"It's time," a voice shouted out the stage door.
The smokers dumped their cigarettes in the can and went inside.
"Billy, here you are," said his dresser, Roy.
"Sorry, I was out smoking. Did you need me?" Billy dumped his damp jacket on the back of a chair.
Roy picked up the jacket and placed it on a hanger. "Martha wants you to try on a new pair of slacks. You keep splitting the seam on those others."
"My ass is bigger than Arrows', what can I say?"
"No, you're just actually dancing in your costumes, unlike that lazy bastard." Roy took every opportunity to say something negative about Jason Arrows.
Billy ran a comb through his hair. "Let me check, I don't think they need me right now." The two men left the dressing room and headed up the stairs to the stage. "Nancy Ann, do you need me? Martha wants me to try on some pants."
The stage manager looked over her clipboard. "Go, you've got about thirty minutes." Nancy Ann placed a hand on her ear, moved the microphone in front of her mouth to give the next call: "Lights 235, go." As she spoke, the focus of the stage lights changed.
Billy and Roy went up another flight of stairs, past the male chorus room, and into the costume shop. The dingy little room was piled high with costumes in various states of disrepair. Four dressers, lined up like elves in Santa's workshop, were laughing at some joke as their fingers moved needles and thread in and out of fabric.
"Found him, Mar," said Roy to his boss.
Martha turned from the sewing machine where she worked. "Here Billy," she said hoisting her amble buttocks from the too-small chair, "can you try these on?" She tossed grey trousers at him.
"Sure," said Billy who quickly unbuttoned his pants as he kicked off his shoes. The other dressers turned to watch him strip down. Billy acted like he didn't notice. The truth be told, he loved all the attention he got because of his looks. That's why he jogged every morning and worked out whenever he could. He was so glad to once again have money that he could spend on a gym membership. Billy pulled on the new slacks, buttoned and zipped them.
"Is there enough room here for you to do those two moves that have split the others?" Martha asked, running her hand over Billy's ass.
"Martha, copping a feel?" said Roy with a chuckle that caused the other elves to laugh.
"Gotta take what you can get at my age," she said with a smile. "How do those feel to you Billy?" she asked. Martha stepped back and slid the pin cushion from her wrist higher up onto her arm. She placed a hand on a thick hip and cocked her head.
"Good. Wait." Billy went through a few dance moves in the tight space.
"Wish I had some singles," said one of the elves, making the other elves laugh.
"I think these'll work, Mar," said Billy. "We won't really know until tonight."
"Well, give 'em back and I'll have Roy press them. If they do split, make sure to let him know, okay? I don't want to discover there's a problem at the last minute."
"I'll try to remember," said Billy.
"I'll check them," said Roy, making a note on his call sheet.
Billy stripped off the new trousers. As he bent over to take them off Martha pulled a dollar from the pocket of her smock and slipped the bill into his dance belt.
"Really," said Billy with a hearty grin, "there should be music for this." He handed the slacks back to Martha as one of the elves turned on a radio. Instead of music it was a news story about the Flash Mob Freeze at Columbia. Everyone listened.
"Well, not what I had in mind," Billy said, still pant-less. But, whatever." He raised his arms and did a few stripper moves that received catcalls from the elves.
* * *
Aamil, in flowing robes, covered by a heavy overcoat, passed by the 42nd Street marquee. He stopped and looked at the pictures of the company in the glass cases on either side of the entrance doors. He shifted the umbrella he held from one hand to the other and reached deep into his pocket. His fingers fondled the crumpled bills inside as his heart pounded. He looked up and down the street to see if he recognized anyone. Taking a very deep breath, he entered the lobby door.
"May I help you," a young, thin brunette asked.
Aamil closed his umbrella and stepped up to the box office window. "I'd," he paused, still fingering the bills. "I'd like a ticket," he said in a small voice.
"Just one?" the girl asked.
"Yes. Anything for tonight?"
"We're sold…wait, I've got a single in the second mezzanine for tonight. It's the last ticket available." She told him the price and he handed over the crumpled bills. The girl straightened them out, counted them, and returned his ticket on top of a little envelope through the crescent opening in the window. "Enjoy your show, sir," she said.
"Thank you," Aamil said as he stepped away from the box office window and caressed the ticket. It was the last one, he thought to himself. I'm supposed to be here. It was as if it was my ticket and I'm supposed to see the show. He gently tucked the ticket into the little envelope and the envelope into his inside jacket pocket.
As he walked the twenty seven blocks home in the rain he found himself continually reaching inside his jacket to feel the envelope to make sure he hadn't lost it. There weren't any meetings he'd have to attend tonight. He would miss one if not two of his calls to prayer. He vowed to do an extra one, early before he left, and an extra one when he got home. I'll have to remember to turn off the chime on my pocket clock before I go into the theater. Maybe, I won't even bring it. The thought gave him a thrill while waiting for the light at 64th Street. Aamil stepped back from the curb to avoid the coming splash from a passing car. He bumped into a man from his mosque.
Neither man spoke, but Aamil knew it would be reported that he was out on the street. He knew he'd have to be extra careful when he left his apartment that evening. Someone was sure to follow him now.
