Free Emma Who Saved My Life by Wilton Barnhardt

stiffened his neck as we observed him.
    â€œYou’re wondering, I suppose,” Ira said laughing slightly, “why all of you are together out here on the stage. We’re not going to audition one by one—that’s old, that’s regressive theater. We’re going to go through a series of exercises and through my observations—”
    Ryke cleared his throat.
    â€œThrough our observations, we will make our selection. But first two cardinal rules of this process. One, this is not competitive. Yes, some people will get a part, others will not”—and here he raised his voice until it filled the hall—“but that is not, NOT to say that you don’t have worth, have value, have talent. I want that understood. All of you repeat after me: I have worth.”
    We have worth.
    â€œI have value.”
    We have value.
    â€œI have talent.”
    Yeah yeah, we got talent. We also were told to shake the hand of the person beside us and introduce ourselves. I’m Gil. The woman beside me—good-looking, about my age—was Francine Jarvis.
    â€œAnd the other cardinal rule of this process”—and here he seemed to melt, to look imploringly, vulnerably up at us—“is that I’m your friend. Yep. It’s that simple. What we have here, yes, is an audition, but it’s also the beginning of a long and sincere … friendship.”
    â€œGeeeeez,” muttered Francine.
    â€œAny questions?” yelled Ira.
    Someone from the back row: “Uh, Mr. Director—”
    â€œ Ira, please. And if you see me on the street, I would hope you’d stop me and say hello Ira, because look people…” He almost choked up. “I’m here for you. My ideas are a conduit, a platform for your talents. I’m nothing without you.”
    (“He’s nothing anyway,” whispered Francine beside me.)
    â€œYou got that? Good,” he said, sitting down with his clipboard, having not answered whatever question the boy on the back row wanted to ask. “Now. We’ll start with a teamwork exercise. You are…” And then the artistry of his idea carried him to his feet again. “… You are a pond. Close your eyes. Yes, right now, close your eyes. It’s autumn. It’s autumn in the woods, in the woods near a pond. Can you see it? Now all of you are the pond. Now I’m going to take these Styrofoam balls … Ryke, where are my Styrofoam balls? Have you seen my Styrofoam balls?”
    Ryke: “How would I know what you did with them? I guess wherever you left them.”
    Ira, under his breath: “I was hoping for a spirit of cooperation, Ryke deeeeearest, but if you’re going to be sniffy about every little request—”
    â€œWho’s being sniffy? You don’t value my input anyway. You’ve been blocking me, Ira. You’ve been blocking me all day—”
    â€œI have not been blocking you. What makes you think I’m blocking you?”
    â€œI’m not going to discuss it now.”
    Then more tense whisperings passed between them, as we shuffled on stage. Ira was back soon enough:
    â€œAll right, you’re a pond—all of you the surface of the still autumnal pond. Now everyone stand in circles, touching—I want touching, I want connections…”
    We connected.
    Ira found his box of Styrofoam balls and pitched one after the other into various parts of our pond. We shimmied and jiggled and hula-ed pretending to be a rippling pond, depending on where the balls landed (that is, when Ira’s throws reached the stage).
    â€œNext exercise…” Ira came from the wings with a ratty-looking blanket. “Everyone under the blanket! Ryke, will you help me spread this out?” Ryke reluctantly made his way to the stage, complaining at the lack of support, the blocking, there were denials of blocking, accusations of suppression, denials of suppression, and