Chapter 1 Pandoras Box Part 4

The Casting Director goes through a long list of boys names and finishes with “Geoffrey Doig-Marx, please stay.“ “The rest thank you very much”

I am asked to stay with about twenty boys from the first group of fifty.  “You will dance some more and then sing”, says the Director standing up facing us.  I turn and gather up my stuff and walk back into the hallway.  The next group is waiting to come in, they scan our eyes to see how the combination went.  “Are you staying?” a friend asks, all the boys in line are looking at me.  “I am!” I answer and continue walking.

I run down the stairs and out the front door of the studios.  I hit the street with my cigarette already in my lips.  I know that I may have many more hours before I will have to dance again, I can probably smoke a pack in that time.

Dancers who were cut begin to leave.  I say my goodbyes blowing smoke in the air as they pass.  “Good luck” they respond.

I smoke close to five cigarettes before I get buzzed back into the building and run up the stairs.  I wander around ‘The holding room’ saying my hello’s to the various survivors.

Hours pass as group after group enters the room.  I lay on my back with my feet in the air, propped on a wall.

I’m called back into the room with the rest of the people who have been asked to stay.  We learn several more combinations and dance late into the afternoon.  I get to stay after several cuts and now I’m sent back into the hall, it’s my turn to sing.

I can tell you that most people in our business spend their time training as either a dancer, actor or singer.  We all dabble in the various different forms of our art but we tend to excel in one form.  Singing has always brought a certain amount of fear into my heart.  I love to do it but I don’t count it as my foray.  It could be that people have told me that my singing sucks, it tends to stay in your head.

I will be third to sing and my stomach is lurching in my body.  I walk to the drinking fountain and swallow several gulps of water.  I look out the window and wish that I had been asked to swallow swords instead of being asked to sing.

The second person enters the room and I know that I am next.  My mind races as I look over my music.  “Act the song” my meddling brain yells.

“Next!” yells someone from inside the room.  I look around and realize that it’s me they are talking to.  I enter the room, look at the table where they are all sitting.  I smile and head to the piano.

I place my music on the piano and go over the tempo with the pianist.  I slowly walk to the center of the room.  The table is looking at me, the Director is absently tapping his pencil on the table.  I can hear the thump, thump, thump as the eraser hits.

I tell them what song I will be singing, they smile back with blank looks on their faces.  I nod my head and the piano comes to life.  I open my mouth and I see the people at the table put their hands up to their ears.  Blood begins to run down their cheeks, their mouths are twisted in agony.  I continue singing.  The table is writhing in pain.  I keep on singing.  I finish and just as the image of them being tortured comes, it goes.

They actually look pleasant and happy.  “Do you have anything else?” asks the Director.  I sing two more songs.

“Thank you”, says the collective table.  “Could you wait in the hall until were done hearing everyone?” “Of course” I say.  I head out the door as they call in the next boy.  I quickly run back down the stairs and light up another cigarette.

Another two hours pass and we are asked to come back in.  We are handed sides of the script and sent back into the hall.  This is one of my favorite things to do.  I am a quick study and better at remembering lines. I immediately look for the truth and the jokes.

to be continued...........

Geoffrey Doig-Marx holds all written and electronic rights to his writting "Not Only Magic Floats". It can not be reprinted in part or whole without his written consent.