curtain calls/curtain cries, part 2

UPDATE, SUNDAY EVE.: I was out of town this weekend, that’s why this is taking so long to finish! I didn’t finish it all before I left, so I just posted what I had. I’m back now and expect to finish … any day.

All right. Now where are we in the story? Ah, yes.

My Go-To Kid, Jack, is blubbing, a gushing geyser. My tardy keyboard player is looking unimpressed with the whole shabby operation. And all my drama queens have rushed me, hoping the Go-To Kid is toast, praying that one of them can inherit his singular line — a line destined to create a Golden Theatre Moment, a line sure to vault its speaker into the pantheon of theatre gods, a line that conjures both magic and mayhem when uttered:

“Over here! Over here! Shoot the Stars! Shoot the Stars!” (*)

Whatever, drama queens. Carpe Diem. Shoot the Stars.

I shush the queens, rather sharply, prying myself away from their sweaty little circle of greed. My Go-To Kid is still up there, whimpering now into his frankfurter fingers. The other actors onstage have huddled far away from poor Jack. They have their own lines in this scene so they haven’t stormed the castle that is my personal space like the other kiddies did. They seem to have decided that Jack has theatre cooties or something and, ewww, gross, they certainly don’t want to be near anyone with those. No, God forbid, their stellar performances might be impaired!

I bound up to Jack, wrap my arm across his shoulder. We are both moist; he with tears, me with worry. He wails and hiccups:

“I’m sss-o-O-o-OO-rr-r-RRY, Mrs. Tracey!”

Ah, the poor little sausage.

“Oh, Jack, it’s okay. Don’t worry. I know you can do it.”

I didn’t, really.

My Go-To Kid continues:

“Eeeeee-ee-eeee-eee-ee-sniff-ee-EE-eee ….”

It’s now 10:26. I can’t think. The glowing-eyed kinderhounds on the floor are watching, drooling at Jack’s meltdown. I glance at them and scowl a scolding scowl. Clearly, God and compassion are being trampled under their marauding little theatre lusts.

I pull Jack farther away from the puny fiends.

“You know what, Jack? It’s gonna be okay. We’ll write your line on a piece of paper and tape it to the back of this chair. The audience won’t be able to see it. Okay?”

“EEE –eeee–ee-eee ….. O-oo-o-kk-k-kay, Mrs. Tracey.”

I mutter at one of my assistants to take care of it. We run the scene one last time, with the cheat sheet in place. He gets it right, but it’s shaky. I shout praises at him and he smiles a flush-faced, soggy smile. Silently, I exult to see the greedy glow of the kinderhounds fade at the sound of my loud encouragment.

It’s 10:30. The house opens at 10:45. We run a few key spots, which is all that time allows. We pull our cast aside for one last pep talk, open the house, and encourage the kids to greet their families.

Now, opening the house means several things to me. One of them is this: The arrival of two people who simply should not be in the same room right now. First, my one-time, longtime best friend Joey, known as She Who Claimed I — and my whole family — Have Demons AND, second, my brother, heretofore unmentioned, but mentioned now as He Who Is Very Angry With She Who Claimed I — and my whole family — Have Demons.

(She, however, does not know this.)

I’m sure I must have mentioned that Joey brought her son to drama camp?

So, you see, my pre-show willies and sweats are not entirely due to production woes.

Now why, you may be wondering, would Brother come to a kidde play when kiddie plays are always dicey, at best? Well, my current Co-Director is his wife, someone also none too thrilled with Joey. In Brother’s arms, happily slurping her thumb, is my wee 18-month-old niece, the cutest, buttonest baby in the world.

Add to this list My Beloved and you have the cast of characters now oh-so-harmoniously converging in my clammy, strung-out world.

It is 10:47. I sprint to the restroom and back, thinking, apparently, that running will dry me off. Back in the auditorium, I happen upon this scene that, frankly, does nothing for my nerves:

Sister-in-law stands at the front of the auditorium with Button Baby in her arms. Hovering over my niece, who looks a bit puckered by the nearness and largeness of the face, is Joey. My sister-in-law looks nearly as puckered as Button Baby.

Egad. I can’t breathe.

To their left, leaning up against the far wall, are Brother and My Beloved. If I could breathe, I might nearly laugh, because from my vantage point, I can see that these two men in my life wear exactly the same expression: a scowl so low and so murderous that the eyebrows seem about to choke the very eyes themselves. I watch them. They are speaking to one another in that twisted lip way, out of the side of their mouths, trying to be inconspicuous. It’s a laughable attempt, truly. These are not inconspicuous men in any cirumstance. My Beloved is 6-foot-3, dark-haired, blue-eyed; Brother is tall, too, with a shock of blonde swimmer’s hair and a perpetual carmel-colored tan. People notice them anyway. But now, now they are whispering with such contorted vehemence, such bumbling discretion, that it simply screams out, “LOOK AT US, WORLD! WE ARE BEING TERRIBLY INCONSPICUOUS!!”

Whatever is being said, they are none too jolly. I know my brother. He mustn’t be allowed to take one step closer to Joey.

Worlds are colliding here. I need to go over there now, but, egad, I can’t move.

Just then, a small voice from behind me. Ah. It’s the little Floor Roller:

“Mrs. Tracey, I forgot my costume.”

I think the Brown Pants Moment just might be upon me.

(and to be continued still …. sorry ….)

(*) One of the too-many “throwaway lines” I need to write so that more li’l kiddies can have lines and more li’l grownups can love me whilst I hate myself. But I’m not bitter about it. At all.