Dramatic Pause, page 10
I kiss both my parents good-bye, and my dad says, “Wait. Take a banana with you in case you get hungry.” He grabs a particularly bright one from the bunch in the basket on the counter. I don’t have the heart to tell him that the last thing I want to eat today is a banana, so I just take it from him, thank him, and put it in the side pocket of my bag.
• • •
For the first time since we’ve started working on this scene for the benefit, rehearsal goes smoothly. I don’t feel unprepared or lost. Granted, the entire rehearsal is about blocking, and that just means the actor is told where she moves to when she says each line. The important thing to do during a blocking rehearsal is have a pencil and write down everything the director says. At the end of the rehearsal Mr. Tipton tells us both that we did a good job, and I feel a huge amount of pressure evaporate as Preston and I leave the rehearsal studio and head toward the greenroom to exit.
“Well, that wasn’t as grueling as usual,” Preston says as we reach the stairs.
“No, but blocking is always easier than anything else.”
“True.” Preston puts his script in his bag and then turns to me. “There is something I wanted to ask you.” He clears his throat and moves his hand over his hair to smooth it down even more. “My mother is planning a little get-together to watch the broadcast of the Seggerman Awards. They’re airing on some cable channel here, so she thought it would be fun to throw a party, since she can’t attend in person this year.”
“The Seggerman Awards?” I say in disbelief. His mother won her first Seggerman five years ago for her role in Staunch Women. It was an R-rated film, so my parents didn’t let me see it, but I read every review I could find and studied every photograph that exists. According to the reviews, Staunch Women was a tour-de-force performance by Patricia Banner, who displayed every emotion from birth to death on the screen. When she was nominated, she was the hands-down favorite to win and of course, she won. The Seggermans are the single most respected award in the film community. It’s much more distinguished than winning an Oscar and more like the Cannes Film Festival. It would be absolutely thrilling to watch the Seggerman Awards in the company of such an esteemed actor as Mrs. Banner. Not to mention her adorable son.
“Well, do you think you might be able to join us for the broadcast?”
“Yes. I would love to.”
“Well then, it’s a date,” he says, and right before he opens the door to the greenroom, he kisses me on the cheek. It’s just a little peck, and it happens to land much closer to my ear than my cheek, but still it’s the first minute in my life that involves both mouth-to-face contact and the word “date.”
I don’t move.
I need to process what all this means. But before I can even wrap my mind around everything, Preston walks on and passes through the greenroom as he heads down the stairs. “I had better run off. I’m meeting Mother for brunch.”
Once I hear the door slam, I’m dropped back into reality. I’ll think about all this later. At the moment I’ve got to transform from upstanding thespian to energetic banana. I grab my bag and head into the bathroom. Luckily, on Saturdays Gladys is off, and a college intern who is too busy on her laptop to really notice anything is stationed in the greenroom. In the bathroom, I quickly change out of my supercute magenta-and-pink-striped sleeveless top, which falls just over my hips and is perfect for the often saunalike conditions of the rehearsal studio, into my bright-yellow ensemble. I look ridiculous, but if a four-dollar pair of pants that look like they fell off the sun is what it takes to book an international commercial that will bring in the bucks, so be it. I was smart enough to bring a jacket to cover up most of the outfit, but when I look at myself in the mirror, my dark-purple hoodie covers up the T-shirt, but my bright yellow legs stick out even more now. I look like I jumped off the game board for Candy Land. Luckily, the audition is not that far away. I head out of the bathroom and through the greenroom to the stairs. I open the door to the stairs and make it halfway down when I hear the outside door buzz and then open.
“Oh, Isabel, you’re still here. I forgot my—oh, dear! What happened to your legs?”
I freeze. My body is in suspended animation. Preston just saw me a few minutes ago wearing a simple pair of dark-blue jeans with my striped top, and now I look like Big Bird in a hoodie. How am I going to explain this?
