Run Catch Kiss Page 2

  On my lunch break I took the bus to the casting office and picked up the sides. They were in a folder titled “Fat Cashier” and they weren’t too inspiring. The suspected murderess had ordered produce from my grocery store and I had to explain to the cops what she looked like. I tried to rehearse the scene on the ride back to work, but it wasn’t too easy to find deep motivation for lines like “All’s I know is he bought radicchio.”

  I practiced the scene three times that night with Zach, until I felt confident about my read, and the next day after work I went into the ladies’ room, changed into baggy pants and a sweatshirt, and took the bus to the audition. The waiting area was teeming with gorgeous slender girls, so I knew right away they were auditioning for the conniving murderess part. Maybe there was an advantage to going up for fat roles: the competition wasn’t as stiff.

  After twenty minutes the casting director finally called me into her office. There were two chairs opposite her desk—a cushy one in the center of the room and a hard-backed metal one in the corner. “Sit wherever you want,” she said. I felt like Goldilocks. Would my chair choice affect my chances? Was this a secret psychology trick to see what personality type I was? I weighed my options: I knew if I chose the comfy one I’d sink down into it and give a low-energy reading, but if I sat in the metal one I’d be too far away from the casting director to connect. So I picked up the cushy one, heaved it to the corner, and moved the metal one over in its place.

  “Interesting choice,” she said.

  “Thanks.”

  We ran through the scene together and when we finished she said, “You’re clearly talented, and I know you could do it. Whether we cast you is simply going to depend on what the producers want. If they decide to go overweight, we’ll have to go with someone else.”

  “Excuse me?” I said.

  “If the producers want us to cast someone heavy, we’re not going to go with you. You’re not heavy at all.” I grinned triumphantly and walked out.

  The next day Faye left me a message saying I had a callback on Monday at one-fifteen at the production office in Chelsea, with the producers and director. As soon as she said the word “callback,” I let out a yelp of glee. Then I hung up and rang the Corposhit on the intercom.

  “Yes?” she huffed.

  “I need to talk to you about something. Can I come in?”

  “All right.” I walked into her office. “I’m wondering if I can take a long lunch tomorrow.”

  “Why?”

  “I’m actually an actress, and I have a callback.” I couldn’t resist a little self-satisfied smile.

  “What’s it for?”

  “Book ’Em.”

  Her eyes bugged out. “I watch that show every week! Would you get to meet Barry Rinaldi if you got the part?”

  “Yes,” I said proudly. “In fact, my scene is with him. So, is that OK?”

  “Sure,” she said, still looking slightly incredulous. Then she suddenly seemed to realize she was being nice to her underling, reassumed her permagrimace, and said, “Close the door behind you.”

  •

  The afternoon of the audition, I changed into the same clothes I’d worn to the first audition (they say you always should) and took the train to Chelsea. Some of the same model-type girls from the first audition were in the waiting room, stretching their legs and mouthing their lines. I sat down between two of them, trying not to be distracted by their burgeoning breasts, and read my scene over to myself. Then the casting director called me in.

  Behind a long table in a huge, airy studio were four middle-aged men. I didn’t let them intimidate me, though. I read the scene with even more hostile, jaded-cashier energy than I’d been able to summon the first time. At the end they smiled, impressed. That had to be good, because when they don’t like you, they don’t fake it.

  When I got out on the street, I called Faye. “It went really well,” I said. “I think I have a good chance, but the casting director said they won’t cast me if they decide to go with someone heavy. She said I’m not heavy at all.”

  “Face it, Ariel,” said Faye. “I sent you on an audition for a fat part, and you got called back.”

  •

  I didn’t wind up booking it, but I wasn’t discouraged. I would spend the next few months losing weight and doing the obese girl circuit, and then Faye would start sending me out on ingenue parts, and I’d take the world by storm.

  But over the next month, as I stuck to my coffee, yogurt, and skinless chicken diet and narrowed to 137 pounds, Faye didn’t get me one more audition. Whenever I called to check in with her, she said, “There just aren’t that many character roles for young women. I’ll send you out on anything you’re right for. You have to just be patient and trust me.”

