(Quinn)
I wanted to accompany Rachel to the audition. It would be an important point for her career if she manages to get into an HBO series. The channel is very relevant, despite the growth of Netflix, and it's still an awards powerhouse, which is justified by the quality of the series and films it produces. Maybe Rachel won't be famous, maybe the series won't take off, but she'll certainly be talked about just for being an HBO product. How envious I was. I wish I could work on something like that. I opened my email at lunchtime, a ritual I've been looking forward to since I became unemployed.
There was an electronic receipt for the deposit from the eatery I worked for. It was 2,000 dollars for photographing the products, processing the photos and sending everything ready for them to design the new menu and store front. Of this money, I had just 500 saved dollars for the tax and made 500 of profit, and the thousand dollars was to cover the investment I had to make in order to get the job done. I had a savings account just for that. Santana's tip, because paying taxes wasn't easy. I always had money left over in my savings account when I sent the money to the tax office and this strategy came in handy because I knew that at the beginning of the year I had an extra, real savings.
It was a relief to receive the payment. It meant that we wouldn't have long to pay the rent for another month. Juan paid Santana's share, which helped a lot. My money would pay the bill, but we still had to pay for water, electricity and gas, as well as the groceries and transportation costs. Rachel had auditions to do, but she wouldn't know how much she would get and when if she signed a contract. And there was this story about Santana planning a dishcloth company: another investment with no guaranteed money.
I massaged my own shoulders. How hard it was to live in the adult world with so many bills to pay. If nothing came up by the end of next week, I swear I'd knock on Razorback's door to shoot porn. They were supposed to pay little per production, but it was the law of necessity.
I even explored the Razorback sex shop website. There was a section of videos available on registration. I logged in and had access to videos of up to 20 minutes divided into two main categories: gay, lesbian and heterosexual, each of which had a bunch of subcategories. They all consisted of a series of short films with a story, lines, a relatively decent production in which explicit sex, with advertise of the products sold in the store, was interspersed with the plot. They were quite funny and got a lot of hits. Only then did I understand why they didn't just want to hire prostitutes: they were on idea of making porn entertainment, which was different from today's pure and simple webcam porn, which is only good for masturbation.
"Fabray!" Santiago approached hand in hand with his girlfriend. "Just who I was looking for."
"I hope it's not to get you out of trouble with some professor."
"Not this time. Are you still without a job?"
"Unfortunately."
"Look, I made the selection process at Bad Things and I was colled." I widened my eyes and tried very hard not to die of envy. I knew about the selection process, but I missed it because of a job.
"Wow. That's... great, Tiago. Congratulations."
"It's just an internship and they pay badly. Anyway, it's Bad Things. It means I'm leaving the studio here at NYU, and I was wondering if you'd be interested. The job is three times a week, four hours per day for 600 dollars/month. It's not much, but at least it allows you to continue with your freelance stuff, and you still have a minimum income." The situation was so bad that I didn't have much to think about.
"What do I need to do?"
"If you want, I'll take you there to talk to Corey. He's there now. There won't be any trouble, Fabray. The job is simple: just edit a few videos for the journalism guys, which you can do with your eyes closed, and sometimes act as a camera when Hugo can't for some reason. When he has nothing to do, he just takes care of the studio. You can even watch porn."
"Eeew." I and Santiago's girl said at the same time.
"What? Everybody watches porn!"
There was really nothing to discuss. In the absence of responses from the production companies I sent resumes to, securing a job three times a week was better than nothing. I had seen a bit of Santiago's work routine. He had a schedule where he spent part of his time idle because of the time. In addition, the film people liked to work on their own material, and the journalists at "Washington Square News" did most of their reporting with an iPhone to speed up the process. But there was work to do. The NYU studio team was almost entirely made up of university students themselves, and you got extra credit for working there.
I walked with Santiago to the studio. The general coordinator, Corey Blaze, was arguing with one of the professors when we arrived, so we had to wait almost 20 minutes. It didn't look like a serious discussion, or Corey must have had the ability not to bring problems to those who had nothing to do with them. We already knew each other because Santiago and I use the studio a lot to edit our work. He wasn't surprised when Santiago introduced me as his replacement.
"You'll be in the same time slot as your friend." I nodded. "Monday, from 2pm to 6pm. Tuesday, 11am to 3pm. Thursday, from 2pm to 6pm. Any problems for you, Fabray?"
"No, sir."
"Nice. I have to give you a contract request, but I don't have time for this. Here's what you do. You fill in the form yourself, then you give it to me to sign and then you send the paperwork to the secretary."
