You Are Here by Donald Breckenridge Read Free Book Online Page B

connected with a fastball that sailed deep into left field. “Poof… she is rich.” Stephanie watched the ball being caught by the outfielder. “She says that she wants to live in a palace.” He threw the ball to the shortstop and that kept the runner on second from tagging up. “Poof… her dingy apartment is transformed into a beautiful palace.” The shortstop threw the ball to the pitcher. “And for my third and final wish I want my cat turned into a handsome prince.” The pitcher inspected the ball while the next batter walked toward the plate. “And poof… wish number three transforms her mangy old tomcat into a handsome prince.” The pitcher threw another fastball that the batter swung at and missed. “They fall into each others arms and then her handsome prince asks, ‘So aren’t you sorry that you had me fixed?’ ”
    A livery cab finally took Stephanie back to Jackson Heights around two in the morning. “I hope that I didn’t get you into trouble this afternoon,” she stood before the answering machine in her living room, “and I really enjoyed our lunch together,” swaying a bit from the Mojitos she had with Karen at Pete’s Candy Store, “and I’d like to do it again…” with glistening eyes and a broad smile, “that is if you want to,” and listened to his message three more times, “call me at this number or at my office tomorrow,” before turning out the lights and crawling into bed, “I’ll be working till the late afternoon.”

Audition Sequence

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    I locked my bike up to a parking meter in front of the gallery and pocketed the keys. Cindy removed the highlighted script from her purse as the F train pulled out of York Street. It was a warm, partly cloudy Sunday morning. She opened the script and turned to page nine.
    Man:
And what about the guy she’s with?
    A flock of pigeons had surrounded a crushed loaf of bread in the gutter between two parked cars.
    Woman:
He is nothing more than the latest way for her to wear her hair.
    Peter was standing in front of the gallery with a copy of the Sunday Times tucked beneath his left arm and a hand-rolled cigarette between his fingers.
    Man:
And for him?
    Peter had been a member of the Living Theater in the late sixties, “Hey Donald,” spent most of the seventies in Rome, “nice day for a ride,” and now owned the gallery where the play was performed, “Did you take the Manhattan Bridge?”
    Woman:
She is nothing more than a new pair of shoes.
    Cindy was reminded of meeting Janet for the first time, dressed in a beige raincoat and holding a small red umbrella above her head, as she stood in front of the fountain by the Met on a drizzling March afternoon.
    Man:
Are you sure that you’re not projecting your own
insecurities?
    I nodded, “there was hardly any traffic.”
    Cindy looked up from the script and out the keyed window— Part marsupial part lynx: Seeking an affectionate femme who doesn’t take herself too seriously, likes art and loves cats. I am hoping to share spring blossoms with someone like you if the glass slipper fits . After a brief tour of the modern wing Cindy and Janet had an intimate conversation over tea and cake in the museum café.
    Peter’s long gray hair was tied back in a loose ponytail, “so, that’s why you’re early.” I stepped toward him, “I’m always early,” while undoing the chinstrap on my helmet, “it’s one of my compulsions.” The photograph of a long row of American flags flying above yesterday’s memorial ceremony at the World Trade Center site was partially obscured by his thin wrist. “That isn’t a bad compulsion to have,” Peter grinned. I removed my helmet and tucked it beneath my left arm. “So we’ll be able to rehearse here as well?” “Sure,” He pushed the