With those intimidating words, the director, going back to the small room in the hallway, left her standing alone in the middle of the empty studio. Immediately, Tiffany focused her attention on the few pages of script. Her nerves were red-hot and firing. She noticed that her contact lenses had blurred over, making it difficult for her to read the small type, and her hands were shaking so violently she could barely hold the material still. At her last audition, she had done nothing, but this time, it was assured she would have her chance.

Attempting to ignore her blurred eyes, her trembling hands, her gnawing stomach, and her sudden lack of confidence, Tiffany forced herself to settle down and, for the few remaining minutes, scan through the lines. There were two pages of very short lines with numerous actions indicated in parenthesis. She hoped she was not expected to memorize all the lines, even if they were quite short. Tiffany was very bad at memorization.

Quickly skimming down the first page, Tiffany saw that she was playing the scene with another male actor. It was a seduction scene, she being the seducer of the other character, named Brad. From what she could discern, she was a very aggressive, sexy woman attempting to seduce this fellow, Brad. The scene indicated that it was a hotel room, late at night. But before she had gone through a half page, the director walked briskly back into the studio, seemingly eager to begin.

“Are you ready, Tiffany?”

“Well … I didn’t nearly get it all read yet.”

“No matter … it’s such simple material. I’d like to get started. We’ll just begin … do several readings.”

Tiffany looked worried; she wanted to do her best.

“Tiffany, we’re going to do it several times … don’t worry. You can even improvise some of it if you want. It’ll be fine,” he coaxed soothingly.

Tiffany looked around the empty room. “Well … then … who am I reading with? Who’s reading for Brad?”

“Oh! I’ll read for Brad. Believe me, I can do both … read and also observe and judge you as an actress. The scene takes place in a hotel room … late at night … and you’re a very hot woman trying to seduce this character Brad. Brad wants you, but he wants to see you begging for it.”

Although Tiffany thought it unusual that the director or person doing the audition should also read the other part, she had literally no experience and was not sure if this was typically done or not. She felt little qualified to judge.

“Please,” Tiffany thought to ask, “ah … do I know you … that is … are we already lovers … or am I … like a prostitute … just having met you somewhere? Or what? Maybe it would help if I knew just that.”

“Well … let’s say you just picked Brad up in a bar … you really like him and want to sleep with him. Your character is a hot woman looking for a man to service her for the night! But, on the other hand, this guy, Brad, wants to see you begging. He wants the upper hand. Does that make it easier?”

“Oh … I understand. All right … I’ll try,” Tiffany mumbled.

Being alone with the director, she felt under immense pressure to give a superb performance. Yet, she was not only more tense and nervous than she could remember, but felt extremely shy—just the opposite of the role she was being asked to portray. Inwardly trembling, she felt incapable of even delivering the first line. For sure, she was going to faint! It was almost unendurable! Her heart was pounding so fast; her breathing was labored and her hands were quivering. She was sure the director saw her extreme anxiety. Nevertheless, standing across from him—several yards away—in a weak, quivering voice and with eyes focused on the paper, she gulped in some air and muttered her first line.

“You really turn me on … the minute I saw you sitting there … you’re my type, sweetheart.”

Ignoring the stage directions in parenthesis—woman moves toward Brad, puts her arms about him, presses her body against his, rubbing him with her breasts, etc., … in an attempt to excite him—she looked up and waited for the director to read Brad’s reply.

“Well … go on … go on,” the director called out. “You must do the actions! How can I judge you otherwise? The actions are the most important part of this scene … not the lines.”

“Oh! I’m sorry. I didn’t know,” Tiffany apologized.

For Old Time's Sake

He glanced up; he read a few sentences. He glanced up; he unthinkingly read a few more sentences.

Maybe she won’t even recognize me, he brooded. Maybe I’ve really changed more than I think.

Back he went to the paper, putting the depressing thought out of mind and reading a few more paragraphs. Again, he glanced up.

There, standing at the distant restaurant entrance, he saw a woman—an elderly lady, gray-haired and wrinkled, with wire-rimmed glasses hanging low on her nose, hesitating, carefully scrutinizing each of the diners. Peering from behind his paper, he saw her adjust her glasses and then awkwardly waddle a few steps toward the cashier so as to have a better view. As she stood there with her tremendous bulk, examining each of the guests in turn, unsure which way to move, he suddenly realized it was his old classmate. He saw her before she noticed him, and unfortunately, he could not recognize a single particle of what had once been Ann. Although everything about her had altered, amazingly, he knew it had to be that cute, perky girl he had so often passed in the hall going to math class. And for sure, it was the worst of all possible cases—that which he had most dreaded. He found her physically quite unappealing, completely undesirable, and questioned whether he could develop true and deep romantic feelings toward her. Nevertheless, the weekend was just beginning, and he told himself that he would do his best to be charming and affable. Perhaps, with being immersed in her all weekend, his feelings would alter.

