My email elicited an immediate response: "Is the full beard your present look?". I heard my father's voice: "Why don't you shave that goddamn beard - you look like a bum". I won't say my heart sank, but I figured I wasn't getting the gig (the ad said "20-50 years old", so I knew I was pushing it anyway, being a tad outside those parameters). I replied, "Yes. The beard is permanent", adding hopefully, "They paid me extra for it when I worked in 'Amistad'". Another quick response: "I'll be in touch later today - may need to see you Thursday for an audition.".

I checked my email periodically - okay, it was every ten minutes or so - over the course of the day. Nothing. Wednesday morning, a little after 9:00 (like 9:03) I sent a message saying, in essence, "I guess you don't need me, but in case you do, I have a gig Thursday, and have to be back up here by 5:00...". Within a few minutes, I was pleasantly surprised by a reply saying " We do need you - can you come today?". I called the number and spoke to my correspondent, confirming an appointment "between 3:00 and 5:00". I took care of my homey obligations and hit the road.

At the audition, there were half a dozen or so guys. I was surprised and curious that half of them were black - the ad had specified "caucasian" (granted, I'm outside the age bracket, but this was really a stretch...). I wondered if perhaps it was a protest, and silently applauded them. Then I thought, "I bet these guys are good". Just as I was forecasting my diminishing odds, one of them took out a saxophone and began quietly - almost silently - noodling. I found myself back in a familiar universe. "God's in His heaven...", I thought, as I turned my attention to my real competition, using the "book-by-its-cover" method: 1) Crewcut with a beautiful instrument ("... must've given up some serious coin for that", I thought), beside him, what looked like a brand new black straw WALMART cowboy hat. He wore sneakers; 2) Potbelly with a rumpled black western shirt, which I guessed he'd slept in more than once (maybe last night), ruing that he'd left his gear in New England, and hoping they had a steel he could use; 3) Porkpie hat with a tiny goatee, confidently sliding what I took for blues licks (couldn't really hear, unplugged as he was); 4) Nervous fella, also "sans gear", listening through the door and quizzing those who emerged from the audition, trying to get an edge. I opted to wait until I was "on deck" to get my steel out. I felt surprisingly relaxed, and, I guess I should say, very white. The country & western bar scene from "48 Hours" with Nick Nolte and Eddie Murphy played in my head, as I filled out the card with sizes and vital statistics. I was stumped by one. "What color would you say my hair is?", I asked the young receptionist.

"Gray". She said it without a trace of hesitation. I began to protest, grabbing a handful of my prized ringlets.

"I mean this hair - not the beard".

"Gray", she smiled.

"It's finally catching up to my beard", I thought. "My SILVER beard".

About then, Potbelly emerged, complaining that the amp provided was awash with weird effects, which he'd been unable to subdue. We learned that no background music was provided. "You just play somethin'", he offered. Crewcut was next. He donned his stiff hat, took a deep, loud breath, and went in. I got out my ax and started warming up, making sure it was in tune. Crewcut came out, "King Bee" went in. I knew I was next. Crewcut admired my steel. I admired his, and we exchanged some shop-talk. As he packed up, he sighed, "You should get this. You look the part". I'd opted for the full faded denim look, complete with hole-in-elbow, my older, more beat-up straw cowboy hat, and snakeskin boots (I was going to wear my everyday weathered leathers, but had spilled about half a cup of coffee in one during my hasty departure). He headed for the elevator as King Bee bopped out from the "hot seat".

"Sandman?". I'd boldly put my nick-nickname on the sign-in sheet. I gathered myself and headed in.

"Hi, I'm Donna". She smiled and gave me a firm, friendly handshake and directed me to a chair. "Make yourself comfortable. I'm going to take some photos, then we'll do the taping". I looked at the camera. "Great. Can you push your hat back a little and give me a big smile". I did. "Great", she said again. "Far out", I thought. I looked at the amp, plugged in and strummed a little. "Yipes!". I couldn't help it. "That sounds pretty horrible". I began searching for the elusive control to eliminate the phase/flange/reverb/delay/you-name-it that was emanating from the thing, hoping I hadn't been too uppity and insulted her somehow.

