Waiting for My Callback

WAITING FOR MY CALLBACK

  by

  Joe Micik

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  PUBLISHED BY:

  Waiting for My Callback

  Copyright © 2011 by Joe Micik

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  WAITING FOR MY CALLBACK

  This is what I didn’t get to say when leaving a voicemail at your office earlier today. Bear with me.

  Ever since I was a little girl growing up in New Jersey, my parents told me that one day, I’d be a star. I have no reason to doubt them, as my parents are stars themselves. Well sure, they aren’t stars now, since they’ve retired with distinction, but thirty years before I was born, they were getting big roles on Broadway. Enormous roles, in fact. My dad even got a part as an extra in a big Hollywood movie. I’m so proud of their accomplishments, and I know that they’re proud of me.

  I have known for my entire life of twenty-seven years that my calling in life is to be an actress; there is nothing in the world that can change that. My parents have told me, and I agree with them wholeheartedly, that I have been bred for the sole purpose of entertaining others, and to be perfectly honest, I’m the best actress I know.

  My mother and father got me involved with the inner workings of the stage at a young age, and over the last fifteen years, ever since I was a student in junior high, I have been advancing steadily towards my goal of stardom. My first role was very humble indeed, being a member of the ensemble of a musical production. Of course, I was very upset about it, because I thought I killed the audition and was sure to get the lead; the director called me and said “Sally, you’re great, lovely, talented, and the best actress I have ever seen in all my days of directing junior high drama” – and no, I’m not embellishing even a little bit, I swear – “but I think you would be best suited to more of a behind-the-scenes role.” In my indignation, I wailed at him, wondering what that bitch Linda Marshall had on me. He reiterated how wonderful an actress I am, which in the long run was good enough for me, and it only pushed me harder to succeed. Now, I look back on it as a character-building experience.

  I had a few more of those character-building roles throughout the rest of junior high and into high school, but success was just around the corner. You see, my father, the acclaimed thespian who was a bona fide Hollywood actor, and don’t you forget it, taught theater at the community college in my town. He was also the faculty coordinator and director for the collegiate drama club. With my exceptional acting talent, I could have gone anywhere – Columbia, Yale, Harvard – but again, I showed my humility and went to community college and worked with my father as part of a dynamic duo.

  We Houghtons always stick together, and it’s gotten us far in life. I knew that in staying and working with my father, a Tony-worthy actor with decades of theatrical experience, by the way, he would help me go further than any of those big-name schools could. In the fall semester of my freshman year, I tried out for the winter one-act play, and since my audition was so tremendously good, my father gave me the lead. In fact, my skills had developed so amazingly that I got the lead in every play I tried out for during my first three years at college, whether the part was male or female. It was thrilling to act in front of what I assume were packed houses: the audience was dark and I couldn’t see out beyond the stage, but I’m sure there were many people coming to see me work my magic. I heard some audience members whispering and coughing, so obviously they were crowds.

  I noticed, however, that jealousy of my brilliance began to get the better of my fellow actors towards the end of college. Fewer and fewer people auditioned for plays, which only meant one thing: more parts for me! I showed my versatility in mastering several roles and doing quick costume changes, but I digress. I could do that here if you wanted, too. I’ve always wanted to do a one-man show.

  Back to the theatrical traitors: some of them went rogue and started their own pathetic little acting group on campus. They said to me that things were unfair in the drama club, to which I replied, “well, if you wanted the lead, maybe you should have taken it upon yourself to become a more professional actor like me” and “trust me, my father, Glen Houghton, accomplished man of stage and screen, knows talent when he sees it.” I know what I’m talking about; have I mentioned yet just how accomplished he is? Anyway, in their clouded judgment, they went off and did their own thing. If you’d like, I can furnish you with a list of their names so you know never to work with them, though you have already met one, and I’ll get to her in a moment.

