Thoughts While Having Sex Page 3

  "Are you here to audition for Til Death Do Us Part?" I asked.

  "No," she said. She seemed to be done with her makeup and was admiring herself in the mirror.

  "Oh. Sorry," I said.

  "For what?"

  "Interrupting."

  "Interrupting what?"

  "Your train of thought?"

  She smiled. "You mean the fact that I was admiring myself in the mirror?"

  "If that's what you were doing."

  "Is that what you were doing?" She was still facing the mirror, looking at my reflection.

  "Admiring myself?" I asked, confused.

  She laughed. "Admiring me."

  "Are you an actress?" She had to be.

  "Guilty as charged."

  "So you're here to audition for that other play down the hall with the sixty-year-old men?"

  "Uh huh."

  "As it happens, we're looking for someone just like you, so if you're at all interested, it would be great if you auditioned for us."

  She turned around so she was looking at the real me.

  "Where are you doing it?"

  "Down the hall. I think it's room 303."

  "I mean the play."

  "Oh. Off Broadway. Well, Off Off Broadway, actually."

  "Showcase?"

  "Yes."

  "No thanks."

  "It's a good part. Two-character play, two women. A drama."

  She smiled. "I'd love to, but they're running late to see me, and I'm already late for my money job, and this audition has completely fucked up my day."

  The way she was pretending to be gracious in a way that told you she was pissed off plus the use of an obscenity—I knew she was perfect. "Do you have an extra head-shot with you? Maybe we could set something up for another day."

  "I just brought one and I already gave it to these jerks I'm auditioning for. Sorry."

  "Thanks anyway.”

  "Good luck."

  I returned to Peter and Carol, who were waiting impatiently so we could get the last three women over with. "I just saw the perfect Julia."

  Peter practically leaped from his chair. "So bring her in!"

  "She wasn't interested."

  "Was she really perfect?"

  "Yes," I said with conviction. "She was totally perfect."

  Peter started for the door.

  "She's in the women's room," I called after him. Was he going to go in? I followed him into the hall, and watched as he barged into the bathroom. I considered going in after him, but at that moment felt like I would be intruding, which is ironic if you think about it. I will always be annoyed with myself for not going in there, because I'll never know exactly what he said to change her mind, but in about one minute he came out and announced, "She's reading for us. Get her a side."

  He looked anxious.

  "Carol has the sides," I said.

  "Well then get the sides from Carol," he said. Like I was too slow, or somehow in his way, and we would lose her if we didn't act fast.

  "She's going to read it in the bathroom?"

  "Just get them," he said.

  I was surprised, the way he was acting, that he didn't just give her the part on the spot without asking her to read. But he didn't. He gave her the part fifteen minutes later after she blew us all away with her reading. The last three actresses still waiting out in the hall? Peter sent them home. Rudely. Without even giving them the chance to audition.

  The actress's name was, of course, Kelly Cavanna.

  Chapter 3

  It's safe to say that most productions have a honeymoon period. It's characterized by a certain idealization of all the other people involved, a feeling of well-meaning enthusiasm that everything will be conflict-free (unlike the last time) and a certain tension over wondering when and how the conflict will in fact begin.

  I was feeling very lucky to get Kelly. At first she turned us down. Her agent didn't want her to be in any more showcases, only paying work. He was sending her out on a lot of auditions for soaps until she could snag something Off Broadway. He convinced her this was not worth her time. So a day after the audition, she called Peter back and turned down the part.

  But Peter asked her to read the whole play through and think about it. And she did. And she changed her mind. Peter told me it was because the part was so good. I told myself it was because she wanted to have a fling with Peter.

  In any case, one thing that made it easier for her to commit was the fact that she could leave any time. It's built into the showcase contract that if an actor is offered paying work during the run of the show, she has the option to leave. And there's nothing you can do about it. Which leaves you totally in the lurch. Because at this level, where you don't pay, it's impossible to get someone to understudy. So you are, in that sense, totally at the mercy of your actors.

  We went ahead and cast Annie opposite Kelly even though they weren't that great a physical match sisterwise. Annie was taller than Kelly, which bothered me. I saw Julia as towering over Melanie. Never mind that I had in fact been taller than Diana. I still didn't think of myself that way. Also, Annie was dark skinned with brown hair and Kelly was light skinned with blonde hair. But, as Peter assured me, it's more important to have two really good actresses rather than cast on the basis of looks.

  Just the five of us (the two actresses, me, Peter, and Carol) would be at rehearsals. As the Stage Manager, it was Carol's job to keep track of any line changes and record all the blocking in a master script. And, as the actresses started to get off script, she would feed them their lines when they forgot them. It's one of those thankless, unglamorous but totally important jobs.

  Our first rehearsal would be a simple read-through of the play. I was running late that afternoon because I couldn't decide what to wear. After trying on almost every piece of clothing I owned, I finally settled on some flared jeans from Express and a powder blue zipper-front T-shirt from Urban Outfitters. Then I had to rush to the subway. It was only a two stop ride, but I figured it would be faster than a cab.

