Step 17: Workshop

Many eons ago, I gave you some primitive advice on how to find auditions in Chicago. The oldest among you may recall that this advice primarily consisted of me telling you to visit three websites. Now, after surviving a bitterly cold winter, a bitterly cold spring, and a moderately cold summer, I have grown as an actor, as a person, and as a lover. I am older, wiser, stronger, better looking, better at dog walking, and significantly better at sitting my parents’ basement and playing Grand Theft Auto V.

But, when it comes to finding auditions, I am still pretty much just visiting the same three websites.

Now, I know what you’re thinking: “It’s been almost a year now. Time to get an agent!” WRONG. Nice try. This is my guide, not yours. I make the steps. When it’s time to get an agent, I’ll get an agent, and it won’t be time to get an agent until I’ve gotten an agent, because I can’t write the entry about getting an agent until I get one. You see?

However, last spring, once I ran out of audition listings for shows that were not musicals and not taking place in Indiana, I did adopt a new tactic: randomly clicking all over the three aforementioned websites with a combination of frustration and rage. This bold new approach led me to a page requesting actors to help some guy workshop a new script. Further research revealed that some guy was a Grinnellian, a rare breed of person with a unique mental disorder that makes him or her want to go to college at an absurdly small liberal arts school in the middle of Iowa. Afflicted with the same disorder myself, I thought perhaps we could find some common ground, so I sent him my headshot. Either because he saw that I was also a Grinnellian, or because my headshot is just so ridiculously sexy, some guy got back to me right away and invited me to one of his workshop sessions

We met in a sweaty room that had been hastily converted into a dance studio. The ballet bars loosely anchored to the walls were adorned with signs warning not to put any weight on them, and the mirrors were worrisomely blocked off by traffic cones and caution tape. A few of the actors seemed to know some guy (who I will now refer to as “Mike” because that is his name), while others, like me, appeared rather lost. But lost or no, we were all handed huge piles of script and assigned scenes. After we performed the scenes for the group, Mike would ask everyone in the room for their input. The critiques tended to be mild, particularly from the lost contingent, because we suspected that this wasn’t just a workshop. This was a covert audition.

Which, it turns out, it sort of was.

At the end of the first session, Mike told us when and where the next workshop would take place. My schedule wasn’t exactly crammed with auditions, so I went. The process was roughly the same. Then I went to another session. Then another. Soon patterns emerged. Certain actors began being relegated to certain roles. I found myself playing a doctor/best friend character more often than not. Eventually, after one of these workshops, Mike pulled me aside, said he liked what I was doing with the part, and offered me the role. He said he would in fact be directing a production of the script and that it would go on stage this summer. It was a sizable part. I said yes. I kept going to the workshops, which started to look more and more like rehearsals.

Then the actor slated to play the lead mysteriously quit.

Mike called me while I was walking dogs because my day job is still walking dogs. He broke the news and said he didn’t really see a way forward with the script this summer unless he could find someone else right away. And, either because I am an extremely talented and versatile actor, or because I was the only other guy in his early twenties who went to most of the workshops, he offered me the lead.

So now I’m the lead!

The lesson here is obvious. If you’re wondering how to getting a leading role, don’t bother auditioning. Clearly, all you have to do is get into a script workshop, impress the writer/director enough to get a supporting role in the eventual production, have the lead quit, and become the last minute replacement. Nice and simple.

And, if you would like to see the show, it’s called Eugène (I’m Eugène!), and it’s currently playing every Thursday, Friday, Saturday, and Sunday until August 16th at the Greenhouse Theater Center. Buy tickets here.

Step 16: Try to Go Back to School

“Why has the brilliant writing of the mighty Joe Kloehn ceased?” wail the masses, shaking their internet-enabled devices in futile anger.

“The great blog, a font from which once sprang a torrent of wit and wisdom, has run dry.”

They refresh the unchanging webpage until their fingers bleed and their touch screens shatter.

“We lived by his word. Now all we have is silence.”

At long last, they turn their eyes to the heavens.

“He has forsaken us.”

No, my friends.

I have not forsaken you.

I have simply been working on a master plan, one which was going to propel me out of the shallow waters of storefront theatre and into an ocean of fame and fortune.

