The Glow of the Spotlight: My Journey with Rebecca

After I stack the last loaves on Mrs. Rubin’s shelf, I tell her I’m stepping out, snatch my tap shoes, and dash off toward Tompkins Square Park to find Rebecca. The weather has turned cool, but my palms sweat anyway as I wait. A professional stage with an audience of strangers feels far more frightening than any recital back home.

Relief floods through me when Rebecca comes running. She grabs my arm, and we hurry as fast as we can toward Times Square.

When we arrive, I barely recognize the place I walked through with my mother only yesterday. No digital billboards flash overhead, and no crush of taxis clogs the street. Instead, sidewalk vendors hawk roasted chestnuts, men in bowler hats weave between horse-drawn carriages and sputtering motorcars, and women pass by in long dresses and wide-brimmed hats. It’s still a jam of traffic, just nothing like anything I’ve seen before.

Rebecca points out an ornate building ahead and calls it the Victoria Theater, urging me to look at the marquee, since the Castles are performing there that night. When I ask who they are, she seems shocked I haven’t heard of Irene and Vernon Castle, the most famous dancing couple on any vaudeville stage in America. The Victoria books only the top acts, she explains, though even that theater has started showing moving pictures.

I almost blurt out that I saw a movie just last weekend, then catch myself. Movies are still brand new to Rebecca. What would she think if I told her movies are everywhere—on televisions, phones, and tablets. Rebecca mentions that her cousin Max insists every theater will show moving pictures before long, and I agree that he’s probably right.

Rebecca checks the address again and pulls me across Broadway, dodging carriages the whole way. I’m terrified of getting trampled by a trotting horse, and I promise myself I’ll never take a crosswalk for granted again.

A few blocks up, we turn onto a side street, then down a narrow, shadowed alley. A dingy theater comes into view, cardboard patching one window, its heavy doors flanked by crumpled flyers blowing across the sidewalk. Missing letters on the marquee spell out a lopsided announcement of stage auditions, and a faded sign above reads Coronet Theater. My heart sinks. Rebecca admits it sure isn’t the Victoria, but maybe it’s a good place to start. Now I’m wondering if I want to do this at all.