Stage Fright (Bit Parts)

by Scott, Michelle

  It was hard to believe that Hedda Widderstrom could be intimidated by anyone. “Who is this guy anyway?” Even I, someone who religiously read Backstage and IndieStage, had never heard of him. “Has he written other plays?”

  Charles laughed until he started coughing. “He’s no playwright. He’s a lawyer and a financier. A very powerful one. He’s also a close associate of Hedda’s ex-husband.” He gave a sly wink. “Did you know that Hedda was once married to Bertrand Peabody of the Boston Peabodys?”

  “Ah,” I said, pretending the name meant something to me. “So what’s this guy doing staging a play in Detroit? It’s not like New York doesn’t have its share of theaters.”

  Charles’s expression soured. “You heard her: it’s not my place to ask questions. Never mind that I’ve been her constant friend and companion for over forty years. Never mind that I’ve waited patiently for her to recognize my talent. Never mind that she plays favorites.” The waitress brought Charles his scotch. He immediately downed it and demanded another. “The fact remains that I’m expected to direct that nightmare.”

  “I thought you wanted to do it.”

  “The only thing worse than having Hedda ask me to direct it would be having her not asking me to direct it.” Suddenly, his smile grew cunning, and he leaned across the table. “Can I convince you to sign on?”

  “Aren’t the auditions closed?”

  “I’m not talking about a part. I’m talking about being my stage manager.”

  I tried not to think of that as an insult. After all, stage manager was probably the most complex job in any given play. Not only that, Charles was as picky about selecting his crews as he was in selecting his actors, so the offer was a huge compliment. Still, taking another backstage job felt too much like giving up. “I don’t know. I really want to be onstage.”

  “Ordinarily, I’d say to thine own self be true, but I desperately need a competent stage manager. At least think about it.”

  I watched Tabitha who was still at the karaoke machine. “Is Hedda right about me? Has my talent wasted away?”

  “Stop wallowing in self-pity, Cassandra.”

  “Says the man who’s turned wallowing into an art form,” I shot back. “You’ve been nothing but ‘poor me’ since you walked in here.” Normally, I wouldn’t have challenged him so openly, but the alcohol lent me confidence.

  “That’s different! I’ve spent forty years working for a prize only to have it given away to a complete ass!” He loosened his tie. “And why? Not because Luquin Astor is more talented than I. Not because he’s more passionate about his work. But because she trusts him more?! As if I’m not trustworthy!”

  Darryl, who had been strutting around the bar like a bantam, showing off the 16 Voices script to everyone he met, staggered over. “Hey, Charles. Thanks again for putting in a good word for me with Helga Winderstein.”

  “That’s Hedda Widderstrom,” Charles said tightly.

  “Right. Too bad Cassie here won’t get a chance to audition.” Darryl put his arm around my neck.

  I bolted from his touch, shoving his arm away so hard he was forced back a step.

  “What’s your damage?” he demanded.

  My ‘damage’ was that I couldn’t stand anyone or anything touching my neck. I no longer wore scarves or high collars, and I had cut my hair shorter so that it wouldn’t brush the skin below my jaw. Every morning when I showered, I grit my teeth against the feeling of the washcloth on my throat.

  Charles frowned. “Are you alright, Cassie?”

  “She’s fine,” Darryl said. He dragged a chair over to our table and straddled it, sitting close enough for me to smell his beery breath. “The word is that she had a bad audition a few months ago.”

  I tensed. Andrew no doubt had let my secret slip to another member of the cast who had told Darryl. “That’s no one’s business,” I said.

  He held up his hands. “Hey, don’t be so defensive. It happens to everyone.”

  “Shut it,” I warned.

  Charles raised his voice to lecture-room volume. “What’s rule number ten in my ‘Ten Rules to a Successful Audition’?”

  I tried not to roll my eyes. “Never let a bad audition prevent you from trying again.” I’d sat through a number of Charles’s classes when I’d been in the theater arts program at Wayne State University and knew those rules frontwards and backwards.

  “That’s right! Besides, we’ve all had our share of disastrous auditions.” The waitress brought Charles his drink and, once again, he drank it in one swallow. “One bad audition is nothing to be ashamed of.”

