I’m going to let the cat out of the bag here. This beloved kitty is not the one mentioned in the story below. This fabulous feline lives in the Bronx and belongs to a dear dancer friend of mine. Honestly, I do love cats. But sometimes, on the road to fame and fortune, you’ll have to deal with minor (or major) catastrophes (not necessarily involving cats, of course) and bizarre demands. This is not the time to pussyfoot around. Stay strong, make wise choices, and find yourself catapulted to new and glorious heights.
Please enjoy this excerpt from
by Kristi Lynn Davis
As suspected, Ashley’s home–a two-bedroom apartment on the 16th floor of a posh, Upper East Side high rise–was gorgeous.There was even a doorman to welcome me at the building entrance. A doorman! Ashley’s very thin, trendy, forty-something, divorced mom was an interior decorator, evidenced by the splendidly froufrou domicile. I was living in the lap of luxury, and all I had to do was water the plants, collect the mail, and feed the cat. What could be so bad about that?
The family had already left for Africa, so I was able to nose around at will. I marveled at the lifestyle so different from how I grew up. The kitchen appeared to be an afterthought and was about as big as a tiny, walk-in closet. On the walls hung framed menus collected from famous New York City restaurants. There was no place to sit in the kitchen and no dining room. Where did they eat? It appeared to be standing room only.
I guess that’s why the kitchen was so small: They didn’t cook. Oh, maybe they brewed an espresso, plopped a cocktail onion into a martini, or slathered cream cheese on a bagel. They didn’t even own a regular coffee maker. All I could find was a silver metal, two-story Italian contraption that sat on the stove like a teapot, but I couldn’t figure out how to use it. I assumed the family primarily ate their meals out or ordered in. Why cook when you have every restaurant and take-out delivery imaginable at your fingertips with a mere phone call? And really, New York socialites don’t eat anyway; do they?
Down the hall was what I quickly determined to be Ashley’s bedroom, which was where I was supposed to sleep. Her bookshelf was crammed with Broadway Showbills. “How lucky she is to be able to see any Broadway show she likes or pick from a smorgasbord of the world’s best dance classes on a daily basis,” I thought enviously. She was spoiled for culture. I sneaked a peek into the mother’s bedroom, which was draped in sexy shades of lipstick red and pink.The closet was lined with designer shoes stuffed with cobbler’s wooden inserts to keep them perfectly shaped. How glamorous her life was.
The living room furniture was so fancy-schmancy I was reluctant to sit on it for fear of doing damage and not being able to pay for repairs. In place of carpet, there was a rough, woven, jute floor-covering of sorts. It looked exotic but was scratchy as sandpaper. Everything screamed, “Look, but don’t touch!” I decided it would be safest to just avoid the living room altogether. Outside on the mini-balcony sat the small window-box herb garden I was responsible for watering. Peering over the edge of the balustrade, I gasped, suddenly startled by the feel of a furry creature rubbing against my leg. “Midnight! you scared me!” I bellowed at the black cat, which smugly walked away having effectively introduced himself. Was that a smirk on his face?
Jenny phoned to welcome me and to tell me more good news: “Mirmdance needs more dancers, and I got you an audition.” I was amazed and impressed by Jenny, who was already performing in two modern companies: Avodah, a company exploring Jewish themes; and Mirmdance, a fledgling troupe whose director was fresh out of NYU’s Tisch School of the Arts. “Mirm,” short for Miriam, the head of the company, was only a few years older than I was. I was excited and reluctant at the same time. “When is the audition?” “Tomorrow,” Jenny replied. “Tomorrow? I don’t think I’m ready to audition tomorrow,” I stammered. Jenny, of course, would have none of it. I was going whether I wanted to or not.
When I went to bed that first night, I feared every psycho in New York knew I was there alone and defenseless–a perfect murder victim. I carefully double-checked to make sure the front door was locked. There was security at the entrance, but what if some serial killer scaled the building like Spiderman and came in through the balcony? I didn’t want to become famous as a feature story on the evening news: “Gullible Midwestern Girl Slaughtered in her Sleep.”
