celebrate. Where is it?”
“Playwrights Horizons.”
Playwrights Horizons was an impressive venue for a callback. It was an Equity house, they did new edgy plays, the directors were generally up and coming, and they got reviews. But, I reminded myself, a callback wasn’t a part. “That’s great,” I said. “Good luck.”
“I think I’ve got the job,” he said. “The director really liked me.”
This was an incredibly foolhardy and naïve thing for an actor to say, a certain jinx on his chances, and I marveled that he didn’t seem to know it. But I wasn’t going to set him straight. “That’s great,” I said again. He was looking around, ready to change the subject. “This is a nice place,” he said.
“It is. I come here a lot.”
He studied the brick wall behind the bar. “Do you have the money?” he asked.
I dug the carefully folded bills from my back pocket.“Sure,” I said, handing them over. He took the money, counted the bills, and stuffed them into his jeans pocket. “This is an actors’ hangout,” he observed.
No word of thanks, no acknowledgment of any kind, surely the proper reception of repayment by the debtor. Why would you thank someone for that which is owed? It wouldn’t make sense. Do bankers thank you when you pay exorbitant interest on a loan? Does city hall send a thank-you note when you pay a parking fine? “Where do you live, Guy?” I said, hunkering down over my beer.
“Chelsea,” he said. “Great, Madeleine and Mindy are here.” I looked up and there they were, moving through the tables to the bar.
“What a surprise,” I said.
“Hey, Guy,” Madeleine said as she sidled between us. “I’ve never seen you here before.”
“That’s because I didn’t know you came here,” he said.
Not bad. Not exactly wit, but quick. Madeleine’s eyes softened as they do when she receives compliments. It’s hard to tell if she’s taken in or just letting the moment pass. “Have a drink with us,” I said. Guy was already pulling up a stray barstool and in a moment the girls were perched between us. Madeleine chose the seat next to Guy, which I took to be bad news. The bartender plunked down the glasses of red wine they requested. Guy announced that he had a callback, which focused the attention of the women nicely. They wanted to know all about it. This time, playing to his audience, he was self-deprecating—it was a small part, he probably wouldn’t get it. The women affirmed that auditions were hell, rejection was more likely thannot, and a callback meant you were doing something right. Mindy had heard of the playwright, an Italian from Brooklyn, he’d had a play at Yale Rep a year ago that did pretty well; she couldn’t remember the title. The talk turned to other plays; who was casting what and where. We were all non-Equity at that point, so we had the option to work for little or no money. If Guy got this job he would be able to join the union and be guaranteed a minimum wage. The old chestnut “Get your Equity card and never work again” was passed around, though we all knew it was just a variety of sour grapes. Madeleine had already applied for the group auditions in April, a cattle call for summer stock companies. It was a good way to get into the union as well as spend the hot months out of town. Guy hadn’t heard of this and vowed to do the same. I had a vision of Guy and Madeleine sporting on a green lawn in Vermont or the Berkshires next summer, which sickened me. “You’re quiet, Ed,” Madeleine said. “Are you OK?”
“I’m depressed,” I said. “I’m working double shifts three days this week.” This was true. I’d agreed to work overtime because I needed money to pay Guy and my rent. The worst part was, by Friday I would be exhausted and broke, so I couldn’t invite Madeleine to dinner or a movie. Guy shot me a chilly look and said something to her I couldn’t hear. She turned away to answer him, effectively closing me out. Mindy
“Playwrights Horizons.”
Playwrights Horizons was an impressive venue for a callback. It was an Equity house, they did new edgy plays, the directors were generally up and coming, and they got reviews. But, I reminded myself, a callback wasn’t a part. “That’s great,” I said. “Good luck.”
“I think I’ve got the job,” he said. “The director really liked me.”
This was an incredibly foolhardy and naïve thing for an actor to say, a certain jinx on his chances, and I marveled that he didn’t seem to know it. But I wasn’t going to set him straight. “That’s great,” I said again. He was looking around, ready to change the subject. “This is a nice place,” he said.
“It is. I come here a lot.”
He studied the brick wall behind the bar. “Do you have the money?” he asked.
I dug the carefully folded bills from my back pocket.“Sure,” I said, handing them over. He took the money, counted the bills, and stuffed them into his jeans pocket. “This is an actors’ hangout,” he observed.
No word of thanks, no acknowledgment of any kind, surely the proper reception of repayment by the debtor. Why would you thank someone for that which is owed? It wouldn’t make sense. Do bankers thank you when you pay exorbitant interest on a loan? Does city hall send a thank-you note when you pay a parking fine? “Where do you live, Guy?” I said, hunkering down over my beer.
“Chelsea,” he said. “Great, Madeleine and Mindy are here.” I looked up and there they were, moving through the tables to the bar.
“What a surprise,” I said.
“Hey, Guy,” Madeleine said as she sidled between us. “I’ve never seen you here before.”
“That’s because I didn’t know you came here,” he said.
Not bad. Not exactly wit, but quick. Madeleine’s eyes softened as they do when she receives compliments. It’s hard to tell if she’s taken in or just letting the moment pass. “Have a drink with us,” I said. Guy was already pulling up a stray barstool and in a moment the girls were perched between us. Madeleine chose the seat next to Guy, which I took to be bad news. The bartender plunked down the glasses of red wine they requested. Guy announced that he had a callback, which focused the attention of the women nicely. They wanted to know all about it. This time, playing to his audience, he was self-deprecating—it was a small part, he probably wouldn’t get it. The women affirmed that auditions were hell, rejection was more likely thannot, and a callback meant you were doing something right. Mindy had heard of the playwright, an Italian from Brooklyn, he’d had a play at Yale Rep a year ago that did pretty well; she couldn’t remember the title. The talk turned to other plays; who was casting what and where. We were all non-Equity at that point, so we had the option to work for little or no money. If Guy got this job he would be able to join the union and be guaranteed a minimum wage. The old chestnut “Get your Equity card and never work again” was passed around, though we all knew it was just a variety of sour grapes. Madeleine had already applied for the group auditions in April, a cattle call for summer stock companies. It was a good way to get into the union as well as spend the hot months out of town. Guy hadn’t heard of this and vowed to do the same. I had a vision of Guy and Madeleine sporting on a green lawn in Vermont or the Berkshires next summer, which sickened me. “You’re quiet, Ed,” Madeleine said. “Are you OK?”
“I’m depressed,” I said. “I’m working double shifts three days this week.” This was true. I’d agreed to work overtime because I needed money to pay Guy and my rent. The worst part was, by Friday I would be exhausted and broke, so I couldn’t invite Madeleine to dinner or a movie. Guy shot me a chilly look and said something to her I couldn’t hear. She turned away to answer him, effectively closing me out. Mindy
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