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“I don’t know why you’re nervous, Callie. Dorsey is a jackass, but even he has to see you should be executive director. You’ve earned this.”
Theater people are a rare breed. For the truest of us, it’s not about money or fame or getting our picture on the cover of People magazine—it’s about the performance. The show. It’s about Ophelia and Eponine, Hamlet and Romeo, or even chorus girl #12. It’s the magical connection with the audience, the smell of backstage—dust and makeup and costume fabric—the warm heat of the lights, the swoosh of the velvet curtain, the roll of the sets, and the clip-clap echo of shoes across a stage. It’s the piercing thrill of opening night, and the tear-wringing grief that comes with the closing performance. Behind the scenes or in front, cast or crew, stage left or right—there’s nothing I don’t love about it.
But for our newly retired executive director, Madam Lauralei? Not so much.
She was more concerned with her television production work on the side and her recurring voice-over role for a successful string of inflammatory bowel disease medication commercials than growing the company. Than putting in the time and energy to expand our audience and choose innovative projects that could turn us into a cultural fixture in Old Town, San Diego.
But I could change all that. As executive director, I’d be equal to the artistic director, below only the founder, Miller Dorsey, who enjoys the prestige of owning a theater company but tends to take a hands-off approach in the actual running of it. I’d have a say in budgets and schedules, marketing and advertising and how our resources are allotted. I would fight for the Fountain, because it’s a part of me, the only place I’ve ever worked since college. I would throw down like the Jersey girl I am—get in faces, bribe, barter, and blackmail if I had to. I’ve got the experience, the skills, and the determination to make this company the powerhouse I know it can be.
I want this position—I want it bad. And that’s why I’m so nervous. Because the harder you reach for something, the more it hurts when you end up slapping the pavement with your face.
Mrs. Adelstein, Miller Dorsey’s secretary, comes out into the hall. “Miss Carpenter? He’s ready for you now.”
Cheryl gives me the thumbs-up and Bruce smiles. I take another deep breath, then follow Adelstein through the office door, hearing that steady, strong voice in my head.
“You got this, Callie.”
~ ~ ~
“Wooooohooo!” My lips pucker as I down a fourth lemon-drop shot. “I can’t believe I got it!”
“Of course you got it, girlfriend!” Cheryl yells, even though we’re standing right next to each other.
We started out at a hip, too-cool-for-school wine bar—because that’s where thirtysomethings are supposed to go to celebrate. But we end up at a dirty dive bar in the seedy end of town because that’s where the real fun is.
The large, burly bartender with tattooed arms as big as my head gives Cheryl a smile from beneath his bushy blond beard as he pours us another round. Cheryl catches his smile and bats her false eyelashes.
But they get stuck together, so the overall effect is less flirty, more seizure-like.
Bruce is in the back corner, chatting up a friendly, middle-aged blonde in a tank-top and leather pants. He’s charming, suave with the ladies . . . but he also has the “nice guy” curse. It’s awful and stereotypical—but true. Bruce is too polite—there’s no edge to him, no excitement. I should know. He and I tried dating when we first met, years ago, but it was quickly apparent that the only spark for either of us was a friendship ember.
With one eye open, Cher turns to me, lifting her shot glass. “I just thought of something! This means you can finally move out of that rinky-dink building that’s teeming with piss-poor graduate students and move into that place you’ve been creaming over for years—the one with the seals!”
I still live in the same apartment I lived in my senior year of college. But I’ve been saving up, year by year, little by little, for a down payment on a beautiful two-bedroom, ocean-front condo in La Jolla.
There’s one unit in particular, with a balcony and perfect view of the rocks where seals come to sun every afternoon. It’s peaceful and magical—my dream home.
Excitement buzzes up from my toes, spreading through my body, and I feel just like Kate Hudson in Almost Famous.
“It’s all happening!” I pick up my glass, sloshing a bit of cloudy liquid because I’m literally bouncing.
And scary-bartender-man raises a glass for himself, toasting with us. “To the seals. Love those fuzzy little fuckers.”
~ ~ ~
As the night winds on, me, Cheryl and Bruce get the kind of drunk they make montages out of in the movies. Life is reduced to snapshots of moments—moments like Bruce swinging his ascot over his head like a helicopter blade, like Cheryl dancing on a chair . . . right before she falls off of it, like the three of us forming a personal conga-line and choo-chooing around the bar as “C’Mon Ride the Train” plays from the speakers.
