John Lurie bounded into the room, excited as a schoolboy. “It’s all settled! It’s in the bag!” He grabbed his daughter and waltzed her around.
“Father,” she begged when she could catch her breath, “what’s in the bag? What are you talking about?”
“All right, I’ll tell you. A few weeks ago, the Dean mentioned that my friend Jim Crawley had gone ahead with his scheme and was opening a Little Theater in Aspen. That gave me an idea. It was the day after you were such a knock-out in the class play. I called him on the phone and told him, ‘I have a lovely, gifted daughter, nearly sixteen who’s going with us to Aspen. Do you think you have room for a budding Audrey Hepburn?’ He laughed that he didn’t know at the moment but he would get in touch with me. With all his plans, I guess he forgot about it. I’m ashamed to confess I forgot about it. But when you threatened to desert your music-driven parents for another summer to do something on your own, a flash illuminated this tired old brain. I just finished speaking with Jim. He says, if you’re half as good as I say, if you’ve got decent diction, are willing to cooperate in every way—that means, help paint scenery and fix costumes, and are willing to work for free, since we’ll be feeding and housing you, he’ll take you on. P.S. You’ve got the job.”
“Father, you mean it! It’s not one of your practical jokes?”
He nodded solemnly.
“It’s too good to be true. I’ll be acting! Not in a school play but in a real theater!”
“Oh, it’s only a barn,” her father made haste to explain. “Summer theaters are always in barns. That’s why they’re called the Straw Circuit.”
“Oh, I’m so excited!”
“And we’re just as happy for your sake,” her mother said, “but don’t get too carried away. If you’re lucky, you’ll get a walk-on or maybe a bit part as the little household slavey, in which you dust the stage furniture before the star walks on.”
“It doesn’t matter! Just to smell the grease paint!”