"Fran," I yelled. "Answer the damn phone."
No obscene reply.
She wasn't home.
I hobbled to pick up the phone, before the machine came on.
I just missed.
"Hello?"
The answering machine cut me off and started talking. "Hi, we can't come to the phone..."
"Just a sec," I screamed over the recording while I turned the damn thing off. "Hello?"
"Is this Mike Orlando?" asked the woman on the other end.
"Yes, I'm Mike Orlando."
"Hold on, Mr. Orlando."
I heard that familiar click of being put on hold, then another click.
"Mike, this is Joe Martin. Remember me?"
I stood there, stunned.
"Of course."
"How's the knee?"
"Um, it's slowly getting better."
"That's good," Joe said. "Look, the reason I called was to see if you would be interested in an Assistant Choreographer's job? Mine just quit. It doesn't pay much to start, but it's a start and better than slinging hash."
"Why me?"
"I liked your work. It had the energy I'm looking for."
"Are you still in L.A.?"
"No. I'd like you to come here to New York and see me."
"I...uh..."
"Don't worry about the money," Joe said. "I'll be sending you a ticket. Is two weeks from now okay?"
"Sure, that's great."
"Good, see you in a couple of weeks. I'm putting Irma back on to get your address."
Joe hung up.
I gave Irma the information and hung up the phone.
I just stood there.
Joe Martin liked my work. I couldn't believe it. I thought I'd crashed and burned in front of him. Blowing that last leap, rolling around on the floor, clutching my knee and crying like a baby.
I guess not.
I had energy. I had fire. I had a chance for a real job.
I went into the bathroom and opened the medicine cabinet.
My pills were in there.
I picked up the bottle, opened it and poured them down the drain.
Assistant choreogragher, that's infuckingcredible.
