I'm Gonna Go Eat Some Worms

If I still had my Hello Kitty diary with the brass lock on it I would fill several pages with:

I HATE EVERYTHING. HATE, HATE, HATE. HATE!

Just like I used to when I was thirteen. I'm so mad right now. And upset. Feel like I've been kicked in the gut. Despair. Whatever. Some stomach-churning combination of all those things.

Just received the cast list for Last of the Red Hot Lovers. It was, like, a POSTER, with everyone's headshots, for crying out loud. Gorgeous. I was not on it.

He wasn't supposed to let us know until tomorrow. I haven't told you this story yet.

Sunday night I auditioned for LofRHL. I was actually going to go Monday, but Sunday freed up, and I decided that I deserved Monday to spend in my pajamas since the rest of the week I'd be at the theater. I made myself pretty, printed my headshot, headed out with Google maps. The usual.

The audition was in Chula Vista, in a place called Fredericka Manor. Silly me, I thought it was going to be a castle. It was a senior home. A nice one, with lots of cottages. The audition room was hard to find, but when I got there, I felt instantly at ease. For one thing, everyone seemed really nice, and for another, it was a senior home. Also, there were exactly nine people at the audition. Eight women, one man ("you'll be working for your supper," the director remarked.) The play has three women and one man. Some of the people seemed inappropriate on sight. I relaxed even more.

Even better, there had been nothing to memorize, and hence, nothing to forget. The director was a jovial older guy who reminisced amusingly about a play he directed in '69. We were given sides and, after some monologues, commenced a couple hours of cold reads with the guy. (Poor guy. He worked really hard that night, and he wasn't cast, either.) Readers, I had a really good time. Cold reads don't make me nervous, because hello, I can read. I can read like nobody's business. Because I had read the play recently, I totally got the characters. And the characters are my peeps. New York Jews, neurotic and sarcastic. The play is in three acts--in each act, the main guy brings a woman to his apartment and tries to woo her. The middle one is described as "twenty-ish actress." That was not going to be me. But the other two were right in my age range.

I felt great about my readings. I thought I was really funny. Plus, I got to read four or five times, so he really got a good look at me. He was calling me "Sam" right from the beginning. I thought I was golden.

At the end, he said we were "welcome to come back the next night, but it's not necessary." I didn't know what this meant. We didn't have appointments, and wouldn't he be doing the same things the next night, with new people? I dared to hope that only a few would show up on Monday, and he'd have no chance to forget me. I left there with hope in my heart and a song on my lips. At the first light, I thought to myself : Sam, you rock. You just did four auditions in two weeks. You are brave. Good for you.

And though I didn't want to get too excited, I thought: there's no way I'm not getting this. Or at least sealing the deal with a callback. I was already juggling the very full holiday rehearsal schedule in my mind.

There were no callbacks. I didn't worry too much, because he said he might not do them. But he said everyone would hear from him by Thursday.

It's Wednesday. He sent a very nice note. With the poster I mentioned. Only one of the Sunday crew is in the show, a very young babe who did her audition in tippy stilettos. She is playing one of the women described as my age. The twenty-ish actress looks older than she does. The guy is being played by the guy I was in Sylvia with. No surprise--he is perfect for the part. The other woman described in the script as my age looks waaaaay older than me. I don't get it. But then, I'm not the director.

I don't know why I'm so devastated. When I didn't get cast in VM or The Crucible, I was disappointed, but it didn't feel so big. I guess I just really felt like I was in the zone this time, and I thought it was obvious to everyone. I guess not. Plus I'm second-guessing myself for not going back Monday. Would that have made the difference? Who knows? I guess I can't live with regrets.

I told David this feels like it, no more, I can't take this kind of life. But even as I said it, I could tell that while I mean it today, I probably won't mean it tomorrow.

We'll see. I'm going to take two weeks off from even thinking about it.