JESS
When I get home from work at four-thirty in the afternoon on December 1, 1988, having spent the day teaching dance and aerobics to rich kids at a posh private school, it’s already dark outside. It’s as cold inside my apartment as it is outside, which means the furnace is on the fritz again.
My thirtieth birthday just gets better and better.
No messages on the answering machine, which means no auditions for me tomorrow. Nobody told me that ad agencies go into hibernation from Thanksgiving to New Year’s. I was really hoping for a chance to book something this month. Even doing background in a commercial would help pay the bills.
At least my heating oil charges will be low. Just as I find the super’s number in my day planner—which I should have memorized by now, I have to call him so often—the phone rings and I pick it up, hopeful for some good news. “This is Jess.”
“Hey, it’s Will. Happy Birthday.”
Will’s my best boy friend. Not boyfriend. We’ve played lovers at Shakespeare Boston too many times to count, but he’s as much of a brother as my real brother is. Plus, he has a pretty serious girlfriend.
“Thanks, but can you keep that under your hat? Last thing I need is everyone in town asking how old I am now.”
“So, old woman, did you get a call?”
“You mean about Hamlet?”
“Well, yeah. Duh.”
“Uh, no. I didn’t.” But he probably did. “Are you telling me you’re playing the Prince of Denmark?”
“I am.” The pride in his voice is laced with concern. “But I didn’t get to ask about the rest of the cast. Did you check your machine?” “I’m standing right here looking at it. No messages.”
“Maybe they haven’t called everyone yet.”
“When did they call you?”
“This morning.”
Which means there’s little chance I’m in the show. Pacing, swinging the phone cord, I have to work hard to keep the bitterness out of my voice as I congratulate him. “I’m really happy for you, Will.”
Part of being an actress is rejection. I’ve been lucky enough to avoid it at Shakespeare Boston. Until now, it seems. “Either way, it’s fine. Ophelia’s no Juliet. I mean, the part’s a challenge but mostly because there’s not a lot to work with. You just have to choose which kind of crazy to play her.”
“Well, you’d be great. I don’t know what they’re thinking.”
“That I just turned thirty? That I’m too ethnic for what they’re going for? Both, probably.”
“I can’t see anyone at Shakespeare Boston saying you’re too ethnic.”
Noting that he doesn’t say anything about the fact that I’m aging out of ingenue roles, I have to force the corners of my mouth up so I don’t sound angry. “Sometimes it’s about the picture, Will. And there are a lot of girls in town who can play Ophelia.”
“Yeah. I... it’ll be weird if you’re not around.”
“Well, maybe it’ll force me to stretch my wings. Good thing I sent out my headshot to all the theaters this fall like a good little actress.”
“Speaking of which, I heard there’s an open call up at Chichester Rep tomorrow.”
“An open call? Waiting all day for a two-minute audition where if you’re lucky they’ll be eating something smelly, and if you’re not, they’ll be asleep?”
“I’m going. Every audition is another chance to perform.”
“Make me barf, man.”
“Jess—”
“I know, I know. Kidding. Sort of.”
Sucking it up, I get the details. Chichester is a bit of a haul, but Thursday is a shorter teaching day for me, so I can probably get up there before the five o’clock deadline. Unfortunately, Will and I can’t drive together because he has to bartend in the afternoon.
”Well, I should go. I have a class.”
While I do teach dance some evenings at a studio nearby, I don’t actually have to tonight, but I can’t take more of Will’s sympathy right now.
“I’ll make this quick, then.” He clears his throat. “Are you in town for New Year’s?”
“No. My family always spends it down in Florida with my grand‐ parents. Are you having a party?”
“Yeah, but it’s more than that. We’re... kind of making an announcement.”
I know all the colors of this man’s voice, so I can tell this is good news. “Since I can’t be there, will you tell me now?”
“If I do, you have to keep it to yourself. Kate wants this to be a big surprise.”
“Oh my god. You’re not.”
“We are. We’re engaged.”
“Damn, Will. I didn’t think you had it in you.” “I didn’t either, but when it’s right, it’s right.” “Well, congratulations. That’s awesome news.”
“Nineteen eighty-nine. I think that’s a good year to get married.”
“I have to go, but... good job, man. She’s a keeper. And congrats on Hamlet again.”
“Thanks. Bye, J. Let me know if they call.”
Proud of myself for mustering the goodwill to wish my friend well when I’m losing out on every front, I stare at the phone on the wall for a few minutes. I am truly happy for him and Kate. They’re great together. I mean, a part of me is a weensy bit jealous since I can’t seem to find a guy I’d actually want to spend more than a few nights with.
Maybe it’s like that Groucho Marx joke. I don’t want to be a member of a club that’ll have me as a member.
At the same time, it kind of pisses me off that I’m too old to play Ophelia, but Will’s not too old to play Hamlet.
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