  As I stood on the edge of the platform, I paced back and forth. I thought about how odd it was to be on my way to a rehearsal for my play that was being done in New York City. My play about my sister. Who was dead. And I was happy. Because I was having my play (about my dead sister) done in New York City.

  Sometimes I felt surprised that I ever did move to Manhattan. Not only because it was intimidating. But also because I voluntarily situated myself in the same city as Diana. It would've been liberating to live on my own somewhere free of all younger sister constraints. But we were both drawn for the same reason. If you wanted to work in the theater, you had to be in New York. And both of us, by the time we were in high school, were theater junkies.

  My first two years in high school overlapped with Diana's last two years. The drama teacher, Mr. Flint, put on incredibly ambitious productions of both classics and musicals. Mr. Flint had an aura because he used to direct plays Off Broadway. He probably (I realize now) felt like an utter failure because he ended up in Connecticut teaching high school. But he loved Diana. By the time she was a senior, Diana starred in Follies, Three Sisters, The Music Man, and Mrs. Warren's Profession. (How many aspiring actors have their best parts in high school or college because once they try to break into the professional level they can't even get an audition?)

  Diana was on lithium then and she was more or less stable. Her mood swings didn't seem much more extreme than many leading ladies under the pressure of carrying a show. In any case, Mr. Flint tolerated her temper tantrums. I suppose he had his own fantasy that she would become a movie star one day and thank him from the podium as she accepted her Academy Award for Best Actress.

  I accepted my own role as Best Supporting Sister with grace. I constantly reassured her about how pretty and talented she was. And tried not to let her see how shocked I was when she described giving a blow job to the guy who played Buddy in Follies. And comforted her when he dumped her for one of the showgirls. And did
n't tell my parents about the pot. Or the parked car she bashed in when she borrowed my father's car. Or the birth control pills from Planned Parenthood. Or the guys she was sleeping with, not even the lawyer who was married. Plus, I was a really good listener. And I gave her as much wise advice as I could based on having no actual experience of my own.

  We spent hours at Larry's Diner (which is no more) near the train station talking and drinking sugary coffee and eating creamy cheesecake (it was the only good dessert they had—the pies were made with canned fruit). I felt honored when she confided in me. And wanted to hang out with me. Because Diana, when she was happy, was a lot of fun. (It worried me that I had left that out of my play. That I only portrayed her as the evil older sister. For some reason, when I thought about writing a scene showing her good side, I would suddenly get very tired.)

  But Diana could be full of a wonderful exuberance. The way she could slip in and out of characters, break into song, do accents. And she seemed to know everything about makeup and clothes and accessories. In a generous mood, she might give me a mud mask or put my hair into french braids. Once she even gave me a pedicure. Sometimes, I loved being her younger sister.

  I just had to make sure not to ever want what she wanted. The one time I can remember being in direct competition with her, it was disastrous. I dared to try out for a Rising Star production of The Glass Menagerie. It seemed to me that the part of the ultra-shy Laura was all wrong for Diana and just right for me. Diana wasn't even going to Rising Stars anymore—she was too busy with Mr. Flint's productions. And I was curious to see what it would be like going up on stage. But as soon as she heard what I was doing, Diana wanted to try out too.

  When we were getting ready for our auditions, Diana pretended everything was cool. We even ran lines with each other, taking turns at being Laura. She probably didn't imagine that I might actually get the part.

  I got through my audition in a numb state of terror, full of self-doubt and like I had no right to be there. Diana, the seasoned veteran, owned the stage with confidence.

  The next day we were at the theater hanging out on stage with the others to hear who got cast. Mr. Brillstein announced that I had the part of Laura. (I suppose I was a good argument for Method acting.) I looked at Diana to see how she would take it.

  At first she laughed this big belly laugh and I thought she was going to be okay. "You cast Jennifer? She can't act. She can't even pretend to act!"

  Mr. Brillstein said he thought I would do just fine and a few people clapped for me. That's when Diana started screaming. "You want to screw up your play? Fine! This is why I don't come here anymore. I hate this fucking place!" She was in such a rage, she stepped backwards and fell off the stage and sprained her ankle. I can still remember how she cried with pain and I felt her humiliation. The next day I turned down the part, wondering why I ever let myself consider crossing that boundary.

  I told myself it was just as well. Performing would've been nerve-wracking. And I had my sights set on being a writer, anyway.

  Of course, high schools have even less need for original plays than Broadway. So I continued to work on crew just to have a reason to hang around the drama department. There were advantages to staying behind the scenes. All the backstage melodramas were highly entertaining (especially when they didn't involve me). And I could safely watch everyone else freak out about getting in front of an audience. I knew I would eventually have my moment. Because in the end, actresses only get to say the lines the writer has given to them. The ultimate power, it seemed to me, was deciding who says what.

  I would learn later that actresses have their ways of getting around that. As a matter of fact, Kelly would be my biggest challenge. But I had no premonitions, that first day of rehearsal, of any trouble to come.

