I finished my morning coffee and thought, “Why not?” So I got dressed. I pulled on my black fishnet stockings (the ones with the seams up the back), stuffed my bra with socks (one on each side), stepped into my shiny, hi-cut purple trunks, and topped off the confection with my black and white polka-dotted midriff, emphasizing my new cleavage by gathering the material tightly and plunging a safety pin through the middle. I slapped on twice as much make-up as usual—heavy blush; thick, black eyeliner; two coats of black mascara; purple eye shadow (to match those trunks); and a thick layer of ruby red lipstick. I set my stringy blonde hair with hot curlers, afterwards teasing it, and applying enough hairspray and mousse to make it hold its shape for at least a decade. I threw on jeans and a sweatshirt over my outfit, putting a heavy parka over all of it. I yanked on rain boots, packed up my gold lamé character shoes, and hit the street. After eight years as a professional dancer, I was headed to my first Bob Fosse audition.
I‘d never bothered to audition for Fosse before, because I wasn’t 5’8", with big tits and long legs. Even at twenty-six, I usually landed little-girl roles in shows like The Music Man and Carousel. Today, I decided that for once I would stash the lollypop and sashay into the audition strutting my sexuality. After all, I reasoned, I had long legs for my height, and in two-inch heels I was at least 5’5". Bob Fosse wasn’t going to be around forever, and I wanted to audition for this giant—at least once.
The wintry day was wet, and cold rain slapped my face as I raced from the chilly subway toward the theater. I followed the “CHORUS CALL, THIS WAY” signs—into the dank lobby, and down two flights of stairs, into the bowels of the theater. My eyes slowly adjusted to the dim, yellow light. I checked my watch. Eight forty-five. I wrote my name on the audition list; I was number 102. By ten, at least a hundred more girls would arrive. The musty basement was full of tables and odd furniture, cast off from old sets. Everywhere I looked, I saw girls stretching long, defined limbs. All of us shivered, not so much from cold, as from nerves and desire.
As I began to peel off my layers, I counted the number of girls I recognized. Dozens. We’d all done this so many times. There was Spence, lean and muscular, like a panther ready to pounce; she was definitely a Fosse-type dancer. Nearby me stood Jane, a beautiful dancer, with legs up to her eyeballs; she was always working in a show. I waved to Gail, who stood in a corner smoking a cigarette. No one else I knew wore a white leotard like Gail did; no one else ever dared. Not only did she have a perfect body, she never seemed to sweat. I, on the other hand, began to perspire at the mere thought of the stiff competition ahead. I reapplied my make-up (which had smudged in the rain), scrunched my sticky hair, and prayed that my hair, makeup, and spirits would survive the audition. I waved to Leigh, a friendly face in the crowd. She was short, too.
I put on my heels and began to warm-up. I took a wide second position, pliéd deeply, and stretched in that position for a while, feeling my muscles loosen. I stood and swung one leg back and forth, then the other. The blood began to flow through my body. I did a few upper body ripples, twisted my back right, then left, pointed my feet, flexed my ankles, and circled my hips. All of us already knew the dance combination Fosse would give in order to “type” auditioning dancers “in” or “out”; it was common knowledge for dancers. Fosse always used a simple soft-shoe routine for his preliminary typecast: “Tea For Two.” It was easy, and it didn’t require too much of a warm-up. I was ready. Now it was just a matter of waiting for the audition to begin.
Kathy, our union rep, finally assembled us into groups of twelve, and I began to feel strangely excited. I knew the combination. I felt confident and sexy—my socks were evenly distributed, the seams of my fishnets were straight, and my hair was holding. Having made all of this effort in order to look good, I just knew it wouldn’t be wasted—Bob Fosse would have to notice me! After what seemed like an eternity, our group filed into the wings, and waited. We were the next group up to audition. The stage was lit by five bare bulbs; the rest of the cavernous theater was dark. The piano and accompanist were stage right. Fosse and his svelte, long-legged assistant Linda stood downstage center, intently evaluating a small group of four girls.
I focused my gaze on Fosse. He stood with his hands on his hips, a cigarette dangling from his mouth. I was shocked to see how decrepit he looked. Where was the vibrant young dancer from Kiss Me Kate and Damn Yankees? The man who stood only a dozen feet away was thin, hunched, and sallow. When he took the cigarette from his mouth it seemed to collapse, as if he had no teeth. Still—there the legend stood. I inhaled deeply as he chose one girl from the small group, dismissing the rest with a wave of his hand.
