 hrough
double
doors my partner, Eve Rumsik and I step into a long and crowded hall -
hazy with cigarette smoke. We have come to Los Angeles in June 1929 to
audition for Fanchon and Marco, producers of vaudeville shows that play
at Fox and Paramount movie theaters around the nation. At the far end
of
the room a tinny-sounding piano beats out "Ain't We Got Fun?" in broken
rhythm. A boy-and-girl team tap out a fast buck routine. Near the piano, a dark-haired young woman holding a stick sits on a raised dais. Apparently the tryouts have started early. We attempt to make our way to the dressing room, stepping between and over the sitting or lounging bodies, frequently stopping to nudge bare legs out of our way. All these people to try out! Why, we’ll be here all night! The pointer strikes the floor. Music stops. “Sorry,” the woman on the dais says to the tap dancers. Thank you." Then she looks out and raises her voice to call "Green and Marty?" I look at the faces of the tappers and swallow hard. No, visible change occurs in the hall. No sign that something momentous has just happened to two people. Doesn't anyone see the stricken look on the face of the dancer as she treks off toward the dressing room? Her partner gathers music from the piano, his shoulders slumped, his body once so agile and alive with music, suddenly ages in the brief silence. Gosh, will this happen to us? They've been replaced by two young men. One is explaining the music to the pianist. Now they swing into a soft shoe. It come's over me that this happens every Monday, that it goes on into the night. Here in this cruel loft with its yellowish light cast from brassy side fixtures, a room smelling of cigarette smoke, perspiration and heady perfume, people come with their polished dreams - polished like ours by years of sacrifice and work - only to have hope destroyed in three words. "Thank you. Next" I want to leave, I know we won't make it. I must get out, before I, too, am destroyed. I clutch Eve's arm, but she has paused to whisper to an attractive girl. "This is Mary,"' Eve whispers. "She says we're not likely to be called for hours. But we might as well change. Of course it"s too late to leave now. I should have known how many would be here - how small our chances were - before we left home. I try to swallow, but my mouth is dry as I take another sweeping glance around the hall at our competition. A group of youngsters, surely not out of junior high, dressed in obviously homemade costumes, huddle together near the entrance, giggling and whispering, In contrast, along the back wall girls with overly painted faces lounge and smoke, appearing bored with it all. Some wear mangy furs on this hot evening. Up front, a newsboy in patched pants too tight for his round bottom drops his canvas bag of papers and, without music, breaks into a buck-and-wing. Surprisingly good. DANCE MAGAZINE September 1997 |