Too Much Is Not Enough

by Andrew Rannells

  After a few weeks passed, I decided my mother was right: Classes would be the way to go. I asked her to sign me up and she did. I started going every Saturday, and eventually I got more and more confident. I liked it. I felt good there. I was finding out what my interests really were and I was finally feeling like I had a “thing.” My brother had sports, my sisters had dance classes, I had theater.

  A year later there was another audition. This time it was for The Snow Queen. I only knew the story from Shelley Duvall’s Faerie Tale Theatre on TV, and honestly, Lee Remick scared the hell out of me, so it was not my favorite, but this was a chance to redeem myself. I asked my mom if I could audition, and once again she said yes. This time there was no singing, which was a relief.

  The day of the audition came, and I was ready to get back on that stage. I was eleven years old and I had overcome whatever PTSD had remained from Oliver! There was just one problem: My mother forgot about the audition and was at a dance class with my youngest sister, Natalie. My father was out with my brother Dan, my sister Julie was off being a candy striper, or at least hanging out at a hospital for some reason, and my oldest sister, Becky, was off doing whatever college kids did during the day when they were stuck living at home. I was alone in our house losing my goddamned mind. This was supposed to be my comeback, and I was being foiled by everyone else’s schedule.

  I remember pacing around the house, looking out the windows, willing someone, anyone with a driver’s license, to come home. It was getting dark out, and I knew the auditions were coming to a close. I nearly started crying, and then I felt foolish. Who was I kidding? I wasn’t going to get it anyway. I was terrible at this. Yes, I took a class, but so did a lot of kids. Who did I think I was? Lance Polokov? (He was the boy who was cast as Oliver. He seemed far too tall for the role in my opinion.) Forget it, I thought, I give up. I turned on Head of the Class and decided to call it a night.

  Just then, Becky came home. She could tell something was off about me and asked what was wrong. I didn’t want to get into it, but I slowly told her about the audition. There must have been alarm or sadness in my voice, because she said, “Let’s go.”

  “Really?”

  “Yes, let’s hurry.”

  I couldn’t believe it. Before I had time to think about it, we were in her Monte Carlo speeding to the theater. We ran in and I asked if it was too late to try out. The woman at the desk said they were just finishing up.

  “But he can still go, right?” Becky asked.

  The woman looked at her watch. “I guess so. But you’ll have to go right now. Here is the scene.” This was happening. I took the scene and quickly read it as I walked into the theater.

  There was no one in there except the director, a seemingly old man who was, in actuality, probably thirty. He was standing at the foot of the stage, straightening up papers, when he saw me. “One more? Okay, then. Come on up.” I got up on the stage, too shocked to be nervous. “What’s your name?” the director asked.

  My mother’s “I couldn’t hear you” came back to haunt me, and I would be damned if I made the same mistake again. “Andy Rannells,” I yelled, even though he was four feet away from me.

  He smiled at me. “Okay. Let’s read the scene. You’ll be Noah and I’ll be Greta.”

  I was standing on the stage, there was light on my face, and I could smell that smell again. This is it. I proceeded to shout the entire scene at the director. I had no idea what I was saying, but it was LOUD. That glimmer of a feeling I had gotten at my first audition came back to me, but this time stronger and clearer. I felt in control. I felt like I had something to say and the skill to say it. I felt like…I might be good. We finished the scene. He smiled again. “Thank you for coming in, Andy. They saved the best for last.”

  I walked, or rather floated, off the stage. Becky was standing in the back of the theater. “Great job, Andy! I could hear you all the way back here.” I didn’t have the words to tell Becky thank you, so I just hugged her and tried not to cry. I didn’t care about getting in the show anymore. I had just wanted a chance to redeem myself, and I did. But you know what? I did get that show. I was cast in my first real Emmy Gifford Children’s Theater production. I was not cast as Noah, the lead, nor was I given a single line. Instead, I was essentially an extra who ran across the stage a couple times. But I was living my dream.