I was going to attend the School at Steppenwolf.

No, this ten-week summer residency at the Steppenwolf Theatre Company may not sound like the key to fame and fortune to you, but I had it all planned out. I was going to arrive at the school and stun my teachers with my overwhelming talent, range, and raw sexuality. They would have no choice but to make me a company member right off the bat. I would debut in a show where Gary Sinise, John Malkovich, and I all shout terse, manly dialog angrily at each other for two and a half hours, and it would become a huge hit, eventually getting me cast as the villain in the next Fast and Furious movie. By the end of that movie (titled 8 Fast 8 Furious), Vin Diesel and I would come to respect each other, and I would become a permanent member of the team. I would then ride that franchise off into the sunset, collecting billions along the way.

However, after applying for the school, auditioning, and then waiting several weeks, I have hit a minor hitch in this plan.

On the first of this month, I received a rejection letter. It explained that this year was highly competitive, that Steppenwolf had auditioned over 250 people for 24 openings. It assured me that these decisions were not easy to make. It thanked me for my “preparation, professionalism, and patience.”

“How disappointing,” I thought. “But, there’s nothing to be done. I suppose I ought to craft a brief response that graciously thanks them for their consideration while best displaying the alliterative qualities which they noted in their letter.”

This is, word for word, the email that I wrote to Steppenwolf:

APRIL FOOLS!

Right?

…right?

 

*sigh*

 

Thank you for considering me,
Joe

Now, you may be sitting at home saying, “Joe, this email does not seem terribly professional.” However, you, my simple-minded reader, are overlooking the inherent advantages in this response. They are as follows:

  1. On the off-chance that the rejection letter was indeed an April Fools’ joke, I have my bases covered. Perhaps, in catching them in their joke, I will have displayed my great wit to Steppenwolf, making me a clear front-runner in the real selection process.
  2. If the rejection letter was not an April Fools’ joke, my response at least shows Steppenwolf that I take failure with a dash of levity and humor, making them chuckle, think back on my audition, and realize that they made a grave mistake in rejecting me. This would, of course, cause them to immediately call me up and beg for my participation in the School at Steppenwolf this summer.
  3. If they cannot see the humor in my response, then maybe they would sense that only an overwhelming mixture desperation and dread could drive someone to write such a bizarre email to a school which that person would like to attend. They would take pity on me, and welcome me into their hallowed halls with open arms.

You see, what seems like gross unprofessionalism to the naked eye is actually a clever bit of maneuvering. Now Steppenwolf has no choice but to rescind their rejection letter and admit me, probably tuition-free.

I have not received their response yet, but I’m sure it’s coming.

Any day now.

But, it’s not all dark and gloomy here in Joe Land.™  For instance, I am currently in the first scene of a play about child dismemberment. So there’s that.

And I’ll try to be better about the blog.

Step 15: Probably Start Auditioning Again At Some Point Here

Whew. You just finished up a fun holiday show. You went on a great vacation with your beautiful girlfriend. You got a decent day job that ends at four in the afternoon every day, leaving you lots of free time. Things are looking pretty good. You’re all set to start conquering this theatre scene.

You’ve got plenty of time for auditions. You’ve got some good contacts. Time to get back out there! Look out, world!

Spring shows! Summer shows! Acting schools! They’re all looking for young talent, and you’re starting to build a solid résumé. The moment is now. It’s time to strike!

Go for it! No time like the present! Come on, now, let’s show this sorry city the true meaning of acting!

You’ve got the headshots! They’re sitting in a huge pile on your desk. Get up and start sending them out. Get them to casting directors! Agents! You know what to do!

Act fast! Strike while the iron is hot! No time like the prese- wait, I already said that.

Well, uh, Go! Now! JUST DO IT.™

THEATRE!!!

Anytime now.

I mean, okay, well, yeah, you can finish that snack first. I’m not some cruel taskmaster. It’s not like you need to start right right now.

Oh, and take a shower? Maybe a bit of a nap? Seems reasonable. Hygiene and rest come first, of course.

Yeesh. Your legs are pretty sore from all that dog walking. Your phone says you walked… 9.82 miles! That’s a lot of miles! And you climbed 44 flights of stairs! You’re awesome. Time to watch some YouTube as a reward. Hey, the Ant-Man trailer is out!

