Life on the Naughty List, or What the Elf!

8. Chapter 8

Chapter 8

T he rest of the week flew by in a blur. I tried to get all my major chores out of the way quickly because I knew that once rehearsals started, it would be a mad dash to the finish line. I bumped into Carissra and Kirk a few times in the hallway, but we always rushed in different directions, so we didn’t get a chance to talk. I had dinner with Johnny on Sunday night because he knew his best friend was about to disappear for a while as I dove into the rehearsal process.

October ended, and November arrived. Thankfully, the weather hadn’t gotten too cold yet. I could still pull off a shirt and a light jacket. When I left the building that Monday for the first day of rehearsals, the cold air of the early morning sent my body into shock. I regretted immediately having not pulled up the weather app on my phone that morning. I had thirty minutes to get to the theater where we were rehearsing, so I didn’t have time to run back upstairs and make it on time, because I had to stop by Starbucks and get a venti coffee. At this early hour on a Monday morning, I needed liquid energy.

With my coffee in hand, I pulled up the address for the theater again. I hadn’t stepped foot into the new Maurer Theatre. I didn’t know the Maurer Theatre existed until I got the information from Brice over the weekend about where rehearsals would be located. The block where the theater was being built was off Broadway on 47 th Street. An article I found in The New York Times had given me some of the basic backstory. Real estate mogul Bernie Eldridge had been buying up buildings for about a decade before anyone knew what was happening. Bernie wanted to create a modern performance space that was functional and profitable. He envisioned a large Broadway theater built into a taller building, similar in fashion to the Marriott Marquis. The ground floor would consist of a variety of shops. There would be the theater, and last, there would be business space for various tenants. Bernie had envisioned renting space to pay for the renovated building and keeping the theater alive at the same time. It was a lofty goal, but The Times made it sound like Bernie had a firm grasp on what he wanted. Unfortunately, Bernie had died, and his wife Rebekka Eldridge had taken over as the CEO of the real estate empire, the construction of the building, the construction of the theater, and mounting the first show.

I walked up to the building and found a taped sign on a glass door that read, ‘Actors Enter Here.’ That was it. I opened the door and looked around at the construction mess that was everywhere. About ten feet past the door was a freestanding sign that read ‘Actors’ with an arrow pointing to an escalator. The escalator was in place, but it wasn’t moving. I was glad my ankle was better because this place was clearly not accessible yet.

When I climbed up the escalator, I found a partially finished wall and stacks of theater chairs waiting to be installed. As I exited the escalator, I could feel the squishiness of the plush carpet under my foot, so I knew it was there. Another sign led me down a hallway to a smaller, secondary theater that was in much better shape than the one I’d just seen. So, this place has two theaters? The Maurer Theatre didn’t have the multiplex feel of New World Stages, but I was surprised that they had planned for two different theaters. Right outside the theater were a couple of long tables covered in a white tablecloth. On it were various breakfast items, coffee, tea, and water bottles. A plastic card sat on the table reading, ‘Beyond Tomorrow Cast and Crew Only.’ I picked up a yogurt. I’m not much of a breakfast kind of gal, but that’s probably because I’m not usually awake early enough for breakfast.

With my Starbucks and yogurt in hand, I walked over to the double doors of the theater itself. Emblazoned over the door was its name, ‘The Rose Theatre.’ I pulled open the door and walked inside to find a few people milling around.

“Good morning, ma’am,” a young Black person started, “I’m Aarya McDonald; they, them, theirs. What’s your name?” They then quickly added, “I need to make sure I get you checked off my list.”

“Good morning, Aarya,” I said, extending my hand for a handshake. “I’m Erika Lynsay Saunders; she, her, hers.”

Aarya searched the list on their clipboard before making a checkmark next to it. “Thank you,” they said. “I see you already found the breakfast table, so I don’t need to tell you about that. If you need anything, flag me down and let me know. For now, you can take a seat anywhere in the building. Once it’s 9:30, we have a short presentation from Actors’ Equity, then we’ll dive feet first into the show.”