  This was one of the reasons I admired Charles. He willingly shared his failures as well as his successes. He understood what it was like to be in the trenches. Still, the Cipher fiasco had been more than a typical bad audition. “It was a truly epic fail,” I admitted.

  He dismissed this with a wave of his hand. “Once, I was booed, actually booed, during a performance of The Children’s Hour, but I hung tough and remained on stage. It was the worst performance of my life, but it taught me a lesson: don’t let your failures get the better of you.”

  My hand strayed to my neck. The two spider bites had faded months ago, but when I touched the area, I still felt the sick thrill in my stomach. I wished I could explain how bad the audition had been, but no matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t remember what had happened to me. The door in my mind that hid those memories wasn’t just shut. It was locked and bolted.

  “Even if I had gotten the part, it wouldn’t have mattered,” I said. “The Cipher closed before Streetcar even opened.”

  Suddenly, I had Charles’s full attention. He stared at me, his eyes wide. “You auditioned at the Cipher? When?”

  “Five months ago,” I said.

  “Jesus.” Charles ran his fingers through his hair.

  “Five months ago?” Darryl asked, smirking. “And you’re still whining about it?”

  Charles fixed the actor with such an icy glare that Darryl stood and sidled off. The director turned to me. “Tell me about it.”

  I swallowed. Talking about the Cipher was always difficult. “I started to read for Blanche Du Bois, and then…well, I guess I fainted onstage.”

  “You fainted?”

  “I dropped in the middle of a line and woke up in the greenroom.”

  “That’s all you remember?”

  At my nod, Charles closed his eyes and blew out his breath. He had the look of a man who’d narrowly escaped being run over by a bus. “Did you follow rule number six?”

  I dropped my eyes. “I tried to, but I was too nervous to eat.”

  “That’s it, then!” Charles’s grin was a little unhinged. “Low blood sugar, Cassandra. It’s the reason I created rule number six in the first place.”

  Before I could argue that it hadn’t been low blood sugar, Andrew finally came through the back door. All his previous good humor was gone. His eyes were dark, and his jaw rigid. Apparently, his conversation with his boyfriend had not gone well. “Cassie, you ready to leave?”

  Charles’s adoring smile returned. “Andrew! Hedda was so taken with you! I hope you’ll consider her offer and audition for the play. It would mean so much to me if you did. Sit down, and let’s discuss it.”

  For a moment, Charles sounded a lot like Andrew’s boyfriend. When it came to theater and acting, Caleb was as pushy as a pageant mother. Maybe more so.

  “Not tonight. It’s too late.” Andrew said. The bar was emptying out. Mr. Gorgeous no longer sat at the corner table, and Tabby had abandoned the karaoke machine.

  Charles protested, but when Andrew remained firm, the director gave up and moved to the bar.

  I followed Andrew outside, but after a few steps, the world rotated backwards under my feet, like I was walking against the spin of a merry-go-round. My stomach pitched queasily.

  Andrew grabbed my arm to keep me from falling over. “I was going to ask you for a ride home,” he said, “but how about I drive?”
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  I muttered something about that being a good idea.

  “Wait for me here, and I’ll go get your car.”

  I hesitated. The Lamplighter lay at the ragged edge of the Renaissance zone, and it wasn’t a great place to linger after dark. Even during the day, people hung onto their wallets and purses and loved one’s hands a little more tightly. “What if something happens to me?” I asked.

  “You’re three feet from the door. Besides, I wouldn’t leave you here if it wasn’t safe.” He playfully bumped my shoulder. “I’d give you another piggyback ride, but I’m afraid you’ll puke in my hair.”

  True. Even thinking about the up-and-down jostling motion turned my stomach.

  “Okay.” I smiled bravely. “I guess it will only take you ten minutes.”

  “Five!” he said and began running up the block.

  It was one of those late fall evenings when you can already feel the bite of winter’s teeth, and a recent rain had put a raw edge on the cold. Shivering, I pulled my bare hands into the warm tunnels of my sleeves and slumped against the bar’s brick wall. My mind drifted away on a current of exhaustion and too much alcohol, but a sharp cry brought me to attention. The sidewalk was empty, and not a single car passed by. It was, as they say, too quiet.