“Oh, hello again,” I say, as if my legs look perfectly normal.
“Did you change your . . .” Preston begins, but before he can say anything, I jump in.
“Oh, these. Well, these are my other pants. I had to change into them because you know, I’m . . . uh . . . volunteering today at that soup kitchen for the homeless on the Bowery.”
“And you can’t wear normal clothes there?” he asks, and it’s a perfectly fine question. I unfortunately do not have an answer for it.
“Oh, you can, of course,” I say very slowly, so I can think of an answer. “It’s just that the homeless have such a hard time of it, and I like to wear something that will brighten their day,” I say as quickly as possible. It’s like the words are a runaway train spilling out of my mouth. Preston just looks at me.
“That’s very cool,” he says, and it makes me think he has bought my ridiculous story.
I make my way past him. I get myself safely on the other side of the door and peek my head back in so the offending pants can’t be seen and say, “Nice seeing you today. Call me later. Bye.” I pull my head out into the cold autumn air and slam the door behind me.
I have no idea what Preston must think. Even if he didn’t buy my story about brightening the lives of the homeless, at least it’s better than letting him know I am auditioning for the part of a banana.
CHAPTER 26
The elevator door opens at Double Doors Casting, and it looks like a life-size box of Skittles has exploded. There are dozens and dozens of kids my age, each one dressed in a distinct color of the rainbow. I assume each color represents a different fruit in the recipe for the HappyWow energy drink. The atmosphere is much more circus than serious audition, but that doesn’t surprise me. I take off my hoodie, revealing my bright-yellow head-to-toe wardrobe, but instead of sticking out, I actually fit in. A girl dressed in bright red jeans and a bright-red sweatshirt walks past me. “Excuse me,” I say, and tap her on the shoulder. “Do you know where we’re supposed to sign in?”
She looks me up and down and then says, “Either you’re here for the banana role or you’re a bumblebee missing her stripes.” She’s dressed as ridiculously as I am, so I think she is definitely in on the joke.
“I’m a banana,” I say. “Nice to meet you . . .”
“That sounds like the beginning of a knock-knock joke,” she says.
I’m not sure whether she’s a cherry or a strawberry, but before I can answer, she says, “Cherry,” then sighs. “All the girls who are a little rounder, like me, are here for Cherry.” She is an adorable girl with an ample figure and bright-orange hair that she has tamed into two pigtails. “All you beautiful tall girls are here for bananas. I’m sure you’ll meet some nice lime and have beautiful smoothies together while I’ll be stuck with some grape.”
Just then a chubby boy with glasses, dressed head to toe in purple, comes up to her and says, “Hey, Donna. I didn’t know you would be here.” He looks at her like he thinks he’s a real player, but you can tell pretty quickly he isn’t.
Donna rolls her eyes and says, “I told you at the Open Office shoot that you’re not allowed to speak to me unless you’re reading from a script. Now exit.” She points her whole arm in a direction away from the elevators, and the poor boy doesn’t say a word. He smiles glumly and walks away.
“Don’t worry,” she says to me. “That’s just Howie.” Then she looks from side to side and down the hall to see if anybody is listening. “Isn’t he adorable?” she asks.
“Sure,” I say, confused. “But you—I mean—”
“Oh, I know, but sometimes with boys you just have to do that.” She shrugs and then points in the opposite direction from where she sent poor Howie. “Over there is where all the bananas are going. I better head back.”
“Thanks, Donna,” I say. “Oh, and by the way, I’m Isabel.”
“See you around, Isabel,” she says.
I walk down the hall, and as I turn the corner I suddenly see an army of girls my age dressed in every shade of yellow you can imagine, from daffodil to goldenrod. Some girls are even wearing yellow hats, and when I look down, I see that two or three of them are actually wearing yellow shoes. Where they found yellow shoes, I have no idea. At the other commercial auditions I’ve been to, there have been a lot of girls, but nothing compares to the size of this crowd. There must be at least three dozen girls trying to sign in and prepare for the audition. I take a deep breath and prepare myself for what I’m sure will be a grueling, if not completely bizarre, experience.