He gave me two pieces of paper: the form and a list of documents required for my hiring, which included proof of enrollment at NYU, since only students could hold the position. Nothing complicated. It took me an hour to do the first part of the paperwork, which was to take a Xerox and fill in the form. It was annoying to have to wait for Corey to come back to sign before running to the office to hand in the paperwork. The payment came from NYU, even though the studio operated relatively independently. My prediction was that by Tuesday, at the latest, I'd be cleared to start.
It still wasn't ideal, but the small income reassured me a little. I'd have to keep looking for formal jobs and also invest in the freelance work that always earned me more. I looked at my watch. It was late afternoon. Rachel hadn't called to tell me about the audition. I tried her number: it was off-line. I tried to think of the best.
...
(Rachel)
I was shaking. I was going to meet Carton, one of the great directors and producers in the industry. In recent years, he had been unsuccessful, but the speculation was that Carton had bet his soul on this project to try and make a comeback. Josh was kind enough to accompany me, as agents don't usually go to auditions. They book them and then the managers negotiate prices. That's how it works. On the other hand, the Ripley Actor Agency was almost a specialist in theater and Broadway actors. Every time they book something for other media, so there was a certain sense in this extra attention, not least because TV work brought in more money than theater, which meant a higher percentage for the agents.
The assistant asked me to get into the studio. I positioned myself in the center of the place. Carton was in one of the chairs next to Boris Yves, who was another producer, and a woman I assumed was Linda Saldanha, who was the casting director. It made perfect sense that it was her, not least because the other female name on the script's technical sheet that I read was Brenda Flint, who was one of the screenwriters. There was a fourth person sitting towards the back. He was a young man, perhaps not much older than me, with short black hair, handsome and harmonious features, and he seemed confident. I had the distinct impression that I had seen him somewhere, but I couldn't remember exactly where.
"Rachel Berry-Lopez." Carton began. "Thank you so much for agreeing to audition." He looked at papers that must have been my resume and book photos. "I see you've received award nominations. Congratulations."
"Thank you, sir!" I said, still nervous.
"Cut the sir off, please!" Boris Yves smiled. "Despite these positions, we're all colleagues, Rachel. Relax."
"We'd just like to do a short interview to get to know you better. Please take a chair and sit down." Carton resumed speaking. "Unfortunately, none of us were able to see you on stage, only the videos of the play, so we wanted to have this contact. Anyway, tell me something about yourself that isn't on these resumé sheets. What are you thinking right now?"
"Right now?" I smiled nervously. "I'm thinking about not forgetting my lines."
"What lines?" Linda asked.
"From my character in the pilot episode. Well, you know how theater actors are, don't you? You memorize to rehearse, you memorize to perform and after all that, even after a year of playing the same role, there's still a fear that you'll get to the center of the stage and forget everything. It's even a recurring nightmare. When I did 'Songbook' in particular. Sometimes I would dream that I was walking on stage naked, but it wasn't on purpose. The audience would stare at me anxiously and I'd simply forget what to say. Then I'd get a shower of tomatoes and wake up right then and there."
"What happens when you actually go on stage?" Boris looked curious.
"I take a deep breath. I face the stage as if it were my world and I do my best."
"Do you have any relaxation techniques or anything like that?"
"I don't know if it's a technique. I got into Tisch, but I only stayed for one semester and it wasn't enough to learn advanced dramatic techniques. So I'd say I'm an intuitive actress. I do a lot of research, try to understand my character's life story, talk to my director and listen to my colleagues. When I go on stage, I don't know what's going to happen. Perhaps it's the magic that this stage exerts on actors, but at that moment I simply disappear and the character takes over. I'm not saying that I'm a method actress, but I allow the character to use me, like a spirit that takes over the medium. It's so natural that even the improvised lines sound like her, not like Rachel Berry-Lopez. I lose my fear. After the play, I discuss performance with my colleagues, because I have a very strong perfectionist side. But in general it's like this: I know my character, I listen to my director and I try to be collaborative with my colleagues."
"In television or movies, the technique is a little different. Do you think you can channel your character in sparse moments since you're not a method actor?"
"It's a question of preparation. I think the composition process is complex, and even on TV or in the movies, you need to know who you're playing or you run the risk of becoming a pastiche of yourself. I believe that if this is clear, then the actor is able to find the character at the moment they need to. Breathe, one, two, three, and go."
"And when you need to be two characters?" Boris tried to instigate me.
