Idea in Stone (14 page)

“True. Even when he was going on about his dad, I didn’t really care. But that seems kind of cruel, to make him go through that and then not hire him.”

“It’s not social work,” quipped Helen. “You don’t owe anyone a job, particularly not if they’re going to make your play boring.”

Stefan made a guilty face.

“Go get the next person,” she told him.

A minute later, Stefan walked back into the room, followed by a tall man with curly red hair. “Hello!” he said to Helen as Stefan sat back down beside her. He dug into his knapsack and handed a résumé and head-shot to both of them, then sat in front of them.

“Tell us a little about yourself,” said Stefan, feeling a bit more in control. He looked at Helen, who rolled her eyes at the stock interview question.

“Well,” said the actor, “I’m a singer, dancer, actor, model, make-up artist, clothing designer—”

Waiter
, thought Stefan.

“So what have you prepared for us?” interrupted Helen.

The actor held out a ‘one minute’ finger, and reached into his bag. He pulled out a stereo and put it on the table, then fished through his pocket for a cassette tape. He blew on it, then put it into the stereo and pressed down the Play button. He ran into the centre of the room and shook his head and his arms to loosen them. The music started, and the actor raised his hands dramatically to the ceiling. With each pounding note, the actor moved into another dramatic stance. Stefan knew this song.
What is it?
he thought.
Oh God:
”Eye of the Tiger”.

The lanky man whirled and spun, dropped to the floor, twisted there, extended legs and arms, crouched, tumbled, and jumped. He hopped around the room, and finished as the song ended, reaching with open fingers toward Helen and Stefan.

“We’re casting a
play
,” said Helen.

The tape reached its end and the Play button popped up.

“Oh.”

“Yeah.”

Stefan piped in. “But thank you for your, um. For doing that. For us. Thanks.”

The actor collected his things, including his headshots, from the table, and slinked to the door.

“Thanks,” insisted Stefan.

The actor lifted his middle finger at him and left.

“Ho-kay,” said Stefan, pausing a moment before fetching the next actor.

The next man followed Stefan into the room as if being led to the gallows. After a brief introduction, he pushed his chair backwards, and stood. “I’m going to do a piece from the play
Downstairs from Father
,” he said. He took a deep breath and looked at the chair. He shook visibly. “You!” he said to the chair, shaking. He took quick, panting breaths. Then he collapsed.

Stefan and Helen waited a moment, but this was not part of the act. The man had fainted.

“Alright then,” said Stefan. “Lunch.”

~

Stefan threw the last crust of his “Bacon Frenzy” pizza into the box. Helen’s much smaller, unfinished “Garden Grazer” pizza and its box fit easily inside. He did his best to fold and stuff them into the garbage can as the next scheduled actor walked into the rehearsal hall.

“Hello,” said Stefan, his mouth half full. He took his seat beside Helen. The actor looked at her, as if she were a special effect. “Hello?” repeated Stefan.

“Sorry,” said the young man. “I, I’m here for my audition at 1:15.”

“Right on time, then,” said Helen. The actor jolted in his chair, not expecting her to speak. He recovered, muttering details about the school he’d just graduated from, where he read about the audition, and how interested he was in the show (though the casting call listed only the roles and the play’s title).

“So what have you prepared for us?” asked Stefan, getting into the swing of it.

“Um, it’s from a play.” He laughed. “I guess that’s obvious. It’s, um, it’s from a play called
Downstairs from Father
.” Stefan and Helen nodded. “I’m reading Lenny’s monologue from the third act.” Stefan and Helen nodded again. The actor shuffled his chair back, then stood up and faced it. He turned briefly to Helen and Stefan. “I’m going to start now.”

“Any time,” said Helen.

The actor turned back and addressed a figure sitting in the chair. Judging from the angle of the actor’s gaze, he was speaking to someone two feet tall. “You!” the actor shouted. He turned and stomped away, then wheeled around to address the figure again, who was now eleven feet high. “You!” he screamed. His chest heaved, and he started sobbing. He dropped to the floor in a heap, convulsing with emotion.