I slowly make my way through the crowd of yellow clones and find the sign-in table. Before I can ask if I should sign in before filling out my size card, the woman behind the table gets up from the chair she was sitting in. She places the chair to the side of her and stands up on it. She cups her hands to her mouth in a makeshift megaphone and yells, “Girls. Please fill out a size card and then return it to me to get your number. Do not, I repeat, DO NOT go in without getting your number. They will not see you today without a number. They will call you in groups of eight and by your number. Make sure you have a number.”
Great. How do I get a number? I thought by my third audition I would understand most of what’s going on, but this number thing is new. I look around at the other girls and realize that most of them have a piece of notebook paper with a number on it taped to their yellow shirts. It looks like the type of number a runner wears in a marathon, and I assume that this is the number the woman who is standing on the chair is so concerned about.
I wait for her to get down from her chair and take her seat back at the table. When she is seated, I sign in and ask for a size card. Before she hands it to me, she says, “Make sure you get a number before you go in.”
“Yeah, I understand,” I say. I wonder if I should use something stronger than tape to attach the number to my shirt, since they’re clearly so important.
I fill out my size card and find the guy who is snapping Polaroids for the audition. It’s like a scene from a horror movie. A guy with a short ponytail that has almost completely come undone is surrounded by a swarm of yellow girls who each want their photo taken so they can get their number and audition. There is no official line. Each girl waves her size card at him, and the frazzled guy takes her picture, hoping to calm the frantic demand. I stand off to the side, hoping things will quiet down, but after a few minutes I realize they won’t, so I push my size card in his face, hoping he will choose it and take my picture. Eventually he does, and I show my gratitude by mouthing, “Thank you” and smiling as kindly as I can. I think he understands, but it’s impossible to tell because the swarm doesn’t let up.
I take my photo and size card and go back to the table where the woman is handing out numbers. She checks off my name and hands me a long piece of tape and uses a thick black Sharpie to write the number 217 on a piece of paper, which she then hands to me. “Two hundred seventeen?” I say with a bit of shock. “Do you mean you’ve had over two hundred girls audition for this part?”
“No, no, no,” the woman says, and I feel a bit more relieved. I know this is a big spot, but there is no way I could compete with over two hundred girls. The odds would not be in my favor. Then the woman continues, “We’ve had over two hundred girls just this morning. We already had five hundred girls yesterday. Now take your number and move out of the way.” I do as I’m told but watch as the girl behind me gets the number 218 written on a piece of paper.
I can’t believe they will see almost a thousand girls for this commercial. I guess I basically have no chance of booking it. I feel like a domino at one of those record-setting events, waiting to topple over and join the thousands of other already fallen dominoes. For a second I consider throwing my number in the trash and going home. But I can’t. This is the spot that could help pay my tuition, and even though it involves one of the most humiliating scenarios I’ve ever heard of, the fact that it will only be seen in Japan makes me feel a little better about the whole thing.
The door to the studio opens, and a short woman with a clipboard yells, “I need bananas 210 to 217 in here now. If you do not have a number, you will not be seen.”
They are not kidding around with these numbers. Since they’re ready for me to go in, I follow the other seven bananas into the room and hope that it will be over quickly.
CHAPTER 27
“Bananas! Bananas!” the woman with the clipboard shouts while clapping her hands. The other seven girls look toward her and obediently give her their full attention. I stare at the other girls, shocked that they don’t find the fact that this woman is calling us bananas very odd. If it weren’t for the fact that there’s already a camera in the middle of the room, directly pointed at the group, I would think I was on a hidden camera show.
