My main job was to do whatever the hell Charles asked me to. “Let’s see, I handled everything from cues and props to costumes and ticket sales.” I’d even unplugged the toilet in the women’s restroom at least a dozen times.
“Ticket sales.” Victor pounced on those words. “How many tickets were sold for each performance?”
Of course, I knew the answer. The muse held three-hundred seats, but an audience of over a hundred was considered a good night. Still, I hesitated to divulge the information. Victor’s question was too much like the ones he’d asked Geoffrey the night before. I had a strong feeling that Victor Stuyvesant wasn’t in Detroit to stage a play, but to dig up dirt on Hedda’s finances, and I felt I owed her some loyalty. After all, if I hadn’t gotten a job in her theater, I might still be cowering under my covers. “I’d don’t remember the exact numbers,” I hedged. “I’d have to look it up.”
Unfortunately, Darryl was more than happy to oblige the information. “We never filled the place. Attendance always topped out at a hundred.”
Victor took of his sunglasses and sat up straight. “A hundred? How much would that be in sales?”
Darryl answered as promptly as the most hated teacher’s pet. “Maybe a thousand per night.”
Oh, the scabrous little weasel! I clenched my hands into fists, wishing they were wrapped around Darryl’s pencil neck. “How would you know?”
“Because I faced those empty seats every night when I was on stage,” he shot back. “I didn’t cower backstage like you.”
“Cassandra, your answers will be kept in the strictest confidence,” Victor said. “Why don’t you tell me everything you know?” His voice was surprisingly gentle. Even so, I wasn’t going to talk about it. Not with him. Then my eyes met his. I saw myself reflected back at me from the depths of those strangely enlarged pupils. Every emotion – my terror, my distorted sense of reality, my confusion – played back in a gut-wrenching loop. The world swayed under my feet, and I grabbed for something to keep me upright.
When I started to drop, Victor caught me and lowered me into a seat. Carefully, he bent me over and put my head between my knees, placing one hand on my back so that I wouldn’t fall to the side.
“Easy,” he said. “Take deep breaths.”
“Cassie’s got this anxiety disorder. It’s what chased her off the stage,” Darryl said from behind me. “Course, I wouldn’t let a little thing like a bad audition ruin my acting career. I’d do anything to get onstage.”
There was a pregnant pause. “Anything?” Victor asked.
“Anything at all!”
Victor let go of my back. “Cassandra, there’s something I need to discuss with Darryl. Are you going to be all right?”
My stomach was lurching, but the all-over body sweat had stopped, and my heartbeat was in the normal zone. “Yes.”
With a final pat on my back, Victor left with the still-nattering Darryl in tow.
I kept my head down, and slowly opened my eyes. Something winked at me from under my seat: a teardrop crystal. It must have fallen from the chandelier when the workers were wrapping it. Amazingly, the prism was intact despite its three-story plunge. I plucked it from its hiding place and slipped it into my pocket.
I stood carefully, trying shrug off the weird sensation I’d gotten from looking into Victor’s eyes. I wasn’t sure what had happened between the two of us, but I never wanted to repeat it. In fact, as much as I hated to back down on an obligation, I couldn’t endure the thought of spending the next three weeks dealing with Victor’s outrageous whims. The stage manager job could go to someone else. I was finished.
Although I was eager to leave the theater, it didn’t seem fair to go without giving word to Charles. I knocked hesitantly on his office door. “Charles? Are you there?”
At his word, I entered. Charles sat at his desk. To my consternation, a nearly empty bottle of bourbon stood at his elbow. Standing in the corner was another man whom I vaguely recognized. He had the white, bushy beard and pot belly of Santa Claus, but the round, rose-tinted glasses, leather headband, and Dead Head t-shirt of an aging hippie.
Neither man spoke, but the air hummed with tension. “Sorry to interrupt you,” I said.
“Don’t worry. We were only discussing our mutual interests.” Charles’s tone carried a sneer. “This is Martin Nowicki, manager of Mercury Hall.”