Helen and Stefan waited for several minutes while the young man cried. The pretext of acting evaporated, and Stefan went over to him. “Are you alright?” The actor held up a hand, as if to say he’d be okay. Stefan helped him up.

“I—” said the young man through his tears. “I—” he repeated, and walked out of the room.

Helen looked at Stefan.

He shrugged.

She called to the door: “Next!”

The door opened, and Paulo entered. Stefan jumped up, relieved. “Paulo!” he said, going over to hug his friend. “What are you doing here? Helen, this is my friend Paulo.” Without a beat, Paulo went to her and gently shook her hand.

“My agent sent me,” he said to Stefan, handing him a head-shot and résumé. “But what are
you
doing here? What’s this about? I haven’t seen you in ages, and now you’re doing a play?”

“Oh yeah, that,” he said. They sat down. “I’ve been meaning to tell you and the guys about it.”

“Does your friend here want to audition for us?” asked Helen, smiling slyly at Paulo. “He’s awfully handsome.” Stefan looked at her, stunned by her flirtation. He’d never considered her in that way before.

“Thanks,” replied Paulo, “but I’ve decided to stay in Toronto this summer.” He grinned. “I’m moving into Adam’s place, and we’re going to use the money we save to buy a cottage.”

Helen’s face drooped. “I should have known. Well, you two have some catching up to do, so I say we call it a day.” She gathered her things up from the table and put them into a satchel on her lap. She drove back from the table, and away toward the door.

“Wait,” said Stefan, “that’s it? That was our first day of auditions? But everyone was terrible!”

Helen shrugged. “This is how it works. There’s still tomorrow.” She gestured with her head toward the door. Stefan ran over to open it, and she cruised out.

“The Edinburgh Fringe?” asked Paulo. “What’s that about?”

“Well, it turns out that my dad wrote a play. And I decided to put it on. I’m leaving, Paulo.”

“I gathered that. When will you be back?”

Stefan shook his head. His expression lit up. “That’s it. I’m outta here. I’m going to Scotland.”

“It’s your mother, isn’t it?”

Stefan laughed. “Well, kinda. That’s what started it. But now—I can’t explain, really. Things are leading me there. I was worried about telling you guys. I didn’t want to let you down, or make you think it was easy for me to leave you behind.”

“Hey, we move on. Friends do that. You can’t stand still for your friends. Hell, you think if Allen got an offer to relocate to New York or LA he wouldn’t take it? Or if Rick’s girlfriend asked him to go to Malaysia with her he wouldn’t jump at the chance?”

“You’re right,” said Stefan.

“You haven’t exactly been happy here.” Paulo stood up. “Let’s call the others up, and you can tell them. We’ll go celebrate.”

Stefan walked to the door with him. Paulo gave him one of his big, handsome smiles. “This is great. I’m really happy for you,” he said. But Stefan didn’t think he looked particularly happy, even with the smile.

~

For the second day of the auditions, Stefan arrived dressed more like what he imagined a theatre director should look like—brown corduroys, a black turtleneck, and a jacket with patches on the elbows. Looking at himself in the rehearsal hall mirror, though, it suddenly seemed like a mistake. It was a bit too Seventies, a bit too Fosse. He felt gay.

Helen rolled in holding a paper cup of coffee in her non-driving hand. “Who are you supposed to be?” she asked. Stefan’s heart sank. He had a long day ahead, and already wanted to go home.

Stefan put on a haughty cartoon voice. “I’m a thee-a-tah dih-rec-tor.”

“Oh,” she said, her smirk barely hidden by the cup of coffee.

“Right,” he said, moving to the table and looking over a clipboard there, “we’ve only got five parts to cast. We can do this.”

“Yes, yes we can,” Helen assured him. “We’ve got a lot of people lined up. So why don’t you go get the first person and we can get started.”