"It depends on which character is dominant. In Kath's case, for example, playing Ophelia. It can't be Rachel Berry-Lopez, playing the character. It's essential that it's Kath. If she's a good actress, she has to do well. If she's bad, then the performance has to be bad too. She'll still be Kath pretending to be someone else. The biggest problem I see is if Kath is a better actress than me. I can handle a different actress, but not a better one." I laughed and I think that was a good sign.
"Interesting. But tell me something, Rachel..." Boris interlaced his fingers and leaned forward as if he were analyzing me more deeply. "What if Kath is more of an actress than you think she is? What do you do?"
"In that case, I'll compose Kath to the best of my ability and I'll try to outdo myself when Kath is acting."
"And what is your vision of Kath?"
"She's a radical. But I think the stance she takes on the sovereignty of the theater is more a kind of veiled indoctrination, accentuated by her lack of experience. Kath is young, she's only a year older than me. So I can relate to her. There are things in life, and in my own profession, that I experience and am disappointed by more than I should be, because I'm an idealistic person above all. Kath is like that too, but in an even more militant sense, which causes bias to arise in her head."
Boris nodded to Carton and then to Linda. They whispered something before Carton spoke again.
"Okay, Rachel, back here is young Luis Segal, maybe you know him from Broadway plays." That's when I remembered where I knew him from. I've never seen one of his plays, but I remember a poster for a play called All the King's Men and seeing him at a charity meeting that brought together actors from the theater. One of those events that Josh made me go to and donate 500 dollars to an institution. I nodded to Luis. "I'd love you two to do a scene. Would that be possible?"
"Of course."
Luis came on stage and the directors gave us 10 minutes to talk briefly about how we were going to behave. All under the watchful eye of the producers. Here's the situation: Kath was a recently graduated actress who was part of a classical theater company that was going through financial problems. She was a purist, a militant of the theater that she believed to be the means of excellence in the dramatic arts. Real actors couldn't be trained on television or in the movies. Luis was going to play a blockbuster movie actor, a heartthrob with appeal among teenagers, and also a celebrity who joined the company for a season because he also wanted to be recognized as a serious actor. The company accepted him for the role of Hamlet because his name would attract sponsors. Kath and Jack, while developing an afair, would come into ideological conflict. The scene we were supposed to do was the characters' first meeting in a bookshop. He was loud and trying to go unnoticed, while she, who recognized him, just acted like a girl who found the handsome actor and decided to go and talk to him.
We played the scene once and I realized that our chemistry was good. Carton told me to do it again, which made me apprehensive. I took a deep breath and we did it again and again. Carton thanked us and then gave us two sheets of paper and asked us to read a passage from Hamlet with intonation. Luis read Polonius and I read the part about Ophelia. I tried to do my best.
OFELIA: Oh, my lord, my lord, how afraid I was!
POLONIO: What in God's name were you afraid of?
OFELIA: Good sir, I was sewing in my room when Prince Hamlet appeared with his doublet on his head, his hair undone, his stockings dirty, without garters, down to his ankles, white like the shirt he was wearing, his knees knocking together and looking terrified.
POLONIO: How?
OFELIA: My lord, I don't know.
POLONIO: What did he say?
OFELIA: He took me by the wrist and squeezed me tightly, then moved away at arm's length and, with his other hand on my forehead, stared at my face intensely as if he wanted to record it. And then he let me go: with his head turned back, he walked forward, like a blind man, through the door without looking, his eyes fixed on me, all the way.
POLONIO: Come here, come with me. I'm going to find the king. This is a delirium of love, violence that destroys itself and, more than any passion, of the many that afflict our weaknesses under the sky, drags people into crazy actions. I'm sorry. Have you said any rude words to him lately?
OFELIA: No, my good sir. But as you commanded, I refused the letters and prevented him from approaching.
POLONIO: That's what drove him mad. I'm sorry I didn't watch him more carefully and prudently. I was afraid it was just a trick to get under your skin; damned suspicion! But it's my age, overzealousness, as it is common for young people to act foolishly. Come, let's go and tell the king; he must be informed.
"That was very good, Rachel and Luis." Carton looked happy when we finished. "Really good. That's what you get for dealing with these theater guys, isn't it? They always kick ass with these texts."
"Thanks!"
"I'll let you know..." He took one last look at my resume. "I'm hungry. Would you be free for lunch? Rachel? Luis?"
...
