I Gave Up Stardom to Sit in the Dark

It was the big break I actually needed

Photo by Yamine Kettal on Unsplash

Every person who’d gathered around the bulletin board had the same dream—to perform on Broadway. But I couldn’t see the latest department notice because Terry Fletcher’s beautiful shiny-black hair was blocking my view. As hard as it was to admit, everything about Terry Fletcher was beautiful. A head taller than most of us in the theater department, his athletic frame turned every eye as he glided fluidly down the hall between periods or spun across the floor in dance class. He had the face of an Arabian prince, a smile that was wider than his actual head, and a generosity of spirit that was like a warm convectional rain.

We were all secretly jealous, but he was the kind of person who made you feel terrible about the ill-will you harbored and could never admit—because there was nothing not to like. Given how kind and good-natured he was, you might as well detest Christmas, newborns, and the shining sun. Terry was a book you could judge by its cover and no one doubted that he was going to be a star.

It had been less than two weeks since I’d arrived at Webster Theater Conservatory in Missouri and those of us who’d been accepted into the competitive theater program were still getting our bearings.

A central point of orientation was the conservatory bulletin board. Announcements about classes and schedules, administrative information, school policy, and a campus map were pinned there. An excess of gold metal tacks were clustered on the upper right hand side of the cork board, as if to say, there’s a lot more to come. More importantly than the logistics, however, this was where auditions and cast lists were displayed for theater department shows as well as professional acting and performing opportunities in the neighboring city of St. Louis. The clustering of heads around the board could only mean one of two things—a new audition had just been added or a new cast list had just been posted.

I pushed up behind Terry and wedged my way in on the left. The subject of excitement, scrutiny, and conversation was an audition happening in downtown St. Louis later that day.

1977 was a breakout year for Dr. Pepper. The advertising agency of Young and Rubicam created a series of commercials that featured an iconic jingle and featured the actor and singer David Naughton as the main performer.

Following the airing of the commercials, Dr. Pepper’s market share began climbing and jumped two percentage points by 1979. The ads were working like magic, so they ran constantly. The moment in front of the bulletin board corresponded with peak popularity of the Dr. Pepper brand. It might have been a household name with the general public, but for aspiring professional musical theater performers like us, it was a resumé and residual paycheck fantasy.

Plans rapidly formed then and there to get to the Dr. Pepper audition. Terry had everything, including a car, so within an hour a group of us had shoe-horned ourselves into his Volkswagen and were making our way to the opportunity, sure this was our ticket to stardom.

I prayed for safe passage, as a car accident would have turned the backseat into a bad day for some forensic pathologist. Surveying the tangle of legs, arms, and faces I realized I was the only freshman on board. The easy conversation and excited chatter of my schoolmates contrasted sharply with the anxiety of my first conservatory audition, but I was glad to have an experienced mob, especially the buoyant Terry, to fall-in behind. We parked, raced through the lobby to the identified conference room, and lined up to register.

I think we all had the idea that we’d gotten the inside scoop on a clandestine production, keen to bypass the typical cattle call of an industry audition. That notion was quickly dispelled by the 300 dancers who were already stretching, preening, and high-kicking in the ballroom—waiting their turn to shine.

We were corralled to the back of the room and brought forward, twenty dancers at a time, shown a complicated dance step—once—and expected to replicate it for the choreographer. She stonefacedly took inventory of our skills, or lack of them, and then mercilessly pointed her way down each of two rows.

“You go. You go. You stay. You go. You stay. You go.”

As we got closer to the front of the crowd I reflexively positioned myself behind Terry. I wanted to be in the back row, calculating that his confidence and enthusiasm would land him in front. That proved correct, and I managed a passable rendition of the steps, mostly by mimicking Terry, and we both advanced to the next round.

The 300 dancers were halved four times. Terry, two other classmates and I made it to the last group of 30 dancers, but there were only 12 spots for the commercial. We sparkled, skipped and strutted like we belonged on screen next to the wholesome and neighborly David Naughton and they sent us all home, saying they’d be in touch with the final roster.

Twenty-four hours later I was back in front of the bulletin board where the results were due to be posted. I couldn’t get close enough to see the list when one of the department aids pinned it to the board, but Terry turned around and beamed at me like I was baby Jesus and shouted, “We got it!”

Less than a month after entering theater conservatory I’d landed a national commercial. I pictured myself probably dropping out of school to pursue my new career. Getting a big break was the whole point of conservatory, or so I thought, and this visibility would launch the subsequent job offers that would be my future.

The significance of my accomplishment was only reinforced when I got a message to see Peter Sargent, the Dean of the conservatory. I assumed I was about to be given the personal support I’d need to navigate the path to stardom by someone who knew the ropes.

“Sit down,” Peter said kindly, adjusting his plaid jacket to take a seat at his desk. I was so full of myself I was almost confused by the lack of reporters.

