Certain Requirements

by Elinor Zimmerman

  The second act was a series of on-land events, sans aerials, but filled with dance. The mermaid dances for the prince, and the prince enjoys this but still marries the human princess his father had selected for him—the very one who’d comforted him after his rescue by the mermaid. Our star was then met by her sisters—us in short-hair wigs/Sasha free of her long-hair wig—and offered a knife. Her sisters tell her they gave their hair to the sea witch in exchange for an end to the mermaid’s spell, as she will turn to sea foam once the prince marries another. They tell her that if she kills the prince, she can be a mermaid again. She won’t do it, so her body dissolves thanks to very special lighting effects. Then she ascends to heaven thanks to a harness, and is met by an angel on silks, who tells her that her pure love has won her a soul after all.

  We watched the London video. Damien gave us commentary on how lighting and projections would be used to transform stages into an underwater world, a far away castle, and heaven. I could picture how beautiful the show would be.

  We did a rough run-through of the show without any aerials or dance routines. We read our lines with the script in our hands (even though I’d memorized my lines already), and practiced who was on stage when and how much time we had for costume changes. Then it was lunch break.

  After a lunch of catered salad and sandwiches, we did a quick “ice-breaker” team building exercise that did not break any ice, and then Geoffrey led us in a warm-up and aerial drills. Immediately after our warm-up and drills, Geoffrey began barking orders. We were introduced to too much information, way too fast. We muddled through a rough approximation of what we were supposed to be doing, prompting more barks from our brightly hued choreographer.

  Any envy or competitiveness I’d felt melted away as I watched a couple of would-be mermaids struggle after too many attempts of it. Geoffrey was pushing way too hard.

  “That isn’t safe,” I told Sasha, nodding at the skinniest one, Vivienne. Vivienne was shaking.

  She shrugged. “And we probably should have done the aerials before lunch when we were all fresh. What can you do?”

  I glared at Geoffrey. “I’m going to say something.”

  Before she could respond, I marched over to Geoffrey and said, “She’s going to hurt herself. You can’t train this way.”

  He looked at me like I was a bug.

  I turned to Vivienne, who looked ready to cry. “Do you need a break?” I asked her.

  She nodded, looking green under her makeup. “I suck at this kind of straddle up,” she said, referencing the trick we’d all been working on. “But I can do—”

  “Everyone’s doing the same thing,” Geoffrey cut her off. “The point is that you’ll look synchronized.”

  “Why?” I asked. “We all have different strengths as performers. Why can’t we incorporate those into the show?”

  “Because, this is a professional performance. I know that’s new to you, but it is how touring shows work. Besides,” he added with a sniff, “you need to work on your ankle hangs.” With that, he turned back to miserable Vivienne and started shouting again.

  I wanted to punch him. I wanted to tell him that he was terrible and needed to be replaced. But who was I? I was the one who would be replaced if I pushed too hard against Geoffrey.

  I slunk back to Sasha. She greeted me with raised eyebrows.

  “It didn’t do anything,” I said.

  “It annoyed him. Don’t pull that shit again. We need his connections.”

  I winced and went back to work. We ran through most of our mermaid choreography pretty easily. It was a lot of graceful climbing, weaving in and out of the silks like they were seaweed—we were told green silks were on the way—swaying, some wraps, and a couple of drops. Drops were terrifying at first, and they always got an audience reaction, because you wrapped yourself in some of the fabric and then let go, falling toward the floor until the fabric caught you and held you up. It took me years to even try them, but by that point, I literally dreamed about them. Despite Geoffrey’s treatment of some of the performers, the show was pretty smartly choreographed. By keeping many sequences simple and somewhat repetitive, the audience could marvel at the grace and fluidity of the movements while focusing on the story. The exceptional trick would really stand out, and keeping those limited would help performers avoid sloppy mistakes and injuries.

  Still, the first day was awful. Geoffrey didn’t speak another word to me, Vivienne looked miserable, and Mirah, who had a million things to learn, spent the whole afternoon grimacing. Plus I had to spend a huge chunk of time working on one-ankle hangs, which I hated.

  “What did we sign up for?” I said to Sasha as we got in her car at the end of the day.

  “Come on, that was awesome! We’re surrounded by hot people, we’re in the air, and we get paid. What more do you want?”

  I wanted Geoffrey to be less abrasive and condescending. I wanted to feel more cohesive as a group. I wanted more say in the whole thing. I wanted each cast member to get to show off what they were best at, not just what Geoffrey had in mind. I wanted to fall asleep immediately. I wanted to cry.

  But most of all? I wanted to wake up the next day and return to my hodgepodge schedule of teaching and training and scrubbing the floors, while still having the energy to make dinner and get whipped. I wanted my life as it had become. I didn’t want to leave it, but it seemed too late now to keep it.

