I pulled the car around to the 42nd and 7th Avenue spot that I had been told to wait at and put the car into park. I looked at my watch. It was almost four. Where was she?
I wiped the beads of sweat from my forehead and tried to turn the heat down lower but it was already off.
Cars whizzed by me, causing me to look over to the left every few seconds. I felt like all my senses were enhanced, I could hear things I wouldn’t normally hear, and everybody on the sidewalk looked like my wife coming out of the stage door but I knew that they weren’t.
I looked at my watch again. 4:01. I hit the steering wheel with my hand. Only two minutes had passed but I could have sworn it was at least 15. I don’t even know how I had managed to drive down to Manhattan earlier that afternoon. Clare was nervous enough about the meeting and my being nervous just added on to the stress. I couldn’t help it though. Her dreams were finally being realized and I felt as thought it were me trying out for the show, rather than her.
After dropping her off at the theater I drove to Central Park, parked at a meter, and walked around a bit, trying to calm my nerves. When I had told Mr. Jenks about my wife’s aspiring to be on Broadway he instantly made an appointment for her to see a director of a revival of the show “Beauty and the Beast.” The director wanted ensemble members and was holding a call for clients of people he knew. Luckily for Clare, I knew Mr. Jenks.
Even though I backed out of my deal, Mr. Jenks was still after me to lend my voice to one of Broadway’s stages. I told him that if he found a part between next March and next December to give me a call and I’ll do it. As long as my wife is acting on Broadway, I might as well take a go at it sometime. I’d rather have her dreams realized because mine came true eight years ago when I met her.
I wiped my forehead with the back of my hand. I knew I was probably as red as a tomato.
4:10.
Still no sign of her.
I tapped my foot nervously on the break pedal. I fanned my face with my shirt collar. This was torture.
4:20.
The stage door opened.
I couldn’t read the look on her face as she got into the car from the audition. She wasn’t happy, she wasn’t sad, she wasn’t anything. I was dying to ask her. I let a few minutes go by, hoping that maybe she’d say what happened but she didn’t utter a word.
“So,” I started, “how’d it go?”