So Ryan and I had callbacks the other day for a great show at a great regional theatre, which shall go unnamed to protect the poor heroine of my tragic tale, just in case she stumbles on this blog one day. We were called back to sing and read scenes from this particular show, which was made very clear to us by the casting people when they gave us all the info we needed. The girls called back for my role were also asked to prepare a specific song on guitar. Cool right? Right. It was great.
So we’re there waiting, along with a bunch of other Ryan-looking boys and Chelsea-looking girls with guitars, and I start chatting with one of the girls. Turns out she didn’t read the callback instructions right, and prepared a random guitar song, rather than the one from the show. Well, she was off and running. You could see the terror on her face during the conversation, and shortly after, she was called into the room.
She spends about 3 minutes in the room, comes out, and loud and clear says, “I forgot all the music I practiced on my guitar!” The room went silent, and everybody turned to stare. She walked over to her bag, knelt down to get her stuff, and all of a sudden, starts sobbing. LOUDLY. Everyone was watching and completely quiet, and here’s this crazy girl, bawling out in public, in front of God and everyone (including the audition monitor!), with absolutely no shame. So what do you do? You don’t just let this poor girl next to you cry away without consoling her, right? So I got sucked in. Here’s how the convo went:
Me: “Are you okay, honey?”
Her: “NO! (sob sob) I worked really hard on this and they didn’t even let me sing anything from the show and I didn’t know what song (sob sob) they wanted on the guitar and Iiiiiaaaauuuuugggghhhh…”
Me: “I know, it sucks, but there are a million auditions next week, and the week after, and the week after that.”
Her: “I know but I worrrrrrrked so HHHHAAAARRRRD! (SOB SOB)”
*Cue two fat black mascara tears, one out of each eye, rolling down her face to her chin. She let them stay there.*
Me: “It’s okay, you just gotta forget about it and move on.”
Helpful guy next to me: “Yeah, don’t let it get to you.”
*Note that this is really a translation for “Get over it, crazy. Pull it together and go take a bubble bath.”*
So I go to get this hot mess some tissue so she can at least cry in dignity without mascara on her face. I do that, come back, she thanks me, and marches directly over to the monitor’s table. Inside I was screaming “NOOOOOO!!!!!” But now I can admit that I sort of wanted to watch the fireworks at this point. So she gives the whole spiel to the monitor (who couldn’t care less), comes back, goes over again and complains some more, comes back, packs up her stuff, and before leaving, goes to the monitor one last time: “Will you (sob sob sob) tell them (wipe tear, sob) what I said?!?!?”
I don’t know what the monitor replied, but what I do know is that Little Miss Mascara will never, ever work at this unmentioned regional theatre — EVER.
Keep it together, kids. And if you can’t keep it together, maaaaaybe consider a career change. Just saying.