  Chapter Twenty-two

  It didn’t get better over the next few weeks. Sasha started the brutal process of learning Mirah’s part. Mirah’s coldness began to make sense, because the weight of the show was resting on her. She had a musical theater background, which was good because her role required to her to sing, dance, and act. It also required her to perform on silks, fly through the air on a harness, and suppress her English accent because her mer-family all sounded American. Sasha wasn’t easily shaken, but despite her own theater background, her first week of serious understudy training left her demoralized.

  Geoffrey continued to be a bully. He was rude and snapped at everyone but Damien. Though we more or less got a handle on the routine after the second week, he always found something lacking. I wanted my performances to be excellent too, but his perfectionism was driving me crazy. Once, he made the entire cast redo the opening nine times in a row, once because someone’s hand wasn’t placed exactly where he wanted it. We all had at least some background in putting together our own performances, and most of us were chafing at having no creative input in the show. Sasha pointed out that this was just a difference between the kind of performance we usually did and full productions with choreographers, but I still hated it.

  It had an impact on my home life too. I no longer cooked or cleaned for Kris. She hired someone to come in and we ordered lots of delivery. I wanted to do it, but I was too tired after rehearsals, which often ran almost as long as Kris’s workdays. We managed to maintain our eight thirty hour and a playful Sunday, but extended sessions on Friday were a thing of the past.

  “I miss my old life,” I said to John as I lay in bed Saturday after the third week of rehearsals, feeling sorry for myself.

  “With me?”

  “With Kris! I miss our routine. I miss teaching my classes and booking stupid parties where I did little tricks and wore silly costumes. I miss cleaning the house.”

  “That is a first, my friend,” he said with a laugh.

  “Then you see how serious this is.”

  “Come on, Phe. You don’t like rehearsals because it’s a new thing. When you moved in with Kris, you wanted your old life back for a while. It’s what you do when things change.”

  It wasn’t exactly the first time this possible character trait had been pointed out to me. “I know, but I don’t think that’s why I feel like this. I don’t want to go on tour. I feel the way I did at my old job, where the pit of my stomach feels hollow whenever I think about it. I know I should be happy. I have a job I’d always thought I wanted. I’m lucky. I made it work unt
il my big break, and now here it is, and I can launch this amazing career. I can maybe quit teaching aerials, or at least charge more because I’ve got more clout. I’ll earn enough that I can come back from this tour and not need to live with Kris. I mean, I’ll need roommates and a place to live, but I won’t need to be a live-in submissive in order to get by. Everything is opening up. I should be happy. But I’m not.”

  Unexpectedly, I started to cry.

  “Oh, Phoenix. That’s a horrible feeling.”

  “What is wrong with me?” I cried. “Is it this show? Or is it me?”

  “I don’t know, honey. But I know you should trust yourself.”

  “I’m almost twenty-eight years old and I don’t know how to trust myself!” Heavy tears poured from my eyes, and snot started dripping out of my nose. I was not a pretty crier.

  “Yes, you do. You’re great at following your instincts. You can do this.”

  “You’re sure?”

  “Absolutely. Call me later?”

  “Of course. Love you.”

  “Love you too.”

  The minute I got off the phone, I started bawling again. Apparently, louder than I realized, because Kris knocked on my door.

  “Are you okay?” she asked.

  “You’re home?” I asked her back, surprised, and still hiccupping with sobs.

  “Can I come in?”

  “Okay.” I cried harder.

  Kris came in and sat next to me on the bed. Gingerly, she rubbed my back. “What’s going on?”

  “Why are you home in the middle of the day?”

  She gave me a stern look. “Phoenix, why are you crying?”

  “I hate this stupid show!” I wailed. “The choreographer’s a jerk. Sasha’s got to learn everything because she’s understudy to the lead, so I don’t have my friend to hang out with. And it’s boring. I mean, it’s tiring to do over and over, and I’m worn out physically, but I already know how to do it. I have one scene that’s actually technically difficult, but it’s full of tricks I’m not that great at when there are so many tricks I’m amazing at! And I still don’t know how to act. I know my lines, but I don’t know how to sound right saying them. This whole show is going to be shit and I don’t even care because I hate this show. Maybe we’ll all quit.”

  Finally, I exhaled, and then started bawling again.

  She looked sympathetic and wrapped me in a tight hug.

  “You’re doing great,” she said into my hair.

  “I hate this show.” My face was wet and sticky. I hated crying. I sniffled loudly.

  Kris grabbed a box of tissues from my bedside table and handed it to me, one arm still holding me close. I blew my nose and threw the tissue on the floor. It was not an attractive moment for me.

  “I’ve hated my job more days than I can count.”

  “That’s not reassuring. Aren’t you leaving your job?” I felt sorry for Kris, who got all my brattiness.

  “That’s not the point. The point is, people can hate their job sometimes and still be great at it, and still get things they want from it, and still even love it some of the time. It’s not the end of the world if you hate your job right now. It doesn’t feel good, but it doesn’t mean you need to quit. You have a few more weeks of rehearsals to get through, and maybe you won’t hate it as much with an audience,” she said.

  “Maybe I’ll hate it even more when we’re embarrassing ourselves in front of an audience.”

