The next day, I was back in the saddle. Working on proposals and resumes and cover letters; determined to carve out a niche for myself in New York theatre.
To be fair, I did work. I was always directing something. I just didn’t get paid.
That’s the funny thing about artists. We love what we do. We’d even do it for free.
Unfortunately, other people know this about us.
No one, but no one, has a friend who will show up everyday for six to eight weeks to help them move for beer and pizza.
But that’s what theatre people do every time we commit to a show.
Sometimes we don’t even get the beer and pizza.
As theatre artists, we often even pay for the van. We buy special moving gloves that we save and put into our “prop” suitcase because we might need them for another move someday. We work on our “lift with your knees, not your back” technique because it’s part of our craft. Why? Because we LOVE moving! Especially if it’s a really challenging move, like say there’s a piano or something. Oh!---We love a challenge!
We’ll even alert all our friends, “Hey! I’m helping this guy move Saturday night! Come out and watch me move some crap around! It’s going to be an AWESOME move and it’s only fifteen dollars to watch! Two-for-ones with my discount code FREE BOXES. Hurry! It’s a small apartment so will be sure to sell out! Hope to see you there!”
Nobody wants to pay to watch you move. Not even your friends.
But we don’t care---we just love doing it. We will move crap up and down the stairs for years without ever seeing a dime. And we do all this heavy lifting because we hope that one day we’ll have the opportunity of trying to squeeze a large, awkwardly shaped sofa into a too-narrow doorway. Every one will say, “You’re crazy! It’s impossible!”
But we’ve had training. And we’ll be able to call upon our knowledge of geometry and leverage and magically squeeze that sofa thru the doorway. A cheer will go up. Hooray!!! And as we’re standing there shaking, sweaty and taking our bow, there will be a guy who’s been watching us do the impossible.
And that guy will come up to us and say, “You’re an amazing mover! I’ve never seen anyone do what you just did. We’re going to be moving stuff out of Buckingham Palace next week. We’ll fly you to London, put you up in the finest hotel and pay you a million dollars.”
And scene.
It’s not about the money. Ask anyone in theatre. We just truly love our jobs. Try convincing a moving company that, “If you really loved your job, you would move my crap for free.”
Good luck with that.
Five months ago, I finally got an industry job. Well, sort of.
I work at a modeling agency. At least that’s what they call it. In truth, it’s more like a modeling school. One of those fly-by-night operations that’s pretty close to being a scam. Hundreds of dollars for pictures, a few hundred more for classes teaching you how to walk, how to wear clothes, how to apply makeup and, our latest addition to the curriculum---“Marketing Your Extremities: What Every Hand and Foot Model Should Know”.
Of course, we can’t get you work. Well, paying work. We have a regular contract with the Hicksville Mall and supply all the models for their Spring and Fall Fashion show. We get paid. The models don’t.
Nevertheless, there’s fierce competition amongst the models for one of these plum spots. Models are not the brightest bulbs on the planet. But they love their job, too. So I get it.
Occasionally we do get a few calls for paying work. Mostly non-profits and local small businesses looking for faces and bodies to appear in their newspaper and late-night cable ads. One of our guys did an ad for Hymie’s Big and Tall Men’s Shop in Brooklyn a few months back. A copy of the ad was boldly displayed on the home page of our website for months. That is, till Gwendolyn Shaughnessy got the ad for Diaper Dud’s. Babies are a special sort of scam. Deb’s in charge of that. She knows just what to say to get the mothers to bite. Actually, not too difficult. Every mother who walks thru that door is convinced that their baby is the most beautiful of them all. To me, they all look pretty much the same.
Not that my opinion matters. I’m just the temp.
Last night was Halloween. A childhood fear of clowns had, over the years, grown to a fear of any masked character. Halloween was difficult. Especially in New York where one wonders if the mask is simply a merry masquerade or a disguise for the security cams.
This year, I stayed home, dressed up the cat in a ballerina costume, and watched an old scary movie from the 50s.
Halloween. Check.
And that’s where my story begins.
The morning after Halloween started off bad. You see, I have a leaky ceiling. So the better part of my morning was spent emptying buckets and bowls and squeezing out wet towels. This had been going on for three weeks. I suppose I should have said something. But with an illegal sublease, I had to watch my step.
Also, I made the mistake the night before of leaving my jacket on the sofa. It was now covered in a coat of cat hair so thick it could decimate a lint roller in ten minutes.
Then there was the message from my Mom that picked up while I was in the shower:
“Dorrie? It’s just Mom. Hope you had a nice Halloween. Just wanted to know if you were coming home for Christmas? I