“Right,” said Stefan, snapping his fingers. A moment later, he returned from the hallway with a young woman. Out of her line of vision, Stefan raised his eyebrows hopefully toward Helen and mouthed “Truna”, one of the characters’ names. Helen made a barely perceptible nod of agreement. The actress was pretty, with fairytale colouring—pale skin and rosy cheeks, large green eyes, and blonde hair that was chopped roughly into a playful pixie fire.

The young woman strode confidently to the table and gave her résumé and picture to Helen. She put her bag down—all actors carried overstuffed bags, Stefan noticed—and walked back to the middle of the room. She ran a hand through her hair, and nodded to them that she was ready to start. They liked this, her readiness to get down to business, her confidence.

“So what are you going to do for us today?” asked Stefan, now versed in audition phraseology.

“I’ve been studying movement under a Bulgarian clown master, so I’ve put together a little piece called ‘The Bus Stop’.”

“Oh,” said Stefan.

The woman stood upright, and then contorted as if shot. Her body curved into a C, and she tip-toed back and forth. She moved her arms in tiny waves, then jerked them up and down. Finally, she dropped to the floor, rolled, and sprang back up, her hands raised, opening like flowers, toward the ceiling. Then her shape melted back into a regular standing position and she stared at Helen and Stefan.

They waited.

She blinked.

They sat politely.

“I’m finished,” she said.

“Oh!” said Stefan. “Thanks. That was really— um.” He grasped for something to say. “So what’s your availability?”

“Well, I’m going to be away in August. I’m going to Myanmar for a workshop on mime for the oppressed.”

“Damn! That’s when our show opens in Edinburgh. Oh, that’s too bad. Well, thanks for coming by.” He got up and walked with her to the door. “All the best with your... thing.”

They shook hands, and the woman left. Another woman walked in. She smiled and handed Stefan her head-shot and résumé. They walked to the table and sat down.

“So, tell us a bit about yourself,” asked Stefan. He knew now that it was a horrible question, but the whole situation was horrible. Neither party knew each other, yet they both knew that one of them was on trial. So it was something to say.

“Well, my name’s Rebecca. I come from Vancouver, and I’ve been here for thirteen months. This is my fiftieth audition. Yay me!” she said, mocking herself. “Apparently I’m not talented enough to sell cat food, feminine hygiene products, or even to be a tight T-shirted bimbo in a beer ad. I’m not a waitress—oh, no—I’m a
hostess
at the Pizza Piazza. And I only moved here because of Josh, and now he’s—” she continued talking, but Stefan didn’t know what she was saying, because she spoke into a tissue she pulled from her pocket. He watched the top of her head, which began to move up and down. His fears were confirmed: a moment later she sobbed out loud, and made a whistling sound as she struggled for breath. Her crying intensified, the sobs coming faster, the whistling gasps a fast staccato. She muttered something about being sorry, then tried to stand. Her eyes rolled up, and she fell to the floor.

Stefan jumped up, but was too late to catch her. He turned to Helen. “Crying
and
fainting. That’s new.” He reached under her arms and dragged her to the hallway, where he sat her in a chair, her head leaning against the wall as she breathed slowly.

“Next,” said Stefan. None of the actors moved.

~

Helen looked at her watch. “We’ve only got time to see four more people.”

“Crap,” said Stefan. “Well, it’s not over until the fat lady sings. And we haven’t had one of
them
yet.” He sang in an operatic falsetto voice as the next auditioner entered the room. “Hello,” he said, smiling at her. He had to: she looked so nice. She had long, soft brown hair, perfect skin, a perfect tiny wedge of a nose, and the kind of casual clothes that made her look like one of the happy people who live on the pages of a catalogue.

“Hello,” she said, reaching across the table to shake their hands. “My name’s Maria.”

Stefan smiled, feeling at ease. There was something peaceful about her, and he liked it. “Hi, Maria. I’m Stefan. This is Helen. So, what have you prepared—” he began, then stopped. He shook his head. “No,” he said, reaching into his own overstuffed bag, “I have a better idea. I’d like you to do a reading from the play.” He flipped through the pages, then handed a few to her. “Could you look over these and read Vella’s monologue for me? Take your time.”