Gulliver Takes Five (13 page)

Just when I’m successfully swept up along with the visible Marty in tonight’s REAL business—getting this close to the
Wicked
part, not to mention Sutton Fucking Foster—I plummet down without warning into the dark with that other, damaged Marty.

That’s where I am when the drop-dead gorgeous brunette girl next to me (a chorus girl in
Phantom of the Opera
) pipes up and yanks me back out. “Oh, look who’s here,” she says. “Grant Majors!”

What?! Somebody hold that visible Marty down!

Grant Majors is here? My pulse breaks into a drumroll. It takes a minute to find him in the crowd, which only increases the beating in my ears and chest. Yes! It’s him. Holy Jesus—even hotter in real life. Until now, I’ve only seen him on TV or under blazing stage lights at Musical Monday’s curtain call from way across the dance floor. He looks taller. Definitely more muscular. He’s at the bar, talking to the lucky bartender who’s pouring him a drink. Can I please be cast in the role of that drink? They don’t even have to pay me.

“Of course he’s here,” Karen the agent says through another mouthful of breadstick. “He’s hosting the event. And performing a number!”

This night may redeem itself, after all. Grant’s voice is the only thing that’s more gorgeous than he is. I have to somehow pull him aside tonight, assuming he can get away from his adoring fans. I need to let him know that I’ve been following his Broadway climb, from chorus boy in
The Wedding Singer
and dancer in the unfortunate Elvis jukebox musical
All Shook Up
all the way to
Mamma Mia!
. I imagine him listening to this, nodding and grinning. And leaning in...and kissing me. Then we’re starring
in a show together; then we’re performing at the Tonys. Our kids watching from the front row.

Oh shit, Marty. Cool it!

But after all the weirdness tonight, could a whirlwind romance with my Broadway idol really be any stranger? Couldn’t THIS be where this whole bizarre day has been heading all along? My date with Chase helped me get over Gulliver. Now I’m all primed to give my heart away to someone a thousand times better, a million times more deserving.

No—I’m not that stupid. Also, Grant’s not alone. And his drinking buddy is someone I immediately recognize. It’s the wiry, bespectacled casting director of
Wicked
, the one who was all smiles and sweat stains with me this very morning.

My heartbeat slows to a comatose thump.

The director is laughing and clapping Grant on the back while they wait at the bar for their cocktails. Whatever they ordered is bright green and sloshing in a martini glass.

“Shit,” Stanford whispers to me, no doubt fully aware that I’m thinking the same thing. “This isn’t good. Shit.”

“Hello, everyone!” the casting director says as he approaches the table, seeing the one empty seat. “Oh! Grant, it looks like the table’s filled.”

“Good evening, everybody,” Grant says, flashing his megawatt smile. God, I’m going to suffer radiation burns if he doesn’t turn it
off soon. “Sorry Leon and I are late. Anybody interested in swapping for my place? It’s over at Table 15, next to some of the cast members of
Naked Boys Singing
.”

I’m about to volunteer when Stanford grabs my knee and squeezes to the point that it hurts. I take his unspoken cue and say nothing.

“Sounds lovely,” says Stefan the
Wicked
basher. “Make sure they keep their clothes on, and come visit after the buffet opens!”

“No,” Grant laughs. “Seriously, could one of you please switch with me? I don’t want to abandon my date here. That’s just rude!”

“It’s fine, Grant,” the casting director says, breaking the awkward silence. “We can always stay by the bar for a while.”

“I’m sure SOMEBODY at this table will be kind enough to give me their seat,” Grant says. “I mean, mine’s only a few tables away. And it’s closer to the buffet.”

No one responds, and Grant stays put. People at other tables turn to see what’s happening, since Grant’s voice has raised an octave with every entreaty. “Somebody?” And I’m now painfully aware that every single person at this table is thinking that “somebody” should be me. (Myself included.)

Yikes.

“Oh, whatever,” Stefan says. “Take my seat. I’ll go sit with
Naked Boys
.” He storms off, his jacket bouncing on his shoulder.

“First time I’ve ever heard a sister complain about sitting with a table of naked boys!” Grant snickers, taking his seat next to Leon. “Holy shit! That took entirely too much time! I’m going to have to steal the show in a few minutes!”

