Theater Kid Rage
a short story by a recovering actress.
I graduated from college in the spring of 2016 and, with little idea of what to do with my life, I followed the one thing that had always brought me joy and comfort—musical theater. I proceeded directly to Theatre Kid Heaven (aka NYU), and got a Master’s Degree in Vocal Performance. After graduating in 2018, I promptly entered the world of professional auditioning. AND BOY, IT KICKED ME IN THE TEETH.
Auditioning is tough, rejection is brutal, and sometimes “the dream” is simply not enough to sustain you. The “actor hustle” took an enormous toll on my mental health, my self esteem, and my relationship with my body. In my years pursuing acting, I had some incredible experiences and met so many amazing people (shoutout to my husband), but my anxiety and OCD was worse than it had ever been.
Eventually, I had to acknowledge that I’m someone who thrives with stability, comfort, and routine. I’ll always love being on stage, but my mental health is genuinely better at my 9-5 job. My past self might be horrified to hear me say that, but it’s true.
I wrote this short story shortly after I stopped auditioning. If you’re a performer, I hope you relate. If you’re not, I hope you enjoy this glimpse into the surreal world that many aspiring actors inhabit. To my friends who are still pounding the pavement at Pearl Studios—I see you, I love you, you’ve got this. -Cyndi
Pear Shaped
By Cynthia Bonacum
When the email arrives, I’m hoisting my right leg above my head. The soft ping of my phone is drowned out by the smiling chorus girl on my laptop screen. She cheerfully barks instructions and I try to follow, my legs entangled in a web of colorful rubber bands. “Now lie on your side with one hand under your head,” she says, “like a mermaid!” As I pry open my thighs, the band rolls up on itself with a sweaty SNAP!
I glance at my phone and see the email glowing tantalizingly. Subject line: “callback.” I quickly shed the band and lunge for my phone. A callback. I open the email from my agent and devour the details.
RE: Callback
Lucy,
It’s me, Evelyn, your agent! You probably don’t remember me. Haha! I’m cute, but in, like, an artsy way. In case you forgot.
Anyway, just heard from the Davenport Family Summer Fun Summer Dinner Theatre– they’re calling you back for their season. They want 32 bars of a song and two monologues.
Tomorrow at Midtown Studios. 10 am, k? Don’t be late, and remember to wear compression tights so you look less pear-shaped. Break legs!
Evelyn Edgewater
Lead Agent
Edgewater Talent Agency and Gravel Solutions
My heart leaps. A callback! And for DSFFSDT? Maybe my luck was finally beginning to turn. All those mornings, waiting in line in 10 degree weather outside Midtown Studios with the other girls who I saw every day but pretended not to know me. Shoving my numb toes into tap shoes at 8:30 AM just to be told a curt “thanks.”
I scream a silent scream and rush to the drugstore. The semi-sheer extra-small control-top stockings beckon. They glow in the fluorescent light. “Hello, old friends,” I say. “Hello Lucy,” they seem to respond, “Stardom is just around the corner. And you’re looking snatched today. You’re not shaped like a pear. More like a sexy gourd.” I pay for the tights and head to bed.
***
The next morning, I’m on the Q train practicing my monologues. The man next to me is also muttering to himself, so I blend right in. I get in character for my piece, an excerpt from the experimental play, MotherMaidenWolf. I saw it last year off-off-off-broadway and I cried for three hours.
I am Svetlana, a Russian orphan.
My mother was eaten by bears. My father was a bear, but not the one who ate my mother. That was another bear.
I’ve been on my own since I was a child. I carve and sell pocket watches made out of wood to earn enough money to buy potatoes.
I receive a knock on my cottage door. It is a bear. Not my father OR the bear who ate my mother. A third, different bear. I fall hopelessly in love with him until he cheats on me and I devour him in a bowl of Borscht.
The wind is at my back as I make my way to Midtown Studios. The bulletin board in the lobby reads: “Davenport Family Summer Fun Summer Dinner Theatre, Room 24J,” but it might as well say “Lucy’s Big Break.” My soul ascends along with the elevator as we journey to the 24th floor.
