The Wake

I can’t sing, dance or act.

Scratch that. Physically, I can do all three. I sing along to the radio when I’m driving. I do a little tap dance in the kitchen when I think my roommates aren’t looking. And we’ve all pretended we’re the next Gwyneth Paltrow or Tom Cruise.

But anything beyond that and I’m out of my league.

So what possessed me to audition for the “Rocky Horror Show”? I didn’t kid myself - I knew I wouldn’t get a role. I did it out of moral support more than anything else. One of my roommates, Michaela, wanted to audition and was too nervous to go alone. After two weeks of coaxing and pleading, I reluctantly agreed to audition with her.

Then there was the matter of preparing. Michaela had been through this before, but I hadn’t. During high school, I was in a community production of “Fame” where I played Mrs. Sherman. I didn’t have to go through an audition process, though; all I had to do was pay the fee. The concept of singing and scene reading to demonstrate my range and versatility seemed very foreign.

Michaela had her material ready. She was going to sing Pat Benatar’s “Heartbreaker” and had a monologue about “The Man.” Michaela has a greater history in theater than I do, so she thought about things like intonation, delivery and physical presentation. I was just trying to remember my lines and pick a song that didn’t require any real singing. Of course, this happened the night before the audition.

Try-outs were held at night over three days. We were scheduled at 8:40 and 8:45. Naturally, they were running 15 minutes late, so instead of getting in and out as painlessly as a ripped off Band-Aid, we had to wait around in agony. Michaela revealed a cruel streak and told me I had to go first, which is when my stomach really churned. So there I sat, wringing my hands in a cold flop sweat, waiting for my death knell. I don’t know how Michaela could look so calm; I was about ready to throw up.

Finally a woman called my name and I walked in like I was remote controlled. In the distance, I heard Michaela yell, “Break a leg!” I’ve never wished for an actual broken leg so much in my life. The theater was mercifully empty except for the director, Joel Sass, the musical director, Michael Croswell, and a piano accompanist. After a couple handshakes, I stepped on stage, a place I hadn’t been in years.

I had to sing first. I warbled my way through 15 seconds of “What Do I Get?” by the Buzzcocks. I butchered it beyond anything recognizable, but that’s what I expected. Then I had to do my monologue. I was flustered, so I raced through the speech in about 30 seconds. The directors were very polite and told me I was done, but I sang the first punk rock song. I said thanks and almost ran out of the theater.

It was like escaping from a crushing, claustrophobic space. “Are you done already?” Michaela asked. I looked at my watch; my audition took one minute out of my budgeted five, but I couldn’t have been happier. Michaela’s audition took a few more minutes than mine, but she didn’t look too excited when she came out. Neither one of us received a callback that night.

It was all in vain. I didn’t expect a role in the first place and, realistically, neither had Michaela, but we both managed to feel insulted when our phones didn’t ring. But I feel a sick sort of pride, because I did something that humiliating when many people would have backed out. And now Michaela owes me a big favor.