JAMES
We just did names. I’m JAMES, that’s ENTITLED RAGE, and PREPPY.
CRYING GIRL
I’m CRYING GIRL.
ENTITLED RAGE
Want a beer? I’m getting this round.
CRYING GIRL nods and ENTITLED RAGE orders three beers, as JAMES already has a whiskey.
CRYING GIRL
This is so crazy. I can’t believe we’re stuck here. We’re not even like in the city. Did anyone look out the window?
PREPPY
Yeah, I saw the barbed wire, too.
JAMES
So, we’re in prison?
CRYING GIRL
Or hell. Or both.
Whimpers quietly.
JAMES
So, what does everyone do for work? I’m a ballet dancer. I’m missing a very important campaign shoot. My face was gonna be on a bus!!!
ENTITLED RAGE
Like Carrie Bradshaw?
JAMES
Like Carrie Bradshaw.
ENTITLED RAGE
I’m a banker.
PREPPY
I work for a wind energy company.
CRYING GIRL
I go to MITeeyah. I’m gonna be an astrophysicist-uh.
ROACH MOTEL BARTENDER is eavesdropping and mimes a WOW reaction.
JAMES
Where are you all from? I’m from Connecticut but live in New York City. Manhattan. I’m so busy.
ENTITLED RAGE
London. I’m also busy.
PREPPY
Yorkshire.
CRYING GIRL
Orange County. Like The O.C. That show was stupid but like, everything.
She looks to JAMES.
So, you missed check-in at Gatwick, too, right?
JAMES
By like one fucking minute!
CRYING GIRL
Same. Were you OK? You honestly looked quite drunk.
She giggles coyly. Perhaps flirting.
JAMES
I was very drunk. All because of a handsome Irish man. Looked a bit like you, PREPPY. Well, this is what happened . . .
They all lean in to hear and . . .
Blackout.
Scene 3
LONDON HIPSTER NIGHTCLUB. MIDNIGHT.
JAMES and RUPERT order a beverage at a crowded bar. RUPERT is a handsome Irish ballet dancer, whom JAMES had met during his week in London.
Disco lights swirl and flash. The club is loud and people are having a wonderful time. Our heroes yell over the din.
RUPERT
Shouting.
WHAT DO YOU WANT?!
JAMES
JUST A BEER! I’M ALREADY DRUNK FROM THE PUB AND THE COCKTAIL BAR. THAT WAS A LOT OF WHISKEY! HAHA!
RUPERT
HAHA! COMIN’ RIGHT UP!
JAMES waits by the back wall. RUPERT shoots him a smile over his shoulder as he gets the drinks and JAMES thinks, “Goodness gracious, he’s handsome.”
RUPERT does a silly jig over to JAMES, sloshing the drinks over his hands and laughing.
RUPERT
So, what are we doing here?
JAMES
Huh?
RUPERT
You know what I mean.
JAMES
Hehe. Well, I think I know what you mean.
RUPERT
Don’t you have a boyfriend?
JAMES
Yeah, I do. For twelve years. We’re in an open relationship. You have a boyfriend, too, don’t you?
RUPERT
RUPERT steps closer to JAMES.
Well, yes. He’s away right now for work. I don’t know what I’m doing here with you. We’re not open. I couldn’t resist.
JAMES steps closer to RUPERT.
JAMES
Do you want to dance with me?
RUPERT
What?
JAMES
Yelling over the noise:
DO YOU. WANT TO. DANCE WITH ME?
RUPERT
Yelling over the noise:
I ABSOLUTELY WANT TO DANCE WITH YOU!
JAMES takes RUPERT’S hand and leads him to the crowded dance floor.
The crowd parts to admit our heroes. The lights change and an enormous disco ball lowers from the ceiling. A monster of a dance number ensues to a mashup of the Pussycat Dolls’ “Don’t Cha” and “Buttons.” JAMES and RUPERT take turns singing along in a sexy, “we should/we shouldn’t” dance battle. Major choreography is performed by the other clubgoers.