  At the sound of a loud groan followed by a dull thud, I nearly bolted back into the bar. Then I saw a pair of highlighter-yellow high tops poking out from the mouth of an alley. I laughed. Yes, I was pretty drunk, but at least I hadn’t passed out on the street.

  I staggered over and nudged one of the yellow shoes with my foot. “C’mon, Darryl. Wakey, wakey!”

  Darryl didn’t move.

  “Let’s go!” I nudged his foot again, but he remained motionless.

  When I stumbled into the alley to grab his hand and haul him to his feet, something plowed into me with the force of a linebacker. I tripped over Darryl’s legs and fell on my butt. The thing sat on my chest, pinning me to the ground. It hissed, flashing white teeth in my face.

  My heart caromed off my chest, and dread zinged along every nerve. Screaming, I bucked with all my might, trying to throw the thing off of me. But the more I fought, the more tightly it hung on. It hissed again, a sizzling assault on my eardrums.

  Footsteps pounded up the street, and a pair of hands dragged the thing off of me. I scrambled backwards, whimpering. A sharp crack shattered the silence. My cheeks were dusted with a feathery powder that carried an acrid smell and made my skin tingle unpleasantly. I frantically scrubbed my face on my sleeve.

  “Are you okay?” The voice was deep and powerful, as if an ancient forest or the heart of a mountain had been given the gift of speech. Distantly, I wondered if the voice’s owner was an actor. He certainly had the pipes for it.

  “I think so.” The adrenaline surge had left me giddy and dry-mouthed. With my rescuer’s help, I stood. Darryl remained sprawled on the pavement. “I’m not sure about him, though.”

  “Is that your boyfriend?”

  That snapped me out of my stupor. “Ugh. No. He’s an actor I work with.” I blinked, finally recognizing my rescuer. It was the handsome man from the Lamplighter. The one with the broad shoulders, crown of dreadlocks, and silver earring.

  What a great way to make a first impression. Embarrassed, I tried to stand up straighter and act less drunk. “That thing attacking on me. Um, attacking me. What was it?”

  “A stray dog,” he said. “I chased it off”

  I frowned, confused. “But it hissed at me.”

  “It was a dog,” the man said firmly. “Did it bite you?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “Are you sure?”

  I nodded.

  The stranger knelt by Darryl and roughly patted his cheeks. “Hey! Wake up.” Darryl groaned, and the man hauled him into a sitting position.

  Darryl put his hands to his head. “Where am I?”

  “The Lamplighter. Looks like you had a few too many,” the man said, standing. My eyes remained locked on his perfect face, but he was at least a foot taller than I, and when I tilted my head back to meet his gaze, the world tipped sideways. I would have ended up kissing the pavement if he hadn’t grabbed my arm. “Looks like you’ve had your share of drinks tonight, too,” he said. “You’re not down here by yourself, are you?”

  “No. My friend’s here somewhere.” My thick tongue blurred my words.

  Darryl struggled to his feet and rubbed his eyes. “How did I get on the ground?” Then seeing the giant, dark man next to him, he panicked. “You! You mugged me, didn’t you? You wanted my shoes!”

  “Darryl, you idiot!” I scolded. “This guy helped you.” I turned to the stranger. “It’s lucky for him that you came along. I would have let him lay there.”

  In the dim light, I couldn’t tell if the man smiled or not. “Somehow, I doubt that.”

  To my relief, Andrew drove up in my Focus. He rolled down the passenger’s side window and glanced from me to my rescuer to Darryl, who was still weaving unsteadily. “Everything okay?”

  “Peachy,” I said.

  “What are you talking about?” Darryl demanded. “That guy tried to mug me!” He fumbled for his cell phone. “I’m calling the cops.”

  “Why would a mugger hang around to chat?” Andrew pointed out.

  “Listen, faggot, you weren’t here when it happened, so shut your yap.” Darryl marched over to the car. When he passed by me, I was drowned in his scent, a raw, meaty smell, as if Darryl had been chewing on a steak. My stomach trembled.

  “You look like you’re about to hurl, Cass,” Andrew said worriedly. “You should probably do that before you get into your car.”