Eh, Ant-Man doesn’t look great. You wish Edgar Wright had ended up directing it. His movies are fantastic. Although, you never did get around to seeing Hot Fuzz. How can you call yourself an Edgar Wright fan if you’ve never seen Hot Fuzz? And here it is! Right here on the internet! Look at that. Let’s just see what the start is like, huh?

Wow. That movie was spectacular. What was I talking about?

No, seriously, what was I talking about?

Memorize your lines?

I feel like we covered that.

Huh.

Ah, well. Memorize your lines or something. I’m going to bed.

Step 14: Walk Dogs

In the past, I have mentioned that storefront theatre does not pay the bills. My parents do that. However, storefront theatre also does not pay for public transportation or round-trip tickets to Portland, Oregon, where my lovely girlfriend lives. For this, one must acquire a day job.

Now, as you may recall, you failed at acquiring a day job in Step 8. That was disappointing. Extremely disappointing. I expect better from you, I really do. I mean, I’m putting all this work into this blog, and you can’t even get a lousy day job? What have you been doing all day? ARE YOU EVEN TRYING? GET YOUR HEAD IN THE GAME, SON! LET’S SEE SOME HUSTLE OUT THERE!

Fortunately for you, I have found the solution: dog walking.

You see, by not getting a job this summer, you inadvertently stumbled into the best time to get hired as a dog walker: when the air gets cold, the leaves die colorful deaths, and the wealthy begin to think, “Why have I left the heated floors of my glorious penthouse to battle the winter winds and collect the feces of my animal servant? I sleep on a pile of gold! There is no service which cannot be bought! DOG WALKER!”

Then these wealthy individuals contact petcare companies like my new place of employment, Green Paws, which I assume was named after some horrible disease that afflicts the four-legged if they are not properly cared for by an underemployed actor. The company charges the client a monthly fee and provides them with what they call a “petcare specialist” to walk their dogs. This “petcare specialist” is paid a hilariously inadequate forty percent of this fee for his or her services.

The only way this “petcare specialist” can really make any money is by stringing together a near-impossible number of walks every day. For instance, I have up to twelve back-to-back twenty-five minute daily walks that keep me on my feet from 10:00am-4:30pm. I run up and down high-rises, over and under bridges, and occasionally in and out of doughnut shops, because doughnuts are delicious. I end every day with sore legs and windburn, which are basically the modern-day equivalents of black lung. It’s a hard life for hard men.

That said, dogs are far easier to deal with than people, and they are always eager to see you (expect Ben, who poops himself and hides under the desk whenever I come into the apartment). You also have great hours and can pretty much make your own schedule, which is essential for an actor. Your bosses will probably be cool bearded dudes, and as long as you take good care of the pets and keep your appointments, you won’t hear from them too often. Because of all the walking, you’ll probably stay in shape (if the shape you want to stay in is “lanky”), and you’ll get your fair share of fresh air. So, in the grand scheme of things, it could be a great deal worse.

In conclusion: If you are an actor and not adverse to handling poop on a regular basis, walk dogs.

And if you have not seen me in the Dream Theatre Company‘s A Christmas Carol: An Evening of Dickensian Delights (the fancy new name for A Christmas Carol—Abridged), you still have one more weekend after this! We have also added Sunday night shows, so if you couldn’t get tickets before, try again. Buy them here.

Step 13: Get Cast Again

BACK BY POPULAR DEMAND: A FOOLPROOF METHOD FOR GETTING CAST IN ANY SHOW!

NEWLY UPDATED AND REMASTERED FOR THE MODERN ERA!!

NOW WITH TWICE THE HOLIDAY SPIRIT!!!