As the song ends, our heroes meet in the center of the floor, under the disco ball. All goes quiet as they lean into each other, their foreheads touching and their hands clasping. Their lips almost meet . . . and . . .
Blackout.
Scene 4
CASABLANCA ROACH MOTEL BAR. 8 P.M.
Lights up and we see the travelers engrossed in JAMES’S story.
CRYING GIRL
Then what?!
PREPPY
Did you kiss hi—
ENTITLED RAGE
Interrupting:
FUCKING HELL! JUST TELL US WHAT HAPPENED!!!
JAMES
No.
The travelers settle back into their barstools, clearly disappointed.
I didn’t want to interfere with his relationship, so I called a taxi and he insisted on seeing me home. I was convinced he’d come up with me, but he didn’t. I got out of the taxi, he rolled down the window, I bent down and took his face in my hands and kissed him on the cheek. It was lightly raining and Bermondsey stood stock still in the night. Without a word, I disappeared into my hotel and that was that.
CRYING GIRL
So that’s why you were drunk at 4 a.m. at Gatwick Airport.
JAMES
Correct. Speaking of which, I need another. I’ll get this round.
JAMES gestures to the bartender for another round of drinks. The lights shift, the travelers freeze, and the bartender launches into another short rendition of the Pussycat Dolls’ “Bottle Pop.”
The lights shift back and the travelers unfreeze, one round of drinks richer. JAMES hands out the beverages as a short, stout, rough-looking man enters the bar.
PORTUGUESE SEAMAN is a forty-something ship inspector from Portugal.
PORTUGUESE SEAMAN
Hello, barkeep. I’ll have a pint of whatever piss you’re serving tonight. Ha!
He looks at the travelers.
What’s going on here? Are you airport people? Stranded in Casablanca?
He and the travelers look sharply to the fourth wall with sardonic smiles.
PREPPY
Yep. Stuck here till tomorrow.
PORTUGUESE SEAMAN
Lucky you found me! Casablanca ain’t all that bad. It’s good for two things . . . bars and bitches. Ha!
The travelers all roll their eyes.
PORTUGUESE SEAMAN looks at CRYING GIRL.
Hello, sad beauty. My name is PORTUGUESE SEAMAN. Once you get a taste of PORTUGUESE SEAMAN, you’ll be begging for more. You’ll be wishing you had PORTUGUESE SEAMAN all over you.
CRYING GIRL makes a big show of being sick and vomiting all over the floor. The other travelers all join in, taking turns clutching their stomachs and retching. They laugh.
You’d like to know more about me, no? I’m a ship inspector. I’ve been here for a week without work. The vessel is delayed, so I’m delayed at my next port. You can’t deliver PORTUGUESE SEAMAN without a vessel. Ha!
The travelers ignore him.
Well, I have been having a good time here. Even though the vessel is not yet here. I can’t wait to see the vessel. It’s going to be a big vessel. A marvelous vessel. The vessel.
CRYING GIRL
Can you not?
PORTUGUESE SEAMAN
All right, sad beauty. For you, I
will do anything. I will lay down my enormous vessel before you and hope that you will board it. You can ride it till you meet your next dock. Ha!
ENTITLED RAGE
OK, you twat. Listen up. We have all had a fucking fuckity fuck of a travel day. We’re just trying to have a drink and do some depression bonding, so SHUT . . . THE FUCK . . . UP!!!
Blackout.
A spotlight appears on CRYING GIRL’s face. She launches into the Dave Audé disco remix of the Pussycat Dolls’ “Hush Hush; Hush Hush” with the other travelers as her backup Dolls. She sings the song and dances aggressively at PORTUGUESE SEAMAN. The song finishes with the whole group kicking PORTUGUESE SEAMAN out of the bar.
Lights shift back to the bar and the travelers are laughing and when they stop, the BARTENDER is still silently laughing hysterically.
