Broadway Audition
by Azure Brandi
I emerge into the elevator. An old man tries to come in with me. I let him – he’s too geriatric and, I think, too gay to attempt anything. We go up to the same floor. I am heading up to a Broadway audition. Not a dance audition, not an acting audition. A movement audition. I have not encountered one of these before. I consider myself a mover. My interest is piqued.
I enter the holding room. The old man follows behind me. We sit in little fold-out chairs together. We get placed in separate groups. His group gets called in before mine. He looks back at me nervous, scared. I give him a supportive nod. No way he’s booking this. He goes, he comes back thirty minutes later. His face: red. His eyes: soulless. How was it? Have fun. Okay, emaciated Santa. That I will do. I rise. I enter the room, the nineteen others behind me. I’m in the tightest jeans possible, multilayered blouse. I have boots on. I look great. Everyone else is in sneakers and athletic attire. I stand right next to the choreographer. We circle up, we say our names. Azure, that’s my name. I’m on the ball. Nothing will throw me off my game. We’re told to pace around the room, I do as I’m told. I catch sight of my strut in the mirror, I’m feeling good. Suddenly, the choreographer tells us to stop on an eight count – drop to the ground. I admit, I didn’t expect such a request so early on, but I don’t let it get to me. I don’t immediately drop the first time, but the second time we get to an eight count, by the time I’m half-crouched, everyone else is back up and doing the next piece of instruction. Choreographer tells us on the sixth count to start bouncing up and down, jump left then right, and then clap on the fourth count. I don’t even know what is happening, but I hear a cacophony of claps and drops, blurs of people rising, heads twisting. I don’t know what’s going on. It’s a storm, but I refuse to let things get to me. I keep smiling. I try to move closer to everyone, they distance themselves – afraid my mediocrity will rub off on them. I put my hair up in a ponytail; I realize I need to lock in. Every man for himself from this point on.
The choreographer says the warm-up is over. Warm-up? You mean to tell me there’s something after this? Now we will begin the dance. My knees buckle. I am officially the underdog in this room. I strip off the first layer of my blouse. I’m ready. I watch the choreographer perform what to an untrained eye resembles a grape vine on steroids. I cannot grasp the footwork on sight alone, but I trust that under pressure my memory will serve me. I am placed in the first small group and I am the first one to go. I have no one to follow so I must only rely on myself. I go off instinct. I admit I do not get the footwork correct. I go to the back of the line. Someone puts a hand on my shoulder. They say, it’s gonna be okay. I look at my fellow mover. Why yes, it is gonna be okay. I will see you in rehearsals. We move to the front, my group is up again.
Choreographer says, alright. Turns the music off. I eye the door. Not so fast, Rumplestiltskin, not so fast. He goes, we’re going to make the music faster. Okay. I attempt to swallow but my mouth is so dry, I cannot. I gulp the dry air, I stifle a cough. We’re gonna speed up the choreography. And, I need you to imagine you have lead in your skull. Sir, I’ve got lead in my feet. You want me to have lead in my skull as well? One or the other, man, one or the other. So for this next round, I choose to focus on lead in the skull. I must do with the lead head what I’m lacking in the footwork. So I enter the center and I imagine I’m doing a Dance Moms routine and I perform like Abby Lee is watching. I imagine my lead head, and I let it guide me and I enter what I believe they call flow state. I’m actually becoming moved by my moves. The choreographer tells me my turn is done and I need to move to the back of the line. I stand in the back. I’m starting to feel quite confident. I knew I did a couple interesting gallops, prances – shall we say – with a lead skull. I did things I’d never done before, and I do think people had seen things they had never seen before. The music turns off once everyone has had their turn. We circle back up. The choreographer says, now say your name and what camera operating experience you have. Everyone goes. I got a professional headshot business on the side and I helped my brother on his Sundance short. My turn is coming and I decide I need to fashion a lie. Azure. I was a PA on a film set once. This is not true, and this is also not relevant information. The group is silent. The girl next to me, beautiful dancer. She says, I don’t know how to hold a camera. The group giggles. I resist a glare. We’re released. I walk by the casting director in the corner of the room. My smile, it quivers. She averts her gaze. I grab my stuff from the holding room. I go down the elevator – where is my Santa when I need him? I’m thrust back into midtown, adrift, left foot in front of the other.
Several months later, I see the old man emerge from the women’s bathroom at another audition. He is no pervert, I forgive his error immediately. Oh my god, hi! This kind of elation can only be rivaled by the meeting of a twin flame. (In fact, this old gay man may be mine.) I bring up my ill-fated moves. He tells me he needed to stand back at a certain point during the choreography, that there was no way he could’ve stumbled through as I had. He tells me his friend got a callback. I try to appear happy for this supposed friend of his, but it is a dagger to my heart to hear he knew someone else in the room that day. And here I thought it was us against the world. I don’t let him see my jealousy, though. We are silently nostalgic for a moment outside the women’s bathroom. He breaks it: It started out easy and then… things got complicated. My mouth is agape; I have never felt so seen in my entire life. Yes! I feel light as a feather in our reunion and commiseration, no lead-head keeping either of us down. I think I will love this nameless old man forever.
Azure Brandi graduated from NYU’s Tisch in 2023. Previous work in New Croton Review, October Hill Magazine, and Virgo Venus Press. Forthcoming publications in The Underground, Alien Buddha Zine, Bending Genres Journal, Stick Figure Poetry, Flapper Press, Basset Hound Press, SORTES Magazine, Thirty West Publishing’s Afterimages. She lives in Brooklyn, NY.