So that’s where I’d seen him before. Martin Nowicki was a local celebrity who had once been in his own band. Now, he hosted a radio show on the local NPR station and reviewed music for the Metro Times. He also managed Mercury Hall, a tiny, musical venue in a downtrodden but trendy suburb north of town. The Mercury had been around forever. It hosted up-and-coming local bands as well as a few popular indie groups. My grandparents claimed that they’d seen the Temptations perform there while my parents boasted that they’d heard Bob Seger.
“Martin has generously agreed to loan us his stage while the Bleak Street is under construction.” Charles gave Martin a narrow look which the other man returned with a glare.
“Only because Hedda asked me to,” Martin said.
I smiled at Martin who continued to glower. “Uh, Charles, can I talk to you for a minute?”
“Does it involve Victor?”
“Kind of.”
He pinched the bridge of his nose. “Can’t it wait until tomorrow?”
“There’s not going to be a tomorrow,” I said. “I’m quitting.”
Charles popped out of his seat. “Cassandra, no! Don’t do this to me!”
“I’m sorry, but I can’t deal with the guy. He’s like a spoiled, little kid planning his own birthday party.”
Charles’s eyes widened fearfully, but Martin cracked a smile. “That’s exactly what he’s like.”
“Shut your mouth, idiot!” Charles hissed. He fumbled in his desk drawer for more cigarettes, and tapped the pack on the desk.
Down the hall, Darryl stumbled out of the bathroom. His complexion was even pastier than before, and his expression more haggard.
“You okay?” I asked as he staggered past me.
He grunted in reply and kept walking. A moment later, Victor exited the bathroom as well, dabbing at his mouth with a white handkerchief. His eyes were half closed, and a languorous smile played on his lips. Oh, gross. I squirmed in disgust. I always kept an open mind when it came to personal choices, but the idea that Darryl would swap sex for a part in the play revolted me. Apparently, both he and Tabitha were cut from the same cloth.
Victor shoved past me and wedged himself into Charles’s office. “I was wrong about the fly bait,” he said. “He can stay.”
Charles’s fake smile returned. “Of course. Whatever you say.”
“And also, I’ve decided to turn the play into a musical.”
Sixteen Voices Singing at the Same Time?! No one – not Charles, not me, not even Baz Luhrmann himself – could save a show like that.
“NO!” Charles had done an admirable job of reigning in his temper before, but now a red blush rose from his neck to his forehead. The bourbon hadn’t helped matters. He looked like a thermometer about to pop. “The wire harnesses, the costume changes, the animals! No, it can’t be done! The play’s already a joke!”
Realizing what he’d said, Charles paled. There was a moment of dead silence. Even Martin looked afraid.
In the instant before Victor went nuclear and tore Charles apart, I said, “The play’s not a joke.”
Three pairs of eyes fixed on me.
“It isn’t,” I said. “I mean, the staging and costuming are overdone, but what I’ve read of the play is very good.”
Victor blinked, stunned. “You like it?”
“Yes.” I drew in a deep breath. “But it’s a fragile piece. If you keep insisting on the ridiculous sets and complicated costumes, the spectacle will overwhelm it.” Seeing that I still had Victor’s attention, I added. “I believe in this play enough to want to see it done right.”
“I thou
ght you were quitting,” Martin said dryly.
Oh yeah. Good point. I offered a meek shrug. “Maybe I’ll stay on for a little longer.”
Victor’s eyes slid from Charles to me and back again. “Very good.” A smile touched his lips. “Very, very good.”
Charles sighed, his color returning to normal.
“Auditions begin tomorrow,” Victor said, walking past me. “Nine a.m. sharp.” He disappeared down the hall.
Charles mopped his sweating forehead. “Thank you, Cassandra.”
“That’s how it begins,” Martin said to no one in particular. “You catch their eye, and they reel you in. After a while, they won’t take no for an answer.”
“Who are they?” I asked. But no one offered a reply.
I returned to my office, exhausted, and sagged into my desk chair. The day had drained every bit of my energy, and the fact that Andrew still hadn’t called me weighed heavily. Worse yet was the fact that I’d agreed to continue on as the stage manager.