(Santana)
I didn't owe Mr. Weiz anything. I knew deep down that I owed him nothing, because although I recognize the help he gave me, that doesn't make me a debtor. He gave me an address so that I could take a selection test in Stuyvesant. But I studied for that test, I did that test, I qualified well enough to get in. Mr. Weiz didn't take the test in my place. He gave me a job and an internship at his company, but the money wasn't free because I worked my ass off and deserved every penny of the salary as much as anyone who was my colleague there. Mr. Weiz offered to give me an allowance, but I never accepted any financial favors of that nature. Every time I went to him it was to offer my work in return.
I say that because the moment I went to the old disused factory in Brooklyn, it wasn't out of a sense of obligation or owing Mr. Weiz any favors. I went there because I agreed to do a task and I failed. Of all the barbarities and revelations that Mr. Weiz made about his relationship with my grandparents and my father, even his intentions behind it all, had nothing to do with one fundamental fact: I failed a basic task because I got too carried away with a business opportunity that I had identified. I failed because I acted selfishly and he was totally right about that. Perhaps I didn't do any work with the women in the cooperative. But I needed to get to know them at the very least.
The disused factory was in the industrial sector between Carroll Gardens and Park Slope. I got off the bus near the building in question, which was a refurbished red bricks building that wasn't that big. The place looked old, but there was nothing broken or dirty in or near it. There was an open door where there was a kind of store. There were some shelves selling second-hand clothes, and another part selling dishcloths, lace fabrics and knitting accessories. At the back of the store was a pile of jars of sweets and tomato sauce.
"Hello? Can I help you?" A black lady answered me after she came out from behind the counter. She was wearing slippers and ordinary, comfortable clothes.
"My name is Santana Berry-Lopez. I came here because Mr. Caleb Weiz said that this cooperative was working with former factory workers of his company, and I'd like see it. To know it."
"Why."
"I'm a student from Columbia and maybe I can elaborate a business project with this cooperative.
"Well… My name is Anya Lewis. I work here as a volunteer. If you're here to know how we work, then come in. There are no secrets here."
Anya called another woman to take her place before giving me a tour. The place was a very large two-storey space. On the first floor there was a large room with no partitions, which Anya explained was the center of operations. There I found 18 ladies of varying ages, but there were at least five or seven who must have been over 60. They were all working on something: on sewing machines, organizing fabrics and stuff like that.
"There are 49 women working in this cooperative." Anya explained. "The older ones were actually former factory workers. When the weaving mill closed, everyone was sent away and this building was sealed off. I can't tell you the details very well, but June May, who was a kind of leader among the workers, got some of her colleagues together to use the space that was sealed off. Because they needed to work, and their poor qualifications closed some doors. It was either factory or domestic work. What's more, these women were responsible for putting food on the table. Well, Weiz and June May came to an agreement: he let the cooperative use the building and even some of the machines. That was about 15 years ago. Since then, these women have produced a dozen handmade products here and we sell everything online, at fairs, in the little shop you saw. That's where they make their living."
"Who manages the whole operation?"
"Marta Johnson. She does the cash control, and the profits are divided among the workers." Anya led me to the complex's industrial kitchen. There I found ten other ladies working on large pans. "Well, this is Morgan Rios." Anya introduced me to a short woman, perhaps Rachel's size, but chubbier. "She's in charge of the kitchen."
"Hi, my name is Santana Berry-Lopez. I'm visiting your cooperative. Maybe I can help with something in the future." I introduced myself trying not to look like a threat to those women.
"Oh, do you like to cook?" Morgan stopped for a moment and spoke to another lady. "Chris, turn off the fire please!" Then she smiled at me. Then she smiled at me. "Where were we?"
"My name is Santana Berry-Lopez. I've come to see the cooperative."
"What are you, Berry-Lopez? A reporter? Do you want to volunteer?"
"I came here with a mission to help. But before I know how to help, I need to get to know the cooperative."
"But how did you hear about our cooperative?"
"Mr. Weiz himself told me about it."
"Oh, isn't that old man dead yet?" Morgan gestured for me to follow. "Here in the kitchen we make jams, pickles and tomato sauces. Everything is made to homemade recipes, family secrets, you know?" Morgan picked up a spoon, dipped it into the pan full of tomato sauce and gave it to me to try.
"This is very tasty!" it really was. The tomato sauce had a different flavor, which I couldn't identify, and it wasn't acidic at all, like certain industrialized tomato sauces used to be. "Do you sell this?"
