The Last Phone Booth in Manhattan(46)
He sighed, pulled his coat back down, and waved the papers he was holding as he said, “The usual. Sixteen bars and a short monologue. Just nothing too classic.”
“Okay, well, thanks for the info. And . . . break a leg,” I said.
Backing away from him and the line, my eyes scanned what looked like an endless stream of people winding all the way down Barrow Street. Sixteen bars? I could pull something from my repertoire. Monologue? I had a few in my arsenal and, judging by the size of this line, a lot of time to settle on the right one. But, I could also end up waiting for hours and not even get seen. Either way, it seemed the phone booth wanted me here for one reason or another, and I wouldn’t know what that reason was unless I was willing to stick around and find out. I jogged to the end of the line, popped in my AirPods, and settled onto the sidewalk to wait.
Close to three and a half hours later, I could finally see the front of the Greenwich House Theater, a beautiful six-story red-brick building with ivy climbing up the walls that looked like it had been transported straight out of London’s West End. As the sun started to set and the temperature dropped into the forties, people slowly started trickling out of line. I thought about leaving too, but I was too torn to actually move. Maybe if I give it just ten more minutes, I’d reasoned—every ten minutes for the past hour. Certain the phone booth meant for me to be here, I wasn’t ready to give up, but I also wasn’t sure if I was putting all of my faith into a ridiculous and fantastical goose chase.
My calves ached and I desperately needed to pee. I decided I’d give it five more minutes and then call it. At this point, it didn’t look like I’d be given the opportunity to audition, and I hadn’t had any chance encounters while waiting in line. Maybe I just needed to accept that this time the address was just an address and the phone booth got it wrong? Or, I was simply delusional for having put my faith in an archaic hunk of junk. Maybe there was no bigger meaning to any of it? Considering all that transpired over the last few months of my life, I was probably just reaching out for anything to help me find my way. The disappointment settled in my stomach like liquid metal, sloshing around for a moment before it turned to lead.
Just as the series of doubts flooded my mind, the front door of the Greenwich House Theater cracked open, and a woman hugging a clipboard peeked her head through. “Okay, we have time to see eight more. To the rest of you, thank you for waiting.”
I popped up on my toes and counted the heads in front of me. Okay . . . five, six, seven, and . . . and . . . me! I was lucky number eight!
HOLY. CRAP. This was unbelievable. Un-freakin’-believable. My lead stomach lightened so quickly I practically floated up the steps like a hot-air balloon into the theater’s impressive vestibule. I yanked my hair out of its elastic, gave it a shake, and tucked a few pieces behind my ears. As the eight of us moved forward in the queue toward the audition room, I started my warm-up routine.
I silently stretched my mouth to form a tall O like one of those strange Byers’ Choice Christmas caroling dolls to a wide, toothy grin, the apples of my cheeks pert and round. I moved my jaw back and forth, back and forth, loosening up my face muscles. I chewed on my tongue, an old trick to help increase the flow of saliva now completely drained from my mouth, a common occurrence whenever I grew nervous.
One by one, the last of the auditioners went into the studio space while I paced up and down the hallway repeating my vocal exercises. When number seven, a woman a little older than me, exited the studio with a satisfied smile across her face, it was finally my turn.
“Next,” a voice called from inside the door. I sucked in a deep breath, pushed out my chest, and strode into the studio.
The pianist seated in the left corner of the room held out his hand, ready to receive the sheet music. However, not knowing I’d be auditioning, I of course didn’t have any.
I cleared my throat and stepped in close, past his extended arm, and whispered, “Hi, um . . . so I don’t have any sheet music with me. Do you know ‘Look to the Rainbow’ from Finian’s Rainbow?”
He shook his head, his face twisted by his lack of recognition of the song. “Sorry, never even heard of that one.”
“Shoot,” I said, racking my brain for a quick plan. I could sing it a cappella, but man, it’d be risky without the support and backup of some accompaniment. “Okay, so um . . . what do you know?”
His eyes grew wide, almost confused by the question. “You want me to name all the songs I know?” His voice now rose above mine.
“No, no, of course not,” I said, trying to bring his tone back down to a quiet simmer. “I just need something in the mezzo range. Any ideas?”
“Well, I’ve been pretty much playing everything from Hamilton all day.”
“Err, I don’t want them to just see me as another Schuyler sister . . . ,” I mumbled as I thought aloud. “Anything else?”
“Well, for a mezzo, I’ll give you a few options—I can do ‘The Worst Pies in London’ from Sweeney Todd. Really, anything from that score. I played in the pit during the national tour.”
“Um . . . any chance you know anything less . . . wordy? Sondheim’s tough even on a good day.”
It seemed the clock had run out on our sidebar conversation when I heard a loud clearing of a throat from the table of casting agents and producers. The pianist too was clearly growing tired and with a huff said, “Look, I got ‘I Dreamed a Dream’ from Les Mis, or ‘Defying Gravity’ from Wicked, take your pick and let’s go, I need to get to another gig.”