A Foolproof Method for Getting Cast in Any Show:

  1. Have your parents read you Charles Dickens’ classic holiday novella, A Christmas Carol, every single year from an early age.
  2. Find an audition notice for a performance called A Christmas Carol—Abridged on the Theatre in Chicago website.
  3. Email the production company. In the body of the message, subtly mention that your parents have read you Charles Dickens’ classic holiday novella, A Christmas Carol, every single year from an early age.
  4. Receive a confirmation email that informs you that the audition will consist exclusively of reading sides from the script.
  5. Read that email as: NO PREP WORK REQUIRED. SLEEP IN ON SATURDAY.
  6. Do so.
  7. Still arrive at the theatre way too early. This is your trademark move.
  8. Once again, you are the first audition of the day. No one is ready to see you.
  9. Hang out in a weirdly dingy living room space littered with empty beer cans and prescription bottles.
  10. Let a woman apologize for the state of the theatre and explain that this living room set-up is part of the haunted house experience they are currently putting on for Halloween.
  11. Apparently, they have opted to exploit the much more realistic fears of alcoholism and prescription medicine overdose this year.
  12. Oh, wait, no. There are a bunch of creepy dolls. Never mind.
  13. Fill out an audition form.
  14. Uh oh. The audition form asks you what kind of accents you can do.
  15. Um…
  16. Write, in very faint pencil, “RP, and a bit of cockney.” (NOTE: “RP” stands for “Received Pronunciation,” which has come to mean “standard UK English accent.” Always refer to your English accent as “RP” because it makes you sound like you know what you’re doing. You don’t.)
  17. Also, “a bit of cockney” means that you have watched some Monty Python, and you think that sometimes they do something like cockney, and you can totally do that, right?
  18. You are not right.
  19. Get called into the theatre. The theatre looks like a little girl’s room, except with more decapitated dolls and clown faces.
  20. The first piece of direction you get is, “Don’t sit on the bed. It’s not a real bed.”
  21. “Actually, don’t try to move around the space at all. It’s safer just stand in the corner there.”
  22. Now you are terrified.
  23. Learn that the part you are auditioning for is not just one role, but rather all the male roles in A Christmas Carol minus Scrooge. This production will only have three actors.
  24. This means that you are auditioning for the narrator, the caroler, Fred, Bob Cratchit, Marley’s Ghost, Fezziwig, the Ghost of Christmas Present, old Joe, and the boy at the end who tells Scrooge, “Why, it’s Christmas Day!” You will read for nearly all of these roles multiple times.
  25. You’re going to be here all afternoon.
  26. These parts are going to be very difficult to keep separate. In order to make it easier, just impersonate various actors from the 1984 George C. Scott made-for-TV A Christmas Carol that you used to watch on VHS at your grandparents’ house.
  27. This is, by the way, the definitive film version of A Christmas Carol, and don’t you dare say otherwise.
  28. And you can watch the whole thing on YouTube!
  29. If this blog post is late, it’s because I’m watching this whole thing on YouTube.
  30. AHHHH! TINY TIM IS A ZOMBIE IN THIS VERSION!

  31. Zombie Tiny Tim

    Happy Halloween. You will never sleep again.

  32. Where was I?
  33. Right, this whole audition takes a really long time, but that’s good. That means they like you. At one point, they will give you the option of leaving, but don’t you dare. Insist on continuing to read the same parts over and over as they test out different Scrooges. The more face time you can get with the director, the better.
  34. Unless your face looks like this:

    Zombie TIny TIm Again

    “I might be a horrible nightmare child, but I still have more film credits than Joe does.”

  35. You can go home after about three hours.
  36. Get a call the next night from the director.
  37. YOU GOT THE PART(s)!
  38. HURRAAAYYYYYYY!!!!!!!!
  39. GETTING CAST IN THAT FIRST SHOW WASN’T A TOTAL FLUKE!!!
  40. OR, AT THE VERY LEAST, TWO TOTAL FLUKES HAVE HAPPENED IN YOUR FAVOR!!!!!
  41. WOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!!
  42. Woo!
  43. Whew.
  44. It’s going to be a real stretch to get to fifty steps.
  45. Um, Merry Christmas?
  46. “And God bless us, every oooarRRGHHHH!!!!!”
  47. “AARRRRRRGGGGHHHH!!!!!!”
  48. “MARGGGGUGUGGGGGGGgggggggg…”
  49. “braaaaaiiiiinnnnnnsss…”

  50. “And Tiny Tim, who did NOT die, is STANDING RIGHT BEHIND YOU.”