The light changed to his favor and both men crossed the street, still no word spoken between them. A few more blocks and Aamil turned onto his street. He walked a few buildings up the block and turned back. The man was standing at the corner, watching him. Aamil nodded toward him, turned, and walked up the block to his building. He didn't look back again, but could feel the man's stare still boring into him. Yes, he was going to have to be extra careful when he left the apartment that evening. They were all watching him, always.
* * *
Fourteen
The Redhead and the Blonde draped themselves over the new, shiny car as it spun on its turntable in the middle of the Jacob Javits Center. Men ogled from all directions, but the girls couldn't tell if it was the car they were interested in or them. As the car rotated, they gracefully shifted, an arm here, a leg there, cleavage and bare skin everywhere.
"Only fifteen more minutes," said the Blonde through her constant, sparkling white smile.
"My feet are killing me. These heels are just too high," said the Redhead. Her own smile more of a grimace.
"I just hope we get out of here on time. I've got tickets to a show tonight."
"You're going to a show without me?" asked the Redhead. Her smile was gone now.
"I'm going back to see 42nd Street. Teddy got tickets and invited me." The Blonde raised her right arm and placed her left hand on her hip.
"You're going back? We just saw that."
"See, you wouldn't have been interested if I had gotten Teddy to get you a ticket."
The girls continued to spin with the new car, counting the seconds until their final shift of the day ended.
* * *
Billy Lake stood in the cool night air enjoying one last cigarette before entering the theater. He said "hellos" as the crew entered. Billy was always the first cast member to arrive. He liked to take a shower in his dressing room, then he took time on the stage to stretch, spinning pirouette after pirouette while the lighting staff did their thing around him. When Billy first took over the Lawler role, the crew complained about his presence during their pre-show tasks. Once he estab
lished himself as a star, not to mention a standup guy, the crew worked around him. He seemed to anticipate when they most needed him to move out of the way and he relocated to another spot on the stage before asked.
After his shower and warm up, he took another shower. Steam filled his dressing room, much to Roy's complaints. After the second shower, Billy took fifteen minutes to perform yoga in the nude. That combination of stretching and showers put the actor in the perfect condition, both physically and mentally, to take on his stage duties.
Yoga completed, Billy pulled his full-length, fluffy robe on. He'd gotten a large, overstuffed chair for his dressing room. There he sat, running lines and scenes in his head until the knock. Most evenings, about ten minutes before the half-hour call, there would be a knock on his dressing room door. Without waiting for an answer, Jericho would bustle into the room, closing the door behind him. He always started out in the same way.
"How are we tonight, my boy?" Jericho would ask, not even looking at Billy. Instead, he'd thumb through the ratty legal pad for that evening's collection of notes and suggestions for the actor.
"Good, Jericho. Whatcha got for me tonight?" Billy would ask, sitting forward in his chair, being sure to pull his robe closed. He'd quickly discovered during the early visits that Jericho would become flustered and distracted if Billy's all together was visible.
The director rattled off the notes. The comments were becoming fewer and fewer. In fact, Billy was beginning to wonder if the notes were even necessary. It was as if they were simply an excuse, subtle or not, for Jericho to check in with Billy, to maybe make sure that he was actually there.
Billy took each suggestion silently. If he had a question, he'd wait for the end of the note and ask. Rarely did the two disagree about anything.
A few seconds before the half-hour call, Jericho would launch up from his lean against the dressing table, thank the boy for his attention to detail, and leave. The director never wore a watch and Billy always wondered, but never asked, how it was that Jerry always left his dressing room moments before the half-hour call.
Billy then took a few more minutes to run scenes and lines in his head, this time with the latest notes, suggestions, and changes that Jericho had offered. The actor would, in his mind, envision himself on stage performing with the most recent changes. As if on cue, just as the actor was feeling perfect about that night's performance, just as the fifteen-minute-to-places call came over the sound system, Roy would once again knock, wait for permission, and enter the star's dressing room. Billy would drop his robe, pull on his dance belt, shift and shuffle his package as required for look and comfort, and then be handed each piece of his first costume by Roy. The two performed this nightly ritual in silence. Billy was at first uncomfortable with Roy dropping to his knees and tying Billy's shoes, but Roy explained that this way the actor's trousers wouldn't develop creases. Billy had learned to never sit once he was in costume, unless required to do so on stage.
As the final lace was tied and his collar was tweaked into perfect position, the five-minute call came. Billy, followed closely by Roy, made his way up the stairs to stage right to await his entrance for the evening. As he waited, he said hello to the assistant stage manager, who was now running the show. Several of the dancers stopped near him, said hello, air-kissed his cheek. The show routines were in place. He felt good about his life.
When the orchestra began the overture, he moved a bit downstage and watched the dancers take their positions. Billy loved his new role. He wouldn't change places with anyone. But, for one brief moment each night, he missed being part of the chorus dance routine, that one moment when the curtain rose just enough to expose only their dancing feet to the audience. That moment of anticipation, dancing, and audience approval shown through their hearty applause sent lovely chills all over Billy’s body.
