It’s about 11:00 a.m. and it’s raining again. Not too long ago, waking to a morning rain would have immediately sent me into a day-long depression. All of that has changed since our first encounter.

That day, it had been raining, too. It poured throughout most of the day, and weather reports had warned of severe thunderstorms later in the evening. By 10:30 that fateful night, the only thing I hoped for was to have them hold off long enough to get through this night’s auditions.

I am the artistic director of the Q Street Repertory Company, or just ‘the Q’ as we sometimes say. Calling this place a theater is stretching things a bit. It’s actually a renovated townhouse in the center of Georgetown. We have a stage, or at least what passes for one. The playing area is about as big as the average living room. At capacity, with a few people standing, we can accommodate just under 100 audience members. It’s not a problem because we usually play to about 2/3rds capacity.

We have been in operation for a little over three years. Last year wasn’t too bad. We staged an original musical that received good reviews. Words like “daring,” “enthusiastic,” and “unique” drew the yuppies. A Tony nomination for best set design (there wasn’t any) drew the critics, and a little nudity kept the attendance up for the better part of six months.

Our last three presentations didn’t fare as well, however. Everything hinged on our latest attempt. Another original. I was able to coax the team that had penned our big hit into giving it another shot. Their agreement, of course, wasn’t without its price. This time, I was offered a show that I didn’t imagine any “respectable” theater would have even considered.

Appropriately entitled “Sex with Strangers,” this one actually had a set of sorts. A king-size, four-poster bed planted center stage. The plot line involved a series of encounters between people who had met earlier in the evening and then decided to end their night by taking a room at the local no-tell motel.

Included in the assortment of characters were a young couple anxious to try a threesome, two hopefuls from a Double-A minor league baseball team who had just discovered their bi-sexuality, a businessman and a “working girl,” and finally, a solo number that espoused the merits of masturbation. The last act would be accompanied by a catchy tune entitled, “I’ve Got Matters Well In Hand.” Although the show was risky, I decided to give it a chance. Hell, at this point there wasn’t much to lose.

So, I had my third night of auditions nearly complete. One more Patti Lupone wannabe and I’d be out of here. And not a moment too soon either. The skies had been rumbling for over an hour and it’s ninety-three degrees inside. If you haven’t experienced a summer in D.C. you don’t know what humidity is.

I’m sitting toward the back of the house. I’ve had the techies put up every light they can find. All the dimmers are cranked to the limit. The idea is to not let the hopefuls see me sitting in the distance. A non-committal, “thanks, we’ll let you know,” and somebody escorts them out the side door. I look down at the last resume in the stack. A woman from Connecticut. There’s not enough light back here to actually read the thing. I can’t even see her 8X10 very clearly. I’m trying to make out the name when I hear a husky contralto from the stage.

“Hi, I’m Meredith Kay,” you say.

“Hi Meredith,” I reply. “What’s your real name?”

“That’s it,” you say. “Tall, dark, and imaginary. People as crazy as I am can’t afford to be phonies.”

I’m feeling a little playful so I decide to bite. “Pretty quick, aren’t you?”

You laugh a bit, then your voice turns serious. “Oh, you’d be amazed.”

“Okay, um, Meredith. Can you read from the middle of page 27 to the end of the scene for me, please?”

“Do you want your salad with or without dressing?”

This rattles me a bit. Most of the previous candidates had bitched about the copious amount of what they felt to be “gratuitous nudity” in the script. I take a few seconds to prepare my cop-out.

“Well, um, uh, your pleasure.” That infectious little laugh again, to go along with a gorgeous vamp of a smile. You start to disrobe. I hadn’t even heard you sing yet, but I was sure that I had found my “working girl.”

Just as you are getting down to your underwear, my stage manager appears by my side and whispers in my ear. “If you don’t mind, I’m going to call it a night. This rain is starting to get heavy, and you know how I am about thunderstorms. I hope I can still get a taxi.”

Before I could even tell her that it was all right with me, she was making her way up the aisle and out the front door. I turned my attention back to the stage. While most of the previous candidates just sit on the edge of the bed and read the material, you are on your knees facing the audience. Your imaginary customer would have been lying under you with your back to him. I am trying to concentrate on your diction and projection, no small task given the enthusiasm you are lending to your performance.

As the scene is reaching its conclusion, with the john getting his and you faking yours, there is a bright flash of lightning followed almost immediately by a sudden, loud clap of thunder, and the theater goes pitch black. In most places, the emergency lights would come on, but not in this little third-rate theater. Hell, I’m lucky if the stage lights work on a normal night.