Steph had memorized the brochure. In a jungle like New York, a girl needs a place like the Greenwich Village YWCA. Of course “village” didn’t mean village, but the name at least conveyed a flavor of humanness. The “CA” didn’t really mean much, not like it would in Iowa, but “YW” hinted of girls like herself. Des Moines wasn’t hicksville, but to get on the stage, you need to be in the Big Apple.

When the taxi dropped her, she at least recognized the entrance. Maybe they feature the facade entrance on the brochure to reassure Iowa girls that they’d been dropped at the right place.

And now two weeks a New Yorker, her feet tired and her spirit not what it once was, Steph still thought a lot about Iowa, where people said “Hi,” and didn’t push, and probably didn’t even know a subway map needs a map.

She knew a lot about the map, Avenues vs. Streets, lobbies, high heels on escalators. Nobody is just going to sign you on. In the faces of so many of the girls and guys -- she figured the latter were homosexual, but some were looking at the girls -- occupying the plastic chairs in the waiting rooms, she could see dreams fading. But in others there was a doggedness, what might make the difference. Iowa girls stick with things.

Working at Dunkin’ Donuts was part of the process. Auditions don’t fill a day (or even any of some days) and income allows persistence. Staying occupied was a big part of survival, she found. Lots of actresses were nobodies until, say, they happened to stumble into some two-bit show that closed after three performances, but they’d met somebody who knew of another audition. Nothing worked the way Iowans would deem straightforward.

The Village YW (appending “CA,” Steph picked up, was a give-away that you were a hick) was a bed, wardrobe, dresser, chair and table sized for solitaire. Toilet and shower down the hall. No overnight visitors, of course. Don’t cook in the rooms, teapots and hotplates overlooked. Clean and safe. Fair enough weekly rate. She earned more at Dunkin’ Donuts than she would have back home, she wrote to her mom.

It was pretty lonely though. Washington Square was a nice place to sit until it started to get dark. The pigeons would come right up.

There was a black girl waiting by the bathroom. More or less Steph’s build; more or less Steph’s age.

“I’ll just be a minute, hun,” the girl apologized. “Have to brush my teeth.”

“I’m not exactly in a hurry,” admitted Steph. Nice how the black girl said it, as nobody else had apologized for anything.

The girl looked at Steph more closely. “Did maybe I sell you an egg salad sandwich yesterday?”

Steph looked back. She had indeed bought an egg salad sandwich. The girl behind the deli and was black -- that much Steph remembered -- had asked what she wanted to drink and Steph had wondered if she might have a water? The girl had probably seen her glance at the prices. When she brought the tray, there was a coffee. “‘Bout time to clean the pot, anyway.” In drinking it, Steph realized that the coffee tasted so Manhattan.

“That was you?”

The other flashed her teeth, too white to ever need brushing. “Guez so. Us niggas alls look da same to you whiteys.”

Steph stepped back.

“Oh, honey!” the other suddenly in perfect English, bouncing her fingers on Steph’s shoulder. “You should have seen your eyes,” now laughing, but then sobering. “I mean ... Oh, shit! That’s not funny at all, is it? ‘Nigga’ and ‘whitey’. Sorry.”

Steph didn’t know how to respond.

The other continued. “You’re new here, right? Broadway?”

Steph nodded.

“Me too,” continued the girl. “Been here a lousy month finding the theaters and wondering why I came. Sorry. Really. Name’s Jessie,” extending her hand, toothbrush still in it.

Steph took the hand. “Steph. From Iowa. Yeah, I’m newer. Just little parts, you know, maybe even dancing. I’m just checking.”

“That’s why I left Fargo,” the black girl still holding her hand. “Nothing for me there, ‘cept dancing with pasties.” A grin, then her face taking a conspiratorial turn. “Just kidding. Never got that far, even. You did stuff in high school?”

Steph wasn’t sure where this was going.

The girl read her face and grinned. “No, not that shit. Like musicals and plays?”

“I was in Thespians and the choir, but it wasn’t like an arts high school, or anything.”

“Same as me,” the other reflected. “And here we are in this place to cat-fight for a walk-on.” Then she grinned again, “But no dance-off between us two ‘causes they already know if they want black or blonde. I like how it’s natural, but for some shows, you still need to peroxide. What’s your name again?”

“Steph.”

“From Iowa, right? Steph from Iowa.”

Steph nodded as the bathroom door opened.

“So you come on down to the deli some mo’, you hea’?” with a black voice, “Can’t have them di-rectos thinking you might die of malnutrition halfway through a production.”

Until now, Steph had never admitted to anyone at the YW that she dreamed of being on stage, and here she was talking about it!

Steph knew it wasn’t right, Jessie loading her tray with extra cheese, ham, whatever was handy, but Jessie countered that Steph could slip her some éclairs, except she couldn’t stay in shape if she ate them. Can’t be chubby unless there’s a chubby role.

The two had their regular bench by the arch. In the square, it’s better to be sitting with someone. Sometimes, if Jessie were bushed, she’d stretch out with her head on Steph’s lap. Steph could trail her fingers through the nappy hair and nobody paid the least attention. Probably Jessie would think a white girl’s hair was boring.

Jessie was probably the better dancer, or at least knew a lot more about it, but Steph had more acting background. It was fun talking about it.

“You know, honey,” -- Steph liked how her friend called her that -- “it maybe doesn’t matter what we can do if we fuck enough directors, but that’s not how we’re going to make it, right?”

Steph hadn’t considered that option and didn’t say “fuck,” but hearing it, she agreed.

The two used Jessie’s ghetto blaster -- “Makes me not want to be a darkie.” -- for workouts, Jessie’s leotards doing nothing to flatten her. “This is why we pay the bucks to stay at the YW, not the YM,” noticing Steph’s glance. “The thing is, honkey ho, up on 52nd, you ‘gotta wiggle your fruit so they’ll remember you. White works best.”

“Wrong, wrong,” Steph corrected, “except for getting on at the Cotton Club,” Steph didn’t actually know if there still was a Cotton Club, but she loved making Jessie lose her beat.

“You be da strawberry and I’s da blackberry.”

Steph liked their workouts, getting sweaty, arm on shoulder to practice high kicks, should Radio City call.

When she got new leotards, she got ones that showed more of her and Jessie grinned and said that they should also practice slow dancing.