As the curtain made that first two foot rise, Billy's heart began to pound with excitement. And that moment, that pounding heart moment, was the last conscious memory the actor had until intermission. It wasn't that he operated on auto pilot. No, that wasn't it at all. Instead, with each scene, song, and dance Billy Lake was Billy Lawler. When he brought that character to life every night, his own persona stepped aside. It was an agreement and Billy Lake knew and trusted that he would once again reemerge as himself at the conclusion of the play. In the meantime, it was Billy Lawler's moment to shine.
* * *
Aamil spent most of the day working out his route to the theater. It had to be circuitous. It first included a stop at the local kebab stand. That would create the initial motivation for him being out of the apartment. Aamil ate and lingered a bit. He needed to make it look like he was returning home, but then he pretended that he'd forgotten something at the shop by feeling his many pockets. Aamil doubled back toward the stand. He figured that wouldn't seem too strange. Next, he walked toward the park. He often walked along the outer edge of the park in the early evening. As his clock chimed for prayers, Aamil slipped into the park. He took the path through the brambles and opened his timepiece; he turned off the sound. As he worked the buttons on the small pocket watch he thought about his mother, thousands of miles away. This was the life she wanted for Aamil, an American's life with restaurants and theaters, a life of freedom and independence. How had things gone so horribly wrong?
Aamil headed back onto the main path and walked down to 57th Street. He arrived at the thoroughfare while it was still prayer time and that made him feel safe. Surely, everyone with an interest in him was, at that moment, on their knees, bending toward Mecca. Every few steps along his journey he felt his inner pocket, checking that the ticket envelope was still there.
Aamil crossed the street between two horse carriages and threaded his way to the theater. The midtown streets were crowded with diners and theater goers. He knew he stood out in the crowds because of how he was dressed, but there was nothing to be done about that.
He arrived at the theater just as the doors were opened. He handed his ticket to the usher, got half of it back, and made his way up to his seat on the appropriate mezzanine. He thought twice before entering the draped doorway. There was still more than thirty minutes before the show started. He'd be a sitting duck if anyone had followed him. He continued down the hallway and entered the men's room. All the stalls were empty. He entered one and locked the door. He waited there until the bell chimed to indicate the show was about to begin.
When the bell rang and the lights flashed, Aamil quickly left his stall. There wasn't anyone else in the men's room so he skipped washing his hands, and made his way back to the mezzanine entrance where his seat awaited. He sat, looking over his shoulders, first his left, then his right, to see if anyone in the nearby crowd looked familiar. No one did. Everyone else was dressed in Western styles. Everyone else was oblivious that others were always watching Aamil. He took a very deep breath as the houselights dimmed and settled into the cushy seat. He'd made it. He was finally going to see his first Broadway show. His body tingled in anticipation.
* * *
The Blonde, with her hands laced in the crook of Teddy's arm, couldn't help but notice the Middle Eastern man sitting in the row in front of them. He kept turning left and right to look over his shoulder. He was sweating, and to be honest, he didn't smell too good. She was also a little miffed at the poor seats Teddy had gotten. Sure, he was just a student and he didn't actually pay for the tickets, but got them from one of the chorus girls, who was very pretty and lived in Teddy's building. Beggars shouldn't be choosers, as the saying goes, but still, she hated being so far away from the stage.
She was glad when the houselights dimmed and the orchestra started the overture. The fidgety, smelly man in front of them settled down. He actually blended in with all the other patrons, his eyes glued to the stage.
The Blonde felt her anticipation grow as the overture neared its end. In another moment the curtain would raise slightly to reveal dozens of tapping feet. She prepared for the goose bumps that w
ould arrive by holding on a little tighter to Teddy. It didn't matter that he would interpret her grip differently than intended. It would be the only physical thank you she'd give him for the lousy seats anyway.
The curtain rose. The goose flesh happened. The Blonde was a happy woman.
* * *
Jericho took up his perch in the last chair in the last row of the third mezzanine. It's where he liked to watch shows from. There were fewer and fewer notes to take. He had to be careful now. This was the critical period. Just a week before the official opening. The show had gelled well. It was nearly perfect for the moment. And, if he wasn't careful, he'd nitpick it to death.
As he watched the actors come and go, as he listened to the recording quality orchestra and singing, he knew he had a hit. The advance sales were almost sold out through the end of the year with totally sold out houses for the entire holiday season. The early reviews on the internet, by those not bound to wait until opening like the mainstream media, were raves.
Tonight, instead of focusing on the actors, Jericho spent some time watching the audience reactions. They loved the show. He was a bit concerned at first by the Middle Eastern man fidgeting in the middle row in front of him. He hated to acknowledge it, but after 9-11, Jericho's first thought was that the man might be a terrorist who would bomb his theater. His fears ebbed. By the end of the first number the overdressed man had settled down. He was smiling and laughing with the rest of the audience around him. Jericho also couldn't help but notice the blonde woman sitting behind the man who wasn't a terrorist. She looked incredibly familiar, but he couldn't place where he might have known her from.
* * *
Fifteen
Flash Mob Page 12