the secret of her bloom

The Secret of her Bloom

By Philip Gaber

I auditioned for an off-off-Broadway production entitled "A Widow from Montclair," written by a sixty-four-year-old dentist, recently retired, who was now pursuing a career as a playwright. When I finished reading my prepared monologue, the director whispered something to the dentist, who nodded approvingly. I couldn't quite grasp the fact that the guy was a playwright, so in my mind, I kept referring to him as "The Dentist."

"We'd like you to read with the male lead," the director said, looking around. "Where's Dennis?"

"He went to Starbucks. He said he'd be right back," said a voice from the theater's rear.

The director sighed. It sounded like he muttered, "Jesus Christ," but I wasn't sure. He removed his glasses, rubbed his face with his hands, shook his head, and muttered again. Then the dentist whispered something to the director, who snickered as if someone had included him in a very obscene joke.

"Dennis is back!" said the voice from the rear.

Dennis walked in, sipping something hot from Starbucks. He was wearing khaki shorts, an unbuttoned Hawaiian shirt over a white t-shirt, and leather flip-flops. He looked to be in his mid-to-late thirties. His receding hair was in a ponytail.

"Yo!" Dennis said.

"Dennis, want you to read with Molly," the director said.

"Absolutely!"

"Act two, scene four..."

"Solid!"

Dennis motioned for the stage manager to toss him a copy of the script, which he immediately dropped as soon as it reached him. "I can do this," he said, bending over to pick up the script. "I am a professional..."

As Dennis approached me, he winked, half-smiled, and made one of those noises people sometimes make when giving orders to a horse.

"Hey, Molly, Dennis Filcher, a pleasure to meet you. Let's do this sucker... when you're ready..."

I turned to Act Two, Scene Four. Dennis had the first line. The scene called for him to be smoking, so he pantomimed smoking a cigarette.

"'My ex-wife was always off in Limbo, occupied," he said. "She was always vulnerable, always in a fish bowl...'"

"'Hmm, my ex liked to take a drink every now and then. He liked to come home, relax, and have a glass of wine. The wine became vodka...'"

"'I watched her take sixty laxatives in two nights...from that time on, things went steadily downhill...'"

"'I was a little too free for my own good. I wanted to have a baby at the age of seventeen. I thought I'd never be lonely again. I won't be alone..."

Dennis tossed the imaginary cigarette on the ground, stamped it out with his foot, and then dropped to the floor for a series of one-arm push-ups. "'Well, I think your scars are profound, Maggie. I believe in healing. I think that you're doing fine. But, I think, periodically, things creep up, insecurities. I think it's... I think it's a case of, if the dog hadn't stopped to pee, he might have caught the rabbit...'"

I let out a big sigh because that's what the stage directions said to do, but I really wasn't feeling the character. I was about to say the hell with the whole thing and get my ass out of there when the director suddenly lurched out of his chair and shouted,

"Yesss! Yesss! That's brilliant! That is exactly what I'm looking for!"

I just looked blankly at him.

"You have such an incredibly angry, suppressed, sort of, totally tragic cheekiness about you, which I find absolutely irresistible..."

"Thank you," I said, adding, "I think..."

"Who did you study with?"

"Uhm...myself?"

The director laughed manically. "Girl, you're a trip... You've got the part. Congratulations..."

"Thanks," I said, sort of blas

Dennis made that horrible horse noise again and extended his hand. "Great job, Molly," he said. "You rocked the hell out of that thang."

I shook his hand and bowed my head for some stupid reason. Ordinarily, I do not like bowing my head whenever somebody compliments me. In fact, it was the first time I'd ever bowed my head to anyone in my life. It was incredibly upsetting that I did it to a schmuck like Dennis, who was so totally undeserving of a head bow to begin with.

"How 'bout we do dinner later?" he said.

"I can't. I have bible study tonight."

"Oooh, bible study," he said with a subtle sneer. "Interesting... I'd really like to sit down with you sometime and talk about your process..."

"My process?"

