‘The Twilight Zone.’ Definitely.
I felt as though I’d slipped into another dimension and any moment the theme music would kick in, then the creepy voiceover.
I should have realised what the audition to talk in schools would be like when I received the letter. The tone was abrupt and demanding. There was a rumour about a group of dancers who burst into tears when they received their initial letter and refused to do the audition.
Good thinking.
I rang the assessment office. ‘I’m doing three weeks of schools through my booking agent. Do you want me to let you know which ones so you can watch?’
‘No. We arrange the schools. We can’t follow you into schools you’ve already booked. And you’ll have to do separate auditions for each age group, and one for talks, then one workshop.’
I’d counted on my fingers to see how many auditions I would need to do, then ran out of fingers. I decided to do a couple and see how it went.
A fax arrived giving the names and addresses of schools.
I contacted the schools, by letter, with my requirements and enclosed information about me to help them prepare. Displaying a fine amount of paranoia, I had also phoned the first school a few days beforehand.
‘We don’t know anything about any audition,’ I heard a voice say on the other end of the phone.
I suggested they ring the assessment office.
They promised to follow up.
I believe I heard the sound of pigs flapping across the sky.
When I arrived at the school, nothing was organised. Not even a microphone.
There were six assessors. During my talk they all sat up the back, in a row, ostentatiously flipping through pages on clipboards and talking loudly.
I tried ignoring them, then I glared at them, but they wouldn’t stop. The kids started to turn around and stare at them too.
It was agony, and afterwards I trooped back to the staff room by myself. No one spoke to me, not the staff or any of the panel members.
I found myself standing next to an assessor, waiting for hot water for a coffee.
I said ‘Hello.’
‘We shouldn’t talk to you,’ she said. ‘We’re going over here.’
The group moved to the other side of the staff room to flip through more paper on clipboards and mumble, with their backs turned.
I had made myself a coffee and sat, alone.
At least the talk was over. There was only the workshop to follow.
It was in a large hall and there was no whiteboard, even though I’d asked for one in the letter, by phone, fax and, again, when I arrived.
I’d planned a workshop that included drawings and words on the board. So I begged the woman in the office for a whiteboard.
‘I’ll send a student with one,’ she said, and smiled.
I suspected further trouble.
The kids tromped into the classroom late, with no books or writing materials.
There was a variety of ethnic backgrounds amongst the group, so I asked the teacher, ‘Are these English as a Second Language kids?’
She blinked like an owl. ‘No.’
I started the workshop.
The kids stared at me as though they didn’t understand a word. They could hardly write.
Then the double doors squeaked open and a white board was shoved inside.
The assessment panel still talked loudly and flicked their pages.
I thought about asking them to be quiet, but I figured they’d fail me straight away and the day would have been wasted.
Afterwards, the teacher, who I discovered was relieving for the regular teacher, said, “Oh by the way, they are ESL students.”’
The panel of assessors gave their verdict. ‘We passed you on the hour’s talk, but you must only give that talk. You can’t change a single word.’
‘Not one?’
‘No.’
‘But kids asked questions and I answered them. Next time the audience won’t ask the same questions.’
‘It’s the rules. And we’d like you to try another audition for the workshop. It was quite good, but we didn’t like the way the chairs were arranged.’
My jaw dropped, but no sound came out.
The panel offered me a chance to audition again, but I refused. Although the odds were slim that I’d be in the same hall as my first workshop audition. The one where I was told off for not arranging the chairs in a better fashion. The one where the chairs were welded together and and nailed to the floor. Only Superman could have rearranged that furniture. And I’ve not seen him in ‘The Twilight Zone’.