    “And Tiny Tim, who did NOT die, is STANDING RIGHT BEHIND YOU.”

A Christmas Carol—Abridged runs from November 28th to December 21st at the Dream Laboratory in Lincoln Square. Buy tickets here.

Step 11: Go to Tech Week

“Tech week” (or “Technical Week”) is the final week in the rehearsal process of a theatrical production in which all the technical elements are added. The focus shifts from the actors to the set, costumes, lights, and sound. All the director’s efforts go into making sure these elements are working in harmony. At this point, the actors’ performances have been solidified. In fact, because the director’s focus is now solely on these technical elements, the actors can just relax and have fun doing a show they now know by the back of their hands.

Ha ha, no, no, I’m kidding. It’s always total chaos and everyone has nervous breakdowns.

Usually, the week before tech involves a few shaky runs while everyone gets used to not having their scripts. The actors are still making new discoveries and figuring out what does and doesn’t work, all while trying to remember their lines and blocking. During this time, the show is like a newborn fawn taking its first steps. Tech week is like grabbing that fawn, shoving it in a van, driving it to a theatre, stuffing it into ill-fitting clothes, dragging it onto a darkened stage, blasting music in its ears, and then shining bright, hot lights in its eyes.

The fawn does exactly what you expect. It freaks the hell out.

Among the actors, terrified looks, worried murmuring, and anguished sighs are common. Open weeping and throwing up are not unheard of. Also, tech week means extended hours, so everyone in the production is exhausted. From the actor’s perspective, the show does not look or feel good, and opening night is a week away. According to Wikipedia (in an article that “does not cite any references or sources”), tech week is also called “torture week” or “hell week.” This is because every member of the production feels as though they are about to witness the coming apocalypse.

This feeling of desperation reaches its zenith about two nights before the show opens. Then, depending on the production’s quality, the actor either realizes, “Hey, this could actually be a decent show!” or, “Hey, the Canadian border is only about five hours away! I bet I could make it out of the country before nightfall! I could change my name to Logan and become Mountie and wear one of those silly hats! It’s nothing but maple syrup and Tim Hortons for me from now on! GOODBYE, AMERICA!!!!!!!!”

This is why we lose so many actors to the Royal Canadian Mounted Police.

It’s a national tragedy.

So please, even if your show is crap, don’t immediately turn to the Mounties. There will be other shows. I promise.

Hang in there.

Of course, none of this applies to my current production of Twelfth Night, which is nothing but fantastic. Buy tickets. We open on Friday. I take over the role of Sir Andrew from the 10th-12th. Be there.

Step 10: Memorize Your Lines

Having been a professional actor for over a month, I feel like I am now experienced enough to begin doling out advice on acting technique. This week, we shall start with a seemingly small but crucial step on your way to winning your Emmy for outstanding supporting actor or actress in a miniseries or TV movie (the highest of all honors). This step is, of course, memorizing your lines, which you would know if you read the title of this post. I made it pretty clear up there. It really says everything you need to know about this entry’s topic. Kind of makes this whole introduction irrelevant. If I had an editor, they might say, “What is this first paragraph? You don’t say anything here at all! Is it just for that weird Emmy joke? Is this going to be more garbled nonsense, like your last post? I can’t read another entry like that. Please, just cross this whole thing out. Also, who’s paying me? I’ve edited nine of these things, and I haven’t seen a dime. Do you have any sort of revenue stream at all? What’s going on here? Is this even a real— Hey, hey, put that down! What are you doing? NO, WAIT—”

Luckily for you, I don’t have an editor.

In my days and days of acting, I have seen several different line memorization techniques. Some actors keep their scripts in neatly organized binders and highlight all their lines and stage directions with a variety of colors. This color-coding helps them visualize their scenes and makes memorization significantly easier when the off-book date arrives. Other actors transcribe all of their scenes onto index cards, which both allows them to shed the cumbersome script during early rehearsals and creates an easy way for them to quiz themselves when the time comes for memorization. Other actors simply begin memorization as soon as possible, going off-book for certain scenes well before the official off-book date, giving them more freedom to explore the space and work on their physicality.

All of these approaches are wrong.

I present to you my Disintegrating Script Technique.™

First, do not keep your script in a binder or folder of any kind. Just stick some sort of heavy duty paper clip on the corner.