“Leon, I think someone poisoned your cosmo,” Stanford says in an attempt to break the awkward moment we all just shared. “Yours too, Grant.”

“Good.” Grant smiles. “Maybe I’ll feel it quicker.”

Everyone laughs, though I wonder how many of us actually found his comment funny. Maybe his comic timing isn’t so sharp when it’s unscripted.

“I’m kidding, of course,” Grant says. “Can’t be too soused if I’m supposed to hit the high notes tonight.”

“Leon, I believe you remember Marty Perry, my newest rising star,” Stanford says.

“Oh, wow, you signed with Stanford?” Grant interrupts. “I remember when he tried to get me. You begged, didn’t you, Stanford? I never felt so important! Didn’t go with him, though, as I guess you know. So, Marky, how’d you like his office?”

Ouch. Stanford’s office used to be a Midtown East dive. I’ll admit—even I, up-and-comer that I am, was a little horrified by the place. Stanford blushes and once again, somehow, comes up with a smile. Within three minutes of sitting at the table, Grant
has insulted Stanford in front of his industry friends not once but twice. The fact that he mangled my name might be an additional potshot.

“In his defense,” I stumble, “his new office is gorgeous.”

“Yeah?” Grant doesn’t even acknowledge me with a glance. “That’s great, Stanny. After seeing that shithole and the kids you were representing, I was afraid you’d be packing up and heading back to Boston. I’m so glad everything worked out in your favor. Maybe I’ll stop by before I go off on tour.”

Tour? Well, that settles it. Today is now 0 and 2.

“Oh?” Stanford asks, leaning forward at the table. “I suppose congratulations are in order?”

“You must not have gotten my voice mail, Stanford,” Leon says. “I suppose you were already here. Yes, after much deliberation, we have decided to go with Grant for the role.”

The embarrassment of being looked over for a role is something I typically suffer in private. It’s usually delivered via a call or an e-mail, at which point I go home, stare at myself in the mirror, and play some sad song like Audra McDonald’s “Come Down From That Tree” or Cheyenne Jackson and Tony Roberts’s “Don’t Walk Away,” from
Xanadu
, wondering how I ever thought I had talent in the first place. But since we’re all industry people at this table, I suppose Leon feels comfortable with making this unofficial announcement before
Playbill
and
Broadway World
break the news tomorrow.

Grant is soaking up the awkwardness of it all, silently gloating over the rim of his green cocktail. And since Stanford can’t console me publicly, we need to weather this as best as we can.

Double slap: my vision of Grant Majors as anything but a cocky, self-entitled diva is going down like the
Titanic
, and I’ve failed at yet another audition.

“When do you leave, Grant?” I ask, hoping it’s ASAP.

“Well, from here on in, I demand you call me Boq—just kidding! The fitting and rehearsals happen here in New York, then I ship out, what, in a month, Leon?”

“Yes, sir. Thirty days and you’re out of our hair for at least a year.”

“It’ll be good to leave the city for a while. I need a change of scenery!” He laughs. “Are they passing hors d’oeuvres? I’m positively famished.”

“Excuse me for a minute, guys,” I say, getting up from the table. Stanford is probably too busy wondering if I’m worth representing anymore to ask where I’m going. It’s not like I know the answer, anyway. I just need out of here.

“Can you ask a waiter to come back with more breadsticks?” Grant calls after me.

I end up by the bathrooms, which are down in the basement by the kitchen. My only companions are framed black-and-white photos
of Italian farmers harvesting crops on hilltops and piped-in old-world music from a hidden speaker in the ceiling. Leaning against the wall, I’m able to let the busboys run past with plastic bins of dirty dishes. Every so often, an actor (including Sherie Rene Scott and Brian Stokes Mitchell—I die) slips by to use the facilities.

I won’t cry, since Gulliver already drained every ounce of salt out of me earlier. But I wish I could.

The weight of this failure is so heavy Grant might as well be tap-dancing on my sternum. Just as pervasive as the joy when I sing, this sensation is a brick of lead in my stomach. I can’t go back up there. Everyone at that table knows I’m a loser, and Grant Majors is all but belting it at the top of his lungs. Stanford won’t even be able to look at me. I just want to go back to Astoria, throw my Gulliver box in the trash, lie in bed crying, and pray for sleep.