I walked away and found a corner seat on the other side of the theater. As people entered the theater, I wanted a good view of them, so I took a seat in the corner of the room. I sat down and started eating my yogurt in between sips of coffee. There were a couple of other people in the room, but it was still pretty empty. One person I recognized was Jeremy McCartan, who worked at Actor’s Equity. I assumed he was here representing the union. He placed several stacks of paper on the front of the stage. Through the theater community rumor mill, I’d heard McCartan and Asher had dated after we’d broken up. McCartan caught me staring at him, and I quickly looked away.

“Good morning, Erika,” a chipper voice came from behind me.

I swiveled my head to find Kathrine Kloeten standing behind me. “This will be fun. You’re not my understudy again, are you?” I half joked the comment, half not. Thankfully, Katherine brushed right past my snipe and tried to hug me, which was awkward.

“It’s good to see you again. I’m excited to be working with you.”

“I’m sure you are.” But if you try to give me notes again, I may throw you off a building , I thought to myself.

She lowered her voice and asked, “What do you know about the show?”

“Not much,” I admitted. “My agent basically let me know that I needed to get work or a new agent, so here I am. Not that I’m not thrilled to be here. I don’t know anything about the show.”

“My agent was approached about me auditioning,” Katherine said. “I didn’t want to at first, but my agent said adding more Broadway credits to my resume was a good thing, so here I am. But, I watched the movie on which the show is based.”

“How did you find it?” I asked. “I tried to find it, but neither Amazon nor Netflix had it listed.”

“YouTube.”

“What?”

“Yep, I found the movie on YouTube. After watching the movie, I’m still not sure how any of this will work, but it seems like decent source material.”

Katherine sat down in front of me so we could continue talking and people watching at the same time. Over the next twenty minutes, more and more people arrived in the room. Some faces I knew, and many I didn’t recognize.

As for Katherine, she’d grown into her own since being my understudy. Something about her seemed more polished. Heck, her bubbly personality didn’t even seem forced to me this time. And since we were in the show together, I didn’t have to worry about her shoving me down a flight of stairs to get the role. I decided to let bygones be bygones and get to know this new, and seemingly improved, actor.

At precisely 9:30 a.m., McCartan cleared his voice. “If you do not belong to Actors’ Equity, please leave the room while I talk to the union members. If you are not currently part of Actors’ Equity, but this show is helping you earn your union card, you can stay.” Four people got up and left the room. When the door shut, McCartan said, “On behalf of Actors’ Equity, welcome to the forthcoming brand-new musical Beyond Tomorrow . Today, I will go over some of the basic rules and requirements. I’ll also walk through the specific factors you may not have caught when you signed your contracts. I also have the paperwork here if you need to change your medical insurance or get on our insurance plan.”

McCartan explained how everything within the union would work as we prepared for the opening. After another twenty minutes, he finally asked if there were questions. One woman asked about the profit-sharing within the contract, and McCartan quickly explained how that would work. Once he was satisfied that everyone knew what was expected of them and what we could expect from both the production company and Actors’ Equity, he asked for any nominations to be the company’s Equity Deputy. Basically, the Equity Deputy serves as the liaison between the union and the performers.

“I nominate Serafina Porcher,” said Kerrie Klark. I only recognized Klark because she’d had her own scandal a couple of years back. Her ex went to prison after hitting a pedestrian one evening. Even though Klark wasn’t in the car when it happened, she’d been dragged into the legal battle when someone thought going after Klark would lead to a bigger payday. The public often woefully overestimates how much we actually make working on Broadway. Sure, we may have decent salaries when working, but we have a ton of time where we’re not working and making little to no money between gigs. Ultimately, the judge ruled Klark couldn’t be held financially accountable for her ex since they were not legally married in the State of New York.

