Fun...

April 10. She moves in mysterious ways… Had an audition today for a play. Kinda a political thriller. The part of an art historian. Plot revolves around his expertise and as Summer famously, groggily said waking from a dream during our trip to Ireland “there was a hostage situation…” I haven’t read for a play for a while and these sides, to say nothing of the play itself, are quite linguistically dense. I prepare extensively, diligently and am very familiar, in the end, with the scene, almost entirely offbook. Ready. In a need to dress up, I slip on a suit jacket I used to wear all the time going out with Summer but seldom do anymore. I actually fit into it comfortably again maybe because I’ve been running almost every day for three months. Not having a drink in 66 days may get an assist on that, as well. The jacket has a pin, a “badge” as the Brits would say, on it from ACT’s production of “Rock n Roll”. Summer gave it to me on Opening Night and it’s been there on the front chest pocket ever since. The auditions are at rehearsal studios in midtown at W.36th St and 8th Avenue, on the upper floors of a huge office building. On my way through the revolving doors, someone grabs me. It’s Jeff Biehl, a castmate from Lucas’s Hnath’s “Isaac’s Eye” - the last play I was in 13 months ago. He’s just read for the same role. I go through security and up to the 17th floor, find the rehearsal room, there’s no sign in, sit down and wait there. An older woman is sitting there, too, preparing. It’s quiet for a while and then I hear an actor reading inside, the same part, none too well, I think. I feel bad about that, about thinking that, later after he comes out because he recognizes me and introduces himself. He’s an actor I knew in DC. He asks me how I’m doing in a way that I know he means he knows about Summer. I don’t mind. I love talking about her. And I do. How we met. Some of our adventures. Some of her amazing story. How much I miss her. How much I love her. About “Of Love and Loss”. About the cover. About Alex Alemany. About Summer’s Memorial Fund. Eventually, the older woman comes out. He’s waiting for her anyway. She’s also from DC. Katie Flye. She was the dialect coach on “Slab Boys”. I don’t recognize her but I knew her there, too. Sometimes, like now, I find it odd that anybody would recognize me from that long ago. Just before xmas, I was in Brooklyn with Jason to see Renee’s modern dance recital. We went out after and when I was in the men’s room I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror. As we walked back to the subway, I told Jason, tearfully, that I didn’t think Summer would even recognize me anymore. “Yes, should would,” he insisted. “She’d recognize your eyes,” he added, helpfully. My two old DC compadres say their goodbyes and head for the elevator. They’re taking a break inside, so I wait some more. Having stood, I remember I still have my walletchain on. A little too punkrock for the part, I take it off and put it in my backpack. I’m wearing my Summer bracelet. My Summer pendant around my neck. My Summer sharpie tattoo freshly drawn on my left arm under the sleeve of my jacket with my Summer pin. I’m rather remarkably, entirely not nervous. And I hear myself saying, “remember to have some fun.” And that’s a bit weird because that’s nothing I usually tell myself. I usually remind myself that I’ve already prepared. That I just need to relax now. Just to be present. Do my best. 97 times out of 100, I’m not going to get the job anyway because it’s not up to me, it’s a thousand other things. Just chill out, be authentically yourself, read well. Never do I say to myself, out loud no less, “remember to have some fun.” That is Summer. That is purely a million percent Summer sitting with me in the next chair. Probably looking through her green canvas backpack for a tissue and wondering why she didn’t bring a coconut water with her from home while we’re waiting. They finally call me in. It’s a small room, overly heated, the director is there with a reader, both behind a table. The director asks if I understand the scene. Not “do I have any questions”. But do I understand. I tell her I won’t presume to say that I know because I wanna hear what she has to say. We talk about it - the scene, the role, the play, its uncanny current geo-political relevance for a work written 10 years ago. We settle on where to begin the sides. And then I do, I begin, with the reader. I know the scene. I know what I’m doing. New things come up. I’m present. I have fun. It’s one of those auditions where you feel them with you, feel them drawn in. Where you make the reader really respond, breaking her out of her trance having done this scene with a dozen actors over the last hour. Where you hear the director’s involuntary intakes of breath, murmurs of accedence, an entirely unexpected laugh of recognition. When it ends I get the feeling she doesn’t want it to. We’re still in the moment. We’re still - thank you, sweetheart - having fun. I can see that it’s perfectly fine not to get a note, to get an adjustment from her. She asks, the director does, if I have any questions. I don’t immediately know what that means. What kind of question would I have now? Ya know? Like after I’ve read? But Summer is there, after all. Summer is with me, so she’s right on it. Summer who heavily lobbied her father to give me my first iPhone one xmas, adding an extra line to the Serafin’s AT&T family plan, and who quickly grabbed it out of my hands the moment we came home so she could type her info in and be the very first contact, entering her name as “Cheeky”, saving and handing it back with her patented heartstopping grin. Summer is with me so she asks the question. “Can I have the job?” I hear myself saying. The reader laughs, the director’s a bit taken aback. By the cheek, no doubt. “It’s, uh, too early to ask that question”, she says, the mask going back on. Walking home, feeling lighter than I have in some time, even as I try to go through the routine - you prepare, you audition, you forget about it as fast as you can - I’m talking to myself. It’s not a problem talking to yourself in New York. No one takes notice. Especially in this neighborhood, on this route from the Garment District back up Ninth behind the Port Authority Bus Terminal. I’m talking to myself. I’m letting it go and I’m lighter but I’m questioning a little my astonishing boldness. I’m telling myself it’s okay. It’s a good thing. It demonstrates good humor and being comfortable in one’s own skin. People want to work with people like that, no? “Hey, I’m fun,”  I hear myself saying. And nearly getting hit by New Jersey Transit I crack myself up. “Oh my god! Yeah. That’s you alright. Loads of fun, you are. When you think fun…” And, ya know, can there be any question - can there be any - but that Summer is with me in these moments? Cheeky. Yes. Yes, you are my angel. Always. Always, my darling. Always, my Gingersnap. Always, my little sweetheart. Always.