  I continued to take classes. There were “Dialects from Around the World,” “Basic Stage Combat,” and my favorite, “Scenes from Crimes of the Heart: Ages 9 to 14.” I took them all and I loved them all. And there were more shows, too. I played the pivotal role of “Lurvey the Farmhand” in Charlotte’s Web, I was a very tall Oompa Loompa in Charlie and the Chocolate Factory, and I played a Celtic warrior in a politically correct version of Peter Pan. (The theater knew they shouldn’t have “Indians” as scripted, so they changed it to “Celtic Warriors.” It was the year Braveheart came out. Celts were all the rage.)

  Soon I found myself outgrowing children’s theater. I wanted more. I wanted…dinner theater. Dinner theater may have fallen out of fashion in most parts of the country by the early nineties, but not in Nebraska. It was still very popular and a real date-night destination for many couples, including my parents. They would go a few times a year, getting all dressed up and then coming home late at night smelling of booze and cigarette smoke. It all seemed so glamorous. There were several in town and I felt certain that I was ready to graduate to this next level.

  I got my chance at the Firehouse Dinner Theater, in a production of On Golden Pond. (The Firehouse Dinner Theater was especially swanky; they served Grasshoppers and you got to keep the glass they came in.) There was only one kid in that show, a character named Billy, and I got the part. He was Jane Fonda’s bratty stepson in the movie, and I made the bold choice to copy Doug McKeon’s performance exactly. It worked. I was a hit! A few months later I won the Omaha Theater Arts Guild Award for Best Youth Actor. See you later, children’s theater, I thought. I’m on my way to the top!

  I continued to work my way through the Omaha theater scene, and by the time I reached senior year of high school, I had been in a production at nearly every theater in town. I would set my sights on a place and will myself into one of their shows. It worked every time. Except for a production of Marvin’s Room at the Omaha Community Playhouse. Josh Perilo got the part of Hank. To my eye, he seemed far too old for the role.

  So when I arrived in New York, I was hopeful that my Omaha theater formula would work. But how did one find out about auditions for Broadway shows? Was there a section in the New York Times? I couldn’t find “Auditions” or the LIVING! section in any paper. I heard someone at school say that they had heard that if you took your headshot to the theater and left it for the stage manager, they would tell you when they were having auditions. That seemed easy enough. I had a headshot that a wedding photographer in Omaha had taken. I was wearing a black dress shirt from Younkers department store and an oversized plaid blazer from Structure, and I had styled my hair to look like Zack Morris’s on Saved by the Bell. In other words, I was nailing it.

  My résumé consisted of all my Omaha credits ranked from largest role to smallest. Feeling good, I packed up my headshots and walked into Times Square. Though I wasn’t certain that I could find the stage door to any theater, I was determined to make the effort. The first show I went to that day was Rent, which was also the first show I had ever seen on Broadway. It was my favorite and I listened to it constantly. I was sure I could be a Mark if given the chance. I went to the theater and marched up to the front door. This was too easy! I rang the bell and a gruff man answered. “Can I help you?” he asked.

  “I’m just leaving this for the stage manager.”

  “Great,” he said, before grabbing the manila envelope and slamming the door. Not exactly the warm embrace I was looking for, but efficient. Okay. One down! Who’s next? I worked my way u
ptown. Phantom of the Opera? Why not? “I’m leaving this for the stage manager, please.” Done. Miss Saigon? Hell yes! “For the stage manager!” Done. The Life? I could be a hooker! “This is for the stage manager.” Done. Smokey Joe’s Cafe? There’s a white guy on the poster and that might as well be me! “This is for the stage manager.” Done. Soon I was out of headshots and exhausted but exhilarated from strutting around Times Square. This plan had to work. Why wouldn’t it? All my other plans had worked. Now I just had to wait.

  So I waited. And waited. And waited. Weeks went by and I heard nothing. I was crushed. I worried that I had done something wrong, but I wasn’t even sure who to ask. At this point in my college life, all I could do was turn to my first group of friends, a trio of girls from Long Island—two Lizzies and a Samantha—who knew everything and cared about nothing (and who would only last for another week or so, until I realized I had better, nicer options). They seemed fancy in a Dance Party USA way, and their accents were both grating and intriguing. Samantha even had a manager! “He wants me to focus on film and TV,” she used to say all the time. I’m pretty certain he was her uncle and she was fucking him, but a manager is a manager.