"Your approach to the craft..."

"Ahh, my approach. Well, my approach is very simple. Just say the lines and don't bump into the furniture."

Dennis laughed. He had one of those loud, embarrassing laughs that made you never want to say anything funny to him again. He didn't even realize I had borrowed the bump into the furniture line from Spencer Tracy, which meant I was forced to take major cool points away from him, which left him with a really negative rating.

"Boy, you're gonna be a blast to work with," he said.

"I'm really looking forward to this," I lied.

Then he leaned forward and whispered, "Listen, don't let Mark intimidate you...This is his first stage production. He's been directing some kid's shows on Nickelodeon or the Disney Channel or some shit for the last five years. He's not used to working with real actors."

"Thanks," I said. "That helps me a whole lot."

"Dennis! I need you!" the director shouted.

"Coming, coming! Always coming!" He patted me on the shoulder and winked. "And I do mean, always coming..."

I waited for him to do the horse noise again, but thank God he didn't.

As I walked out of the theater, I thought, what the hell am I about to sign on for here?

Two weeks before the show was supposed to open, Dennis withdrew for personal reasons, and the role couldn't be reassigned so late in the rehearsal process, so they had to cancel the production. I was so furious with him that I called him.

"Dennis, what the hell is wrong with you?"

"I just feel like I'm surrounded by people totally unconcerned with my spiritual well-being," he said.

I slammed the phone down and screamed.

Thirty seconds later, the phone rang.

"Hello?" I said.

It was Dennis.

"Man, you're a lot of work," he said.

I slammed the phone down again, taking it off the hook. I had such a volatile cocktail of emotions raging inside of me that I began to scream wildly, pounding the arm of the couch with my closed, hard fists until some of my knuckles were bruised and bloody. I would never forgive Dennis for what he did to me! To us! Granted, the play was astoundingly neurotic, self-indulgent, and imperfectly written, but it was work! Now I'd have to schlep down to the unemployment office and play that fecocta game again! Christ, I've been "surrounded by people who were totally unconcerned with my spiritual well-being" my entire life! You don't see me "withdrawing for personal reasons" two weeks before the fucking show opens!

I sunk into the couch and closed my eyes. I was in such a paralyzing stupor that I just sat there for the next two and a half hours staring at all the paint runs, bumps, dents, and grit on my walls.

The sun's light was on my face when I finally fell asleep.

Later that day, I went to my gynecologist. I told her I thought I might be depressed.

"It can be just that, your progestin levels, your hormones get out of whack," she said. "and then it sucks your cortisol level, and then your cortisol level makes you puffy and fat, so you're depressed. Simple as that."

"Is it really as simple as that?" I asked her.

She smiled and nodded. "You're fine."

I noticed a cactus sitting in a pot on the counter next to the sink. It looked like it was beginning to rot and seemed to be melting into the dirt. "Your cactus is dying," I said.

"Mm hm," she said, reviewing my records.

"Maybe you can take some cuttings and root them..."

"Mm-hmm..."

She scribbled something in my records, closed my file, stood up, and extended her hand. "Everything looks great," she said.

"Great," I said, shaking her hand, and I left.

When I returned to my apartment, Dennis had a message on the answering machine apologizing for his self-indulgent behavior. He went on to say that he thought he might be battling with undiagnosed cases of attention-deficit hyperactivity disorder, panic disorder, and manic depression, and maybe it was time he finally confronted his demons and entered into therapy.

"My life just feels like a lot of effort with zero payoff," he said. "Guess it's time to reassess my life mission..."

That's when the answering machine cut him off.

I envisioned Dennis, drunk on wine coolers, totally oblivious to having just been disconnected, still talking into the phone four hours later, disclosing all of his psychic scars.

"Just don't turn psycho stalker on me, brother," I said.

I erased his message, grabbed a Bud Lite from the fridge, sat on the couch, turned on Home and Garden TV, and got comfortably buzzed.

I was fast asleep before the program host could fully explain how to propagate roses.