After just a few seconds, she began waddling across the dining area, her eyes sparkling, and an immense smile rearranging the fatty jowls and all the flab and wrinkles that buried the once-attractive features of her face.

“Charles Young,” she exclaimed loudly, “I would have known you anywhere!”

Quickly standing up and coming toward her, Charles felt the heavy press of her immense body against his in a warm, affectionate hug and tight embrace. Positively, buried in the altered gross and worn outer shell was the same Ann he had known at school and talked to on the phone for the past year—exuberant, sunny, and joyful of life.

“It’s so good to see you, Ann. Come … sit down.”

“Gee … I hope you’re not too disappointed. I’ve gained some weight … but otherwise, it’s the same old me!”

She seemed unaware or unmindful of how much damage the years had inflicted upon her.

“But … wow! You look great, Charles. The years have certainly been kind to you. Come … yes … let me sit down, have some breakfast, and reminisce about old times … our dear old Hampton High School.”

So began their weekend together, sitting in the small-town, a quiet but classic diner, reminiscing about the good old days—Miss Hirsch, their English teacher; the ten-member clique of which Charles had been a member; Mary Williams and Linda Johnson, the two smartest girls in the graduating class; and even Charles’s old flame at the time, Beth James. Then they advanced forward in time to what each of them had met with since graduation.

Although they had been talking on the phone for almost a year, most of that discourse involved fragments of silly, everyday occurrences and encounters, intermixed with tantalizing cat-and-mouse flirting. It resembled some of the nonsense that today is exchanged on Facebook and Twitter—frivolous and incidental tidbits of daily life. But now they were delving into significantly profound issues—the errors and fortunate events of their lives, how their plans and hopes of decades ago had succeeded or failed.

Ann, garrulous and somewhat long-winded, erupted with numerous details of her failed, sorrowful marriage and divorce, how her husband had mistreated her, her three children—raising them alone—and then onto her good fortune in becoming a small local newspaper contributor, writer, and then editor. She told Charles how severely she had been maimed, both psychologically and economically, by her husband’s abandonment—walking out on her with his young student and how she had then become a feminist, strong on women’s rights and women’s complete independence.

“You know,” she giggled, “I struggled after he left me. But I did it! I raised three children, worked, kept house, and managed to stay happy and enjoy my life. Now I’m free as a birdie … kids gone … still doing my freelance writing for our local papers … not much … but it keeps me busy. Now and then, I contribute to a few local travel magazines too … my first love … this part of the country and all the sights and history here. I simply love investigating, digging out stories about local culture, events, architecture, parks, buildings, statues. Gee … I don’t need a lot of money, Charles. I’ve learned to manage with what I have. You know … if you ask me … who needs a TV, a big stereo system, a cell phone, a computer, a Facebook account, fancy clothes, fancy hairstyles and painted toenails? Not me! I believe in living close to nature … the closer the better,” she again laughed gaily and with complete abandon.

Making A Difference

“You are very good teacher, Miss June. I am so happy to have you as my teacher. Oh! Is it ‘miss’ or … are you married? Then … I must say Mrs. June.”

 “Yes, that’s right. I am a miss. But please … remember … just June. I prefer that. I don’t like formality. And you must say, ‘a very good teacher.’”

“But, June, why such an attractive and smart woman like you has never married? I would think all the men be very interest in you.”

June deliberately looked up at her handsome Korean student, and, for the first time, allowed her gaze to boldly drift from his dark eyes down to his full, sensual lips. She liked the shape of his lips, his lush black hair, and the way he wore it. In fact, during this single moment in which she could not disguise with words what her eyes were revealing to him, during that fateful glance which they exchanged that said nothing but said all, June knew without a doubt and a daydream that she was immensely sexually attracted to Young-Soo and … had told him so. She had meant to immediately correct his grammatical errors, but had instead turned to him, laid bare her feelings, and then, in return, seen, as he looked down at her, clearly written across his lips, his eyes, and his gaze, a likewise unexpected adoration and adulation. Without words, without English corrections, they had clearly ascertained each other’s thoughts—far from the subject of grammar and perfect speech. All Young-Soo’s speaking errors vanished from June’s mind, leaving only forbidden sexual desire pulsating through her seductive, lithe body.