  I immediately obliged, splattering Darryl’s obnoxious, yellow shoes.

  Darryl jerked away, horrified. “Ugh! Crazy bitch!” Furious, he stomped off towards the bar.

  Andrew laughed. “That was worth the price of admission!” He opened the passenger door for me and lifted his hand to the stranger who waved back.

  Despite the fact that my car’s heater didn’t work, and it was freezing, I fell asleep or, more likely, passed out on the ride home. Andrew poked me awake several times so I could guide him to my house. When we finally arrived, my clumsy fingers struggled with the lock on the back door until Andrew took the key and opened it for me. I tripped over the threshold and fell flat on my face. I rolled over on my back, laughing.

  Andrew scooped me up. “C’mon, my drunken, little princess.” He flipped on the kitchen lights and stood stock-still in the doorway. “Wow…it’s like the Guggenheim for preschoolers in here.”

  He was right. But it wasn’t preschoolers plural. It was one preschooler. Everything had been created by my four-year-old niece, Maggie. My fridge and all my cupboards were covered with crayoned pictures. Several sculptures made from colored macaroni and hardened clay sat on the counter. About twenty mobiles constructed from wire clothes hangers and bits of tissue paper had been suspended from the ceiling.

  I hung onto Andrew’s neck and blinked against the glare of the overhead light. “What can I say? I like art.”

  “I guess you do.” He carried me into my bedroom where even more creative masterpieces hung on the walls. He laid me on top of the bedspread and pulled off my shoes and socks.

  “Spend the night,” I told him.

  “I was planning on it. Otherwise, I’d have to steal your car to get back to my condo.”

  “Will Caleb be pissed?”

  A worry line creased Andrew’s forehead then smoothed out. “I can handle Caleb. You concentrate on not falling out of bed.”

  This struck me as monstrously funny, and I started laughing all over again. “Oh God, I am so drunk.”

  “You so are,” he agreed.

  He shook out the folded blanket at the end of the bed and drew it over me. Then he rubbed his thumb over my cheeks. “Why on earth do you have dirt all over your face?”

  “Mmm. Don’t care,” I murmured.

  He chuckled and ben
t down to kiss my forehead. “‘Night, Madam Stage Manager.”

  It had been a very long time since a man had paid such careful attention to me. Andrew’s affection made me ache with loneliness. I grabbed his lapels. “Marry me,” I begged. “Please, stop being gay and marry me!”

  He pried my hands away. “Sorry, love. It doesn’t work that way. Besides, I’ve got a boyfriend, remember?”

  “I hate him,” I muttered. “He scares me.”

  My eyes drifted shut as Andrew smoothed the hair away from my forehead. “You know what?” His voice was hardly above a whisper. “Sometimes, he scares me, too.” At this, I forced my leaden eyelids open, but Andrew had already closed the door and turned off the light.

  Chapter Three

  I whimpered in my sleep, unable to stop the all-too-familiar nightmare. In my dream, I was crushed in the arms of my attacker. My eyes were wide open, yet I remained blind. My lungs fought for air, and with every shuddering breath, warm blood bubbled from a hole in my throat.

  “Stop! Enough!” The commanding voice made me whimper. “Do you want to turn her rogue?”

  “Who cares? She’s as good as dead already.”

  “I said STOP!”

  I was torn from the cruel embrace and dropped to the floor. The two voices above me blended into one, frightful noise that ended with a sharp hiss. This was always the point where the dream became unbearable. Knowing what was ahead, I braced myself for the terrifying climax.

  This time, however, the dream morphed. Instead of having someone force dead air into my lungs, I stood outside the Lamplighter. A deep, comforting voice said, “You’re under my protection now.” A large, yet gentle, hand touched my shoulder. “Don’t worry; you’re safe.”

  Instead of waking myself with a scream as I’d done a hundred times before, I relaxed and fell into a deep sleep.

  When the light coming through the blinds became too bright to ignore, I hauled my sorry self out of bed. In the kitchen, I slumped into a chair and held my aching head in my hands. Both my brain and my teeth felt fuzzy, and my stomach was doing slow rollovers. Hangovers are like suffering jetlag from a vacation you didn’t enjoy much in the first place.