The Story I Never Told

I often have this reoccurring nightmare where I am desperately trying to catch some form of transportation. The method changes; sometimes I am running through the airport, a heavy backpack bouncing up and down on my shoulders, other times it is the train doors sliding shut right before my foot hits the platform. I am sure a psychologist would nod knowingly, say something about never quite feeling good enough, or about the fear of falling behind. I mean, missing a train is a fairly obvious metaphor isn’t it?

I actually went to a therapist once, when I was in college. I was drinking too much, even by sorority girl standards, and floating from class to class like a balloon on a string. I told the nice lady at the campus clinic how I felt like I had no direction, like I wasn’t even quite sure what I was doing in college anymore. I don’t know exactly what I expected, perhaps a hug and a prescription for some Prozac, but when she started asking me about my parents I immediately ran out the door and never went back. 

If I wanted to talk about my childhood I would have written a memoir like everyone else.

Its funny, I also sometimes dream that I never actually finished college, that it turns out that there is a class I never took, a credit missing. That my fancy, expensive degree is invalid and I have to go back and do it all over again. 

I am not exactly sure what that dream means. 

I am going to tell you a secret about me, something you have never read on any of the celebrity websites, or heard on any talk show I’ve ever been on. Its about the job interview that I almost missed, because for some reason on that particular morning many years ago I slept straight through my alarm. 

I am usually one of those people who would rather give up a few extra minutes of sleep in order to not have to feel rushed later. I would rather spend that time lingering in the shower a bit longer, or enjoying my last sip of coffee. When you wake up late you are forced to make choices. Do I skip washing my hair? Do I put my coffee in a travel mug, or maybe even hit the local Starbucks, rather than sit on my couch, a steaming mug alongside me? Do I opt for a quick lipgloss and mascara combo instead of a full face of makeup?

Waking up late on that day was a special kind of disaster, however, because I had an interview that required I look put together and wide awake. 

My main problem wasn’t the time. If I was being perfectly honest, my main problem was that I had a 9am interview for a job that I did not want. That same psychologist would probably say that my subconscious made me sleep through my alarm, something that I never, ever do, so I would completely miss my appointment. 

The thing was, I really needed a job, at least while I was waiting for my big break. I wasn’t naive; I knew that of course I wouldn’t get every part I auditioned for. Even though I could dance circles around all of those girls, sometimes they wanted a different body type or a different hair color or whatever. So yeah, I needed to make some money. 

When I discussed all of this with my roommate she had laughed and said, “Why don’t you just waitress like everyone else?” 

But I wasn’t like everyone else.

When I had first told my friends back home that I was moving to New York City to become a star they had laughed their heads off. 

“Like Rachel Berry?” Hallie asked. “ Like on Glee?” 

Maegan had frowned at this. “Not like her please. She completely tanked her career when she took that TV show job.”

Lara had simply shook her head. “No one actually does that in real life,” she said. “They move to New York, sure. But they end up working at Starbucks while going from audition to audition telling the same creepy dude that no, I will not sleep with you to get this job, thanks.” She paused, and then raised her eyebrows. “Unless you are willing to strip. Or do porn. You aren’t willing to strip or do porn, are you Lauren?”

I had responded with a glare and and eye roll; of course I wasn’t willing to do those things. I wouldn’t have to. I was the best dancer in all of Cedar Grove, the best dancer in the entire state of New Jersey probably. 

Hallie had snapped her fingers then. “No, not Rachel Berry! That chick from Coyote Ugly. The hot one who moves to the city from New Jersey to become a songwriter and ends up shaking her ass on a bar with Tyra Banks.”

I didn’t really have anything to say about that either because the truth was I guess I was a bit like that girl. Only I didn’t write my own music. And had no plans to dance on a bar.

That conversation was two months prior. On this day I was frantically digging though my closet trying to find the ruffled blue dress that made my eyes pop. I decided to save time and grab coffee and a muffin from the deli on the corner, which was cheaper than Starbucks and not nearly as good. I also decided to pull my hair back into a low ponytail (more professional looking) and to opt for minimal makeup. After all, it was an actual job interview, not an audition. I didn’t need to look like a performer.

Or at least I didn’t think I did. The truth was the posting on Craigs List had been kind of vague. It sounded like an receptionist job. Or a modeling gig. Or maybe a receptionist job at a modeling agency. 

So long as it wasn’t for porn.

My friend Lara hadn’t been entirely wrong. Some of my auditions had gone ok, I had even gotten a few callbacks. But there had been plenty of flat out rejections. And at least two casting directors who had dropped some not so subtle hints. And the one who put his hand on my ass. And the one that had tried to put his hand somewhere else. 

The truth was I was starting to feel a bit discouraged.

