LITMIR.BIZ

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      I stepped out of the spotlight, allowed my eyes to adjust to the low-lighted house and gave thanks that this was a closed audition. No casino patrons to witness this humiliating debacle. No bartenders, cocktail waitresses, dealers or slot attendants to instigate gossip. Just the six executives and two stage technicians. Oh, and seven performers, including my two closest friends. I glanced toward the left wing and sure enough, Nicole, the rabble-rouser of our clique, was giving me a thumbs-up while Jayne’s horrified expression shouted, Are you mad?

      “Mad as hell,” I thought, my inner voice mimicking the deranged anchorman from Network, “and I’m not going to take it anymore!”

      In that same instant, the woman who’d asked me to remove my sarong said, “Thank you for your time, Mrs. Parish.”

      Since a gigantic vaudevillian hook didn’t emerge from the sidelines to yank me off stage, I stood my ground. Hands trembling, I tucked my processed blond hair behind my ears and faced the enemy. “Look, I’m auditioning for the role of an emcee, not a beach bunny.” Amazingly, my tone did not betray my inner frustration. Then again, I am a damn good actress. Too bad I seemed to be the only one aware of that.

      The entertainment coordinator—was she even twenty?—crossed her arms over her chest and angled her head. She didn’t look happy. “As an emcee you’d be representing this property, Mrs. Parish.”

      She might as well have called me ma’am. I curled my French-manicured nails into my sweaty palms. “It’s Ms. Parish and I realize that, but—”

      “What does specialty performer mean?” This from one of the marketing dudes.

      My left eye twitched. I tried to wet my lips, but anxiety had robbed me of saliva. I clasped my trembling hands and twirled my funky chrysoprase ring—a gift from Jayne—around my middle finger. She claimed that the mint-green stone would ease emotional tension and stress. I’m beginning to think she bought me a clunker. Even though I knew full well that, for the sake of my untainted reputation, I should swallow my anger, sarcasm tripped off of my fat, bone-dry tongue. “Excuse me?”

      “On your résumé it says specialty performer. What, like an exotic dancer?”

      They snickered, turned to one another and traded unfunny quips like the local news reporters at the end of a broadcast. What’s up with that? Laughing heartily over something that wasn’t clever or funny to begin with.

      As I stood there, white noise roaring in my ears, I flashed back on all of the times I—and a slew of other entertainers—had lost a gig because of an unenlightened directive from a higher-up bean counter. A person with no background whatsoever in entertainment. A person who hired and fired acts based on personal taste.

      I know amazing female singers who’ve been passed over because a casino president deemed their hips too big. One even cited a vocalist’s ankles too thick. Can you imagine? Never mind that she sang her butt off. Did you even notice that the audience, your patrons, were thoroughly enjoying themselves, Mr. President? If the ankles bothered you that badly, what about suggesting she wear pants instead of a dress? Wouldn’t that be a simple, creative solution? But wait, you’re not creative. You’re not a visionary. And neither, I concluded sadly, were the execs seated in front of me.

      Heart pumping, I hopped off the stage and approached the long table, demanding everyone’s attention with a shrill whistle. Career suicide, my logical self warned. Only I wasn’t listening to my logical self. I was listening to the injured woman who’d endured a particularly rough year, personally and professionally. There comes a time when a person needs to speak up, to demand common courtesy, respect, no matter the cost, and for me that time was now. Why I hadn’t felt this righteous urge when Michael had dumped me for another woman, I couldn’t say. Maybe I’d been too stunned, too hurt to speak up. But now I was angry. Angry and insulted and really, really pissed.

      I climbed up on my soapbox. If this were a TV sitcom, patriotic music would swell in the background.

      “Listen up, kids. On behalf of all the other women who auditioned today, we are professionals and expect to be treated as such. Secondly, although the harem girl and French maid costumes stored in my closet might be considered exotic and although I do dance, I am not, nor have I ever been, an exotic dancer. Those costumes, by the way, hang right alongside my fuzzy bumblebee fat-suit and mad scientist lab coat. It’s all part and parcel of being a character actress. Translation—an actress with excellent improvisational skills who can represent any given character on any given day at any given private or corporate themed party. And that’s just one of my God-given talents. I also sing and dance. Hence the term specialty performer.”

      “Thank you, Ms. Parish. We’ll be in touch.”

      That was it? That was the payoff to my heartfelt tirade? An expressionless don’t-call-us-we’ll-call-you?

      I nodded. “Got it.”

      Actually, I hadn’t. It was the second time I’d been dismissed and yet there I stood, trembling with fury…and fear. Life as I’d known it was fast swirling down the toilet. Again, I twirled the ring. “Just so you know, I’m perfect for this job.”

      One of the young turks straightened his tie then coughed into his hand. “Yes. Well, thank you.”

      I didn’t budge.

       Twirl. Twirl.

      The pubescent woman seated to his left drummed her fingers on a stack of résumés. “As a professional, I’m sure you understand that we’re looking to please our demographic. We’re looking for someone…”

      “Younger?” I’d been getting a lot of that lately. Even my husband had opted for a newer model, literally. Oh, yeah. This gig was going to the giggly twentysomething. Youth over experience. Mammary glands over memory skills. “Someone with a bright smile and perky breasts?” I just wanted to be certain I understood the criteria.

      The panel of execs looked at me with a collective “duh.”

      That’s when I snapped. “As it happens, I have both.” In a moment of righteous insanity, I flashed a thousand-watt smile in tandem with my perky 32Bs.

      Chapter Two

      YOU’LL NEVER WORK IN this town again droned in my ears as I parked my used Subaru on Atlantic Avenue. I’d heard those words before, but this time, for the first time, I feared they might actually be true. I didn’t regret my tirade, just the actions. I’d bared my breasts in public. And for what? It’s not as if the execs were amused or impressed enough to give me the job. Nope. No Hollywood moment for me.

      Instead they’d had security escort me off the premises, my girlfriends trotting behind, simultaneously applauding and bemoaning my spontaneous wardrobe malfunction. That’s when it occurred to me that my antics had probably been caught on film. Casinos are rampant with strategically placed security cameras. Great. Next, they’d be selling the video on QVC. Specialty Performers Gone Wild.

      Talk about an opening line for tonight’s diary entry. Twenty years from now, I’d relive the moment, recorded in vibrant purple-penned detail, and laugh.

      Or not.

      Back in the parking garage, I’d begged off lunch—Bloody Marys—with the girls, claiming an appointment. As much as I loved them, and as much as they commiserated, panic and despair had me racing toward Michael. He’d put a positive spin on my moment of insanity. He’d salvage my career. At least that’s what I’d told myself, over and over, on the three-minute drive from the boardwalk casino to his midtown office.

      I left my car and entered the turn-of-the-century brownstone, oblivious to the sights, sounds and smells of town. Though branded a seaside resort, Atlantic City falls miles short of paradise. In order to compete with Vegas, politicians and investors are revitalizing, but mostly it feels like too little too late. Even the Miss America Pageant skipped town. So much for tradition. The only recent addition worth celebrating was an

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