After moving through the first several rounds of the rigorous process, the final audition for the national tour was down to me and only three others for the lead role of Elphaba. It was the closest I’d ever gotten . . . and without representation, likely would get. I’d tried like hell to dismiss the negative self-talk and the niggling anxiety I always battled when I stepped in front of a panel of producers and directors, but standing and waiting in the wings for my turn, flashes of me choking at Tisch’s senior talent showcase and botching every subsequent audition bloomed from a small bud to an invasive weed that creeped and crawled through the fertile soil of my mind. Sweat prickled on my palms, and I wiped them down the flowing black cape I’d brought with me to wear for my big number.
Right before it was my turn to go on, one of the techs walked me through the mechanics of how the flying lift for “Defying Gravity” worked one final time.
“It’s pretty simple. When you’re ready to go up, just step back and onto the platform, evenly distributing your weight on both sides. The safety latch will lock, and off you’ll go,” he said as he checked the seat belt–like contraption that was meant to snap closed as soon as I followed his instruction.
I nodded to him that I understood and waited for the swell of the orchestra to cue the big moment. But as soon as the time approached for me to join in the song where I would need to take in the deepest breath I could, nerves caused me to shift my weight a little too quickly, and the mechanism snapped shut around my middle before I was ready, snatching from me the long pull of air I’d just drawn into my diaphragm.
Instead of a beautiful long E at the end of the word “Meeeeeeeeee” as I soared through the air, the jarring jolt produced more of an “Oooooooo! ” that, paired with the jerk of the belt, created a sound more like a cow would make than the triumphant declaration of the show’s verdant heroine. The image of me dangling in the air mooing at a panel of Broadway’s elite still haunts me to this day, the expression of horror and embarrassment on the musical director’s face like a GIF that plays on a loop in my brain.
After that, like the Wicked Witch of the West, I pretty much melted down, never quite recovering—in （or from） that audition or how much it damaged my confidence.
As soon as I took my final bow and offered a quick “thanks” to the panel, I raced backstage eager to get out of that room, out of that theater, and as far away from my epic failure as I could. Tears of frustration streamed down my face as I tightened my grip on my small duffel and maneuvered through Times Square toward the subway and back home. I tried to call Gabe, in need of a supportive voice or word of comfort, but instead, it just continued to click over to voice mail, indicative of him silencing my call. Seriously? He knows how important today is. Is he really too busy to even pick up and see how it went?
Jamming my phone back into my pocket, I slipped in my AirPods, hoping to drown out the world, and the noise, and all of New York for just a minute. How could I have blown it so damn bad?! The echo of my lowing “moo” reverberated in my mind, causing me to physically shudder in spite of the warm summer air. My senior showcase. Every single audition since. Was it self-sabotage?! Didn’t I always know that auditioning is a key part of life as an actress?! In spite of the number of hours I spent preparing, the number of times I’d put myself out there, it wasn’t getting any easier, and I didn’t seem to be getting any better.
This was supposed to be it. My big break, my one chance! And after my parents scraped by to help me pay for NYU, and all the years I’d dedicated to honing my craft, maybe I just didn’t have what it takes. Maybe I just wasn’t cut out for it? I was really something in No-Name, Connecticut, but as for the Big Apple, I wasn’t hacking it. There was a reason people believed if you could make it there you could make it anywhere, right? Sinatra never bothered to sing about what happened if you couldn’t. The song was called “New York, New York” after all, not “New York or Bust.”
The entire way home, rocking side to side on the air-conditioned subway, I vacillated between giving myself a mental pep talk to carry on acting come hell or high water and giving myself permission to abandon it entirely, without guilt. But by the time I’d finally made it back to Gabe’s apartment, nothing had been settled, and all I wanted was a hot shower and a warm, supportive hug.
I let myself in, allowing my coat and bag to slide off my shoulder to the floor, before crumbling to the ground right along with them.
Gabe, startled, covered the receiver with his hand, and looked up from his laptop. “Hey, Ave,” he whispered. “You okay?” Gabe’s face twisted in confusion. I could see he was still trying to pay attention to the voice on the other end of his call, while also trying to discern why I was lying in a heap on the ground. As if I wasn’t fetal, he continued, “You’ll never believe it, the Clintons are going to be able to make it to the fundraiser after all. I’ve been on the phone with their secret service and the venue organizing details for their security protocols all morning.”
My body remained still but my eyes shifted to him, expressionless and flat. I waited another moment for a response, a question of concern, for him to check my pulse, anything, but instead, he swung his chair back around and spoke again into the phone’s receiver as he hunched over the desk to scribble a note. In a daze and at the speed of a roving sloth, I picked my bag and coat up off the ground, hung them both up on a hook by the door, and slumped down in the seat beside him. Without so much as a glance in my direction, he pressed on, “Yes, Susan. Sounds great. Don’t worry, we’ll get it all sorted when I arrive. No, it’s okay, I’ll come over sooner so that I can take care of it, and I’ll just change there . . . yup, sounds good. See you in twenty.”
He closed his laptop and finally turned to face me. “Okay, I’m all yours. For the next two minutes anyway, and then I need to get over to the event space. What’s going on? How was your audition?”
I expelled a sigh, hoping it would say all the things I couldn’t. “I don’t know where to even begin. Actually, I do. I’ll begin at the part where I mooed at the entire casting team.”
“What does that even mean? You mooed?”
“It means I bombed. It means I won’t get this part or any other part—not today, not tomorrow, maybe not ever.”
He picked up his phone and scrolled through a few emails, finally landing on the one he was looking for. “C’mon, I’m sure it wasn’t as bad as all that,” he said without looking up.
“No, you’re right, it was worse.”
He peeked up from the phone. “Exactly! It could have been worse.”
“Gabe, that’s not what I said.”
“Sorry, I am trying to listen to you, I’m just . . .”
“Distracted. I know.” I stared at him blankly, unable to even conceive the idea that he was so completely oblivious to what a huge deal this was to me. My voice constricted as my frustration mounted, and I did my very best to fight back the tears gathering behind my eyes. “Hey, didn’t you tell Susan you’d be there in twenty? You’re going to be late.”