JAMES
OK, it’s my bedtime.
CRYING GIRL
Yeah, me too. I’m so tired-uh. We’ve got an early flight tomorrow.
JAMES gets up and pays the tab.
PREPPY
Hopefully no hitches tomorrow.
ENTITLED RAGE
I don’t think I could take it.
JAMES
I don’t think you could either.
JAMES chuckles and starts walking toward the elevator. He stops and turns around to address the others.
It was nice meeting you all. This was a wild and horrible travel day, but I’m glad we went through it together. It just goes to show . . . you can suffer anything with the right group of people. So, thanks.
He smiles, turns around, and pushes the button to call the elevator. The elevator dings and the doors open. It’s chock-full of all the travelers from the hellacious day, plus the agents and clerks they’d encountered along the way: CONCIERGE, BARTENDER, BRITISH TWINS, QUIET LADY, SWEATY WHITE GUY, OLD COUPLE, and PORTUGUESE SEAMAN. They pour out of the doors and . . .
the lights bump up and a finale begins. BRITISH TWINS 1 AND 2 step forward slowly, with benevolent smiles on their faces, and begin singing the Pussycat Dolls’ “Stickwitu.”
The entire cast sings along, in a lovey-dovey, grab-a-shoulder-and-sway type of affair.
“Nobody ever made me feel this way. I’ma stick wit u.”
Blackout.
Bows and curtain calls are executed to a mashup reprise of “I Will Survive” and “Hush Hush; Hush Hush” as the company receives the accolades they so deserve. Tears stream down the midwestern tourists’ faces as they revel in the joy of an obstacle triumphed over. They sing along and clap to the iconic musical stylings of the Pussycat Dolls.
VOICE OF GOD
Thus, a Broadway smash is born. A travel nightmare turned friendship musical featuring the extensive and relatable catalog of the United States’ most prized artists, the Pussycat Dolls.
THE END.
LOATHE, REVILE, ABHOR, DETEST!
While my opinion may be divisive, I find ballet to be the most undeniably athletic form of dance. It’s just as physically difficult as elite sports, but presents additional challenges. Imagine if a weightlifter or a tennis player were asked to perform their tasks without betraying the difficulty of their movements. Now, I’d like you to ask those athletes to tell a story about human emotions and experiences with intuitive and expressive musicality. I’d like you to ensure that their bodies fit into a narrow range of acceptable dimensions. That’s what a ballet dancer is. An elite athlete, an expressive actor, and a visual representation of music itself, all at once.
Because of its rigid physical requirements, ballet has a way of making one obsess over every little detail of one’s appearance. While a normie might say, “I wish my breasts were the same size,” a ballet dancer would say, “I wish my kneecaps were rotated three more degrees outward and made of flawless diamonds.” Physical minutiae become obsessions. Ballet, more than any other art form, is reliant on physical features we cannot change. Our genetics—bone structure, height, weight, and proportions—either dictate or sabotage our success.
* * *
—
Before I knew what dancing was, I loved dancing. My mother had a hilarious collection of workout VHS tapes that I never saw her do: Jazzercise, Buns of Steel, and Jane Fonda’s Workout. Jane Fonda was my babysitter, my first dance teacher, and perhaps even my mother. I loved the music and the movement, not to mention Jane’s obvious beauty. I recognized what a goddess she was at the age of six. Every day, I’d pop in a Jane Fonda workout tape and grab a chair to do step-ups onto. I’d dance along to the eighties soundtrack and giggle as I wiggled. As a result, I was strangely muscular. My siblings would show me off to their teenage friends and say, “My six-year-old brother has an eight-pack!”
At nine, I started taking dance classes at my local studio in Fairfield, Connecticut. Jazz class was my favorite. It was hugely energetic. I’d bop along to the era’s hit music, doing kicks and splits in my jazz boots. Ballet, on the other hand, was my absolute nemesis. Our studio didn’t have a pianist, so our music came from cassette tapes. To go from Prince to canned piano music was very difficult for me.