  By senior year, things started to change. My father left the drama club at the university, despite my begging him to tell the school he wanted to return. I reminded him that we Houghtons always stick together, but he was adamant, saying he knew when it was time to “get off the stage,” so to speak. He is and remains a man of incredible clarity and talent. Now, the “official,” and I use the term very loosely, word from the school was that he was dismissed, but I know the truth that he wasn’t fired. To prove my point, he even told me that he said to the dean, “you can’t fire me; I quit.”

  Unfortunately, however, this meant that the dramatic dissidents returned during my final year at school, and the new director wasn’t nice at all. During my first and only audition with her, I acted my ass off, pouring everything I had into that scene, and in her obvious inferiority, she could not truly embrace or comprehend the outstanding talent she saw. In fact, I think I was so good that she was in fear: in fear that she, the new, insecure adult director, might be overshadowed by me, the strong, independent young actress with a Broadway pedigree and a clear path to stardom. That’s why, as you may have unfortunately heard from Cathy Nelson, one of the jealous traitors who was also there in our presence, the new director told me during that audition that I was “godawful.” No, I wasn’t: she’s godawful at directing, and my experienced father would be the first to tell her that. As a matter of fact, she gracelessly said that my father is a “washed-up hack.” My father was in ten Broadway shows and she was only in eight; who the hell does she think she is? You, on the other hand, are a very pleasant person and a brilliant mind; you would doubtlessly be met by my great father with praise, and surely, you disagree with her assessment of my shining work. I’m also sure you found Cathy’s audition as revolting as I did.

  I didn’t want to act with those people in school again, anyway, so when I was offered the role of “Ethel the Mute Maid,” I told her to take her part and shove it. In fact, I took accelerated courses and graduated a semester early. I’m sure their drama club’s performance attendance suffered greatly without me on stage. Let’s face it: I was the glue holding the operation together, and the rest of them couldn’t act their way out of a collective paper bag.

  Then, out on my own for the first time, I moved here to New York City and started trying out for all of the best new shows, including this one. On the side, I’ve done some off-Broadway acting; sure, some of the parts were well beneath me, but it showed my commitment to this career, and I didn’t have to act alongside duplicitous hacks like Cathy in college. In fact, most recently, I was in this wonderful off-Broadway production. Alright, technically, it was up in Orange County in a dinner theater, but that’s still legitimate. You can call them; they’ll tell you how good I was. Hell, I’ll have them call you; I found your cell phone number through an internet search engine. You’d be okay with that, right?

  I had my parents make some phone calls on my behalf to all of their contacts in the industry – you know, to find out where the roles best befitting someone of my talent were – but most of them didn’t even bother to return their calls. I tell ya, some people in showbiz are really arrogant, pompous, catty and bitchy; I’m glad I’m not like that
.

  I know you’re not either, sir. I know that you, as an acclaimed director in your own right, know talent when you see it, just like my father, Glen Houghton, of whom you have probably heard. That’s why I’m writing this e-mail to you today: to remind you of all the bright-shining and outstanding talent I displayed in the audition, to tell you about my courageous struggle to the top of the theatrical world, and to say that quite frankly, your show needs me. There wasn’t anybody else on that stage who could do what I could; I truly set myself apart with my effulgence and ebullient joie de vivre. I bet none of the other “actors,” if that’s what they’re calling themselves now, at that audition could even tell you what those words mean.

  Now, I know what you’re thinking, and yes, rest assured that I share your feelings: the audition was just a mere formality.

  I anxiously await my callback. I’m a little surprised you’ve taken so long, since the audition was two weeks ago, but I will be waiting by my phone for you to give me the good news. You won’t regret giving me the lead; I promise. In fact, if you can send me the script now, I’ll be off-book within a week. I look forward to our first rehearsal. If I don’t hear from you by this time tomorrow, I’ll assume you simply didn’t get this e-mail and will send again.

  Most sincerely yours,

  Sally Houghton

  Professional Actress

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