Here’s the thing, though. In case you’d forgotten. I know I’m eloquent and funny and it’s easy to forget…
I’m a mouse. A darn cute and talented one but, well, mice can’t be on Broadway. At least, none of us ever have been. I know it’s not fair. It’s just the way it is.
True, plenty of things never happened until they did. No one had ever walked on the moon until that Neil Armstrong guy did it. Apparently, telephones weren’t a thing for a long time, which seems hard to believe. And my brother Benji couldn’t say “Lucy Louise” until he was older than he’d care to admit. But things happened, and then they weren’t so scary anymore. They weren’t so… what’s the word? Unattainable? Because they’d been attained. They’d happened. So what’s to say I can’t be the first mouse ever to perform on Broadway, right?
Wrong. According to my parents. My brothers. They’re not mean about it; they just “don’t want me to be heartbroken” when it doesn’t happen.
“I wish I could fix it for you,” my dad had said. “I wish I had the power to change it.”
“No parent wants to tell her child something is impossible,” my mother had said. “Anything is possible, I suppose. I just want to make sure you realize that a mouse performing on Broadway isn’t probable, and I want you to be prepared for the disappointment.”
“We’ll start our own theatre!” Benji had said. “Who needs Broadway? We’ll have Mouseway, Lulu; it’ll be way better.”
Though I knew he was just trying to make me feel better, I promptly told him that if I ever heard him say, “Who needs Broadway” ever again, I’d scream, “I NEED BROADWAY!” directly in his face.
Even Pete and I have talked about it. I asked him once, after understudy rehearsal, if maybe one day someone would give me a real shot, up there, in front of a real, live, paying audience. He was nice about it, of course. He picked me up, put me on his shoulder, and said, “Lulu, I’m going to be honest with you because you’re my friend, and I’m always honest with my friends. The way the people in this theatre think? The way they think of you? They don’t see you as a mouse. They see you as a little kid, and a talented one at that; you know this show just as well as they do, if not better. But most people? Regular people? They’re just too closed-minded and ignorant to understand. They’d be scared. And we can’t have audiences being scared because they might never come back.”
Heavy, I know. But I get it. It’s why my mom won’t let me outside by myself. She’s afraid of what would happen if a regular person saw me. I don’t need to tell you what they might do; this isn’t the eleven o’clock news.
All I’ll say is: there’s never any harm in dreaming that things and people and the world will change. And until they do, I’m darn grateful I’m surrounded by a bunch of humans who love me and treat me with respect. Well, maybe not Amanda. But she’s not particularly nice to anyone, so I think the way she treats me is less about me being a different species and more about her and her own issues.
Anyway, “Enough of this boo-hooing!” as Jodie would say. Let’s get back to the people who make this show possible. Long story short, we’ve got the actors, stage managers, backstage crew, carpenters, sound department, hair department, wardrobe department, Shubert employees—including our stage door people, box office workers, cleaning staff, concessions and merchandise staff, security guards.… What’s important is to remember that it takes a team, a village, a family to put on a Broadway show and take care of the theatre. One person is removed and the whole thing collapses like a Jenga tower.
If this were my Tony Award acceptance speech, I’d probably say something like, “A big shout-out and endless thanks to my Shubert Theatre family. This show couldn’t happen without you. But more than that, I wouldn’t be who I am without you.”
I may or may not practice that speech every night before I go to bed.
Okay, let’s get back to what’s actually happening right now, only a few short minutes before our Tuesday performance begins.
“Jeremiah! Owwwwwwww, that hurts,” Amanda screams. Before you call the cops, let me explain. Jeremiah is pinning on Amanda’s wig. Because, as head of the hair department, it’s his job to style, maintain, and handle the wigs. He also pins on Heather Huffman’s and Jodie’s wigs and they never even flinch. That’s because he uses rubber-coated metal hairpins and not flaming fireplace pokers like Amanda’s making it seem. It’s painless. She’s a big fat phony. Let’s continue.
“Sorry, Amanda,” Jeremiah says. He adjusts a pin. “Better?”
“A little. You need to be more careful. The brain is very important.” She’s not joking. She’s not anywhere near joking. Wait until I tell Heather Huffman and Jodie Howard that Amanda said something ridiculous like, “The brain is very important.” I can already hear Jodie’s response. “No shoot, Sherlock,” she’ll say. Followed by a harmonious, “Good lord,” from both of them.