“Thank you for the nomination, Kerrie, but I can’t accept,” Porcher said. Serafina sat in the front of the theater. I hadn’t even noticed her when I’d gotten there. I had a slight ping of anxiety seeing someone from The Faith Healer . “As the company stage manager, my views on the show and the actors’ views on the show are often at odds. I think the position should be held by someone esteemed by the cast but is also one of the cast.” Porcher looked around the room as everyone evaded eye contact. It was like everyone believed if Porcher couldn’t make eye contact with you, she couldn’t nominate you. “I nominate Maeve McKenna.”

“Mrs. McKenna?” McCartan asked.

“Yes?” the older woman asked.

“Do you accept the nomination?”

“Sure,” I then watched her turn to the person next to her. I couldn’t hear what she said, but I have good lip-reading skills. And what I saw was, “ What did I get elected to do? ”

“Any other nominations?” McCartan asked.

“Move to close nominations,” a male voice said from the other side of the auditorium. I couldn’t see who said it.

“Seconded,” another voice rang out.

“It’s been moved and seconded to close nominations for the position of Equity Deputy. All in favor, say ‘aye.’” A loud chorus of “ayes” rang out. “Nays?” McCartan paused for a moment to make sure no one wanted to speak up. “Hearing no nays, the ayes have it. Congratulations, Mrs. McKenna, on your election to the company’s Equity Deputy. With that done, I have nothing else for you this morning. If there are any concerns about the show, the production team, your safety, etc…, please contact Ms. McKenna. She’ll pass them on to Actors’ Equity directly. Thank you for your time this morning. I wish all of you a great rehearsal period. I look forward to congratulating you all on opening night.”

With that, McCartan packed away his materials. When McCartan left the theater, the lights went out and the curtain rose, showing a square set of tables and chairs. The creative team was already sitting on stage. Part of me wondered how long they had been listening to the Equity discussion in the theater.

“As I call out your name,” San Nicolás, the show’s director, started, “please come join us on stage. Caiden Wynter Jeanes.”

A young guy wearing skinny jeans approached the stage. I knew he looked familiar, but I couldn’t place my finger on it. “Who is he?” I whispered to Katherine.

“He played a teenage vampire on Derek’s Destiny for four seasons before the show was canceled.”

“Erika Lynsay Saunders,” the director called.

I grabbed my coat and bag and headed toward the stage. When I got there, San Nicolás extended his hand and introduced himself to me again, as if I somehow had forgotten he was the director in the last five days. He motioned for me to join the others on stage, where I found my name on a nameplate along with my preferred pronouns. Unfortunately, my back was to the audience, so I couldn’t see anyone else. Thankfully, there were only ten people in the cast’s core. There was an ensemble, but we were told they were rehearsing choreography with Divya Kappel. One by one, all the main cast members walked their way to the stage.

I looked at everyone and their cardboard name tags. This approach was handy for helping me learn people’s names and faces, so I was very much in favor of it. When the last name was called, “Tabatha Sharlene Thomson,” San Nicolás rejoined the group, and our first day of rehearsal began in earnest.

“ Welkom , bienvenido , tere tulemast , dobrodo?li , willkommen , benvenuto , witamy, добро пожаловать, ????????, and welcome.”

Did he welcome us in eleven different languages? Yep. He stared at us, waiting for a reaction. Who did he think he was, the emcee from Cabaret? Thankfully, I wasn’t the only one who sat there for a heartbeat, not reacting. Finally, Maeve McKenna started a polite golf clap, so the rest of us joined in as San Nicolás took a slight bow.

“ Buenos días , guten Morgen , buongiorno , sobh bekheir , zǎoān , ohayō , mālō tau ma’u e pongipongi ni , and good morning.”

Please don’t let every phrase that comes out of his mouth come with 100 different translations. We’ll be here all day to finish one sentence.

San Nicolás paused for a second before continuing, “We are gathered on the unceded land of the Lenape of the Delaware peoples. I ask you to join me in acknowledging the Lenape community, their elders both past and present, as well as future generations. The creative team, the people who work for the theater, and the cast and crew want to acknowledge that this theater was founded upon exclusions and erasures of many indigenous peoples, including those on whose land this building is located. This acknowledgment demonstrates a commitment to beginning the process of working to dismantle the ongoing legacies of White settler colonialism.