  I had decided to tell no one about my headshot/stage door tour—I didn’t want anyone stealing the idea—but out of desperation to share my disappointment, I told Samantha. She laughed in my face. “Are you serious? I’m sure they are all in a trash can.” Could that be true? I wondered. Am I the laughingstock of Broadway right now? Is every theater making fun of my headshot? My résumé? My blazer? I felt disgusting and sad, and I hated Samantha for telling me this. I quickly changed the topic. Our friendship would only last a few more days. I stopped speaking to her entirely when she told me I was too gay to be on Dawson’s Creek.

  Then, one night, I came home from class and I had a message on my answering machine from my mother in Omaha:

  “Hi, Andy. Just calling to say, ‘Hi.’ I also wanted to tell you that Jean Pulhachek passed away. Apparently she choked on some chicken in a Chinese chicken salad at her niece’s confirmation party. Sad. Oh, also, you got a call from someone from Rent that you have a tryout on Thursday to be an angel. I think that’s what the gal said. I wrote it down. Call me later.”

  What in holy hell was she talking about? Why did Rent call her? Was this a prank? Did Samantha do this to get even with me for telling people she was sleeping with her manager who was also her uncle? Then I remembered that I had never changed the number on my résumé; it was still my parents’ number in Omaha. I was leaving the fate of my Broadway dreams to my mother. How many offers had I missed these past weeks? I called my mom immediately. “I just got your message! What’s happening?!”

  “Well, the chicken got caught in her trachea, and no one knew she was even choking until she passed out. But even then, they just thought she was napping. It’s all so sad.”

  “Not that part! The Rent part!”

  “Oh! Sure! You have a tryout on Thursday for an angel. The gal wants you to call her back.”

  I didn’t have the emotional strength to explain to my mother that it wasn’t for AN angel, it was for THE Angel and Rent was the biggest show on Broadway! I took the number, listened for a few more minutes about the funeral arrangements for a woman I was certain I had never met, and then I danced around my dorm room like a maniac. My plan did work after all! Fuck you, Samantha!

  I didn’t fully realize at the time just how remarkable this really was. I had not followed protocol at all. Dropping off headshots at the stage door wasn’t really a thing, it was just something I didn’t know any better not to do. But it worked. It was too late to call the casting director that night, so I just had to wait until morning. My mind raced with possibilities. I didn’t really see myself as Angel, but I was flexible. I could do that. I would have to learn how to drum. I wondered where I could find some empty buckets to jam on.

  The next day I phoned, and just as my mother had said, I was being called in to audition to replace Angel in the Broadway production of Rent. The audition was in two days and I would need to prepare “Today 4 U” and “I’ll Cover You.” I already knew both songs and was prepared to sing the whole score if need be. The woman from casting then said, “Where can we fax you the sides?” Faxing! Sides! Show business! I had the sides faxed to the front desk of my dorm, and then casually wandered through the building waving them around, praying someone would ask me what I was up to. “What am I doing? Oh, I’m just getting ready for my Rent audition on Thursday. I have this material that was FAXED to me just now. I really should be going. It’s going to be a lot of prep work.”

  The day arrived and I was ready. I skipped my classes, put on my new Calvin Klein carpenter jeans and a ribbed T-shirt from the Gap, and waltzed into that casting office ready to fulfill my destiny. The room was packed with young Latino men all dressed in various stages of drag. Oh my god. I had not even thought about that as an option. Why didn’t I put on some lipstick or something? Then part two of the reality of this audition set in: Angel was Latino. I was not Latino. I was the opposite of Latino. It hadn’t occurred to me that this might be a problem. (Our most recent version of West Side Story in Omaha had featured a blond Maria. And no one cared.) I can still make this work, I told myself. I took a seat and avoided eye contact with anyone. Through the wall, I could clearly hear the other men singing their faces off and everyone sounded great. After listening to “I’ll Cover You” on a loop for about twenty minutes, I was called into the room. Here it is, I thought. My first Broadway audition.