  I have never been good at being patient. Every single thing I’ve achieved in life has come to me because I am not a patient person. I ran for the morning-announcements position in high school with no school government experience and won because I wrote a funny campaign speech. I was always a straight-A student because I worked my ass off. My father told me when I was young that “talent is ninety-nine percent perspiration and one percent inspiration,” and I took it to heart, even though he was plagiarizing Edison. So it wasn’t easy to be told I had to sit tight.

  Whenever I got frustrated with my acting career during high school, I would switch my focus to the only other thing I was passionate about: boys. If I didn’t get called back for a play, I’d call up a cute guy in my class and flirt, and the rejection wouldn’t sting so hard. I wanted to be able to utilize that technique again, but if you want to meet guys, you have to have a frame, a context, and I didn’t have one. College is a frame. My boyfriend at Brown, Will, and I made eyes in Moral Problems class the first week of freshman year and went out for the next year and a half. It doesn’t work like that in the city, though. If you make eyes at a hot guy on the street, he might follow you home, rape you, hack you to a million pieces, and leave you for the maggots.

  So instead of trying to meet new guys, I decided to try blue-binning—recycling old ones. Whenever I had downtime at work (which was eighty percent of the time), I went through my address book and dialed my exes. I called every cock I’d caressed in summer camp, Reform Jewish youth group, and high school, but all I got were return messages from their moms, saying, “Sam’s moved to Austin,” or “You can reach David at his new number in Hell’s Kitchen, where he’s living with his girlfriend.”

  My temp job didn’t open many romantic doors either. When you’re a temp, nobody talks to you like you’re a permanent resident of the planet. Besides, all the men at McGinley Ladd were rich workaholics, and I knew I couldn’t have anything real with a guy who could hack the nine-to-five. I kept hoping someone from Brown would invite me to a party, but I didn’t make too many friends there because I was so tied up in my relationship, so no one was calling.

  Because I couldn’t vent my career frustration through real-life nookie, I turned my energies to fantasizing. I stared like a hungry puppy at every male yupster who dropped a paper in the Corposhit’s in box, trying to imagine how big their dicks were, what kind of noises they made when they came, and whether they were tit men, ass men, or pussy men. I concocted elaborate scenarios involving them sitting at important business meetings and me sucking them off under their conference tables while they tried to act normal.

  At night, after dinner with my family, I would go into my room, get under the covers, and diddle the dai dai. If I couldn’t sleep, I’d wank. If I was bored, I’d wank. (Once, Zach came in the room and I had to stop abruptly, but the great thing about being a chick is that no one can see your woody through the sheets.) My orgasms were pleasant enough, but my hand was a poor substitute for a bona fide bone. It was pathetic. I was making my living as a receptionist, the oldest pornographic stereotype in the book, and I didn’t have anyone to role-play with. After a month in the most seminal city in the world, I was an overweight actress, an overqualified temp, and
an oversexed celibate.

  One muggy morning in July while I was waiting for the train at Borough Hall, I figured out a way to improve at least one aspect of my sorry life. I was leafing through magazines at the newsstand when I spotted a copy of Backstage. I picked it up and flipped to the Casting section. An ad caught my eye immediately: “Lolita: Rock On. A rock musical version of the Nabokov classic, to perform at 24th St. Stage. Seeking: Lolita, 15–25, pure but tainted, pristine but vulgar. Some singing required, but soul more important than technique.” I hoped they meant it, because although I can do many things, singing is not one of them.

  As soon as I got to work, I called the number in the ad. A middle-aged man answered. He had a sleazy, soft-sell voice, the kind you hear on luxury car commercials.

  “I’m calling about the audition,” I said. “My name’s Ariel Steiner.”

  “I’m Gordon Gray, the director. Prepare a rock or jazz song and come in Saturday at four.”

  That night at dinner I told my family about the audition. My dad raised his eyebrows a little when I mentioned the word Lolita, then forced a smile and said, “Knock ’em dead.” After dinner I locked myself in the bathroom, ran the tap water, and practiced Gershwin’s “I’ve Got a Crush on You” into the mirror until I had more soul than JB. When I was done, I went into my room, opened the closet, and looked for an audition outfit. I picked out a polka-dot midriff for authenticity, because that’s what Lolita is wearing when Humbert first catches sight of her. Then I caught a glimpse of my gut and decided against it.