“We want to recognize that in May 1626, the Dutch West India Company representative, Peter Minuit, purchased this land from the native peoples. The exact valuation of the sixty guilders is not known to us today. But, the price bartered for the island was undervalued. Essentially, the White colonialists bought the island for useless trinkets from members of either the Canarsees, who really didn’t live on Manhattan, or maybe it was bought from the Weckquaesgeeks, who lived north of the Dutch on the island itself. Either way, the settlers bought the island from a group of indigenous people who did not know what they were bartering for because of cultural differences. I want to say ‘ woapanacheen’ or good morning in the native Lenape tongue as a final welcome as we start this journey together.”

We all sat there unsure of the appropriate reaction, so most of us bowed our heads like we were in church. Personally, I liked acknowledging the land where we stood, but I wasn’t sure if the land acknowledgment was appropriate since someone from another country gave it. I want to be culturally sensitive, but sometimes, I find it hard to know what to say or not say in situations like these. Instead, I try to be reverent and nod along.

“Aarya,” San Nicolás called out. I looked over and watched as the nonbinary intern jumped to attention. “Please hand out the binders.”

Immediately, Aarya started handing out binders that contained copies of the script and score. When she brought me mine, the cover had my name on it along with the phrase part formerly called Michael O’Brien. I’d already heard from Brice that the exact name of my role hadn’t been decided upon, so I wasn’t too surprised that there was still a giant question mark there.

Once everyone had their binders in hand, San Nicolás clapped his hand twice to get the room to be quiet. “I want you all to open the second divider tab in the binder. You’ll find the complete script for the original movie. We wanted to read the script as a group today to get us into the piece’s spirit. Over the next week, this material will evolve as we mature and evolve with it.”

I looked at the puzzled eyes of others around the table as I flipped open my binder. Clearly, no one was quite sure what to make of this guy. He seemed more like a new age guru than a Broadway director. Admittedly, he’d never directed anything on Broadway, but I didn’t think his style was typical on the West End either.

“Let us begin,” San Nicolás said. “Before any dialogue, there will be a new song called ‘Christmas in New York.’”

Eugenius Moses, the composer, started playing the piano. The song was upbeat and extolled the virtues of wintery holidays in NYC. The lyricist, Tyreek MacQueen, stood next to the piano and sang the lyrics to aid Moses in the song. Immediately, I found the lyrics catchy but trite. Not horrible for a Christmas musical, but I hoped the music was tightened as we went along.

As the song ended, San Nicolás read, “Lights up on the interior of a Manhattan office building. Workers scatter around going in and out of cubicles.” He then nodded toward Peeter Gaspari, who started reading, “Regarding article 47…” I followed along in my script as the first scene played out.

While Peeter read his line, I noticed that my entrance came next. I took a breath. “Put them—“

“In walks Michael carrying a handful of colorfully wrapped Christmas presents.” I waited for a beat, and San Nicolás nodded toward me.

“Put them down anywhere, Martin—“

“Stop!” San Nicolás yelled. “Mabel?” he questioned, turning to the young woman in charge of rewriting the book. “Do we even have a Martin anymore?”

“No, director,” W?gner replied, looking up from a notepad she had sitting in front of her. “We got rid of that character a few weeks back.”

“Then why is there still a reference?” San Nicolás asked.

“Because you wanted us to read the original, unaltered script today,” W?gner reminded him. “The line will be referenced to Josef the Butler instead.”

“Of course, of course,” San Nicolás. He turned to me. “Read the line again, and instead of referring to Martin, say Josef.”

“Okay.” I took a quick breath and started again, “Put them down anywhere, Josef, and run along home. We won’t be needing you tonight. We’re having guests. Oh, and Josef, Merry Christmas.”

“Stop,” San Nicolás said again. “Wouldn’t Josef be in the house already?”

“They’re not in the house. They’re in their office right now,” W?gner explained.