“Bananas, this is Hiro Fukishima. He is the director of this commercial and the creator of the HappyWow energy drink.” A tall man with long black hair that almost touches the tops of his shoulders bows and smiles at us. I assume he’s Japanese. “This is his interpreter, Miko.” A woman with an extremely short haircut, who seems to come up to just above the director’s belly button, bows quickly. The other bananas applaud, and once again one banana stands alone. He makes an energy drink. Big deal. It’s not like he invented the lightbulb or a cure for some painful disease. Still, it’s only polite to join the others in applauding, so I do.
Mr. Fukishima bows and then starts yelling in Japanese. Now, I am not familiar with Japanese at all. I’ve been to a few sushi restaurants, where I believe I’ve heard it spoken, and maybe it’s one of those languages that is just very loud, but still, even if it is, Mr. Fukishima is yelling by any standard. Miko says, “Mr. Fukishima says you are all happy bananas. You are happy, happy bananas.”
Well, I’ll admit one thing: This whole experience is bananas. Where’s a rim shot when I need one?
Mr. Fukishima screams a bit more, and then the interpreter says, “You are very happy to be part of the drink HappyWow. It is a very good drink, a very proud drink.”
Proud? That must have lost something in translation. Pride is not exactly what I feel at this moment, and how in the world is liquid proud?
More screaming from Mr. Fukishima, and then from the interpreter, “Wait for the music and then dance. Happy bananas dance.”
All the other girls are looking at Miko and Mr. Fukishima very intensely, like this is a completely normal day. Like they spend most afternoons dressed like a sun-bleached traffic cone while someone screams at them in another language. Sure, this happens all the time.
Mr. Fukishima points to a young Japanese boy with green-and-purple hair that sticks up like he tried to electrocute himself and failed. The boy hits a button, and then “music,” for lack of a better word, comes blasting out of a pair of small but powerful speakers next to him. It must be the HappyWow jingle, but it sounds like something they would play to torture people.
The lyrics go something like this: “Tang. Tang. Happy. Clang. Clang. Wow. Tang. Clang. Happy wow. Happy wow. HappyWOW! Tang. Taaaang.”
The other girls seem to think this is a normal jingle, because no one follows through on my first instinct, which is to run out of the room screaming. The woman with the clipboard fiddles with the camera and says, “Make sure your number is facing the camera. I need to see your number.” They are really obsessed with these numbers. I pat my chest to make sure mine has not accidentally fallen off.
All the other girls start jumping up and down, laughing and dancing. For the first five seconds I don’t move. I can’t. I mean, it’s one thing to be dressed like a banana. It’s another thing to be a dancing banana. I have to draw the line somewhere. But then I look at these girls just dancing with their little banana feet like the floor is on fire, and it starts.
Oh, no. This can’t be happening, but it is.
I’m getting the giggles. I can feel it. I can feel it start pulsing through my veins, and then it makes its way almost instantly to my brain, and I can’t stop the waterfall of laughter that starts coming out of me. Of course, I’m laughing at everyone, which is terribly rude, and the only thing I can think to do to cover it up is to start jumping up and down and dancing. I could run out of the room, but as the expression goes, when life gives you lemons, make lemonade—or in this case when life gives you bananas, make HappyWow.
Soon I’m full-out dancing. The whole thing is so ridiculous that I’m laughing so hard I’m having trouble catching my breath. An hour ago I was with one of the theater’s most important directors, and now I am a dancing happy banana in front of the creator of HappyWow.
Mr. Fukishima screams a few rapid words, and the interpreter yells out over all the commotion, “Pride. Pride. Don’t forget. You are proud bananas.” This note does little to change the behavior of any of the girls, including myself. We all keep dancing and laughing.
I look around at the other girls and suddenly realize they don’t feel self-conscious at all. They’re just dancing around, having a good time. I’m so exhausted from laughing and dancing that my resistance to the whole situation collapses. I keep laughing and jumping, but for the first time I’m just one of the other bananas, and for a few seconds I don’t feel silly at all.