  There was one young woman behind a table looking at headshots and résumés. I saw mine on the table. She picked it up. “Are you Andrew?” (By that point, I had started going by my full name. I was in New York now.)

  “Yes, I am Andrew Rannells.”

  “Thanks for coming in, Andrew. Are you ready to sing?”

  “Yes, I am!”

  I was going to hit her with all the Latin heat I could muster.

  “Before you sing,” she said, “can I ask what your mix is?”

  My mix? My mix? What did that mean? She could see I was puzzled by her, what I now know is illegal, question.

  “Like where are your ancestors from?”

  “OH! Poland and Ireland.”

  She stared at my photo for a long time.

  “So you’re not Asian?”

  “No. Not Asian.”

  Was I supposed to be Asian? Did my mother tell them the Chinese chicken salad story and they got confused? The woman stared at me and then at the photo and then at me, and then finally said, “I guess you can sing anyway.”

  I planted my feet and I belted out “I’ll Cover You” as best I could, trying not to be distracted by the fact that I was swimming in an ethnically confused haze. I finished the song and she gave me a half smile. “You’ve got some real pipes. Thanks for coming in.” That was it. I didn’t even get to sing the second song I’d prepared.

  I walked out of the building confused, disappointed, and exhausted from the adrenaline crash that quickly set in. Did I blow it? Should I be mad? Should I be sad? It was supposed to go better than that. Then it hit me; I was back at the beginning again. All that work in Omaha didn’t mean anything. I would have to start over. Did I have the strength to do that again? It seemed like a lifetime since I’d blown my Oliver! audition, and yet the feeling was exactly the same. I felt so far away from everything I wanted.

  I decided to skip my other classes that day, and I just wandered around the city. I walked up to Times Square and weaved my way through the Broadway theaters. Their doors were right there, but I didn’t know how to open them. As I walked around, I realized that I wasn’t feeling the exact disappointment I felt after Oliver! because this time I was feeling disappointed in New York. I was starting from the bottom, but at least I was living in New York now. It’s not like I lost the role of Angel to Lance Polokov. He was nowhere in
sight! That in itself felt like an accomplishment.

  A couple weeks later Rent announced their new Angel. It was Wilson Cruz from TV’s My So-Called Life. I weirdly felt relieved. I couldn’t compete with Rickie! But at least now I had a story. I had auditioned for my first Broadway show. My New York career had started, and this time I was a little bit ahead, because I knew the secret to my past success: Be patient. Be persistent. Be loud.

  A New Me for New York

  Before actually moving to New York, I visited twice. The first time was during my senior year of high school when I had an opportunity to travel with a bunch of people I did community theater with. The median age of the group was probably fifty, so at eighteen I guess my parents thought I would be safe and mostly bored. I was determined to fit in in New York City. I always felt on the outside in Omaha and just assumed that it was because I didn’t ultimately belong there. Even though I had never been to New York, I knew it was where I was meant to be. I refused to be wrong about that.

  We had tickets to several shows, including the biggest hit of that year, Rent, and I could barely control my excitement. I did have one major fear however: What was I going to wear? I had a feeling that I was going to need to adjust my appearance to blend in in New York. I talked to my mother about my concern, and much to my joy and surprise, she agreed to take me shopping. Charlotte and I were, and are, very close, and she knew how important this trip was for me. I will always love her for understanding that.

  And so we set off for the Crossroads Mall to buy me some snazzy outfits for my big trip to the Big Apple. We picked out slacks and blazers and ties and dress shirts. Drawing on her own teen model days, she showed me how to mix and match pieces so that I could get away with packing less but still looking like I was wearing a whole new outfit every night. This was 1996, so please keep in mind that men’s fashion, particularly in Nebraska, was still all very oversized. If it helps you understand this, at eighteen I bought the same size blazer I wear at thirty-nine. And I’m about fifty pounds heavier. But it didn’t matter! Charlotte made sure I was dressed at the height of fashion. She made me into a nineties version of George Peppard from Breakfast at Tiffany’s, and I loved every thread of it.