“That’s right.” We all stared at San Nicolás as he thought through something. “For simplicity and since this scene is so short, why not start in their home office. It would be easier that way, don’t you think?”

“I completely agree,” W?gner said. “That’s what I said we should do last week,” she grumbled.

It took us almost six hours to get through the script, which should have been readable in about an hour. There was constant starting and stopping. Periodically, the composer and lyricist would sing. Intermittently, San Nicolás berated the artistic team. With each stop, W?gner got more perturbed.

During one of our breaks, I walked around the part of the theater that was currently not under construction. I could tell the new theater was going to be pretty darn large, which would be nice. I hoped I’d call this place home for at least a few years.

I rounded a corner and immediately stepped back because the artistic team were huddled in an alcove. I didn’t mean to spy on them, but they weren’t exactly being quiet about their disapproval of what was happening in the table read-through.

“That man is on my last nerve,” W?gner practically yelled.

“Mabel,” Moses started. “You knew the rumors about working with him when we signed the contract. He’s brilliant but obnoxious.”

“He keeps trying to correct things I wanted fixed…heck, I had fixed weeks ago,” W?gner groused. “This is ridiculous.”

“I feel your pain,” MacQueen said. “He’s changed so many of my lyrics. Half the time, I want to knock him out, throw down my legal pad, and walk out, or yell, ‘Here, you write it.’”

“It’s not that bad,” Moses responded.

“Oh really?” W?gner questioned. “I wonder if you’d be singing the same tune if he was constantly trying to rewrite your music.”

“That’s because he can’t write music,” Moses admitted. “If he could, I’m sure he’d be doing the same things to me. Instead, I get general notes like ‘not very festive’ or ‘tone it down.’ What does that mean? How does one ‘tone down’ a song? He’s vague about what he wants.”

“And he’s overly explicit in my work,” MacQueen responded.

“What are you listening to?” a voice said right next to my ear.

I let out a little squeal before realizing Katherine had sneaked up behind me. I didn’t want to be caught, so I grabbed Katherine’s arm and pulled her away from the corner wall I’d been using to eavesdrop.

As we walked away, I told her what I’d learned.

“Wow,” Katherine said. “Sounds like our director is putting everyone through their paces.”

“Sounds like it. But if he doesn’t change, I think he’ll run this show into the ground.”

We rounded into the main lobby area, where cast members hung out, snacked, and drank.

“Excuse me, Ms. Saunders,” a timid voice came from my right. I looked over to see the young woman playing the main romantic lead.

“Oh, hi…”

“Tabatha,” she offered.

“Thanks, Tabatha. I’m horrible with names.”

“I get it. Too many new faces and names.”

Surprisingly, that wasn’t it at all. I knew most of the cast from being in and around the Broadway community. It’s just Tabatha was so…ordinary. She was almost forgettable. I wasn’t quite sure why she was cast in the show. I hoped she sounded better on stage than in rehearsals. Half the time, I couldn’t hear what she was saying from across the room. The poor girl was going to have to learn to project and fast. Even if the audio people turned her mic all the way up, she’d still sound like she was whispering.

“How can I help you, Tabatha?” I asked

“I wanted to let you know how much I absolutely loved your performance in the revival of Pirate Queen two years ago.”

Katherine snickered at my side. I wasn’t sure if this young thing was being humorous, evil, or dumb.

“You do realize I was turned down for that role. Right?”

The look of horror that flashed across her face looked genuine enough.

“I am so sorry. Caiden said you’d been in that show. And I so loved the production.”

I glanced to where the male heartthrob, Caiden Wynter Jeanes, stood next to Peeter Gaspari, who was doubled over laughing. Peeter’s face had turned beet red. I shot both a scowl.

I let out a huff before I addressed Tabatha. “Tabatha, dear, you were set up by Caiden and Peeter to get on my bad side. I don’t fault you at all. I’m sure this was all Peeter’s idea. He loves his practical jokes. I get it. You’re young, fresh off the boat, so to speak, and na?ve—“

“I’m not na?ve,” she said in a huff.