Although at this point in time, Young-Soo’s greatest desire was simply to continue strolling down Fifth Avenue next to his alluring teacher, after only five minutes, they had unfortunately reached his subway station. Oh, how he longed to continue in her presence—to simply be with her and learn everything about her—this so alluring woman! But good-byes were in order as they stood together at the top of the subway stairs, hesitating to separate, exchanging a few banal, trivial words so as to delay his departure. Both were experiencing the exact same thoughts and feelings—sentiments that had to be spontaneously and instantly stifled.

Why couldn’t they have just continued their pleasant conversation and stroll down the avenue? It was a gloriously sunny day, and New Yorkers seemed spontaneously filled with enthusiasm and camaraderie as they bustled this way and that, up and down and across the busy avenue in the beautiful weather, conducive to speaking of love and beauty. There was Madison Green Park nearby, and it would have been so wonderful if, among the trees, yellow daffodils, and scurrying, playful squirrels, they could have ambled together, arm in arm, talking, getting to know one another better—like any two people might have done who were just beginning to experience a growing attraction and fondness for one another. But between these two, it could not be so. They were bound in an inhibiting and limited teacher-pupil relationship. And there they had to remain. There was nothing to be done. Despite all the spilt, unspoken feelings, protocol dictated their parting, and so, with reluctance, Young-Soo politely took his leave.

“I must go now into the subway. I learned so much this afternoon. Thank you much, Miss June. I wish we could go on … just walking and talking together. I do so much enjoy your company … not just for learning of English.”

And in that, he had pressed a concealed kiss to her lips.

“Yes. Well … good … and I’ll see you next week … Wednesday at two, our usual time,” June formally replied as she turned to continue down the avenue toward her apartment.

She was both euphoric and disturbed by the daring, frank words from her student. She would never have expected this from him, and immediately, she had to concede that the nature of their relationship was slipping away from its intended purpose. She felt guilty and clearly understood that the situation was wholly in her hands—the adult, the professional—to make of it whatever she wished. She could allow this subtle change in their relationship to continue or stop it—strictly confine their association to that of tutor-pupil and not a bit beyond. Despite what she now perceived as her responsibility, she nevertheless, dreamily floated down the avenue, preoccupied with her fantasies of being naked and in bed with Young-Soo. And they were only fantasies, she assured herself, yet she would allow herself, on this splendid afternoon, to briefly indulge.

The next week they met as usual at the center and, when the lessons were over, Young-Soo and June, just as natural as running water from a faucet, left the building together, chatting, laughing and joking as if they were intimate friends. He seemed to assume that he had the right to walk her back to her apartment—that she was not going to object to their spending just a little extra time together. And she seemed to confirm his assumption.

l

The Sound Wars

Bewildered and agitated, Cynthia stood with her hand poised over the volume control of her stereo system. Had she not better go next door again and assure a talk with this neighbor. It seemed like the proper thing to do, to understand the problem—if there were one—and then seek a solution. Once again, Cynthia, leaving her stereo off, stealthily crept out into the hallway—she was beginning to feel like a criminal—and rang her neighbor’s bell. Once. Twice. Like before, there was no answer, and, putting her ear close to the door, she could hear nothing from within.

With still no answer, Cynthia concluded that she should approach this neighbor some other time, perhaps tomorrow. The person was probably so irate that approaching him or her at this time would be pointless and imprudent. Besides, Cynthia had another class and would be leaving in an hour for the university. For now, she would keep her stereo off and make do with only the radio and the news.

With a touch of anxiety, she turned on her new radio. Instantly, it blared out loudly, and Cynthia automatically dashed to turn it down, down to a level at which she herself could barely hear it. She noted this automatic reaction, and felt that she was now in training like Pavlov’s dog: hear a loud sound and automatically rush to eliminate it. Nevertheless, she couldn’t think about it now; she’d handle the issue tomorrow—settle it and wrap it up. She had to get her study completed and be off to her class.

Early the next morning, awakening and having no class until later in the afternoon, Cynthia’s thoughts immediately vaulted to the ongoing situation with her neighbor. It had been the last thing on her mind before going to bed, and now seemed to be the first on her mental agenda for the day.

With the radio playing very quietly, after a light breakfast, Cynthia tiptoed out into the hallway and placed her ear against her neighbor’s door. There was not a sound; perhaps no one was home. She debated. For some absurd reason, she was apprehensive; her imagination was getting the best of her. After all, with that unwarranted and explosively loud pounding on her wall yesterday, could her neighbor not be insane or so evil and hot-tempered that she might find the door opened and a revolver pointed in her face? Anyone who would pound ferociously on a wall with what sounded like a massive hammer over a simple, solvable issue—if there even were an issue—had to be somewhat crazed.