I closed my eyes and rehearsed the combination in my head. I could barely move my legs—only inches separated me from the other girls in my group. Adrenaline pumped through my body. I just had to dance well. I wanted Bob Fosse to choose me. I had been fine-tuning jetés, battements, and pirouettes (not to mention nuance and grace) for over fifteen years, waiting for a moment like this to prove how talented I was. Suddenly Kathy called out, “Next group.” As we walked to the center of the stage, I took a deep breath, then another. I was nervous. Fosse’s assistant showed us the combination once, answered a question about timing, then placed us in two staggered lines. I stood in the back, primed.
The piano player played the intro: “Da da daaa da,” and we began the soft-shoe routine. We did it once, the back line switched positions with the front, and we did the combination once again; this time I was in front. Miraculously, I relaxed, and actually started having fun with the dance, allowing my limbs to take over and letting the music move me.
When we finished, Fosse began to walk toward our group. I felt my heart contract. I wondered if I were imagining things; he was walking directly towards me. I stood with my hands on my right hip, feigning nonchalance, hoping I still looked sexy. He took a drag off his cigarette, and motioned to me to step forward. As if in a dream, I moved in close to him. “What’s your name?” he asked. “My name?” For a split second I wasn’t sure, but finally I answered, “Cheryl Montelle.” “Well, Ms. Montelle, would you mind doing the combination for me one more time?” “Not at all,” I whispered.
The music started, and there I was dancing all by myself on a Broadway stage for Bob Fosse. I gave it everything I had. I added a little more flare, accentuated a hip movement here and there; but I stayed calm, I didn’t push. I kept my movements fluid and subtle. I finished with a double pirouette, landed neatly on the beat, turned my head to the audience, and snapped my fingers twice, as the choreography required. Then I looked up. Fosse stood there staring at me, his left hand under his chin, his right arm across his chest as ashes from his neglected cigarette drifted to the floor around his feet. His assistant carried my card to him. He looked down and studied my credits. I hadn’t done any Broadway shows.
As I waited in silence, I wished I could have told him about all of my close misses: A Chorus Line, 42nd Street, the touring show bound for New York that didn’t make it, the Broadway show that hired me but lost its financing. Almost-but-not-quite shows in my almost-but-not-quite Broadway career. My heart pounded, the sound echoing in my ears. I stood stock-still. Would he keep me or send me away? My future seemed to hang in a delicate balance, ruled by Bob Fosse’s decision.
After an interminable amount of time, he looked up. “Cheryl Montelle. Pretty name.” I smiled. He moved closer, put one of those slender arms around my shoulder, walked me forward, turned me toward him, looked right into my eyes, and said, “I‘m very sorry that I don’t have a place for you in my show. Thank you for coming.” He squeezed my shoulder, then turned and cut the rest of my group, as the next group of dancers started shuffling downstage.
I grabbed my bag and wandered offstage in a daze. Leigh grabbed my arm. “Cheryl, are you all right? You’re walking like a zombie”, she said. “I don’t know,” I answered. “Bob Fosse just apologized for cutting me.” I felt numb, wondering how I should feel. Elated? Depressed? I didn’t notice anything as I dressed and walked out the stage door—not the temperature, or the time, or the dampness of my winter clothes. I barely noticed the rain that was still falling. As I reached the subway station where the train ran that would take me the thirty blocks home, I passed it by and kept on walking. The rain began to feel good. At least Bob Fosse had singled me out for some reason. That lone thought kept me walking for a while.
Halfway to the Village, now shivering and freezing, I passed a diner. I hadn’t eaten anything all day, and the scent of food lured me inside. The place was nearly empty, so I sat down at a booth by the window, and ordered coffee and a toasted bran muffin. Sipping the hot coffee, I began to think. I had given my career everything I had. I had worked hard. I had taken class every day—ballet, jazz, tap. I had practiced singing. I had dieted. And I knew that every day more busloads of young girls were arriving in New York City, filled with a burning desire to make it. Meanwhile, I was burning out. Suddenly I no longer cared if I ever danced on Broadway. In that moment, in that diner, coffee warming me, something changed.
Soon after the new show opened (and quickly closed), Bob Fosse died. I heard the news as I was packing my belongings, to move out West. I felt deeply sad. He’d meant so much to Broadway. Not only was he a genius, but he’d touched people’s lives. He’d touched mine. That day when he looked at me, his eyes full of respect and kindness, he seemed to understand how much hard work, struggle, and sacrifice went into each day as a dancer, and how much courage it took to keep coming back for each audition. “I’m sorry that I don’t have a place for you in my show.” I believed him. And I believe he meant it.