  A train finally pulled into the station. The doors parted, I nabbed a seat and we sped through the tunnel. There's something about racing underground on a grimy, gritty subway train—I couldn't help but feel like I was finally living a cool existence. (Especially since no one knew how lousy my sex life was.) In high school, I never felt cool. Diana was cool. Especially her senior year, when she played Adelaide in Guys and Dolls opposite Nick Englander, the school football star. I was on follow spot, so I had the honor of illuminating her when she danced around half naked on the stage in a skimpy pink cat suit in the Hot Box Girls dance number.

  Not surprisingly, lots of boys lusted after her. "Fiddle-dee-dee," I can still hear her saying. She liked to talk with a southern accent like Scarlett O'Hara. "I was up all night trying to decide which boy should take me to the prom." She ended up going with Nick, wearing a very low-cut emerald green formal. I suppose I was jealous. But at least all that attention made her easier to live with.

  The train finally reached 28th Street and I bolted into the station and up the stairs and down Seventh Avenue to 26th Street. The Renegade Theater was in the middle of the block in a smallish turn-of-the-century office building about ten floors tall. I took the elevator up to the seventh floor, and the doors opened directly onto the small "lobby" of the theater. The "lobby" was just a space about ten feet by ten feet painted white with an old sofa against the wall.

  I rushed into the theater. The others were already there, so I sheepishly said my hellos and took a seat at the table that was set up on stage and tried not to heave from my little sprint. This was the only time I would sit with them like that. For the rest of rehearsals I'd be in the back row of the theater trying to stay out of the way as much as possible.

  Peter introduced the play. "Til Death Do Us Part by Jennifer Ward." And the actresses began to read.

  Julia: "So how do you like your new apartment?"

  Melanie: "It's small. No view. The ceiling is low. It never gets a drop of sun. And I've already stepped on two cockroaches. It's the epitome of Hell's Kitchen—"

  Julia: "Glamour!"

  Melanie: "I was going to say grunge. I never thought I'd feel lucky to live in a place with bars on the windows."

  Julia: "That's the good kind that you can slide open if there's a fire. An accessory every young lady should have."

  As I sat back and recovered from rushing down there, I looked around the theater. Peter had shown me around once, but I hadn't really taken it all in. One thing I really liked was that even though the theater was far from fancy, it was very new and clean. All the walls were freshly painted white, and the stage floor was jet black. I was disappointed that the seats were just metal folding chairs, but they did sit on risers and were nicely raked.

  Melanie: "You aren't mad at me, are you? Because I'm not staying with you?"

  Julia: "Of course not. You need your own place. It's Mom and Dad who wanted you to keep an eye on me."

  Melanie: "You're the one who's going to have to keep an eye on me. This city intimidates me, and I don't know a soul."

  Julia: "Don't worry. Manhattan is the easiest place in the world to meet people. And no matter how many enemies you make, there's always a fresh supply of unsuspecting people to take their place."

  Everyone chuckled at the truth in that line. I couldn't really take credit for it. Diana once said it to me. She certainly made her share of enemies after moving to New York. Right after graduating from high school, she found a share in the East Village and dove right into taking classes and going out on auditions. She was sure she didn't need any college because she was going to be a star. Period. By the time I followed two years later, she'd already gotten kicked off a showcase for being a diva in rehearsals and alienated a string of actor friends and roommates.

  I knew I’d be walking straight into the fire, but told myself Manhattan had to be big enough for both of us. And I suppose I figured she would need me around when things got worse.

  Julia: "You really have to develop a thicker skin, Melanie, or people are just going to take advantage of you."

  Melanie: "I know."

  Julia: "And you have to think positively if you want to get anywhere in this world."
/>   Melanie: "You're right. I know. Theoretically."

  Julia: "Now I want you to repeat after me."

  At this point Julia goes to a window (which someone would have to build), puts her head out and screams.

  Julia: "I am ambitious!"

  Melanie: "No."

  Julia: "Say it! Go ahead."

  Melanie: "This is really idiotic."

  Julia: (yelling) "I am ambitious!"

  Melanie goes to the window then and calls out.

  Melanie: (without conviction) "I am ambitious."

  Julia: (yelling) "And I deserve to succeed!"

  Melanie: "Do I have to?"

  Julia: (yelling) "I deserve to succeed!"

  Melanie: "I deserve to succeed. I suppose."

  I smiled at the way Annie said it so glumly. She reminded me of me.

  As they continued on, I thought back to the day my sister did actually try to get me to yell out a window. We were in her apartment, not mine. She wanted to celebrate because she'd had an audition for an Off Broadway production of The Skin of Our Teeth that day. She was sure she would get the part of Sabina, the sexy maid. "We'll get dinner anywhere you want as long as it's expensive."

  "Don't you think you should wait until you get the part before you celebrate?"

  It was highly unlikely, with her lack of credits, that she'd get it. She was lucky to get the audition.

  "You have to think positively in this world if anything is going to happen."

  "But you don't celebrate before you actually get what you're celebrating for."

  "Optimists succeed. Pessimists fail."

  "That's what they say."

  "Come here. I want you to repeat after me."

  She went to her window, opened it up and screamed, "I am ambitious!"

  "I'm not doing that."

  "Come on," she said, sticking her head out the window again. "I am ambitious! And I deserve to succeed!"

  "No way. Forget it."

  "I'm getting that part," she said. "You'll see."