"Focus."
The word hisses past your clenched teeth when you give yourself a stern reminder to stay calm and collected. To overcome the tremble in your fingertips that is making it impossible to buckle your metal roller skates to the sole of your almond-toe patent loafers. To breathe past the paralyzing malady of anticipation, "Christ's sake, melvin. Focus."
"Did I just hear you call yourself a 'melvin?'" Nettie pokes her head out of the kitchen, a spatula in one hand and her lengthy hair wound up in empty orange juice cans to give the ends their trademark flirtatious flip, "go easy on yourself. I've seen you practice. I can't imagine anyone getting this part over you."
She watches you lean against the wall in the foyer as you fumble with your skate attachment, the burnt orange leather strap that loops around your ankle giving you some difficulty as you try several times to shake out your hand and ground yourself. Nettie tosses the egg-coated spatula onto the counter before pacing towards you and dropping to her knee, swatting you away in protest as she slips the tail end of the strap through the frame of the buckle. She rises to her feet once your skates are secured and smiles in an effort to calm you, your appreciation slipping out in a quiet "thank you" as you tuck a stray hair behind your ear.
Nettie licks her fingertips and slicks back a couple flyaways from your forehead before brushing off your peter pan collared blouse. She takes two steps back and admires how put-together and adorable you look with your pleated mini skirt grazing your bare thighs, "that skirt is choice. You look like sex on wheels."
You blush when you gather your lime green shopper bag from the ground before slinging it over your shoulder and digging around for your habitual sweet treat from the front pocket. Inside the bag you've neatly packed and double checked all of the necessary items for your audition; your resume and photographs, a bodysuit and tights, a pair of soft-soled ballet slippers, warm ups, bobby pins and about a half dozen lollipops. The hard candy nestles in past your teeth as you twirl the stick between your fingers, the flavor of artificial cherry soaking your tongue and aiding in reducing your stress with a breath of familiarity, "it's not too much?"
Your roommate shakes her head and decides not to add any more information to your already whirling thoughts, "nope, it's perfect. You sure you don't want a ride? Or a cheerleader?"
You consider her offer for a moment before pushing it to the back of your mind. You need space to mentally review your choreography and the points you plan to express in the interview in order to win over the famed aerialist with a notorious and impressive reputation in just a matter of minutes, "nah, I need the time to clear my head." You roll your lips into your mouth and pause, powerless in stopping the waterfall of doubt from trickling out, "Nettie, what if I uprooted my entire life and moved here only to be rejected-"
"Don't. If you're rejected then a better opportunity will present itself because that's how life works. But that's not gonna happen because you're outta sight. You're getting this role. Okay?"
You try to forget how you tossed and turned the entire night, how you could hardly keep any breakfast down this morning and remind yourself that you've performed under similar dire circumstances in the past. Without waiting for a response, Nettie springs forward and wraps you in a hug, the cold tin cans in her hair pressing against your cheek before she backs off again with a soft squeeze to your shoulders.
You spin on your wheels and crack the front door open before taking one last look at your newfangled living space, "okay." You want to have faith, but at the same time it feels dangerous to get your hopes up, "root beer floats on me if I make it."
"I can already taste them."
The wheels under your feet repetitively click over the wooden slats of the boardwalk as you careen a path towards the location of your upcoming audition; a static circus building that includes the theatre and rehearsal space just two miles north of your duplex. The sun is risen and people are out enjoying the perpetual sunshine of the coastal California city, dog leashes wrapped around their wrists or their hands entangled with loved ones.
Most other modern circuses have taken on a touring caravan model since the nineteenth century thanks to the likes of Barnum & Bailey, where the entirety of the circus, including the buildings, performers and animals are packed up and reallocated from city to city. You were immediately drawn to Rusty Buchanan's Circus Extravaganza the moment you read about it in the newspaper for its assimilation of a commitment to timeless standards as well as a new take on tradition, wherein the performance conveys a holistic story or theme. It reminds you of something you're extremely well-versed in; a fantasy narrated by the perfectly rehearsed sway of dozens of bodies to invoke emotion from a crowd of curious onlookers.