“Congratulations on getting the commercial,” he said. “But I must say, I’m wondering why you went?”

Flummoxed, I stared at him for a second, looking for cues that would clarify the strange question.

“To get . . . an acting job?” I said slowly.

“Yes, but the conservatory has a strict no-performing policy for first year students. You knew that, didn’t you?”

As a matter of fact, I did remember that taking roles in theater productions was forbidden for freshmen, but it never dawned on me that a thirty-second beverage commercial would be a breach of the rule.

“Oh,” I said, surprised. “I didn’t realize this counted as performing.”

Peter explained that the accumulated habits of our childhood acting experiences were now an obstacle to our training.

“There’s a difference between performing and the craft of acting,” he said.

He hadn’t even seen my audition, but I recalled the theatrical hamming and mimicry I’d used to land a soda commercial. It dawned on me that that was exactly what had to be erased from my repertoire if I wanted what the school had to offer.

“So, you’ve got a choice to make,” he said, empathetically, but clearly. “You can take the commercial, or you can stay here in school.”

I walked out of Mr. Sargent’s office like Dorothy, but in reverse. Instead of starting in Kansas, I’d been swept out of magical Oz by a tornado of harsh reality and returned to a barren field that was yet to be planted. I watched Terry bounce around school, knowing he was free to take the job, cash in, and revel in the accomplishment. It felt wholly unfair that everything was going his way. It was his time, but not mine.

My reward for choosing to stay in the program was a six-week assignment in a sound booth, running audio cues for an interpretive dance performance for the associated St. Louis Repertory Theater. For weeks I sat stewing in the dark, bored out of my mind watching the same indecipherable choreography by one man in a white leotard on an all black stage. I wanted the pathway to riches and fame that Terry was on. Instead, I was fighting to stay awake in a dusty, five by eight foot sound booth, feeling jealous of someone who had it all.

I followed the same queues and watched the same movements, over and over, nodding off during Sunday matinees and jolting upright with a startle, terrified I’d missed a sound cue. It was only halfway through the run that I started to notice the the profound flexibility and tensile strength of the performer’s body, the constant adjustment, refinement and tuning of movements the artist was bringing to every raised curtain, and each new audience. He never went through the motions—each performance was a work of evolving fluidity and expression that my eyes were just starting to adjust to by the end of the run.

This was no blockbuster spectacle of mainstream entertainment. It was an art form the artist fully exhausted himself each time to share. At the end, a small audience would politely clap in response to his efforts and drive home. Someone was assigned to mop his sweat off the floor after each performance. It was the exact opposite of the visibility and success I thought I wanted, until one day I ran into the performance artist coming out of his dressing room at the end of a show.

“Can I ask you a question?” I said. “How do you find the motivation to give your all to every performance when the crowds are so small?”

He laughed and said something I still remember fifty years later.

“Oh, you think the audience is out there, don’t you,” and then just smiled and walked away.

I don’t know if I ever would have considered the importance of one’s own nature as the audience mostly worthy of my attention, but having the example of someone who wasn’t drinking the Kool-Aid of commercialism was the big break I actually needed. It got me thinking about the craft I wanted to pursue, eventually leaving the conservatory and becoming a street performer, which was one of the happiest periods of my life.

Terry¹ went on to film the commercial, became a Tony award-winning choreographer, and is still beautiful almost fifty years later.

Though yes, I’m still a bit jealous.

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You probably have your own stories about apprenticeship, discipline and craft. Mentors who inspired you, or kept you on track. Those very stories could be of tremendous value to others.

Recalling and sharing your stories is the most effective way you can write, speak, lead and teach with natural authority and confidence.

I’ve started a new Substack, called The Life Story Method, which will be dedicated to the benefits of personal storytelling.

Many people assume you need special skills and training to tell a great story. Here’s some really good news. The most important facet of great storytelling is gaining access to the right memories.

Would you rather listen to someone awkwardly stumble through the unrehearsed telling of a unique and high stakes life experience, or a professional speaker perfectly narrate what they had for breakfast?

Obviously we both have the same answer.

If there’s a hidden secret to great storytelling, it’s how to see the events of your own life with enough objectivity that you realize the fascination, inspiration and value they hold for someone else.

In my new publication The Life Story Method I’ll share how to create a “memory net” that works like magic for the recall process.

On a scale from 1 - 10 as a storyteller you can jump from 1 to 8 just by finding the right memories to share.

If you’d like to be added to the list, just reply to this email and say, “count me in.”

Unfortunately, a glitch in Substack prevented some people from signing up last week and even removed some of you from the list after you did. Starting fresh—please reply directly to this email and I’ll make sure you get added.

Thank you.

Big thank you’s to my Write Hearted team for their edits and suggestions on my drafts of this essay. Larry Urish Genie Joseph Dana Allen Alden Cox You’re my homies.

1. “Terry Fletcher” was not his real name, by the way. I’ve changed it to protect the perfect.