  •

  I had to go down four flights of stairs to get to the theater. It was next to a karate center, on the bottom floor of an old church. The waiting room was dark and smelled of cigarettes. Battered copies of Backstage were spread out on the floor, and a decrepit black curtain led to the theater. A blond twelve-year-old and her mother were sitting on one side of the room and a brunette in her thirties was on the other. The girl was very cute, but I could see immediately that she was no nymphet. I didn’t know what to make of the brunette. I figured she was either auditioning for the role of Mrs. Haze or seriously deluded about her age range.

  After a few minutes the curtain opened and a short, squat man with a white beard came out. I could tell by his voice that it was Gordon. He smiled at the girl and said, “Betsy?” The mom gave her an eager smile, Betsy went into the theater, and the curtain closed behind her. I heard her say something about “hoping to get involved in off-Broadway theater.” How clueless can she be? I thought. This show was about as far off Broadway as you could get. You count the offs by the number of stairs you have to go down to get to the theater.

  It was quiet for a second, and then Betsy broke into this loud, throaty version of “Hand in My Pocket” by Alanis Morissette. I looked over at Betsy’s mom. She was beaming with pride. I pitied that mom. Didn’t she know her kid was never going to get cast with the most brain-numbing anthem in the history of pop as her audition song?

  After about fifteen seconds I heard Gordon say, “Thanks so much, Betsy. That’s all we need for today.” Betsy came out of the room looking vacant and dazed, and she and her mom walked out.

  The brunette got called in next. She sang “On My Own” from Les Misérables in a shaky falsetto and she got stopped after ten seconds. The curtain opened, she left in a huff, and Gordon came out.

  “You must be Ariel,” he said. “I’m Gordon Gray.” He extended his hand. “Nice grip.”

  “Thanks,” I said. I never underestimate the importance of the handshake.

  The theater was tiny and dark and it took a second for my eyes to adjust to the light. It looked more like a bomb shelter than a theater. There were audience seats on three sides and the stage was just an empty square area of paint-chipped concrete floor.

  A wiry, fiftyish man in a beard and glasses was sitting in front row center. “This is Gene,” said Gordon. “He’ll be playing Humbert and helping me with the casting. Did you bring a headshot?”

  I handed it to him and he sat down next to Gene. They flipped over to the résumé side and glanced at it for a second, nodding like my credits were decent, and then Gordon looked up and said, “Whenever you’re ready.”

  I took a spot downstage center and breathed in. I tried not to think about Faye or weight or my total lack of vocal training. I was young, I was nubile, and I was gonna blow these fuckers away. I started to sing: “How glad the many millions of Toms and Dicks and Williams would be to capture me! But you had such persistence, you wore down my resistance; I fell and it was swell . . .”

  They were smiling, clearly enjoying it, but I knew I had to do something bigger. On the next line I walked over to Gordon, sat on his lap, wrapped my arms around his neck, and nibbled his ear. He turned bright red and squirmed under me. That squirming was a very good sign. It meant I was affecting him, and if you want to get cast you have to make a bold impression. I would show him I could do this part if it took a lap dance. At the final line I strutted back to the stage, did a few curtsies and twirls, and finished on my knees, with my thumb in my mouth.

  Gordon whispered to Gene in such an excited way that I was sure I stood a serious chance. Then they looked down at my résumé and Gordon said, “Would you mind doing an improv?” I certainly did not mind. Improv has always been one of my strongest skills. Gordon set up two chairs onstage and said, “Here’s the scenario: you’ve just finished baby-sitting for Gene’s kids, and now he’s driving you home.”

  “I don’t remember that scene from the book,” I said.

  “Oh, that’s not in the book,” Gordon said. “The show is going to be very free-form. We’re envisioning it more as a riff on pedophilia than a literal interpretation of Nabokov.”

  That was cool. I could riff. Gene and I took our seats. He mimed a steering wheel and said, “So, were my kids good tonight?”