  “Okay, maybe. But you don’t know yet. And even if you do? It’s six months. It’s not the rest of your life.”

  I started crying again. “Six months is so long.”

  “Really, it’s not.”

  “It’s a long time to be away from you.” I pulled away from her and covered my mouth after I said it, like I could force the words back in.

  “Phoenix, really?”

  I stammered, trying to explain away what I’d said, but Kris wouldn’t let me.

  “That’s incredibly sweet,” she said. “Are you saying you want to keep doing this when your tour is over?”

  I nodded. “Or maybe instead of my tour.”

  She took my hand in hers. “This was your dream, being able to support yourself as an aerial dancer and performing like this. You’ve worked so hard to do this. Right now, your dream isn’t turning out like you hoped. Maybe you’ll try it longer and realize you need something different. Or maybe it’ll get better. No one knows right now. But you need to give it a chance.”

  “What are you saying?”

  “I’d love to have you come back here after your tour ends. You have a place with me after you finish it. But I’m not having you stay instead of going on tour.”

  “Excuse me? That isn’t your decision.”

  “If you decide to quit, you can quit. But you can’t stay here if you do. I’ll help you get settled somewhere else if you decide to quit, but you can’t live here instead of going on tour. I’m happy to support you in going after something that’s important to you. I’m not willing to give you a space to be complacent. You’re good at this. You can do this. It would be a waste for you to quit this show, even if you hate it.”

  “Why can’t I just stay with you? Everything is fine!”

  She stroked my cheek. “I’m here to support you, but not give you an out because you’re afraid. Doing what you really want is terrifying. Sometimes if people have a way to avoid things that scare them, they hide their whole lives, and they miss out on what they want most in the world. I won’t be part of you giving up your dreams because of fear.”

  “It’s not fear. I hate it.”

  “Okay, then I won’t be part of you giving up your dreams because you hate rehearsals.” She smirked.

  “What do you know about it?” I raised an eyebrow. “You want to make a change and you haven’t.”

  “I did, actually. I think I finally found the right buyer. We’re drawing up some paperwork. I’ll still be an active part of the company during the sale and the transition, but then I’m done.”

  “Are you retiring?”

  “Sort of. I’ll have enough money to be flexible about work. I might take some time off and then work on projects I’m really passionate about. But I think I’m done working eighty hours a week and never taking a break.”

  I hugged her. “That’s amazing! I’m so happy for you.”

  “It wasn’t easy, Phe. I was incredibly afraid. There were a lot of times when it felt easier to just keep on doing what was familiar.”

  “I really don’t want to go on this tour. I don’t.”

  “I know.”

  I sighed. “Why did I even want this?”

  She brushed her fingers through my hair. “You want to perform for a living, and this is the stepping stone you need. You are doing this because it gives you credibility as an aerial dancer, and it helps you get seen and meet people who might give you other opportunities or promote your work. You’re doing this because every person who sees this show gets a program with your biography that directs them to your website and links to your other work. You want this because it’s a challenge, because it will pay you, and because it will help you have the career you want.”

  “What if I don’t want this career?” I asked in a small voice. “I don’t love doing corporate gigs or performing at parties. I don’t want to teach forever. And now that I’m in this show, I don’t think I like this kind of touring theater-type show either. I like my little weird performances I put together with Sasha and other people I know. I want to do just the aerials I want to do, and nothing else. But that’s not a career.”

  She cocked her head. “It’s not a career if you only do that and refuse to do anything else from the beginning, no. But you’re talking to somebody who can now basically only do the parts of her job she likes, even though I started out my career constantly panicking about how I was going to pay my student loans.”

  “You worked nonstop for like twenty years! And aerials are not going to make me rich enough to
stop worrying about money.”

  “Aren’t they? Do you really have to worry about money now? I mean, it seems like you’ve been paying all your bills just fine.”

  “That’s different. That’s because I’m your sub. You’re a benefactor giving me a reprieve from my money panic.”

  “I’m not going to stop wanting to do that.” She played with my hair.

  I melted. My heart fluttered, and I got that low belly tingle I sometimes felt after very promising second dates. It wasn’t a feeling of lust, but of affection. But this pull toward her only reminded me of the feelings for her that I’d been trying to ignore for months.

  “Oh, Kris.” I fought back tears. “You don’t know that.”

  “I know you’re important to me and I like what we have. I don’t want this to end. When you’re done with your tour, you can come back. Do you like how things were before you started rehearsals? Your work, us, all of it? You were happy with that?”

  “Yes.”

  “Going on this tour is temporary. It gives you more options, but in the end, you can come back to a situation you like. You can come back to me, to doing shows you don’t love along with some you do, to teaching, to training, to all of it. The way you get the career you want—the way anyone does—is plug along paying your dues, to do as much of what you love as you can manage, and be as decent a person as you can. Eventually, maybe you just get to perform exactly what you love. But right now, you’re in the early stages, which can be exciting and also incredibly shitty. But it’s something everybody does, and it’s okay.”