet-two inches would allow, over-emoted as I sang and began feeling more and more like an untalented, durn short, dolt.
They called me back to dance. Dewitt Dwyer taught us a routine from hell (which seemed ironic, given the name of the show). I’d heard he was a bit bizarre and he lived up to his reputation. Fifty dancers frantically tried to learn steps we’d never seen in any class. Fifty dancers hadn’t a clue. Including me. Two hours later, the audition was over.
I went home, cried, and ate doughnuts the rest of the afternoon.
Three days later, the phone rang. “Abby Fouchet?”
“Yes?’
“Tommy Grefazzi here. Stage manager for Jesus Christ Superstar. Are you available to join the cast? Lead dancer and tormentor. Rehearsals start in two weeks. We’ll be in touch with time and place.”
After thanking him profusely, I got my courage up and asked the other thing that hit me as soon as he’d told me I was cast. “Um. This is probably illegal or something but can you tell me if Johnny Gerard was also cast? We, uh, take class at the same studio but he’s in Beginners and I’m in Advanced so there’s not much chance to talk.”
He laughed. “No problem. And yeah, he’s playing Pilate.”
After hanging up I stared at the phone for at least a minute. I walked into the kitchen where Shay was fixing a salad and began jumping up and down in sheer glee while Shay grabbed any breakable glasses on the counter.
“I’m in! I’m in! Can’t believe this since the audition was awful. But I’m headed for Broadway, babe. And guess who’s playing Pilate?”
“Gregory Noble, Supercop?”
“Oh yeah!”
Shay grabbed my hands and we twirled around the kitchen. “This calls for a celebration.”
“I’ll be rich soon. Let’s be wild and crazy and hit The Russian Tea Room. I’ve always wanted to go.”
Shay grabbed her coat and bag and pulled on her snow boots. I grabbed my coat and bag and pulled on my snow boots. We were halfway out the door when she turned to me.
“Hey, Abby?”
“What?”
“I guess your theory works. Because you just got hit with one red-hot bullet.”
I suddenly felt queasy. I had a sense that statement would become reality in a very few weeks. I remembered the vision I’d had before the audition about being in Central Park with snow falling around us as bullets whizzed past me. I could clearly see Johnny Gerard throwing me to the ground to protect me.
Perhaps I needed to stay inside for the next few months until the snow thawed.
Or, to be safe… until summer.
http://bit.ly/4n7naSS
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Web Site:
Flo Fitzpatrick
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