The ringleader Russell, or Rusty, has concocted a groundbreaking idea to tell a fable by merging established ballet performance with that of circus exhibition. Music, costume and light design are being reimagined and he's diminished most of the former animal involvement, as activists were beginning to give traveling circuses well-deserved heat for the mistreatment of their zoological performers.
The role that you're auditioning for in particular is the famed trapeze act, rumored to be a spectacular culmination of all of the acts preceding it. A sought after position in the circus, one in which only the most prestigious athletes are awarded and the prize is to be the center of the climax that stuns and dazzles the audience. There have been murmurings of Rusty's ingenious reinvention of this final scene, all created with one particular aerialist in mind who is now in need of a female counterpart with a reliable dance pedigree.
It was being publicized in the media as the first of its kind, plus it was receiving worldwide attention for the resurgence of the infamously renowned trapeze artist who mysteriously disappeared for a year following a season finale back in 1963. Rumor has it that he packed up his belongings and fell off the grid when he skipped town without a single trace left behind, only to re-emerge here in Malibu with a grand announcement of his long-awaited return.
You had considered your career as a ballet dancer long departed when you were forced to drop out of college with only a few months remaining of your program. It's not something that you like to mentally trudge through very often; it was traumatic enough to lose several prospective opportunities at esteemed ballet companies as well as the one thing you spent years upon years pouring your heart and soul into. It was a helpless situation that nearly drove your determined and industrious personality mad with scrutiny, until a lightbulb flickered to life with the happenstance conception of translating your expertise to a different but similar field.
After you left college, you took a couple depressing months living at home with your parents until you came across this newspaper article on a whim. It made sense to you to construct the wrecked shambles of your life into something completely different. A sunny change of scenery, a place where everyone seemed carefree and content. Far away from anyone you'd ever known. It was a bold move for someone like you who takes comfort in ritual and consistency, but if you were ever going to break the shackles of your conservative upbringing, it would have to be far away from the small town where your roots were beginning to tangle and cluster into a pot-bound knot that halted your growth.
You can feel the circus building before you actually see it, it's wild energy mixed with salty air wafting under your chin and through your hair. Much like an invisible cartoon hand manifesting from the breeze, unfurling to curl a beckoning finger towards you and gliding your wheels to an abrupt stop where the cement pathway meets the boardwalk. You crane your neck to take in the grandiose setting; it's built in the style of the classic big top tents from the turn of the century, except it is everlasting and extravagant with steadfast promise of sheer beguilement.
The facade is circular and oblong, nearly the size of a full race track from end to end with a wooden tower that ascends into a keen peak towards the clouds. The crown is finished off with several flags fluttering like an exaltation of larks in the harsh sea breeze, each representing different countries of the performer's origins and punctuated by prideful rainbows. Large pillars of marble decorate the front entrance and above several sets of double doors, an unlit fluorescent sign with the words Circus Extravaganza written in whimsical cursive.
The building sucks you in on your wheels, your head falling back as you crane your chin towards the sky for a comprehensive view from where you now stand close up. The details must have been imagined by an illustrator of children's fairy tales or the pastry chef of elegantly frosted three-tiered wedding cakes; fluffy pipings of vanilla and chocolate from corner to corner, fondant promises of caprice and impulse, a scattering of toothsome flower petals, a gingerbread house that provides sanctuary for witches and wayward youngsters.
Your fingertips first tentatively brush, then dig for a response into the ornate carvings along the nearest column, your psyche lost in a cyclone of fantasy for half a moment as you inhale the ghostly healing elixir of baited breath squeezed from the throbbing heart of a crowd.
The perfect job. A final, desperate opportunity to possess the art of dance. A chance to emend. The start of a promising and life-changing career.
Labor and kismet; you own them both.
You shrink a couple inches but gain grounding once the skate attachments are removed from your loafers, your rubber soles carrying you down a long and equally as remarkable hallway. The ceilings are tall but have a cozy, tented feel with their adornment of hundreds of overturned, pastel umbrellas hanging by their curved handles. Typically the sight of so many open canopies would bring a cloak of unease to most, but you get the sense that so many of one thing cancels out their former superstition. As if nailing the notion into the ground creates something different entirely; hope where there was once fear. An aisle of airy opportunity and open arms. Beating the odds by simply stampeding them.