Make sure that you do not take any sort of special care of said script. Throw it around. Scribble all over it. Lose the back three pages. It should never look any better than this:

WordPress says, “Images are a vital part of grabbing a visitor’s attention, breaking up long pieces of content, and helping your content be shared across the web.”

WordPress says, “Images are a vital part of grabbing a visitor’s attention, breaking up long pieces of content, and helping your content be shared across the web.”

Soon, your script will be nearly unusable. You will be embarrassed to show it at rehearsal. You will start to lose entire scenes. Your peers will judge you. Your superiors will shake their heads in disappointment.

You must memorize your lines before this happens.

The threat of shame is a powerful motivator. Depending on how much of a slob you are, you’ll probably learn your lines well before the off-book date.

It’s just that simple.

See you next week.

And if you are in Chicago and want to see me in a production of Twelfth Night (you do), buy your tickets here. I will be playing the role of Sir Andrew Aguecheek from October 10th-12th. If you cannot make it that weekend, I will be on stage the other nights as well, but in the smaller roles of the Captain, Officer, and Priest.

Step 9: Go to Rehearsal

Ah ha! You almost forgot this step, didn’t you? This why your email account and cell phone are filled with angry messages from someone named “Stage Manager.” You can’t just go around telling people you’ve been cast. You actually need to attend rehearsals.

First, where are your rehearsals? A theatre? Well, aren’t you fancy? Mr. Fancypants. Fancypants McGee. Lord Fancypants McGee Moneysworth the Third. You’re all like, “Look at me everyone! My rehearsals are in a THE-ATE-RE. I like opera and burning hundred dollar bills in front of the migrant workers who tend to my caviar fields. I’m positively made of money! MADE OF IT. AH HA HA! HEE HEE HEE! HO HO HO! MERRY CHRISTMAS!!!!!!!”

*ahem*

My point is, if you’re doing storefront theatre, you’ll probably spend some time rehearsing in your director’s house before you get access to theatre space.

So how are you going to get to your director’s house? You’ll drive? In your car? Of course, because you’re all like, “I’m Lord Fancypants McGee Moneysworth the Third and I have a car and a driver’s license. I brush my teeth with escargot and the tears of the impoverished. NO MORE PORRIDGE FOR YOU!  AH HA HA! HEE HEE HE—”

Sorry about that. It won’t happen again.

Take the bus.

Note: The bus, as public transit enthusiasts may notice, is very different from the train. The train is typically full of professional commuters on their way to work. Yes, occasionally you see the odd desperate-looking fellow snorting pinches of cocaine, but note that this individual is always doing it in a quiet and respectful manner. The bus, on the other hand, is full of lunatics who have no understanding of manners or human hygiene. I do not know whether this difference is because of the 25¢ price gap or simple proximity to street level, but if you take the bus, expect a lengthy and laborious journey full of mysterious smells and unnecessary shouting.

Anyway, rehearsals should be fun. Listen to the director, provide input when it seems appropriate, don’t try to coach other actors, and make interesting choices. Try to stay upbeat, don’t be too distracting, and work with your scene partner. You’ll be fine.

I have rehearsals every evening from Sunday to Thursday. However, because I am only playing bit parts and understudying, I don’t have to be at every one. If you are in a leading role, WHY ARE YOU AHEAD OF ME? YOU’RE SUPPOSED TO BE FOLLOWING THIS BLOG STEP BY STEP! THAT’S WHY I’M PUTTING ALL THIS EFFORT INTO MAKING THIS DARN THING! IF YOU’RE JUST GOING TO BE LIKE, “I’M BETTER THAN JOE. I CAN JUST BE A LEAD RIGHT AWAY. I’M LORD FANCYPANTS MCGEE MONEYSWORTH THE THIRD AND I DON’T NEED SILLY LITTLE BLOGS,” THEN JUST STOP READING! NO ONE WANTS YOU HERE!

SO THERE.

Wait, no, where are you going?

Come back!

No, no, that? I didn’t mean any of that.

No, of course not.

Yes, I know I overused the caps button and kept calling you fancypants. I’m sorry.

I know it was hurtful.