Before running out the door I double checked my purse to make sure I had all the essentials: phone, wallet, keys, lip gloss, mints (nothing killed a first impression faster than bad breath!). Confident that I had everything, I slammed the apartment door shut and hustled down the street towards the subway.

The other reason to allow extra time in the morning was you could let the first train, the one that was packed full with so many bodies they were practically falling out the windows, go by. Since I was in a hurry, however, I did not have that luxury. Instead I squeezed my body in like I was packing myself into a suitcase, and hoped my dress wouldn’t get too wrinkled. 

Moments like these are why AirPods were invented.

I exited the subway in Midtown Manhattan, directly into a forest of tall, rectangular office buildings. People filed by in lines like ants at a picnic, briefcases and cups of coffee in their hands, as if everyone was an extra on a TV show. I imagined the stage directions: walk fast, look like you have somewhere important to be, but also vacant, like you couldn’t care less if you got there or not.

I entered one of the cookie cutter skyscrapers, conversed with a security guard who printed out a visitor badge for me, and rode an elevator up to the 11th floor. There I was greeted by a tall blond receptionist (she also looked like a bot) who frowned before picking up the phone on her desk.

“Hi. There’s another one here. She’s late.” At that last comment, the woman looked over at me, her eyes narrowed slightly. “Yeah of course she is. They all are.” She paused, listening. “Fine.”

The receptionist hung up the phone and pointed at a glass door on the left.

“Go through there,” she said. “Its the last conference room on the right. You missed the video but I guess one of the other girls can fill you in.” 

I smiled brightly and moved to thank her but the woman just waved her hand impatiently.

“Hurry up, you’re late. Not that that matters of course. Once you’re in, you’re in. ” She rolled her eyes. “But you know, for appearances sake.”

I blinked, confused, but she had already returned her gaze to her laptop.

There were 8 other woman in the conference room, all young, very pretty and dressed in similar attire to me. They were staring at the woman in the front of the room who was clearly the interviewer, but everyone looked up when I entered. 

“Lauren right?”

I nodded, slightly out of breath. 

“Yes! So sorry I’m late. The subway…”

I trailed off, feeling stupid. Everyone knew that subway delays were a lame excuse. The lady in charge didn’t seem to care, however, she just motioned towards an empty seat.

“Of course, its the worst,” she replied with a smile. “Anyway you missed the video but one of the other girls can fill you in.”

My eyes briefly traveled around the room but all the other woman were staring straight ahead again. I had been in plenty of rooms like this before. It didn’t matter that we weren’t competing for a part here, these ladies weren’t going to tell me a thing.

The woman in charge of the presentation was talking about travel expenses, hotel reservations, a clothing allowance. When she got to the part about “high profile clients” and signing an NDA I raised my hand.

“I’m sorry but is this an escort job? Are we escorts?”

The other women in the room looked at me as if I had just cursed out loud in church.

“We prefer the term “travel companion,” she replied. She didn’t add the follow up “And you would know this if you had actually arrived on time” but it was clear from the expression on her face. 

“Ok but these “high profile clients”, they are men right?” I stood up and started towards the door.

The woman nodded, a small smile on her lips.

“Yes, they are men,” she answered. “But before you leave you might want to hear the salary and benefits part of my little speech.”

I was about to blurt out something indignant, self righteous, something about how I was not for sale. But it wouldn’t hurt to at least hear the rest of the presentation, right?

I stayed silent and sat back down, but kept my arms folded defiantly across my chest. I would be professional, listen until the end, then politely thank her for the opportunity and storm out.

I wonder if everyone they interview is naive enough to think like I did. I would like to think that at least some women get to the end of that lady’s speech and walk out with their heads held high. All I can tell you is that there were 9 of us there on that particular day and every single one of us signed a two year contract before we left.

Is this confession going to make you see me differently now? Will you stop buying tickets to my shows?

I bet you won’t. People like to pretend they have morals until it costs them something they really want. And you really want to see me strutting across that stage, week after week. I know who I am to you. My shows sell out in an hour.

Here is what I want you to know. Those men you see on your television, the politicians, the performers? For two years back when I was in my early twenties I, and other women like me, were paid an awful lot of money to spend the weekend with them. Not all of them, of course. But far more than you could imagine. 

Here is the other thing I want you to know. If I had the chance to do it all again, I wouldn’t change a thing.

I know what you are probably thinking about me. And at a different point in my life, I might have even cared. Not now, not anymore. 

I will tell you this, though. I am one of the most successful performers of all time. So, really, who was the one who took advantage? Who was the one who got what they needed?

I’ll see you all soon, out there in the crowd, screaming my name. If you can get a ticket that is.

I hear they are really hard to come by.