As I sit in the holding room, I spot my nemesis, Lucie J. This year alone, she beat me out to play a dancing fork, a talking tree, and two French prostitutes. Her black leotard accentuates her modelesque collarbones, and her hair is elaborately braided. We make hate-filled eye contact for a brief moment, before her face transforms into a blinding grin.
“Lucy B!” she cries.
“Lucie J!” I echo.
“Fancy meeting you here!”
“It’s SO great to see you!”
“SO great”
“How’s your audition season going?” I ask brightly.
“SO SO great,” she replies, “I mean, super busy, I feel like I’m in callbacks every day. I barely have time to eat. But I’m so grateful to be able to do our Craft, you know?”
“Of course,” I say, “The Craft.”
“You have to let The Craft nourish you.”
“It’s such a privilege to be able to do The Craft.”
Finally, Lucie breaks eye contact. “Well, I’ve gotta go! I’m up next!”
“Break legs, you gorgeous star!” I say, wishing her hair would catch on fire.
“You too, beautiful angel!” she responds, “you’re just looking sooo healthy these days. It’s so brave.” She gives me a wink and strides into The Room.
After Lucie J. goes Tabitha, Melissa, Rebecca, and then it’s finally my turn. I hand my headshot to the audition monitor as she calls my name. I look down at my own beaming face on the paper. Just a few more moments of obscurity. Fame and fortune are closer than ever.
Inside The Room, there’s a long plastic table. Behind the table sit Dave and Debbie Davenport, the owners of the Davenport Family Summer Fun Summer Dinner Theatre. Neither looks up when I enter. That’s fine, I think, it’s like my acting coach always said: No one owes you their attention. You have to MAKE them listen to you.
“What have you got for us today?” says Dave. He slices a pear onto a piece of paper towel with a small paring knife.
“Svetlana’s monologue from MotherMaidenWolf.”
Debbie rolls her eyes. “Great,” she says, “that’s the third Russian today.”
I close my eyes, undeterred, and get into character. The audition room melts away until I am standing in a forest clearing. I smell pine needles, and I can taste the potatoes on my tongue. I say Svetlana’s words as if they are truly my own, as if I too have been abandoned in the forest with only an attractive bear for company. As I reach the final lines, a single tear slides down my cheek. “Oh, Mama,” I finish, “the bears are not our enemy. It was communism all along.”
I raise my eyes, deeply moved. Debbie looks at her phone. Dave munches on a pear slice.
“Lucy,” he says, “It just didn’t resonate. I’m not buying you as Svetlana.”
“It rang false,” says Debbie, a Candy Crush knock-off chirping under her fingertips.
I feel like I’ve been kicked in the stomach with a rusty tap shoe.
“Now Lucy,” continues Dave, “When we come into The Room to do The Craft, we must truly open ourselves to The Craft. I just felt like you were hiding. You know, hiding from The Craft.”
“And you’d look more like an ingenue if you lost a few pounds,” says Debbie.
No, I think, Nononono, that’s not how this was supposed to go.
“No,” I say out loud. Dave and Debbie look up, staring at me as if I was a three-headed Ethel Merman.
“That’s not true,” I say.
“How dare you,” replies Debbie, “that is very rude. Do you know how many girls would kill to spend the summer with us? In beautiful Sourdough Springs, Wisconsin? This is a career-making opportunity.”
“You’re wrong,” I say, looking at Dave, pleading with him to give me another chance.
“How can I be wrong? I’m Dave Davenport!”
It all comes crashing down. The studio apartment I share with 3 roommates. The student debt. The renowned acting coach who charges $250 an hour to tell me to roll around on the floor like a worm (and I am never “worm-like” enough). The agent who never calls except to try and sell me gravel. The compression tights. The Pear. The Craft. I feel it all building inside of me, burning and boiling and bubbling over. I feel the rage of every downtrodden actress, every college theater major, every forlorn Russian orphan. I fix my eyes on the table, on the small red paring knife next to the sliced pear. Pulsating with raw power, I imagine moving the knife with just the force of my mind. I picture it rising into the air with focused intensity. And so it does.
The little red knife flies up off the table and lodges itself in Dave Davenport’s neck. His eyes widen and he lets out a high-pitched shriek.
“Nice high note, Dave,” I say, “but you’re a little sharp.”
END.