“Erika Lynsay Saunders,” I said, giving her my full name, which was required for Equity purposes. There had already been an Erika Saunders at some point, so I had to use my middle name professionally to avoid confusion.
“Thank you,” she said without looking up. “Here you go.”
She handed me a sheet of paper. Across the top, in bold print, read,My mistress’ eyes are nothing like the sun (Sonnet 130)–William Shakespeare.
“I think there may be a mistake,” I said. “I’m here for theBeyond Tomorrowcallback. This looks like a one-sheet for a Shakespeare audition.”
From the look she gave me, I wasn’t the first person who’d questioned this today. “You’re in the right place. When they’re ready for you, they’ll call you.”
Okay, then. I took the sheet over to a chair and started reading over the sonnet. Personally, I’m not a huge fan of poetry. Sure, I know it’s supposed to be lovely, but I don’t get it. I like things to be straight and to the point. Why do so many hidden metaphors and more profound meanings need to be buried in poetry? In college. I starred in a production ofW;t.The long, drawn-out passages about poetry nearly bored me to tears when I learned them. I’d never heard of John Donne and had never read his work before the show or after. If someone can place so much emphasis on a comma or semicolon, then I’m not that interested.
“Erika Lynsay Saunders,” a voice called, bringing me out of my haze.
I stood up and walked into the room. The table had been extended, and a few new faces sat at the table.
“Thank you, Ms. Saunders,” a middle-aged woman said as I entered the room. “We’re glad you join us for a callback so quickly.”
“I’m happy to be here,” I said. Even though I would have uttered that phrase if I hadn’t been happy to be there, I was genuinely glad to be in an audition room again. As anxiety-provoking as auditioning was, there was always something purely electrifying about the experience.
“I’m Rebekka Eldridge,” the woman continued. “I’m the lead producer on this project. For a little background, my late husband, Bernie, had the idea for this show years ago. Before he died, he’d been buying up real estate to build a brand-new Broadway theater. This show will be its first production.” She introduced everyone at the table. To her immediate left was the show’s director, Asier Zlota San Nicolás. I’d heard of San Nicolás. He’s a Spanish director who had made a name for himself in London’s West End. To his right was Divya Philomena Kappel, the show’s choreographer. Beyond those three new faces, the other faces were the ones I’d seen the previous day, the casting agent and the creative team.
When Eldridge finished introducing everyone, I said, “It’s a pleasure meeting all of you.”
I stood there awkwardly for a moment, not sure what to do. Finally, San Nicolás looked up from his legal pad and said, “Let’s begin.” He stood up and walked around to the front of the table, then leaned against it. “Today’s callback will not betraditional,“ he rolled thelfor added emphasis. “When you got here, you were given a simple sonnet from the grand maestro of the theater himself, William Shakespeare. I will have you read the sonnet to us, but either Ms. Kappel or me will call out directions. We want to see how you respond in the moment. So, let loose, and roll with the directions.”
“Okay,” I said. I tried to say it with as much assuredness as I could muster, but I really had no idea what the man meant.
San Nicolás clapped his hands together once and said, “Let’s begin!”
I sucked in a breath before reciting the first line, “My mistress’ eyes are nothing like the sun.”
“With anger,” San Nicolás said.
“Coral is far more red than her lips’ red,” I said in a guttural voice.
“With passion!”
“And with a lyrical body movement,” Kappel added.
“If snow be white, why then her breasts are dun,” I said, dropping into sultry. “If hairs be wires, black wires grow on her head.” I let my arms move fluidly as I received the lines. I wasn’t sure if I hit passion or not, but I went for it.
“Like you’re royalty.”
“With the grace of a ballerina.”
“I have seen roses damasked, red and white,” I stood taller, trying to remember how Helen Mirren looked when she embodied Queen Elizabeth inThe Audienceon Broadway. “But no such roses see I in her cheeks.”
“Like a New York Police Detective.”
“Make yourself larger than life.”
“And in some perfumes is there more delight,” I gritted out in a farcical Bronx accent. “Than in the breath that from my mistress reeks.”
“Like a mouse.”
“Move like a cartoon character.”
“I love to hear her speak, yet well I know,” I said, getting down on all fours and squeaking in a high falsetto. “That music hath a far more pleasing sound.”