I think your pants are totally normal.

Yes, of course.

They look great on you!

Really.

Please come back next week.

Please?

You will?

Aw, thanks. You’re really sweet.

Oh, you don’t have to flatter me like that.

You’ll read it every week until I stop writing? Wow!

Such commitment. That’s just great.

You’re the best.

No, you’re the best!

No, you!

Aw, alright, if you insist. See you next time, bud!

Step 8: Try to Find a Day Job

You may be thinking, “Day job? But Joe, you just got cast in a professional theatrical production! Don’t you spend your days wandering through willow-filled parks wearing a beret, smoking cigarettes, and reciting your lines for the ducks in the nearby pond, emotionally preparing yourself for a riotous evening rehearsal where you will undoubtedly become so lost in your character that you will not be able to find your way out again without a few midnight drinks at the local pub with your poet-friends?”

To you, good sir or madam, I say, “I know, right?”

Sadly, in these United States we are not nearly civilized enough to provide young actors with enough financial support to allow them to solely focus on the great service they provide humanity. More specifically, I get a hundred dollar stipend for my entire run of shows, and that compensation is as good as or better than that offered by most of the other productions for which I auditioned. So, unless you’ve figured out a way to live on one hundred dollars every two months, you might want to consider a day job.

Unfortunately, the job market is not overflowing with positions for under-qualified staff who must work around audition, rehearsal, and performance schedules.

My initial instinct was to turn back to theatre, where I thought I could find some interesting daytime work while staying close to the industry. Of course, having worked as an intern at a theatre in the past, I should have known that the vast majority of low-level theatre “jobs” are actually all internships, because, if there is one rule that storefront Chicago theatres have learned, it is “Don’t pay someone if they’ll work for free. Or for a hundred dollar stipend.”

So avoid the storefront theatres. Think bigger. Who pays their employees in theatre? Steppenwolf? The Goodman? They must hire daytime workers, right?

Sort of. All their entry level jobs are part-time, and most of them are vaguely-titled positions called something like “Ticket Sales Associate.” I found an opening at one such position at the prestigious Chicago Shakespeare Theater on Navy Pier. I made the mistake of reading “Ticket Sales Associate” as “Box Office Employee,” a job I have done before and would happily do again. I called their hiring office and spoke to a very nice woman who said that no, the job was not in the box office, but in a call center selling season ticket subscriptions. This was not really what I was looking for (for I, dear reader, hate telemarketers as much as you do), but beggars cannot be choosers, so I went in for an interview.

I will not bore you with all the details of the interview, but here are a few highlights:

I did not meet with the nice phone lady, but instead a man who did not know who I was or why I had been called in for an interview.

After exchanging pleasantries, he said, “All right, I’m a customer and I’m interested in buying season tickets. Sell me on them.”

I said, “In that situation, I suppose I would say that—”

“No, just tell me like I’m the customer.”

“Okay, well, I would say—”

“No. I’m the customer.”

“Okay. You’re the customer.” Then, since I had not been trained because I was still applying for the job, I repeated what information I could remember from the website about the upcoming season and the packages available.

“Don’t tell them about the cheaper packages,” he said.

“What?” I said.

“Always try to sell them on all the shows first.”

“Okay.”

“So?” he said, indicating to me.

“Good to know,” I said.

“No, let’s here the pitch.”

The interview went on this way for some time. He would make me pretend to sell tickets. I would. He would tell me why what I did was wrong. I would say okay.

“What if I said I wasn’t interested at all?” he said.

“I would say that I’m sorry to hear that and give them my contact information in case they reconsider.”

“No, I’m the customer.”

“Okay. I’m sorry to hear that. Here is my contact information in case you reconsider.”

“Never take no for an answer.”

“Okay.”

“So?”

“Never take no for an answer.”

“No, pitch me.”

The interview ended with him telling me that they actually only needed people on the evening shift, thus making the position not a day job at all. I also would get paid on commission.

I did not hear back from them.

It’s okay.

It wasn’t a good fit.

Now I spend my days trying to get retail stores on my street to call me back. They never do.

The moral of the story is that if you have a job that pays money, please contact me. I would like it.

Now I’m going to go recite my lines to some ducks.