People tell me how lucky I am that I landed an agent so soon out of college. They’d kill for someone to represent them, they say, weary from their temp jobs. I can’t complain, but sometimes I wish I didn’t have an agent, hadn’t gotten that gig with
Jersey Boys
. At least then my dreams would be so ethereal I might give up. Instead, I got a taste of what could be, then went straight from feast to famine with no sign of a second helping. When you’re this precariously close to what you’ve strived for, it stings a hundred times more when you fail. Like you’re bobbing in the ocean, close to freezing and drowning, and the rescue boat just keeps passing you by.

I don’t want to go back to that table, but I don’t have a choice. Stanford paid for my ticket, and now I’ve left him stranded with that asshole Grant Majors.

Fuck! I can’t believe I’m stuck here. In this restaurant AND New York City. An hour ago, I’d almost decided I didn’t want to go on tour; now I’d give anything to escape this place.

I take a deep breath and walk back upstairs, preparing for whatever else I must face before I can go home.

At the table, it’s obvious everyone has been talking about me. “He truly IS a wonderful singer,” says Leon. “I’ve never really been fond of ‘Lost in the Wilderness,’ but now I’m sold! I went home from the audition and listened to it on repeat for an hour. If the show ever plays near the city, I’ll be first in line!”

Small comfort. Too bad I won’t be in it.

“We were just talking about you, Marty,” Stanford says, pushing out my chair. “Turns out you were REALLY close.”

“Which only counts in horseshoes and world wars or something, right?” Grant asks, laughing. Thankfully, this time, no one joins him. “I’m kidding! Hey, did you ask about the breadsticks?”

“As I was saying,” Leon continues, “it was a nail-biter between you and Grant.”

“You say that now that he’s here!” Grant scoffs, making me wish I HAD asked about those breadsticks. So that his mouth would be too busy to keep insulting me.

“You should take that to heart,” Leon says. “The fact that there was even a contest between you and someone of Grant’s caliber...”

Grant rolls his eyes and stifles a snort. He might as well be on his back, kicking his legs in the air and laughing, just like my twins at this morning’s cattle call.

Though I have to wonder what’s up with Grant’s constant need to belittle me. Why bother, for God’s sake? Could it be he finds the fact that I even came close to stealing a role from him threatening? I like that possibility.

“Grant just has the experience and show history that will make the producers happy. You’re a very, very talented singer, Marty,” Leon concludes.

I have to smile. “Thank you.”

“And I promise you and Stanford will be the first people I call when we are looking to cast for any part in either of the tours.”

Stanford rubs my shoulder and smiles. “I don’t call him Golden Goose for nothing.”

Sooner or later, he will revoke that name. What use is a golden goose who’s been constipated since he signed his yearlong contract?

“That’s cute,” says Grant. “Hey, you can always try to come on the tour anyway, as a stagehand or something. Do you mind being behind the scenes? It’s a great learning experience, I’ve been told.”

By now, everyone looks put off by Grant’s unnecessary cruelty, but no one will say anything. I wish I could blame it on his being
drunk. Or maybe he’s had a bad night. Still, there’s no excuse. Now it’s plain as day: the closest thing I ever had to a role model is a complete and total asshole.

I might have been wrong about not being able to cry anymore. I want to get the hell out of here, in case one more bitchy comment from Boq sends me careening over the edge.

“Well?” Grant asks. “Would you? You’d look fetching in all black!”

My phone goes off in my pocket, making a sound loud enough to nab the next table over’s attention. Normally, I’d immediately silence it, apologize to whomever I was speaking with, and deal with the voice mail later. But this is exactly what I needed to get out of here. “I’m sorry, I need to take this,” I say, and hurriedly excuse myself.

“Wow! You just can’t stay seated, can you?” Grant calls after me. “Please remember to ask about the breadsticks this time!”

Outside, the rain is still going strong, battering cars and benches and people. There are no scaffolds out here, so I duck into the doorway of a closed-down theater two buildings down. The marquis is empty, the lobby barren, the overhang generous in its protection. The cold is a blessing, even though the drizzle smears up my phone’s touch screen.

The intrusive alert that saved me was in fact a text message. From one of my friends, another actor/temp who I didn’t tell about today’s audition because I’d feel guilty doing so.

“Hey Marty! Not sure where you are, but there’s something on Facebook you might want to check out.”

“What’s up?”
I write back.
“I’m out right now.”