  “Oh yes, Mr. Jones,” I answered. “Very good. But I’m afraid I’m not such a good girl at all.” I scooted my chair closer to him and put my hand on his thigh.

  Before long I was telling him how much I hated blowing guys my own age and how frustrating it was that none of them knew how to make me come. The raunchier I got, the more flustered I made Gene. I couldn’t tell how much was real and how much was pretend. Finally I said, “Well, here’s my house, Mr. Jones,” leaned over, and kissed him on the lips good-bye. His breath stank and there was some crust caked on his mouth corners, but I pretended to be into it. Then I pulled away, stood up, mimed slamming the car door shut, turned to Gordon, and smiled triumphantly.

  “I’d like to cast you,” he said.

  I felt like I’d just won the Olympic gold. I couldn’t even sing and I’d gotten booked as the lead in a rock musical. Clearly my charisma had paid off. But then I remembered how scant my competition had been, and my gold morphed into a bronze.

  “This is going to be a very special rehearsal process,” said Gordon. “Each of the performers will be given a chance to contribute material which relates to the theme of Lolita. It can take any form—song, story, sketch, whatever interests you. We want to examine pedophilia in our culture from all perspectives, and Lolita’s is one of the most important. I’m particularly interested in having the performers use personal, autobiographical experiences in the project. So if you have anything you want to contribute, bring it to rehearsal on Monday.”

  When I got home from the audition the apartment was empty. My parents were at their country house in the Berkshires, and Zach was out with his friends. I went into my room, sat down in front of the computer, and tried to think of incidents from my adolescence that related to the theme of Lolita. Before I knew it my fingers were flying.

  •

  “Let’s start with you, Ariel,” Gordon said. It was the first rehearsal of the show, and the cast was assembled in a circle onstage: Gene; Gordon; Ted, the guy playing Quilty; Fran, the woman playing Mrs. Haze; the Push-Ups, the show’s all-girl band; and me. James, the assistant director, was running late, Gordon said.


  I was sweating profusely, but I tried to bite the bullet. “Um, I have two stories,” I said. “The first is called ‘Vanya in My Vulva.’ It’s about this forty-one-year-old playwright who fingered me last year at the movie Vanya on 42nd Street. The second is called ‘Shooting Wad and Movies.’ That’s about this thirty-six-year-old married actor I hooked up with when I was sixteen, on the set of an NYU film. Which should I start with?”

  Nobody said anything. The guys just stared at me with half-open mouths and the Push-Ups rolled their eyes. Finally Gordon cleared his throat and said, “How ’bout ‘Vanya in My Vulva’?”

  I took out the story.

  “Roberto Pozzi and I met when I was fifteen and he was thirty-five. We were in a theater group together, and at each weekly meeting he would stare at my chest and tell me I was becoming a woman before his very eyes. One night he called me up and said he’d just written a play about a man who sodomizes and murders a crippled retarded girl he meets in Central Park. He said he wrote the little girl part with me in mind and wanted to know if I would come over to his apartment and read it with him. I said I wasn’t sure, hung up, went into the living room, and asked my parents what sodomizing was. They wouldn’t tell me.

  “I never did the reading anyway, because Roberto booked a TV show in L.A. and had to move, and we didn’t speak for the next four years. But junior year of college, he called me in my dorm room. He’d gotten my number from my parents. He started out asking me innocuous questions like how I liked school, but pretty soon he was asking how big my nipples were, whether my butt shook when I walked, how thick my pubic hair was, and what size bra I wore, cup and number.”

  Gene coughed. Gordon shifted in his seat.

  “I loved these questions. Roberto was a freak, but he was a million times more exciting than all the idiot college boys I was dating. He said he’d be in New York for a few weeks around Christmas, visiting friends, and we arranged to meet at a café on MacDougal Street. I was pleased to find that his looks had only improved with age. His hair wasn’t receding, he was tan and buff, he wore a long, gray wool coat and dark, clean jeans, and he kissed me on the mouth hello. We sat in the café reminiscing and then he suggested we see Vanya on 42nd Street.