Hand painted signs with curled arrows direct you further into the building where auditions are being held. A few twists and turns lead you to a set of tall double doors, your fingers gripping around an extravagantly large door handle that seems to be leading you to the Wizard of Oz himself. The giant barricade creaks as it peels open and the moment your feet cross the threshold, dozens of quiet murmurings from behind the door zip to an unnatural halt.
Rows of chairs line three walls in a u-shaped formation, all but one filled with a different pair of stunning legs bouncing with anxiety and a pursed mouth to top it off. Every woman in the room silently judges your talent based on sight alone and it pains you to admit that you're doing the same exact thing. You roll your shoulders back and struggle to push the notion down in order to keep it from staining your self-confidence and your perceived capacity. Hard work and destiny; you own them.
Each set of eyes follows you into the only available chair as you sink in without a sound, in the way that a mechanical arm in a factory line-up would fill in a blank space with its product. You glance over your right then left shoulder, nodding to your contenders with a tight-lipped smile that goes unreturned. It feels like a test of emotional strength, imagining that they are all decoys with the purpose of making you even more nervous than you already are. Your legs begin to join the bout of tense bobbing as women are called back into the other room one by one, the door slamming shut to protect an open-ended shroud of mystery as to what's happening behind the overt and blank, sealed vestibule.
Ten, twenty, thirty minutes pass and women continue to disappear through the cryptic aperture, yet never return, which makes it impossible to gauge the progress of the try-outs. The waiting room empties out and with the removal of each body your heartbeat becomes more and more palpable. You imagine them being funneled through a narrow and seedy back exit, blinded by sunlight when the door is kicked open to deposit them back to the real world. Either that or they're just being consumed whole, but neither option feels very enjoyable to explore.
This time when the door opens up you know that it's your turn before the agent clutching a teal plexiglass clipboard can call out the first syllable of your name. You're wishing now that Nettie was here to send you off with one final wish of good luck, but the taste of root beer floats bubbling in the back of your throat provides you with enough fortitude to propel yourself out of your seat.
A handful of footsteps down a short, echoing hallway and you're deposited into your final location; a space that clearly doubles as a practice area with mats sprawled on the floor, ballet barres lining the mirrored walls and a few knotted ropes hanging from the ceiling. All of the air is sucked out of the space when you step inside, the walls and flooring absorbing any sound and creating such a muffled atmosphere that your ears begin to ring.
At the far end of the room are two men sitting behind a table in folding chairs, one of them clearly much older than the other and the former instantly much friendlier as well.
"Come in, come in!"
It only takes three rapid blinks to recognize the younger of the two.
The man with a full head of snow white hair and a bushy mustache to match stands to his feet with his hand outstretched, "I'm Russell Buchanan and this is-"
You complete his sentence for him, but your throat is so tight that you're unsure if anyone besides you hears when you squeak, "Harry Styles." The world famous trapeze artist. The world famous surf troll.
The grainy headshot from the newspaper article that announced auditions over two months ago, the maliciously flirtatious interaction from the beach just yesterday afternoon and the man in front of you all coalesce violently, your internal organs scooped clean like the inside of a vulnerable jack-o-lantern. Your stringy, pulpy insides are haphazardly tossed to the ground, the hot pink molten lava from the tip of Harry's cigarette lights your empty shell from the inside out.
You shake Rusty's hand but your gaze is focused on the brooding stunner to your right, dressed in a simple, black collared button-down with his hair shadowing his luminous eyes in the way a leafy tree blocks sunlight from the grass below. The chase and the hunt is immediately reawakened as though the original impression was seared into your eyelids: a bloodthirsty bird of prey tracking you up top, a poisonous lupine berry down below. Deceptively lush; one forbidden taste would destroy you.
His sight is suctioned daringly to your face and pulling a crimson stain to your cheeks, one of his arms crossed over his chest as he picks at the skin around his fingernails in perturbed resistance, the other elbow resting casually and surrounding him in a veil of pink smoke. He doesn't extend his hand for a greeting and you swallow his detectable cue of indifference, instead dragging your sweaty palm down the front of your skirt to smooth out any invisible wrinkles there.
