Stephen Dixon - 14 Stories

An ad in the Equity newsletter says a South Dakota college has an opening for an acting coach and stage director of several workshops and Theater Arts Department plays at associate professor’s pay. The position is for three years starting this September. “We are seeking a working actor, not the typical theater teacher who is teeming with worthwhile erudition but deficient in performing experience.”

I send my résumé and also write: “I expect because of your Equity ad you’ll get 700 to l000 applications, many from people with a lot more stage and movie experience than I and also more experience in Theater Arts departments (mine’s been limited to being a substitute teacher for the N. Y.C. Bd. of Education and taking over junior high school play productions when the regular Language Arts teacher who also dabbled in Drama was sick). But I’m applying anyway, as I need the job, feel I qualify (if you’re serious about wanting a ‘working’ actor), and want a change of scenery. In fact, I’ll probably need to have a change of scenery, since once I saw your ad I did my criminal best to stop circulation of the newsletter to every New York actor and actress I could think of who might better qualify. That ought to be some indication of my industrious nature and ability to act.”

The chairperson of the Theater Arts Department writes back saying: “Initially I was put off by your efforts to stop distribution of our ad. But after receiving close to 800 applications so far, coupled with the enormous sadness of learning in one ‘felt’ swoop that so many gifted theater performers are out of work, I am much beholden to you to say the least, and to say the most, shamelessly overjoyed. It has taken me weeks to go through all the applications, and finally reaching yours brought a much-needed levity to the task. Perhaps because of your sense of humor and certainly because of your past active experience in the field, two accomplishments that are in short supply in our department, I would like to pursue your application further, despite your lacking the M.F.A., which we hoped for in all our candidates and which the printer left out of the ad.”

A few weeks later she writes: “The three year position you applied for has been cut to two years because of a reduction in our department’s funds. In this college, which is run (I might say was saved) by an ex-textile salesman who rose to the top of his field (no mean accomplishment either), the Arts take third best to Business Administration and Custodial Science, the latter having the most extensive catalogue in its category in the Midwest, and is consequently the school’s main source of state and corporate aid. If you’re still interested in the position, it might be helpful to know that you’re now one of 32 candidates out of the original 1048 still competing for the job. Some of the more attractive candidates have since eliminated themselves for stage or screen work or positions at other colleges and universities; about a thousand applicants were rejected outright or after deep consideration for a variety of reasons; another hundred applicants applied after the stated deadline; and two of the original 34 final candidates have since died. If you become one of the five finalists, would you be willing to come here to be interviewed?”

I write back saying I’d be happy to.

A month later she writes: “I am equally happy to report to you that you are one of the five finalists. Unfortunately, because of continuing payroll cuts, the position had to be reduced to a single year, though with a possible option for a second. One correction I must make is that of the two candidates who I said had died, one wrote me saying she was ‘only kidding,’ though with no enucleation why. And the second said that the person who claimed to be the executor of his estate was in fact his archenemy and longstanding theatrical rival in that part of the country (and coincidentally a final candidate for the position himself) getting even on a number of old scores (some of them musical, I’m sure). I quickly eliminated all three from the competition, which might seem ‘unequityable’ to you, but with so many highly qualified candidates to choose from, I was snatching (you might say) at eliminative straws. Another thing, Mort: because the position is now only for a year and with no possibility of tenure even if you were asked to stay on for a second year, its title of ‘Theater Arts teacher’ will henceforth be known as ‘actor-in-residence,’ with the salary commensurately reduced to that of an assistant professor’s rather than the assoc. professor’s pay as advertised. And with vacant houses going for a premium in this booming college town, there’ll now be no assurance of an on- or off campus abode, which might change the title to ‘actor-out-of residence’ if the person who gets the job can’t find a home. (When the original ‘in-residence’ pun was told to me, it seemed much funnier than the above. I’ve always been remiss with key lines and cues, which is perhaps why I gave up acting to only teach and administrate.) If you’re still interested, after all I’ve just said, please list two possible times you might be able to come here for a minimum stay of two nights and days between August 19th and 24th. I’m sorry to rush you like this, but the position does begin with the new fall quarter on September 3rd.”

I write back giving the dates I can be in northeast South Dakota. Several weeks after I was supposed to have been interviewed, the chairperson phones and says “Do you think you can fly out tomorrow or the next day for the interview? The job is still for one year though begins with the winter quarter now and with no possible option for a second year.”

“I can come tomorrow. Do you make the flight arrangements from where you are or should I do all that here and be reimbursed when I arrive?”

“The school policy is for the interviewee to make his own traveling arrangements and be reimbursed in full if he gets the job. If he doesn’t get it, the college reimburses half of all his expenses, though with both it takes a minimum of one to two months to receive.”

“I’m not a gambling man, Sarah, especially with money I’ll have to borrow to pay for the trip, so what are my chances of getting the job?”

“I’m sure I’m not supposed to reveal this, Mort, but the four other finalists bowed out because they didn’t want to uproot their families for only one year when there was no chance the contract would be renewed. So I’d say your coming here is more to interview us and see how you like our department and countryside rather than our interviewing you.”

“In that case, I’m on my way.”

She tells me of the one plane I can catch in Minneapolis to get to the North Dakota airport, the closest to the college. “There’s no train service to here and the one bus from Fargo leaves an hour before the plane lands, so someone will meet you at the airport and drive you down.”

It takes all day to get there. Long stopover in Minneapolis, longer Fargo wait for the car. I’m put up in a student dorm, “Which would normally cost you a dollar a night,” Sarah says, “but I think my department can absorb. You’ll have to shell out for all the other expenses while you’re here, so for reimbursement purposes keep your receipts and an exact written record of what they’re for.”

That night I’m to meet several Theater Arts Department people and their mates at the one restaurant in town that Sarah says serves halfway decent food. Before we go we have cocktails at her house and she gets high and her husband Ike gets a little drunk and begs off from “Old Ptomaino’s to take care of my hounds who have colds and who I don’t want getting lonely without me and during dinner and dopey talk just toppling over and die.”