Open Call

Standing in front of 1560 Broadway, I can feel my nonexistent breakfast churning in my stomach. Bundled up from the cold, my throat protected by a thick wool scarf I yanked on as an afterthought, I’m struck once again with the feeling that I’m not cut out for this. As the Actor’s Equity building looms before me in the dim light of a 6:00 AM call time, other young hopefuls bustle towards the doors, headshots out and ready, bundled even more thoroughly than I am with steaming travel mugs of Throat Coat clutched in their gloved hands. As they queue outside the door, I can see their mouths moving soundlessly as they rehearse their chosen audition piece for what’s likely the four hundredth time.

As I watch one girl’s frankly ridiculous facial expressions as she mouths her lyrics animatedly, watching her reflection in the glass of the Express store next door, a soft click pulls me from my reverie. I jump as I realize what I’m seeing - a boy who can only be a casting intern has unlocked the front door and my competition begins to shuffle in. With a jolt of panic, I scuttle around the corner to the end of the line, hoping I make the cutoff before they shut the doors to the unfortunate souls who reach the doors just a moment too late.

By some miracle (or curse, depending on how I’m feeling), I cross the threshold of the lobby right before the intern gives a faux-sympathetic apology and latches the door behind me. The other people working the audition are diligently splitting us into three lines, and with a longing look at the performers who are fortunate enough to already be an equity member or a member candidate, I shuffle towards the line for non-union performers. I look ahead to where we check in, and I notice that they’re taking a copy of our headshots and resumes as we sign our name on the unofficial list. That’s good, especially as I’m the literal last person in line and have next to no chance of being seen at all.

I fumble around with my tote and clumsily extract my audition binder, flipping toward the extra copies of my headshot that I have stored in the back. I pause for a moment, staring at the bright eyes and glowing smile of the person I was that day three years ago. I was just about to graduate drama school, full of excitement and potential and the intense hope that I’d get an agent right from my senior showcase and be submitted to high-profile auditions left and right, just moments away from my big break.

Hah. Yeah right.

Imagine the reality check I received when I got nothing after my showcase other than a pat on the back from my supervisor and a notice from my landlord that rent would double if I renewed my lease. It was a slap in the face, sure, but even then, I rented a cheap room from some guy on Craigslist and doubled my hours at my part-time job, making sure to leave plenty of time for classes and auditions. I could do this, it would just take a little bit more time than I had hoped.

As the line slowly inches forward, and small groups disappear into the elevator on their way to the holding room, I unclip one headshot from the binder’s rings and flip it over. My eyes trail down my meager credits. There are far too many from high school, and the rest are all from college productions, in which I was never more than a supporting role with a couple of solo lines. I barely even got featured dancer roles. I was always a fairly well-rounded performer, never amazing at one of the big three, but a fairly solid actor, singer, and dancer. But that just means directors saw me as a solid chorus member. I was rarely lead material.

Huffing out a laugh, I slap the resume side of my headshot against my binder and hold it firmly down at my side. How I ever thought I could do this is beyond me. I’m twenty-five years old, and I’m working two part-time, hourly-wage jobs, barely scraping by to pay for my roach-infested apartment and sleeping so little it’s a miracle I even have a voice for these early morning open calls. Not that it matters anyway; ninety-nine percent of the time I’m not even seen, and if I am, they cut me off after eight bars and chuck my headshot in the trash before I’ve even cleared the room.

Why am I even here?

There are only a handful of us left waiting to sign in, and as I wait, my bitter thoughts dancing in my mind, I tune into the conversation of the two candidates ahead of me.

“Mine was seeing Patti LuPone in Sweeney when I was eight. I didn’t even get how cool it was to see her in an original Broadway cast at the time. I just couldn’t get over her, you know? Her voice, and how funny yet motherly yet terrifying she was as Mrs. Lovett. She just blew my mind. I think mom had me in singing lessons at the community center the next week.”

The one who isn’t speaking nods along fervently, interjecting with a whispered yes! or an mmhmm every couple of seconds or so, before responding.

“Mine was a movie, I think? I want to say The Sound of Music. Julie Andrews is a dream, obviously, and the epitome of a woman, and I would sing “Edelweiss” on freaking repeat. I guess it’s funny that I fell in love with theatre from a movie, but I’m from middle-of-nowhere Georgia. I wasn’t making spontaneous trips to the theatre until I moved here for school.”

Quitting my eavesdropping, I think back to little seven-year-old me watching The Phantom of the Opera in my living room with my mom. She loved it, and I was very quickly mesmerized. I watched it a couple times a week for a while there. I think Raoul might’ve been my first love. Then, my parents took me to see it on Broadway for my first Broadway show. I sobbed my way through the opening (the main theme used to terrify me) but I remember how absolutely amazing it was to this day. A soft smile creeps its way onto my face at the memory.

Before I know it, I reach the young woman behind the table to sign my name on the non-union list. I smile, exchanging some small talk as I hand her my headshot and resume and print my name neatly at the very bottom of the list. She directs me to the last small group waiting to enter the elevator. As I stand, waiting for a lift that will take me to a room where I’ll probably sit for the better part of two hours before a casting assistant tells us all to go home, or will maybe get the chance to sing for fifteen seconds before they send me on my merry way, I’m content. Because even though things are tough right now, and my career hasn’t quite taken off the way I had hoped it would, I’m still chasing the thing I love the most. And even if - or when, probably - I’m rejected today, maybe I won’t be tomorrow. That’s what it means to be an actor.