Nevertheless, Cynthia softly knocked at the door and then backed away. She waited, heard nothing. There was still the bell, but Cynthia thought that knocking on the door might be somewhat less formal and more neighborly. She knocked again and waited. Still nothing, so now she formally rang the bell several times. There was a rustling sound close to the door, and then a deep, hoarse voice croaked out at her.

“Who is it?”

Unlike herself, Cynthia was frightened. She felt as if she were in a horror film about to meet the killer-tenant from hell. Still, she wanted to be a good tenant and get along with her neighbors, and if there really were an issue, her goal was to amicably resolve it. She loved her new home, loved its location, and hoped to be a resident there for a very long time.

“It’s your neighbor, Cynthia. May I speak to you for a moment?”

“No! I can’t open the door. What do you want?” replied the harsh, hostile, female voice.

“Well … it would be easier to talk face-to-face. Maybe I can come back later if …”

“No! What do you want anyway? If it’s about your music, just keep it down! I don’t want to hear it!”

“But … it wasn’t really very loud. Are you sure it was from my apartment?” Cynthia attempted to argue back even though she was quite sure she was the guilty party.

There was no answer. It seems that her neighbor had unilaterally ended their brief, door-dialogue by issuing an ultimatum. Reluctantly turning and going back to her apartment, Cynthia tried to put the incident out of mind and do some study before her class, but she was uneasy and distressed sitting in her apartment in complete silence, brooding over the issue and almost afraid to make a sound.

When she could no longer tolerate the cold, displeasing environment of her own apartment—the unmitigated silence now and then interspersed by footsteps lightly pattering on her ceiling—she got up and turned on one of the twenty-four-hour cable news television channels. No sooner had the deep voice of a news commentator uttered a few words—he had only read off two headlines—than the pounding began on the wall. At breakneck speed, Cynthia spun around and lowered the volume to almost a whisper. By now, she was literally a nervous wreck. It was as if someone were living right there in her apartment with her! This unfriendly, vile woman seemed to hear every sound she made!  

“Hell!” Cynthia slammed her book shut. “This is ridiculous! I can’t even turn on the television! That bitch has ears like a damn dog! Is there a wall between these two apartments or not! How can she hear every sound? The television wasn’t even loud. Now I can barely hear it myself … and I’m sitting right next to it!”

She was fuming with rage.

“Am I living next door to some lunatic—some completely unreasonable, bitchy old woman? It seems that this tenant is going well beyond what is normal! Is this really my fault? Am I being a noisy, obnoxious neighbor, or is this fiend next door simply expecting too much? Is this some old, crazy lady … sitting all alone with nothing better to do than have her big ears to the wall?”

On the other hand, thinking beyond her immediate anger, Cynthia had a suspicion that perhaps she might be at fault. Perhaps she was accustomed to a volume loud enough to be heard through apartment walls. In her home back in South Alexander, she had certainly gotten used to playing everything excessively loud. Now, being in an apartment with neighbors all around her, perhaps she might have to make adjustments. Cynthia tried to be reasonable and see the situation from both points of view.

On the other hand, she felt that she really had to establish the facts. Was the sound really penetrating so loudly into 10C or was the woman being impossibly difficult in demanding complete silence? Was complete silence reasonable in an apartment house, especially at times like the middle of the day? She knew that she herself heard all sorts of apartment noises, and that was partly her reason for playing her music, her television, and her radio. She wanted to hear her own things, not barking dogs and slamming doors. Indeed, Cynthia was unsure of the real facts and situation.

And, of course, she preferred not to resort to the building personnel just yet. She could call the doorman about the banging on her wall, complain to the superintendent or ask his advice, or even write a letter to the managing agent. But her goal was, on her own, to ascertain the facts and then effect an amicable person-to-person settlement. After all, she was a new tenant and was not looking to cause a fuss.

 From this point on, for the next several months, Cynthia began making subtle inquiries of other tenants on the floor, her doormen, and even the building superintendent, and learned that, contrary to what she had thought, the separation between her apartment and the apartment on her right, 10C, was not like that of the apartment on her left, Mrs. Stern’s apartment. The kitchen and bathroom of her unpleasant neighbor’s apartment were not along their common wall. This meant that there was no intervening bathroom and kitchen separating her apartment from 10C. Unfortunately, the main room of Cynthia’s apartment and the main room of 10C had only a wall between them and nothing else!

ctive sheds