Also, can we all acknowledge that Jeremiah hitting Amanda’s brain with a two-inch bobby pin is physically impossible? I’m a mouse-kid and even I know there’s a skull and a bunch of layers of goop to get through before you get to the actual brain.
“Yep. Sorry. Won’t happen again,” Jeremiah says as Amanda slithers out of the room. “Until tomorrow,” he says. “Because no matter how careful I am, she complains.”
“I know,” Milly says. “I’ll have another chat with her.”
“Don’t bother,” Jeremiah says. “I’ve been to enough therapy to know that you can’t change another person. You can only change your reaction to that person.” Then he turns to Maya, his face shifting from frustration to disappointment. “Well, Miss Maya. I hear you’re leaving us soon. Worst news I’ve heard all week.”
“Yeah,” she says. “The drive is just too much for my parents. Plus, balancing it with school has been really tough.” If you need help envisioning the painfully upsetting look on her face, just picture your face that Christmas morning when you asked for a puppy and got socks.
“Maybe you’ll get to go on one more time,” I say.
Jeremiah shoots me this look that basically says, Youthful hope is so adorable.
“Maybe,” Maya says. “I doubt it. You know Amanda.”
“Unfortunately,” I blurt. You know the saying, “Think before you speak”? Sometimes that’s just not possible.
“Whoa, Lulu!” Jeremiah says. “Tell us how you really feel.”
“Sars I’m not sars,” I say. I learned this from Chris in wardrobe. Eighty percent of what Chris says is cute little catchphrases. “Sars I’m not sars” is Chris-speak for, “Sorry I’m not sorry.” Cute, right? (A bit of advice? Don’t say it to your parents or teachers or any other authority figure. I speak from personal experience: it won’t go well. Stick to your pals. They’ll think it’s cool.)
Maya giggles. It feels good to make her laugh. “You’re the best, Lulu. I’m really going to miss you,” she says.
Now I’m the one who needs a laugh. We’re one good cry away from Dorothy saying her goodbyes at the end of The Wizard of Oz.
“Places, please, for the top of Act One. This is your Places call. Places, please,” Pete’s voice booms over the monitor.
It’s not a laugh; it’s better. It’s Places. When everyone takes their, well… places, for the top of the show. The beginning. I just love it.
Technically, our show starts as most musicals do: with an overture—bits of each song from the show’s score, played only by the orchestra—but the majority of the company is in the show’s opening scene, which immediately follows the overture. So Places means “get to the stage as the overture is beginning so Pete can make sure you’re ready for your first entrance.” There are a few characters who don’t appear in the show until Act Two, and those actors usually use the Places call as their cue to begin getting ready for the show—prepping their hair, doing their makeup, that sort of thing.
Milly pops her head into the dressing room. “It’s Places, ladies. Let’s get this show on the road.”
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br /> Here’s one of the best things about the theatre versus television or film: the same thing happens every night, with teeny tiny differences scattered all over the place. Everything is set in stone, but we prepare for slight alterations because that’s just the nature of live theatre.
The audience makes a difference: if they’re particularly vocal or eager to applaud, if they’re super quiet, if a cell phone goes off (turn your cell phones off, people!) all these things can affect a performance.
Then there’s the stuff onstage and backstage. If an understudy is on, things are inevitably a little different. Every now and then, whether or not there are understudies involved, someone will make a mistake like flubbing a line or forgetting a prop. Once, one of the actors accidentally missed an entrance because he was watching the World Series, and needless to say we no longer have a television in the basement. But overall, it’s one big routine. And one of our routines is our overture dance.
While the musicians play, the curtain is down so the audience can’t see us, and we just go to town, our dancing fueled by the mischievous joy of knowing there’s an audience on the other side of the curtain who has no idea we’re doing what we’re doing. We can be as loud as we want because there’s no way we’ll ever be louder than our twenty-four-piece orchestra, especially since the cast’s microphones haven’t been turned on yet.
The chorus members do splits and kicks; one of them does this really funny dance called the “hottie dottie” that involves a second position plié and swinging arms. (It’s a hoot, promise.) At the end, we all do the bunny hop, which everyone has renamed “the mouse hop.” Even though mice don’t hop, I love them for the thought. Maya and I have our own little routine that involves me sitting on her shoulder and… oh.
She’s leaving. Who am I going to dance with? We’ve done three hundred and twenty-two overture dances. And after this performance, we’ll only do fifteen more.
Oh my goodness, oh my goodness! (Direct quote: Annie. