Most
stories start with a beginning. This one
starts with the end.
The end of
a dream come true. The end of my music
career, which seemed to be over before it had really begun.
The end of
my run on American Idol.
No,
really. American Idol. I’d earned my
golden ticket at my audition in Chicago seven months ago, survived Hollywood
Week, made the top twenty-four, then the top twelve, and then the top
eleven. If I made the top ten, I’d be
guaranteed a place on the summer tour.
But
standing on the stage next to Ryan Seacrest, my arm slung around the guy I
wanted to go home instead of me, I knew it wasn’t going to happen. Okay, so I didn’t know it for sure; the
show’s not that rigged. (And even if it is, I’m contractually
forbidden from telling you so.) But I
felt it. I was going home.
“Dim the
lights, and here we go.” Ryan gave the
cue, and the bright stage lights faded, bathing us in blue. I gazed out into the first few rows of the
audience, looking for no one in particular.
My dad wasn’t there. He’d flown
out last week to watch me perform for the first time on the big stage, and he’d
promised he’d come for the finale if I made it.
But he couldn’t afford the plane ticket or the time off work to fly to
Los Angeles every week. I knew he was
watching at home.
“Cary, Tim,
good luck to both of you,” said Ryan, and I lowered my eyes to the stage,
steeling myself for what he was about to say next. “After the nationwide vote, the person who is
going home tonight, unless the judges save them, is…”
If you’ve
ever watched American Idol before,
you know how long Seacrest draws out that pause to build suspense. Long enough for me to catch you up to speed.
I’m Cary,
if you hadn’t guessed. It’s short for
Carolyn. Singing wasn’t my life, but I
wanted to make it so. I’d been singing
and songwriting as a hobby ever since I was a kid. I’ve always been kind of shy, until you get
me on a stage. Onstage, I’m like a
different person. I love to
perform. When I was younger, I did
musicals and talent shows and sang in the choir. After college, I settled for singing to the
old people in the nursing home where I work.
I was happy
with my career path. I’d gone to nursing
school and worked a couple of years in a hospital while I got my master’s so
that I could become a nurse practitioner.
I found my job fulfilling, and I never really considered giving it up
for something else… until word got out that American
Idol auditions were being held in Chicago.
I wasn’t
going to go – I hadn’t the last two times they’d come – until my coworkers
reminded me that the age limit was twenty-eight. Guess how old I was? Twenty-eight.
If I didn’t audition then, I’d never have another chance, and what if,
just what if, it turned out to be my big break?
Wouldn’t I regret not going for it?
So I went
for it. I let my coworkers talk me into
it, and a small group of us road-tripped up to Chicago for the preliminary
auditions. It wasn’t as exciting as it
looks on TV. We didn’t camp out in a long
line to wait for our turn to go in and see Simon, Randy, and Paula (or rather,
Simon, Randy, Kara, and a random guest judge who wasn’t Ellen DeGeneres). In fact, the judges weren’t even there. Instead, we sat around in the United Center
for hours, until they herded us down to one of twelve tables spread across the
floor to sing for the producers. You can
imagine how much time they gave us to sing:
twelve thousand people, divided between twelve tables… you do the
math. I got about thirty seconds to
flash my brightest smile and belt a few bars of my song.
Out of all
those people, I didn’t expect to even be noticed, let alone chosen, but the
next thing I knew, I was on my way to the next round, a yellow piece of paper
clutched in my hand. A month later, I
was back in Chicago to sing for the real judges – Simon, Randy, Kara, and, for
some reason, Shania Twain. As I waited
around with the others who were there to audition, I got paranoid. What if I hadn’t been called back because I
was good, but because I was really bad?
What if I was one of “those” people – you know, the delusional freaks
who don’t realize they’re tone deaf? By
the time I finally walked into the room to meet the judges, I was a nervous
wreck. I just kept praying they wouldn’t
rip me apart and humiliate me on national television.
They
didn’t. They actually praised my voice
and my vintage style, told me I was “unique” and to work on my stage
presence. I left the room with a
priceless golden ticket, and a few months later, I was jumping through the
hoops of Hollywood Week. At every cut,
I’d think, This is it. My luck’s run out. I’m not gonna make the next round. But I did.
I made the top twenty-four, the top twenty, the top sixteen, the top
twelve.
If I could
survive that night’s cut, I’d make the top ten.
That was further than I’d ever, in my wildest dreams, expected to make
it, and I tried to remind myself of that fact as I waited for Ryan’s
results. If I was the one going home, I
wouldn’t too disappointed, I told myself.
I would smile, nod, thank everyone for the opportunity, and go on with
my life. But I sooo wanted to go on tour
instead.
The pause
before the name seemed to last forever.
It’s infuriating enough when you’re just watching it on TV. Imagine being the one standing there onstage,
awaiting your fate. My knees were so
quivery, I thought if Seacrest didn’t hurry it up, they were going to
buckle. It didn’t help that the show’s
stylists had me in a pair of boots with six-inch stilettos. I was, quite literally, shaking in my boots.
And then,
the verdict came.
“…Cary
Hilst.”
I felt
myself deflate, as the breath I’d been holding rushed out of me.