As always, the prop closet was soothing. In fact, the entire Bleak Street calmed me. Forget Maggie’s artwork or Andrew’s necklace. I needed to channel the theater’s energy.
My breath caught in my chest. Why not channel the Bleak Street’s energy? After all, theater was in my blood. The stage was my passion! If anything could heal my qi, or whatever it was, surely it was the Bleak Street.
I closed my eyes and envisioned the theater in as much detail as I could. I imagined the stage and considered the performances that had taken place there over the decades. Slowly, like a sunbaked rock releasing its heat into the cold night, the theater leeched its pent-up energy. I relaxed, drawing the comforting presence into myself. Unlike the power locked away in Maggie’s artwork, my battered qi drew strength from the Bleak Street.
A sharp knock at the door made me scramble to my feet. I felt giddy, like I’d drunk a dozen energy drinks and was riding a caffeine high. I wanted to embrace the world. Grinning, I opened the door.
Charles, dressed in his coat and hat, stood there. “Are you planning on spending the night?”
“Maybe I should! Think of all the work I’ll get done.”
He frowned, puzzled. “I guess so.” He glanced at the 16 Voices script on the desk. “Do you really think it’s good?”
I nodded. “I’ve only read the part of Voice 5, but it’s amazing. If the rest of the play is this good, and we can make Victor change his mind about the staging, I think this thing will be amazing. I want to go through it and make notes if that’s okay with you.”
“Knock yourself out,” he said. When he continued to stand in my doorway, I asked him if everything was okay.
“You tell me,” he said. “You seem different.”
“I feel amazing!” I spread out my arms. “On top of the world!”
Charles rubbed his stubbly jaw. “Cassie would you mind reading for me again.”
“Right now?”
“If you please.”
I picked up the 16 Voices script, determined to give my best performance. I’d be damned if anyone called me wooden again! I flipped to V5’s part and began reading. The theater’s energy buoyed me, nearly lifting my feet from the ground and lending power to my words. The part wasn’t just good; it was incredible! V5’s pain was my pain, and her joy my joy. For a few minutes, I wasn’t just reading for Voice 5, I was Voice 5.
This time, I got two pages in before Charles raised his hand.
I fell silent. I was breathing hard like I’d been running a marathon instead of acting. My armpits were damp, and I felt pleasantly dizzy.
Charles frowned thoughtfully. “Not bad. You’ve definitely improved since this morning.”
If anyone else had offered me that faint praise, I would have thrown it in the trash can. Charles, however, didn’t give compliments away; he made you work for them. If he thought I was ‘not bad’, then I must be pretty good.
Light applause came from the doorway where Victor stood watching. “That was quite a performance.” I searched his face, looking for a wry smile or an ironic eyebrow lift, but his compliment seemed sincere. In fact, he looked puzzled. “Why aren’t you auditioning for a part?”
“Hedda said that Cassandra had lost her shine,” Charles said.
At this, Victor looked truly astonished. “Really? She’s a little dull, maybe, but she definitely has shine.”
I still wasn’t exactly sure what ‘shine’ was, but it was nice to know I hadn’t lost mine. Not entirely, anyway.
“I’ve never heard of an actress reclaiming her shine, but life’s a mystery, is it not?” Victor’s toothy smile made me uncomfortable. “A mystery and a great adventure.” He touched the tip of his nose and pointed at me. “I’m keeping you in my sights, Cassandra Jaber. You may have possibilities.”
I wasn’t sure if this was a good thing or not, but Charles seized it. “There’s more where Cassie came from.”
Victor lifted his eyebrow.
“It’s true,” Charles said eagerly. “Detroit is ripe with undiscovered talent. Hedda is far too cautious about using her resources. Her standards are far too strict.”
“On that, we agree,” Victor said.
Charles followed Victor out the door without a good-bye to me. “I promise you, I can do great things for the Stuyvesants.”
I shook my head ruefully. Tabitha, Darryl, and now Charles were throwing themselves at either Hedda or Victor. It seemed like everyone was picking sides, leaving me somewhere in the middle, like that last kid on the playground whom no one wanted on their baseball team.
Not that I cared.
