Lisa Browder

Annual auditions in Vegas were a bitch. I figured the sole purpose was intimidation. I mean, what’s the point? The Company Manager, Sugar, an imposing matron with flame-red hair, had watched us twice a night, six nights a week for the past year. She didn’t know we could dance?

She sat in the light booth, high above the stage in the back of the showroom every night, often with binoculars, and scrutinized every move. She took copious notes. In addition to criticizing a wrong arm placement or a lackluster double turn, she commented on minutiae like ripped fishnet tights, missing rhinestones, makeup blunders, even conspicuous tan lines on the body. She’d been known to use the backstage public address system in the middle of a show to call someone out. “Marilyn, please cover that bruise on your thigh.”

I once asked her why a cast of 75 people was forced to audition every year. Tradition, I was told. Tradition? This was 1989. Just because that’s what they did in Sugar’s heyday in the 50s, sure didn’t make it relevant today. Nor was it a question of not knowing how many hires would be needed.

Sugar knew which girls were planning to move on at the end of the contract long before they divulged it. The Vegas grapevine was lightning fast. It took one phone call to her counterparts at other shows to find out who was auditioning elsewhere. She knew exactly how many new dancers she’d need. She just wanted to keep us guessing. But the truth was, no one had ever been fired so it was a waste of time to make us audition every year.

Pushing my chair back from the makeup table, I popped the top on my Pepsi can and sauntered out of the dressing room into the bathroom (the only place we were allowed to smoke) and lit my third cigarette. I inhaled and focused on how quiet everything was backstage during the day. At night, I’d never noticed the soft susurration of the air conditioning or the buzzing of that overhead track light. They were drowned out by the cacophony of conversation, laughter, stagehands shouting, huge sets being trundled across the stage, and band members warming up.

Yes, today was quiet, but most of the cast wasn’t here yet. The boys weren’t called in until noon and the singers got the best deal: 1:00 p.m. There weren’t a lot of us in the dressing rooms. In fact, no one else in mine.

However, in the adjacent dressing room, I heard Sarah, the cast gossip. It was only when they shushed her and she dropped her voice that I held my breath and leaned in to listen. As it turned out, the day’s gossip was me.

She’d overheard Sugar discussing various cast members with her assistants as they sorted resumes for newcomers. They planned to be tougher this year. They’d bitched about Kevin’s weight gain, Anna’s droopy boobs and my jiggly derriere. I pursed my lips. How jiggly can a butt be on a 5’8″ girl weighing 126 pounds? It wasn’t my shape. They just wanted someone younger.

I stubbed out my cigarette and tossed the Pepsi into the trash. It pissed me off. But it also scared the bejesus out of me. I knew that at 38, I was one of the older girls. That put me on the chopping block. What would I do if they fired me? I had no other skills tucked in my back pocket, and I hadn’t saved a dime. I would be in trouble.

I took a deep, audible breath and devised a game plan. I’d have to select the girl I auditioned next to very carefully. I wanted someone whose posture or body type made her look short. This show prided itself in hiring skyscraper girls. The taller, the better. Maybe if the girl next to me looked too short, it would bode well for my tenure.

Right now, I almost wished I’d taken Coral’s advice. She filched a pair of show shoes one night and took them to a cobbler to get 1-inch lifts added to the heels. I’d laughed at the time because (a) she was brazenly stealing show property and (b) everyone knew girls were often asked to line up barefooted – for that very reason. But that was before she got caught.

I plucked up my courage and headed for the showroom. On a whim, I crossed behind the sets to the stage right side and walked, chin up, the length of the mammoth stage and down the steps into the showroom. I’d made a statement. I belong here. Don’t count me out.

And yet, I was nauseated.

I sat down on the carpet to stretch, legs splayed out on either side like disembodied appendages. I scanned the competition. Who seemed out of place? – jazz shoes instead of heels; hair coiffed instead of slicked back to emphasize the face; leotards and tights instead of fishnets and bikini; or even street makeup, which would vanish under the harsh show lights. That would be the one.

And then there was the stage. It was half the size of a football field. It had metal tracks bisecting it and recessed electrical outlets drilled deep into the wood. That was enough to make someone dance tentatively. Who wanted to trip and fall in an audition?

My search was cut short. Sugar picked up her microphone and directed us onto the stage. The choreography, as it turned out, was not particularly challenging. I was confident I had looked good. But then it was time for the nerve-wracking lineup. We shuffled around until we were more or less positioned in a nice arch with Myrna, our 6’1″ Amazon, in the center. We stood nervously as Sugar perused the line end to end, eyebrows knitted, arms crossed. She finally asked two girls at the far end of the line to exchange places. Whew. Safe.

Then her gaze settled on me. “Gina, please trade places with . . . what’s your name again, Dear?”

The girl to my right spoke up. “Cindy.”

Sugar cupped her hand around her ear and frowned.

She raised her voice. “It’s Cindy.”

Time slowed. My face flushed as hot as the 112-degree heat outside. I wasn’t breathing. I found Cindy’s perfume nauseating. Was I about to be humiliated in front of people I’d worked with for three years?

“Please change places with Gina.”

Dear God. As we sidestepped, I glanced at her hips and butt. I couldn’t help it. Tiny.

Sugar huddled with the team once more. Every time they looked in my direction, I felt half an inch shorter and wider.

At last, the verdict was in. “If I call your name, please step forward.” Mine wasn’t one of them. I exhaled.

Cindy’s was. She stepped forward.

“Thank you everyone. Good work. Back line? You are the final lineup. Front line? I’m sorry; not this time.”

It was over. I’d made it another year. But I would be a fool not to get the message. It was time to search for a new career.