July 3, 10:37 a.m.: I am sitting at my summer job when I have the epiphany: I am not meant to be a plebe among the masses (read: an intern). A funky diva like me cannot survive the boredom of corporate life.
Suddenly, as I surf the Web, the answer becomes clear: I find out that there's an open casting call for the Broadway musical Rent. So what if I never got callbacks for my fourth grade play? Or any play for that matter. As God as my witness, no one, no, no one is going to stop me.
10:43 a.m.: I tell my supervisor that I need to take July 9 off in order to get a typhoid shot for my upcoming family vacation to Cambodia and Vietnam. My lie somehow seems more plausible than the fact that I'm going to go to Rent's open audition call in New York City.
Mental note: feign arm pain on July 10. Broadway, here I come.
July 9, 6:05 a.m.: My alarm goes off and I spring out of bed and don my un-Ariel bohemian disguise: dirty green cargo pants, a white tank top, slide shoes and a bandanna. I look at my watch-- nope, no time to get my eyebrow pierced.
6:45 a.m.: Rent's Web site said the line would start at 8 a.m. I am already the 110th person outside the Knitting Factory. Twenty-somethings dressed in short glittery skirts, combat boots and tight shirts emblazoned with words like "sassy" and "cowgirl" line the street, showing one another their professional head shots.
I look down at my own outfit: pathetic. My attempt at urban chic looks like Banana Republic circa 1987. Actually, I think it is Banana Republic circa 1987. It's second grade all over again: I am tragically unhip.
8 a.m.: The line for auditions wraps around blocks: 700 people looking like a United Colors of Benetton commercial. One woman going to work shouts out to us, "What are you protesting?" Spike-haired line-mate Colin and I compare resumes. His lists over 30 shows he's been in. Mine notes my proficiency in French. Have I mentioned that my "head shot" is a picture from my sister's wedding?
Mazel tov.
10:36 a.m.: The line inches forward and I subtly peek into some girl's audition. As she rocks out on the song "Heartbreaker," she touches her breasts and dramatically falls to her knees as she sings, throwing her head back and forth as she gyrates like a hooker in heat. My jaw drops at the very same moment that my heart sinks. I suddenly realize why I didn't make the fourth grade play.
11:45 a.m.: I'm outside the audition room. I tell Colin, "I'm nervous." A random girl on line smacks my shoulder and says, "Girl! You shut up! Shut up! You got to believe in yo'self! Remember this moment here, now. Believe, girl!" Whoa.
11:47 a.m.: Colin doesn't make the cut. He dramatically flounces out of my life.
11:48 a.m.: I walk into the audition room, face-to-face with Bald Man in Charge. I belt out Sheryl Crow's version of "Sweet Child O' Mine" for 35 seconds. "Large and In Charge" says, "Congratulations -- you've made the second round."
Well, toss my Penn sweatshirt in the garbage and refund my tuition! This diva needs her stage!
12:01 p.m.: I finally go into the second calls room and sing.
Preposterously enough, I get callbacks for the lead role of Maureen. They hand me music and lines to learn by tomorrow. Dear God! I calculate that I only need three more classes to graduate. This could actually happen. I could move to New York, be Maureen for a year. I call my father and tell him the great news:
Father (calculating all of his tuition money wasted): "Oh, shit."
July 10, 12:45 p.m.: I take a freight elevator upstairs where I enter a room filled with Broadway-hopefuls warming up their vocals. A casting director, probably only 23 years old, calls me. I sing the song assigned to me with as much gusto as I can muster. My monologue requires that I act and speak like a cow. I silently curse Penn for not offering a "Introduction to Cow" course.
12:54 p.m.: Casting Director: "We'll call you."
Me: "When? If?"
Casting Director: "Next week, month, or year. Just wait."
The rest of my life:
Still waiting.
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