“Oh really?” Katherine asked. I looked at her, and she had one eyebrow cocked in a knowing glance. “When did you arrive in New York City?”

“About two weeks ago.”

“And how many auditions did you have before landing this job?”

“Two…”

“As she said,” Katherine noted cocking her head in my direction. “You’re na?ve. That’s not a bad thing. It means you haven’t been around this business long enough to learn who the genuine people and the creeps are. And Mr. Gaspari over there definitely falls into the creep category.”

“He’s kind of cute,” Tabatha said.

“Yeah, but he’s probably more interested in Caiden than he’s interested in you.”

The look of shock that crossed her face was priceless. “He’s a gay?” she practically exclaimed.

I looked to my left and looked to my right before saying, “Most of the guys in here are gay.”

“What?” she said, her hand shot to her mouth to cover her surprise.

“Where did you move from?” Katherine asked.

“Paducah, Kentucky?”

“Where’s that?” Katherine said before she could catch herself.

“It’s about two hours northeast of Nashville, Tennessee.”

I tried to figure out where that would be in my head, but my geographic knowledge of that part of the world was seriously limited. The only time I’d ever been in Tennessee was a weeklong stint in Nashville with Wicked many years earlier.

“How large is Paducah?” I asked.

“It’s huge. There are about 25,000 residents.”

I ripped out a laugh. I couldn’t help myself.

“You think 25,000 is huge?” Katherine asked. Clearly, our brains were on the same wavelengths. “Girl, Manhattan has 1.7 million people alone. You’re looking at 8.8 million when you add in the other boroughs that make up New York City. Can you grasp how much bigger it is here?”

I felt bad for the poor girl who deflated right in front of me. She had no idea what she was in store for in the city. If she didn’t toughen up quickly, this city would eat her alive and spit her out.

“I know Katherine and I are blunt,” I said. “But we’ve both been there.”

“Speak for yourself, Erika. I grew up in Brooklyn.”

“Okay, I’ve been there. I came to the city from Des Moines, Iowa, which had a couple hundred thousand residents. I still couldn’t grasp how large this city was when I first started living here. After a while, you’ll start to get a sense of how large everything is. As for those guys,” I said, glaring toward Caiden and Peeter, “Ignore them. They’re playing games. They probably figured out quickly you were fresh off the bus—“

“I flew here,” she admitted.

“Boat, bus, car, plane, it doesn’t matter. You came from away, and now you’re here. Don’t worry. You’ll become jaded like the rest of us in no time. Living in New York does that to people.”

The poor thing nodded before sauntering off toward the rehearsal room.

“That was a bit harsh,” Katherine said.

“I was harsh? What about you?”

“I’m from Brooklyn. That was our version of showing hospitality,” she said the last word using an overexaggerated Brooklyn accent. “So, what are your thoughts about Peeter Esteban Gaspari?”

“I don’t have any,” I admitted. “I hear he has great comic timing, but his comic antics slip off the stage a little too often for many people.”

“So, he’s funny but obnoxious?”

“Pretty much.” I was about to say something snarky, but I was cut off by my favorite nonbinary intern, who stood and yelled, “Break’s over!”

Katherine and I turned and headed back into the theater. We sat down at our tables. This time, the producer graced us with her presence as we sat down to reread the script. We dove into the script and got about ten minutes into the piece when Maeve McKenna proudly announced, “Time.”

“What do you mean ‘time’?” asked the producer.

“Rebekka,” McKenna said, her green eyes twinkled with mischief. “You know the union rules. We work six days a week for eight hours a day during rehearsals. We’ve been working for eight hours, so it’s time.”

The producer rolled her eyes and said something to San Nicolás. After a brief discussion, Rebekka responded, “I do believe I’m going to have to call the union on this.”

“You do that,” McKenna said with a smile. “They’ll tell you to read the contract. But please, take up some more time to call the union office. While you do that, we’ll be sitting here making overtime pay. Rules are rules.”

Rebekka rolled her eyes. “Whatever. The team has work to do anyway.”

And unceremoniously, like that, the day was over.