“Tim, you
are safe,” I heard Ryan add, and I was aware of Tim hugging me quickly before
scurrying back to the safety of the couch off to the side of the stage, where
the other contestants sat.
“Congratulations, Tim. Come here,
Cary,” said Ryan, drawing me in closer.
“Cary, as you know, the judges have one save that they can use this
season. You’re now going to have the
opportunity to sing for the save.”
I
nodded. We had rehearsed this, and I was
prepared. Ryan walked me over to the
center of the stage, where my mic stand was set up and a stage hand was waiting
with my ukulele. I took a deep breath,
adjusted the microphone to the right angle, and positioned my fingers on the
ukulele that had been my grandfather’s.
He was the one who had taught me to play. On my cue, I started to strum and leaned into
the microphone to sing.
“Lookin’ at your picture, from when we first met… you gave
me a smile, that I could never forget… and nothin’ I could do could protect me
from you, that ni-i-ight…”
I’ve always
been an old soul. I’m sure it has
something to do with the fact that I was practically raised by my grandparents. They taught me about music, the kind of music
they grew up on – the classics. I loved
oldies, jazz, and big band, and I’d modeled my own singing after the greats –
women like Ella Fitzgerald, Billie Holiday, and Etta James.
But then, I
also loved the Backstreet Boys.
“Wrapped around your finger, always in my-y mind… the days
would blend, ‘cause we stayed up a-all night… yeah, you and I were everything,
everything to me…”
For the
semifinal rounds, as the top twenty-four was whittled down to twelve, we had
our choice of songs that had made the Billboard Top 100 chart. After two weeks of covering classics, the
judges warned me I was coming across as too serious, too old-fashioned, too
predictable. I had to change it up.
“I just want you to kno-ow… that I’ve been fightin’ to let
you go… so-ome da-ays I make it through… and then there’s nights that never
end…”
I had
chosen a lesser-known Backstreet Boys single, “Just Want You to Know,” as the
song that would get me into the top twelve.
Staying true to form, I slowed it down and sang it in a syncopated,
blues style, accompanied only by my ukulele.
Though the judges had pointed out that viewers may not be familiar the
song, they’d praised me for singing something modern and changing it to better suit
myself as an artist.
“I wish that I could belie-eve… that there’s a day you’ll
come back to me… bu-ut sti-ill I have to say… I would do it all again… just
want you to know…”
I hoped
they would remember that now and save me.
It was a long shot, but I wasn’t ready to leave Hollywood and go back to
my old life yet. I wasn’t ready to let
my dream die.
“That since I lost you… I lost myself… no, I can’t fake it…
there’s no one e-el-else…”
I could see
the judges deliberating down at their table, their four heads pressed close
together, whispering behind their hands.
I tried not to watch them, staying in the moment of what was probably
going to be my last Idol performance.
“I just want you to know… that I’ve been fightin’ to let
you go… so-ome da-ays I make it through… and then there’s nights that never
end…”
I
crescendoed to my big finish, strumming the ukulele hard as I sang my heart
out.
“ I wish that I could belie-eve… that there’s a day you’ll
come back to me… bu-ut sti-ill I have to say… I would do it all again… just
want you to know…”
I let my
last note fade away, making eye contact with Simon. Seacrest always said it took a unanimous
decision from the judges, but I knew it was really Simon calling the
shots. If he wanted to save me, I’d be saved. When he didn’t offer me one of his subtle
winks, I knew it was all over.
Sure
enough, when the applause died down and Ryan came back to the stage to ask the
judges for their verdict, Simon said, “Sorry, sweetheart, but we’re going to go
with America on this one. It’s a no.”
I nodded,
forcing a smile, reminding myself to be gracious. But the tears were already welling in my
eyes. I barely heard the rest of the
judges’ comments. I know, from watching
the episode later on my dad’s DVR, that they offered me words of condolence and
encouragement, but the rest of my time on stage went by in a blur. They had a video montage of my Idol highlights, from my first audition
in front of the judges to my top twelve performance on the big stage. I cried through it. The other contestants came off the couch and
surrounded me in a group hug. Some of
the other girls were crying, too. My
tears wet their shoulders as they held me close, filling my ears with trite
phrases like “This is just the beginning for you” and “When one door closes,
another one opens.”
I’m sure I
nodded and agreed with them, but in my heart, I didn’t believe it. Artists like Chris Daughtry and Jennifer
Hudson were the exception, not the rule.
I knew that most Idol alumni –
and even some of the winners – faded into oblivion following their time on the
show. They might go on to record an
album no one would know about or score a role in a Broadway musical, but they
would never again be the household name they’d been for the five months they
were on American Idol. There was nothing wrong with the life I’d
lived before Idol, but it was
depressing to think I’d probably just end up as a footnote on Wikipedia. Oh well - before this, my name wasn’t on
Wikipedia at all, so a footnote was better than nothing.
“Thank you
for the opportunity,” I remembered to tell the judges and producers after the
live broadcast, wiping away my tears. “I
had an amazing experience.”
And it was
true. But now that experience was
finished, and so was my shot at a music career.
The next morning, I’d be on a flight back to Illinois, back to my old
life, back to the nursing home. There
would be no record deal for me, no summer tour.
My journey was over.
The end.
***