"Tomato sauce and dulce de leche are our mainstays." Morgan took another spoon and dipped it into another pan of dulce de leche. I tasted it and my eyes rolled back in culinary delight. Morgan took a fresh white cheese and licked the dulce de leche on top and told me to try it. "You should eat this with fresh white cheese." I tried the combination, which seemed dubious to me, but I changed my mind as soon as I ate the cheese with the sweet. It was surreal.
"Is this your recipe?"
"My mother's."
"Did she work in the factory?"
"Yes, she worked as a scullery maid. She was the one who came up with the idea of setting up the kitchen and making the tomato sauce and sweets and jams."
"Doesn't she work here anymore?"
"No... my mother unfortunately passed away three years ago."
"I'm sorry."
"Thank you." Morgan smiled. "We make the sauce and the dulce de leche here every week. The other types of jam are made according to demand." Morgan explained as we walked through the kitchen. "Once they're ready and pasteurized, we put the product in sterilized jars and the girls upstairs label them. From here, our jars go for internet orders, and there are some local markets that sell them too, and we have them available in the little shop."
"You should make a fortune from this. It's very good."
"We tried." Morgan smiled.
"You said that Marta Johnson is the manager of the cooperative."
"Yes."
"Is she here at the moment?"
"No... she should be here tomorrow." Anya replied.
"Oh... and are there any employees from that time still working here?"
"My mother is here. She's a seamstress."
Anya smiled and led me out of the kitchen and back into the hall where I had seen the older women. We headed towards an elderly black woman who looked very similar to Anya. She was at a sewing machine, sewing the edges of a dishcloths. Anya quickly introduced us and I took a stool to sit next to her. The woman's name was Gloria Lewis and she was 67 years old.
"Do you sell a lot of dishcloths?" I asked the old lady.
"Yes, you do. You always make some money."
"Who paints the cloths?"
"Oh, there are two girls who do the screen printing. They have some templates and make the designs, then we do the finishing."
"That's… nice." It wasn't cool. The designs were generic and didn't add value to the product. "So... you were around when the factory closed?"
"Yes." The old lady smiled. "That was 15 years ago... I worked in this place from the time I was 17 and retired when the factories were shut down."
"How was that?"
"We already knew that the factories would close down, but it's that story: how would you react knowing that the place where you made your living would no longer exist? I was a machine operator and suddenly I wasn't anymore. Anya was already grown up but I had three more mouths to feed, including a grandson."
"Where did you live?"
"I still live in the Bronx."
"And the father of your children?"
"The father of my children did what many fathers of children do: he left his children."
"I'm sorry."
"Don't feel it. He was a bully, a womanizer and other things that aren't worth saying."
"I understand... But what was it like back then?"
"It was difficult. The doors closed, we received our last paycheck. The younger ones looked for other things to do, but the older ones were lost. That's when June May got us together to form a sewing cooperative. First, we tried working in the house of one of our colleagues, but it didn't work out very well." She giggled. "Imagine a bunch of poor women making a ruckus in the neighborhood. They'd call the police and complain about us. So we paid rent for a store, but it didn't work out because in the end everything we produced went to pay the taxes, and we still couldn't put food on the table. So June May decided to knock on old Weiz's door and make an appeal. He had always been a heartless executioner in the company, we called him Pharaoh, but I don't know what came over him... he just agreed. He said he had nothing to do with the building and didn't want to give it up because it was the factory his grandfather built. So he made a deal: we could occupy the factory, take the machines we needed, sell the rest and sign a symbolic rental agreement, which is renewed every two years. We've been here ever since. We started with 22 former employees, but today there are 49 of us. There are still our children who volunteer when they can. Anya comes here once a week to look after the store."
"Does Mr. Weiz help you with anything, apart from the symbolic rent?"
"He sponsors some things. When we need to go to an exhibition in other states... that sort of thing. It's not much, but it's a big help. It's better than nothing."
"Gloria, I'm an economics student at Columbia. Mr. Weiz said I could help them improve your business... maybe I can. I have some product ideas, but I think my greatest contribution could be more in a partnership? Maybe?"
"Well, you'd have to talk to Marta about that."
"Yes, I will do it. I'll come back tomorrow for that." I got up from the bench and said goodbye to Glória and the other women who worked there.
I left the cooperative with my head running at full speed. There was, in a way, a product I had in mind. And those women were making that exact product, but without the added value. I went home and reviewed my project. Perhaps I could set up my own company, using those women's labor, which would generate another type of service for them. I could also volunteer and offer some of my market knowledge. I wasn't an accountant, but it was all about math and micro-market analysis. The only problem was that I didn't want to involve Weiz Co. directly in this project. Yes... I needed to think and rethink a few things.