I turned out the light and climbed into bed, trying to calm my nerves. Just as I was about to fall asleep, out of the darkness sprang the cat, which pounced directly on my head and scared me half to death. “Aaaaaa! Midnight, no!” After carefully prying his claws from my checks, I gently but firmly placed him on the floor, then laid back down and closed my eyes, heart still racing. Moments later, I was once again jolted awake by a facial cat-attack. “Get off!” I shrieked, my mouth full of feline fur. After a third assault awoke me from the world’s worst cat-nap, I locked him out of the room, feeling I had no other choice if I hoped to get any shut-eye before the big audition. The move proved pointless, however, because Midnight continually howled and scratched at the door. We had gotten off on the wrong foot or, well, paw.
The next morning, I dragged my groggy, pudgy, out-of-shape-after-a-month-of-gorging-myself-with-European-pastries body to the audition. I had never even tried modern dance before. Was I insane? The audition was held at 33 East 18th street on the seventh floor. My jaw dropped as I noticed the sign on the studio door: Nikolai Louis Dancespace. “Really? The famous modern choreographers Alwin Nikolai and Murray Louis?” In awe, I stepped into the sacred space of these cutting edge artists.
Jenny was already there warming up, a comforting sight. But I was shocked when I recognized another familiar face: Adam–also a former Impact Jazz dancer. Adam was a gay male Snow White—a porcelain-skinned, black-haired Adonis. Having danced together only one year before he graduated and left for New York, we were more acquaintances than friends, but we exchanged polite greetings. I wasn’t sure if he really remembered me from college or not. I was then introduced to Miriam, a sturdy, fair woman with tousled, super-short dark hair. “Let’s begin with Lucy’s Future,” she instructed her company. The dancers groaned. I wondered why. “Kristi, just jump right in and follow along.”
I was thrown into the middle of a scene showing a sexy siren surrounded by squid-like savages slinging their trailing tentacles. As members of the squid squad, we hurdled our bodies through space, threw ourselves to the floor, somersaulted, and groveled on our knees as we seduced the soloist in an oceanic orgy. This strenuous sea-spree lasted for hours. My body ached, and I cringed at how ridiculous I looked trying to move like the other mollusks. As foolish as I felt flailing, failing, and even occasionally succeeding at synchronized squid gymnastics, the experience paled in comparison to what was about to come next.
“Everyone take your positions in line,” ordered Miriam. “Kristi, go behind Adam and rub his butt.” “Do what?” I said in disbelief. I wasn’t hard of hearing, and she wasn’t joking. She actually wanted me to caress the gluteus maximus of the male monster in front of me. Maximally mortified, I massaged away, trying to pretend I was a horny sea creature. Luckily, Adam was no stranger, but we hardly knew each other well enough to fondle each others’ backsides. There aren’t many job interviews where you are instructed to stroke someone’s buttocks. (Or are there?)
I kept watching the clock, waiting for someone to tap me on the shoulder and release me from this tidal torture before I drowned. But no one did. When was this hellacious experience going to end? Unlike my first New York audition, this was an excruciating, bizarre company rehearsal into which I was blindly inserted. I felt like I had been thrown to the lions, or tossed overboard to the squids, in this case. We finally finished for the day, and Miriam announced the date and time of the next rehearsal.
By this time, I was so wet with sweat, limp, and out of breath, I looked like I had nearly gone to a watery grave. While gathering my belongings in my dance bag, I wondered to what extent I had embarrassed myself and Jenny, too. I was so out of shape, I had barely kept up with the others. Oh well. It was an experience. I had lived through it.
Jenny ran over to me. “Well, what did Mirm say? Are you in?” “Nothing. I don’t know,” I responded, my face red with overexertion. My mother taught me, “If you can’t say something nice, don’t say anything.” So when Miriam didn’t say a word to me, I accepted her reticence as a gesture of kindness, sparing me the scathing criticism I deserved after that harrowing performance. Jenny grabbed me by the hand. “Let’s go find out.” She dragged me over to Miriam and asked, “What about Kristi?” “Oh yeah, Kristi, you need to show up, too,” Miriam replied casually.
I was dumbstruck. My second day living in New York, and I had already been accepted into a dance company. A modern one, at that. I phoned home to tell my parents the good news. Maybe Miriam was simply desperate for bodies to complete her choreography, or perhaps she took pity on me, or both, but I didn’t care. I got the job!
Whatever happens, just remember….you are the cat’s meow! Thanks for reading. Bring your bagel and cream cheese and a cup of hot coffee and meet me here next week for another taste of modern dance.
Wiggle on,
Kristi
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