Down to Nothing

It is Sunday morning, Labor Day weekend. Hmmm, Labor day. Are the unemployed invited? Or is like Christmas when I gather my Jewish family and huddle in a Chinese restaurant or vacant movie theatre waiting for the day to pass so we don’t feel like such outcasts?

Outside my window a family of deer is nibbling on what is left of our hostas. Let them. God intended that the deer shall eat plants. Is it their fault we’ve planted such delicious ones? Will God provide for me as well, or did He really intend for us to pick our sustenance out of garbage pails in crowded cities? Is this man’s punishment for Adam and the apple? Did God create houses & mortgages, apartments and rent; condos and maintenance fees to remind us that we have been evicted from the Garden and are on our own?

My cousin ends every email with a signature: “When you’re down to nothing, God’s up to something.” Yes, but what? Is He preparing me for something new or just toying with me like a cat with a mouse before swatting me down for good with one sweep of a paw?

I’ve been here before and that is the only thing that keeps me going; the knowledge that life can change in a flash. Once upon a time in a magical land called New York City I lived the life of a young actress with dreams. I was down to my last three weeks on unemployment insurance at $46 a week.

I had gone to an open call at Manhattan Theatre Club that morning, waiting on a line that snaked through many small rooms, finding my best friend Jeff, who would have the good sense to leave New York in a few years, return to his native California and turn his fantastic sense of humor into a successful career as a TV writer and producer. But that morning we sat together, unemployed, trying to prove ourselves to someone who could give us a job. I had walked to this audition across Central park from the West Side to the East Side and almost all the way to the East River. Jeff had taken the bus and so was in possession of a bus transfer, a small piece of MTA currency that would allow a rider to transfer from that cross-town bus to one going downtown. Jeff gave me his transfer. There was a cattle call for a new tour of Fiddler on the Roof starring Zero Mostel. The call for women who sing was from 2-5 p.m. It was now about 8 a.m.

I finished my audition, walked back across the park and climbed the three stories to my apartment to the unconditional love of my dog, Sherlock. I debated leaving my sanctuary for the unfriendly and mostly unfruitful territory of a National Tour chorus call and decided, well, I have this transfer… I’ll go.

The auditions were being held on the stage of the empty Royale Theatre on Broadway, which would soon become home to Grease , the unsanitized version. The line stretched from somewhere inside the theatre, out the backstage entrance, down the alley, around the corner and out to the street. I don’t remember what number I got but it had three digits and the first digit was not a 1. I waited.

The line crept forward and stopped; crept forward and stopped; crept forward and stopped. They were “typing”. Between ten and twenty people were lined up across the stage; anyone who didn’t look they could come from Anatevka was “typed out”. I was “typed in”. Thank you Bubby and Zaida! Next I waited on the backstage steps that led to the dressing rooms. Once again, ten people at a time were called to the stage. We lined up the wings, walked center, gave our sheet music to the accompanist and offered our personalities and souls to the Lords of the Job in eight bars of an uptempo song; or at least I offered my soul. Some people just sang. Most people received a “Thank You” and an escort to the door. I was asked to wait stage right. We were down to double-digits. Some of us were given sides to read (a side is a small portion of the script). I was given Tzeitel’s barn scene with Motel the Tailor: “Talk to him!” One at a time, potential Tzeitels marched to the center of the stage to read the scene. I listened and learned. When it was my turn, I walked centerstage and looked out at the vast empty theatre. It was the most beautiful thing I’d ever seen! The auditors were seated at a rudely constructed table flung over several rows of seats in the middle of the orchestra. I felt the merging of Tzeitel’s desperation with my own desire never to leave this spot and pleaded both our cases through the lines. I was asked to stay.

Two of us were asked if we knew Fruma Sarah’s song from the Tevye’s Dream. Now I had been listening to Fiddler on the Roof since I was 12! It was the second show I’d ever seen on Broadway, the first being Milk and Honey. (For some reason when I was a kid my parents only thought about taking me to shows about Jews. Did they thing I would be swayed to Christianity if I saw Oliver, or Camelot, or 110 In the Shade? I don’t know.) Anyway, I said yes, I could. The other girl went first. She made mistakes. I went second. From the recessed place of my mind, the words came forth. They asked us to wait. They huddled. I squatted at the edge of the stage, my arms folded across my chest, my mouth pressed against the inside of my arm and my eyes fixed on that table in the center of the theatre. I beamed my longing at them through my eyes and finally Tommy Abbott, who would faithfully recreate Jerome Robbins’ choreography, walked to the stage. One by one he approached the remaining petitioners. “Thank you.” “Thank you.” “You’ve got the job.” Thank you,” and so on. He approached me. I stood. “You’ve got the job.” Joy flooded every cell of my body. “Really? Thank you! What job? What did I get?” "You'll be understudying Tzeitel & Fruma Sarah." I jumped into his arms not even trying to hide my tears. And he returned my hug. Only another performer could completely understand the gift he'd just given me. I left the Royale with a contract for a National Tour that would return to Broadway in time for Christmas. I ran outside, back through the now empty alleyway. It was about 5:30. I sprung for the Eighth Avenue bus; I could afford the fare! I told everyone who would listen. Strangers! I rushed up to my apartment and told Sherlock. He was ecstatic! (Okay, he was always happy when I came home, but this time he knew that I was happy to be there too and he ran around in circles while I jumped up and down in the center of my living room.) I called my parents; they started screaming! I called Jeff. He started screaming! He gave me a party that night where my friends made me tell my story over and over again. It gave us all hope!

Even now I feel better just remembering that day. I need another one. I’m not quite down to nothing, God, but I'm getting there. Well?