"Take your time", said Donna."It's your audition. You should be comfortable". That made me feel better, and I spent a minute finding a decent sound. "Smile, introduce yourself, play something...". There followed a brief discussion of how I should introduce myself, with the usual explanation that Daniel is the name I use on official documents, etc., but, "when I answer the phone, if they ask for Daniel I know it's probably someone I don't want to talk to". She laughed. We settled on Sandman. I played a little, basically "Your Cheatin' Heart", with some artistic license. Donna waited until I stopped, then said, "That's great! But, I'd like to see more of your face".

"You're gonna run into that problem with steel players", I said. "We bow our heads a lot".

She laughed, and grasping the dilemma right by the horns, offered a compromise: "You pull your hat back a little and I'll lower the camera". I played again, a little better this time. "Play some more". I did a little bluesy thing for a minute. "That's great", she said.

"Thank you. Sandman, at your service". I gave a slight tip of the hat. I wondered if I'd come across too hokey. Before I had time to worry about it, she was thanking me profusely, and explaining that they'd know "probably by the weekend...". I returned her thanks, adding that I hadn't been to the city in a few years, but used to live there. "Where did you come from?".

"Rhode Island". She thanked me even more, obviously realizing I had a long, tedious drive ahead of me. All-in-all, I thought it'd gone well, but one can never really tell - people can be polite and very friendly. I walked the block and a half back to the car, took off my boots and began the drive home. It was just before 5:00 p.m. The drive was, for the most part, long and tedious.

I got a call on Friday afternoon: "You're one of the favorites. Can you commit to next Tuesday and Wednesday?". "Absolutely".

"We'll let you know as soon as we've made the decision" (or something like that - I admit, I was giddy). I spent the weekend in anticipation. The few folks with whom I shared my possible good fortune were unanimous in there positivity; "Of course, you'll get it. How could you not...?". Their confidence bolstered my own, and made me love them even more.

The call came Monday morning; "Daniel?". Her voice was friendly.

"Well, yes", I hesitated. "Call me Sandy, please. Or Sandman, if you like". She laughed.

"This is Lisa at (the) casting agency. You've been chosen for the part".

"Far out". It's my default response to surprising or good news. It's all I could say when I came face-to-face with Joni Mitchell in 1972.

Lisa continued, "Your shoot is scheduled for 10:45 tomorrow morning. Can you do that?".

"Yes, ma'am". Once again, I worried briefly about hokiness.

"O.K.", she went on. "I'll email you the script. And let's see... Can you come in for a wardrobe fitting at 4:00 today?".

"... Bit of a problem there. I live in Rhode Island".

"Oh, wait! There's a note here. You're supposed to wear exactly what you wore for the audition".

"Cool". I say that about as often as "far out".

"O.K. So, we'll see you tomorrow. I think that's it. Oh - keep Wednesday open, just in case...".

"O.K. Thank you Lisa".

The email arrived immediately. I admit her reference to "the script" had made me a little anxious. There was a series of 5 or 6 scenes, with an international (New York ethnic-rainbow) cast, including an Indian taxi-driver, a Jamaican (Trinidadian?) steel-drum player, a retired professor playing chess with an adolescent schoolboy, a pretty woman (Icelandic, and very pretty, I learned when I met her), a sax-player ("King Bee"), and me, the "lap guitar" player. In each scene, someone had a line, essentially a greeting to the people of Iceland, with an invitation to visit New York. A second "optional" line included "Merry Christmas". I could handle that. In addition to the line, in my scene was the instruction to play "JOLAS VEINAR EINNE OG ATTA". Was I supposed to be familiar with this tune? I shot off a quick email asking for help, and immediately received a reply with an mp3 attached. I was relieved to hear what I later learned is an old traditional Christmas song, sung to the tune of "Darlin' Clementine". I went on about my day, and just before going to bed, I took out my lap-steel and worked it out.