In ballet class, the boys were made to wear white cap-sleeved leotards and black tights, with white ballet shoes and socks. I recall looking at myself in the stretched-mylar mirrors. “Is that E.T.?” I asked myself. My arms were too gangly. My rib cage was enormous. My kneecaps stuck out at right angles. My shoulders were slumped forward. And my face was completely asymmetrical. The bones on one side of my face grew much faster than those on the other, so it looked as though I had a jawbreaker in one of my cheeks at all times, and my teeth were rotated at impossible angles. My father spent much of his limited cash trying to prevent me from having a catastrophic, crooked underbite that would erode my jaw joints. I spent nearly a decade in braces, palate expanders, and headgear. Each night, I’d get ready for bed and install upon my head a device so horrific that even medieval torturers would have shied away from it. Its wires threaded into wire-plated nooses that affixed to my rearmost molars. I’d then bite down on a plastic-molded guard that reimagined where my teeth were supposed to fit. Rubber bands were fastened to large wire protuberances that stuck out from the mouthpiece and connected to a cradle that wrapped all the way around my head, effectively yanking my entire jaw to the weaker side in an effort to retrain my bones. I am grateful for that torture device, even though it was an absolute nightmare. Without it, my chin might have rested on my right shoulder and my face might’ve resembled a crescent moon.
I recall taking a private ballet lesson when I was ten years old. I had arrived at the lesson wearing my black tights and a T-shirt so enormous it ended below my knees. My teacher, Karen, asked me to remove it. I obliged reluctantly. I have a small mole under my left armpit, and at the time, I thought it to be a repulsive mutation. My self-consciousness was so extreme that throughout the whole class, I kept my arm clamped tightly to my rib cage, so as not to reveal my mole to my teacher. I was trying to execute a simple tombé, pas de bourrée, glissade, saut de chat combination with one arm glued to my side when my teacher said, “STOP! WHAT ON EARTH ARE YOU DOING WITH YOUR ARMS?!” No one had told me that my mole was hideous; I had decided it all on my own. I figured that anything that made me a little different was undesirable.
But it wasn’t until I went away to ballet school at Virginia School of the Arts that I was confronted by what is known as the “ballet body.” Despite having spent the two previous summers at American Ballet Theatre’s Summer Intensive, I had thus far remained fairly ignorant about all the exacting specifications that seemed to be prerequisites for a successful career in ballet. In Virginia, I heard comments like “I wish my knees were hyperextended like Mary’s,” “He has a lovely, short torso,” and “Look at those long toes!” over and over again. I was bewildered. I thought, “Isn’t there just fat and skinny, short and tall?” No, little James, no.
If you’re wondering “What in the actual fuck is he goi
ng on about?” here’s a crash course in the Male Ballet Body. Highly arched feet with flexible ankles and strong toes. Slender ankles and knee joints. Preposterously long, hyperextended legs. Open, turned-out hips. Long muscles. Slim waist, broad shoulders. Long arms with expressive hands and fingers. A long neck and a beautiful face. This is a farce, if you ask me. Ballet requires extreme fitness, so if there’s a body that’s fit, it’s fit to do ballet. I don’t believe it’s about being fat or thin, I believe it’s about having the strength and endurance to survive the difficulty of professional classical ballet.
With that said, in my youth, I became increasingly aware of the way my rib cage was shaped, the way my knees were shaped, my shoulders, my feet, my hips, my neck, and more. I started feeling shame about my lack of hyperextension, my just-OK feet, and my strangely shaped skeletal frame. I’d look at the other students with jealous eyes. Reading Dance Magazine, I’d be confronted by ballet mutants like David Hallberg and Vladimir Malakhov, whose bodies are made of actual spaghetti. Why should they have the perfect ballet body? I began to resent my genetics, which is absolutely insane.
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