The room falls silent with tension and the luscious scent of warm cotton candy.
You're reduced to embarrassed shreds about the way you spoke to him when you first met yesterday. Prior to today, you'd only seen one photo of him in a newspaper and your encounter on the beach was out of context, so you didn't connect the dots. You're typically well-prepared and researched for any situation you put yourself in. You feel beyond daft for not recognizing him upon your initial meeting, but you chalk it up to situational confusion.
Harry reaches across the table and stubs the butt of his cigarette into an ashtray, then slips a stick of gum from his shirt pocket and pops it into his mouth. You take note of his soft pack of smokes laying on the table, reading the title of the brand dubbed 'Crush' scrawled across the label. The filters of his cigarettes lay in a heap in the small receptacle, a tiny red heart carved from the center of each one that mocks the stillness of your own life muscle and the very lack of love that you're presently experiencing. His gaze flicks down to your shiny, patent loafers and very slowly crawls upward, his jaw working the sweet morsel that he inflates into a perfectly taut, coral bubble that's precisely two shades lighter than his lips.
You try to smooth the feathers that you had unintentionally ruffled during your impromptu meeting at the beach with a defenseless, exposed nod and timid smile, "hi again-"
As soon as Harry is addressed, his eyes narrow and his eyebrows pull together into a frown, his hardened stare finally landing on your face when the bubble pops loudly and a scoff leaks through the resin, "can't exactly do much physical activity in an outfit like that."
You can't even think quickly enough to formulate a defense, you're forcibly thrown off guard by his immediate adjournment and the stinging awareness that you may have ruined your opportunity at this position due to your blissful ignorance on the beach yesterday. He must assume after that dreadful interaction that you would be a pill to work with and you acknowledge that you were a bit snarky, but so was he.
Usually your air of hard-working diligence and confidence comes across quite clearly to most and it angers you that there is a shaky hint of trepidation in your voice that you can't wash down, "I don't have a ton experience in the circus - just a few aerial classes - but I'm a proficiently trained ballet dancer and ex-gymnast. I catch on quickly and I'm a really strong, professional performer-"
Your chest pinches painfully and your intuition told you to dress more professionally, but you'd decided to ignore it. Again. You had taken the advice from Nettie and although it was unlike you, you assumed since you were trying out with a male partner that perhaps it wouldn't hurt if he were instantly attracted to you in order to assist in acquiring the role. But now it's obvious that this outfit has achieved the opposite effect. Or worse yet, perhaps it's not even the outfit at all, but rather your hellcat demeanor yesterday afternoon, "I'm sorry- um... I thought this was just an initial interview and then the audition would be afterwards."
"You thought wrong. Don't bother coming back for auditions." Your skirt is too pleated and polished, your hair too tidy, your ankles too delicate, your makeup too perfect. It was wrong, it was all wrong, "next!"
The word 'dismissive' comes to mind, but Harry doesn't see it as a negative aspect of his personality. In this line of work, one has to be cutthroat in order to carry out the caliber of this job properly. Regardless of the prospective's delicate sensibilities.
Rusty tries to intervene with a quiet, personal directive, "Harry, not again-"
He should have known that something was wrong this morning when Harry walked into auditions in head-to-toe black, in lieu of his usual warm, fiery, sunny, floral, sparkling, magnetic attire, with a permanent frown and a puckered lip marring his otherwise handsome features.
"I didn't come here to teach anyone the ropes of the circus, Rusty. No." He leans back in his chair and folds his hands when his gaze burns into yours and his harsh banishment rumbles right through you, "next."
You narrow your eyes and dig the manila folder from your bag containing your resume and several photographs including headshots and some taken from your stage performances. You take one step forward and toss it onto the table in front of Harry and Rusty, spinning on your heel with your ponytail whipping around and storming towards the exit with tears strangling your chest. You absolutely will not allow either of them to see tears fall down your cheeks, because the only thing worse than a woman being brutally rejected is her showing pathetic weakness by crying about it.
Whoa, happy weekend everyone! Please vote and comment and all that great stuff that you guys do. Love you.
Xx B