I rose in the dark, around 5:00, planning to be on the road by 6:00 or so. After a somewhat abbreviated morning routine, I gathered my wardrobe, which consisted of two shirts, two pairs of jeans (one of which I wore), and my "snakes" (they'd suggested I bring a second wardrobe choice, in case the director didn't agree my audition look was perfect). I made sure I had a cord, my slide and finger picks. Once I was sure I had everything, I mounted up and drove off into...

... the morning rush hour. I'd allowed myself about four and a half hours to make the trip (I did it in a little over three last week for the audition). Rush hour is different - predictably unpredictable, to a degree, although delay is inevitable. Most of the trip I was doing less than 30 mph. The rest, I went... well, a lot faster. I was in stop-and-go, bumper-to-bumper somewhere near Norwalk when I got a call. It was a little after 9:00.

"Daniel? This is Nadia from the agency. How are you?".

"I'm O.K. - in a little bit of traffic, but I think I'll be on time".

"O.K. I just wanted to call to see how you're doing". I asked if there was any place I could park right near the shoot. She thought that would be difficult. "No problem", I said. "I know a place on 23rd, so I'll park there and take a cab, or walk if I have time".

"Don't sweat it. We'll see you in a while. Just call me at this number if you have a problem".

I arrived at the garage at 10:30, put on my boots, grabbed my stuff and hailed a cab at 9th Ave. I arrived at the designated place at 10:40.

Here, I must confess that I spent a good deal of time yesterday (5/29) completing this story. It was almost as good as the finish I wrote the day before. That one disappeared when I tried to publish it. It was a masterpiece of fluid eloquence, if I do say so myself. To be a bit more humble and honest, there were a few stand-out passages. I went on at some length regarding the scene on the street where I passed a little over two hours waiting for the shoot. I wrote a lot about the abundance of beautiful women, waxed poetic about springtime in NYC. You get the idea. The trouble is, I went on so long, that the damn thing vanished at publication. In decidedly non-tech terms, the computer (server?) got tired (bored?) and when I pushed the "publish "button, I was directed to the sign-in page, where I discovered my little disaster.

I was pissed-off, confused, dismayed, and disgruntled. I did some gardening. I got philosophical. "I'll do it over tomorrow. I'll write it again and it'll be even better". (Actually, some of what you read above was completed that afternoon). Yesterday, I sat down with my morning coffee and resumed. I got wordy. I remembered some of my favorite parts and characters, as I remember them now. I wrote for a couple of hours, and finally satisfied I'd told the story adequately, retaining at least some of the flourish from the original, I hit the publish button, whereupon I was redirected to the sign-in page. Yes, it was gone again. Now I know... something - I'm unsure exactly what. I think I'm supposed to write - if I'm planning to go on and on - in some other format, then do the old copy & paste. I'll try that... next time. That is, the next time I have a long story I deem worth telling. For now, I offer the following synopsis, as quickly as I can:

Greeted by Nadia (assaistant director). Treated like a STAR, by her and everyone else on the crew throughout the experience. Perched on the street near the entrance to the famous Flatiron building for about two hours, ogling women (some would say - I will defend my actions with the phrase "appreciating the eternal, awesome beauty and poetry of God's masterpiece"). Met some real friendly folks. Nadia escorted me to the nearby park at about 1:00 p.m. The shoot took about 40 minutes. I did good, by all accounts - "Very natural and relaxed...", Nadia said. She also said my shades were cool, and directed me to wear them for the camera. That's it. I had some really pithy dialogue in there, too. Oh, yeah - then I drove home, having learned, among other things, that there are 13 versions of Santa in Iceland, and in all likelihood, I resemble at least one... 

THE END