Chapter Three
Stephen Gerber was the owner of The Gerber Casting Agency, the world’s largest talent and casting agency across theater, television, and film. I’d started interning at the Gerber Agency when I was a sophomore at NYU. An older student in one of my theater classes mentioned an internship at a casting agency was one of the best ways to break into the business. The Gerber Agency typically only took one intern a semester, and I couldn’t believe my luck when I was hired.
Stephen was so happy with my work, he kept me on me for the next five semesters and then offered me a full-time job as a casting assistant when I graduated. I was reluctant to accept the position, but Sam convinced me it was too good of an opportunity to pass up. I originally only planned on staying with the Gerber Agency for one year, maybe two. I was currently going on ten.
Although my responsibilities steadily increased from year to year, Stephen was still of the opinion I was the only employee capable of picking up his breakfast without getting the order wrong. And while I used to resent the errand, the very healthy Christmas bonus he gave me every year made it much more tolerable. This year’s bonus was paying for our honeymoon—ten days in Southeast Asia, starting in Bangkok and ending in Bali. Neither one of us had ever been to Asia, and I’d been working on the perfect itinerary for months.
“Jo, do you have my eggs?” Stephen’s voice bellowed from the front of the room.
I hurried to the long, large table set up a few feet from the piano in the corner of the space. Stephen was seated in the middle, his assistant, Courtney, to his left, and Colin Stockard, a Senior Casting Agent, to his right. I placed Stephen’s eggs in front of him and pulled a stack of headshots out of my tote. I passed them down the row.
“We’re seeing the Rum Tum Tuggers first and then the Grizabellas,” I said.
Colin rolled his eyes. “This day can’t go fast enough. I loathe Cats.”
I shot my head up. “Really?”
“Yeah, there’s no real story line, no plot, just spandex and spectacle. It’s the worst of the ’80s monster musicals.”
“How can you do what we do and hate Cats?”
Colin swung around to face me. “Let me guess, you were the girl who performed ‘Memory’ at your high school graduation ceremony.”
My face turned a bright shade of crimson.
Stephen turned to us. “Jo, who’s up first?”
I picked up his headshot and turned it over to his resume printed on the back. “Logan McDaniel. Credits include Hedwig in first national tour of Hedwig and the Angry Inch, Fiyero in the most recent North American tour of Wicked, and Duke of Anjou, Elizabeth.
Stephen raised his eyebrows and mumbled the word Elizabeth. Elizabeth was the hottest ticket on Broadway, and much to Stephen’s chagrin, one of the few shows on the Great White Way that The Gerber Agency had not been asked to cast for. He was still holding a grudge about it.
Stephen put his hand behind his head and slid down into his chair. “All right, have him come in.”
Courtney jumped up and opened the door. A good-looking guy wearing a ’50s-style leather jacket and tight jeans followed her through the door.
“Have you auditioned for us before? You look familiar,” Stephen asked.
“Last year, School of Rock.”
“That’s right. You were pretty good.” Stephen turned to me. “Jo, do you remember why we passed on him?”
I sat more upright. “You were worried about his upper range.”
Stephen turned back to Logan. “How’s your upper range these days?”
“I was able to handle Perry Gillman’s score, sir.”
“Perry Gillman’s score. Good one,” Stephen snorted. “Whenever you’re ready.”
Logan handed the pianist his sheet music and walked back to the center of the room, where he belted out the opening number from Jesus Christ Superstar. He was fantastic, with just the right rock ’n’ roll growl to his voice and swagger in his step. In Cats, the Rum Tum Tugger was considered the “ladies’ cat” and rebel of the group. Andrew Lloyd Webber told Stephen he intended the part of the Rum Tum Tugger to be an homage to Mick Jagger. Even without knowing that fact, Logan was totally capturing Mick’s essence.
Stephen turned to me and lowered his voice. “Jo, what do you think?”
I leaned into the table. “He’s good. Maybe a hair over the top. Next time, I’d like to see if he can rein it in a bit.”
“Well, he did just graduate from the Perry Gillman school of overacting.” Stephen stood up. “Thanks, Logan, we’ll be in touch regarding callbacks by the end of today.”
Logan picked up his music off the piano and thanked us for our time. One by one, the rest of the actors came in for the Rum Tum Tugger, followed by the actresses trying out for Grizabella, the glamour cat best known for belting out “Memory” in the second act. While they were all talented, with impressive resumes, I could tell Stephen wasn’t sold on any of the women. When he really loved a performer, you knew it. His whole face lit up, while his knees bounced up and down.
Stephen stood up. “None of them are right. None of them. Jo, can you circle back to the agencies? We need to see some fresh faces.”
I jotted down his request. “Sure thing, Stephen.”
He looked up at the wall clock. “Is it lunchtime already? Jo, BLT on rye.”
I nodded and collected the headshots to pass to Courtney. One slid off the desk and onto the floor, and I bent down to pick it up.
She shook her head. “Girlfriend, that Boot Camp is doing great things for your booty. How many more weeks to go?”
“About eight weeks, or what Benji likes to call, ‘the final trial ’til the aisle.’”
“If you keep losing weight, your dress is going to be huge by the time you get down the aisle.”
“I have my first fitting tomorrow. My sister’s coming into town for it.” I pulled my phone out of my pocket. “Speaking of which . . . oh, good, she landed. Courtney, could you do me a huge favor?”
“You want me to get Stephen’s lunch?”
“Could you? He gave me the afternoon off to spend with my sister, but it would be so great if I could head out now and surprise them at the hotel. It’s just a BLT.”
“I know I’m going to screw it up somehow.”
“He doesn’t like the ends.”
She scrunched up her nose. “The ends?”
“Of the bread. Make sure they only use middle slices. And although he says he wants a BLT, leave out the T. Stephen hates tomato.”
“No tomato, got it.”
“Now, if you really want to win him over . . . extra pickles.”
Courtney was scribbling furiously into her notepad.
“I owe you one.”
She waved her hand in the air. “I owe you about a million. Don’t mention it.”
Merritt and I ate dinner at the hotel with Naomi and Alec before heading out on the town. We hit up a few bars in the West Village before landing in one of Merritt’s favorites, the Cubbyhole. The Cubbyhole was a stand-up bar with limited seating room and limited space overall. Kites, lanterns, and other rainbow decorations hung from the ceiling, and there was an old-style jukebox in the corner of the room. We crammed into the crowded bar and found a quiet corner in the back. Merritt went to the bar and brought back two drinks.