doreen peri
03-12-2004, 10:28 AM
She was beside herself, literally.
Walking up to the door shoulder to shoulder, she felt her own hand join hers in an attempt to comfort. She rang the bell. Beads of sweat formed pearls on her forhead. Broadway Joe Bangcock, the director, answered. He swung the door open like he was trying to escape a saloon fight, stools flying. His 245 lbs. filled the doorway staring down both of her from a 6'5" tower, 45 degrees into her two sets of baby blues. Dressed in black top hat and tails, he banged his shillelagh three times on the door jamb. The carved gargoyle faces screamed.
"What do you want?," he blasted, bass voice gravelly, demanding.
"I'm here for the audition."
"Oh? Where's your script? We started an hour ago! You're late. I usually don't let anyone in who's more than five minutes late. If you're here to waste my time, turn around NOW and go."
"No, no. Please. I've rehearsed. I made the first cut last week. Please. Don't you remember me? I'm sorry I'm late. It was the train. The train was late so I ran to the next station to catch another one. My script is in my back pocket."
Joe rolled his eyes, moved aside and allowed her to enter. Beyond the door, there they were. All the rest of them. There must have been 35, maybe 40. All after 5 roles. They were sitting cross-legged in a circle. In the middle of the circle was a small table about 3 feet high with a wine glass on it and a half filled bottle of merlot. As she made her way over to join the circle, she stared into the eyes of confident prospectives, one by one, each one looking her over like an interloper.
She sat down in between a slender blonde man, about 25, dressed in a purple sheet draped over his shoulder and an elderly woman in medieval garb.
The other her sat behind her and leaned over and whispered into her left ear. "You'll never have a problem competing with this pitiful strophe of so-called poets. You're a shoe-in." Reaching into the back pocket of her jeans, she pulled out the crumbled script with her scribbled notes.
Broadway Joe approached the table. He didn't need a mic, his stern voice bellowed, "OK. Are we ready to begin again now that we have been interrupted? Who's going first?" She heard her own nervous sigh.
"OK. You! Get up. Begin."
At times like this, she was always glad she brought herself with her.
--------------dp... 9.3.2003 .......
http://doreenperi.com
Walking up to the door shoulder to shoulder, she felt her own hand join hers in an attempt to comfort. She rang the bell. Beads of sweat formed pearls on her forhead. Broadway Joe Bangcock, the director, answered. He swung the door open like he was trying to escape a saloon fight, stools flying. His 245 lbs. filled the doorway staring down both of her from a 6'5" tower, 45 degrees into her two sets of baby blues. Dressed in black top hat and tails, he banged his shillelagh three times on the door jamb. The carved gargoyle faces screamed.
"What do you want?," he blasted, bass voice gravelly, demanding.
"I'm here for the audition."
"Oh? Where's your script? We started an hour ago! You're late. I usually don't let anyone in who's more than five minutes late. If you're here to waste my time, turn around NOW and go."
"No, no. Please. I've rehearsed. I made the first cut last week. Please. Don't you remember me? I'm sorry I'm late. It was the train. The train was late so I ran to the next station to catch another one. My script is in my back pocket."
Joe rolled his eyes, moved aside and allowed her to enter. Beyond the door, there they were. All the rest of them. There must have been 35, maybe 40. All after 5 roles. They were sitting cross-legged in a circle. In the middle of the circle was a small table about 3 feet high with a wine glass on it and a half filled bottle of merlot. As she made her way over to join the circle, she stared into the eyes of confident prospectives, one by one, each one looking her over like an interloper.
She sat down in between a slender blonde man, about 25, dressed in a purple sheet draped over his shoulder and an elderly woman in medieval garb.
The other her sat behind her and leaned over and whispered into her left ear. "You'll never have a problem competing with this pitiful strophe of so-called poets. You're a shoe-in." Reaching into the back pocket of her jeans, she pulled out the crumbled script with her scribbled notes.
Broadway Joe approached the table. He didn't need a mic, his stern voice bellowed, "OK. Are we ready to begin again now that we have been interrupted? Who's going first?" She heard her own nervous sigh.
"OK. You! Get up. Begin."
At times like this, she was always glad she brought herself with her.
--------------dp... 9.3.2003 .......
http://doreenperi.com