Chapter Nine
With the energy from the Bleak Street still sparking in my blood, I dug into 16 Voices. I devoured the script from start to finish, then read it a second time. I made so many notes in the margins that each page contained as much red ink as black.
16 Voices was a study in schizophrenia. Six of the parts, including V5, were incredibly strong. The stories were interesting, and the voices authentic. The remaining ones, however, were dead weight. Without serious editing, the play would fall flat. I only hoped I could convince Victor and Charles to go along with my ideas. I desperately wanted this play to succeed.
When I finished my second run through, I considered reading the play a third time, but my aching back told me it was time to leave. My stomach rumbled, reminding me that I’d skipped lunch. Dinner, too, if my watch was telling the right time. I raised my arms over my head, stretching until my spine cracked. I suddenly realized that the sounds of power tools and loud music no longer rocked the theater. The place was dead silent. When had that happened?
Outside, it was fully dark. Shivering, I pulled my coat more tightly around me as I fumbled for my car keys. There were two vehicles left in the lot: mine and one that some inconsiderate slob had parked squarely in the lot’s only entrance.
The car’s NO1STUD vanity plate made me curse. It figured that the car blocking me in belonged to my least favorite actor. Although Darryl was nowhere in sight, his car was running. And locked. Damn! In his dazed state, he must have wandered away from it.
Now what to do? I couldn’t move the vehicle without breaking into it, and attempting to squeeze past it would probably scrape the hell out of my car. Unless I found Darryl, I was stuck.
Wondering if he was still inside the theater, I tried the back door. Unfortunately, it was locked, too. I dug in my purse for my keys to the building, then remembered I’d left them on Charles’s desk when I’d told him that I quit. I pounded on the theater door and shouted, but no one answered. I was both locked out of the building, and into the parking lot. Terrific.
“Darryl!” I shouted, but got nothing in reply. Where the hell could he have gone? “Darryl, dammit, you’re blocking me in!” Still no answer.
Exhausted from the long day, all I wanted was a hot meal and a soft bed. Muttering curses against Darryl, I pressed my fingertips to my head as I tried to figure a way out of the mess. I could call a wrecker to dra
g Darryl’s car from the lot, but that could take hours. Or maybe I could beg my sister for a ride home tonight, and worry about the parking lot mess tomorrow.
I was about to call Elena when I paused. My father, who had been a Wayne County deputy sheriff before he’d retired, had often complained about how people were their own worst enemies. Especially when it came to auto theft. Too many of them hid spare car keys in small, magnetic boxes under their back bumper only to realize – too late – that car thieves knew the same trick. With any luck, Darryl had hidden a spare key on his car as well.
I crouched behind his car, holding my breath against the exhaust pouring from the tailpipe, and searched under the bumper for a little, metal box. Not finding one, I bent lower, reaching farther under.
I didn’t find a box, but I did find Darryl.
When my groping fingers discovered five bare toes, I yelped in surprise. Then I laughed breathily. Darryl had once again passed out. I grabbed a hold of the ankle to shake Darryl awake, but the foot gave way with surprising ease. I fell backwards on my butt, and Darryl’s foot landed in my lap.
With a shriek, I tossed the severed foot aside and scrambled, crab-like, away from the car. Oh my God, oh my God, oh my God! That really hadn’t been Darryl’s foot. Had it? I scoured my hands on my jeans trying to rid myself of the awful feeling of that cold flesh.
A tiny projectile bounced off my shoulder and fell to the ground. Something hooted at me from the top of the theater. A grisly crunch of teeth on bone came from behind the Dumpster. Another feral dog?
I got to my feet, wishing for the pepper spray that was somewhere in the jumble of my purse. At least I had my car keys. I could lock myself in my car and call for help.
Excited hoots came from every corner of the parking lot and the tops of the surrounding buildings. The inhuman sounds raised the hairs along my arms. Someone or something drummed a frantic beat on the top of the Dumpster.
Sick with dread, I fled towards my car. Someone, however, moved in front of me so fast that I tumbled into him. How the hell had he managed that? One second, my path had been clear, and the next, I was tripping over someone.
Stage Fright (Bit Parts) Page 10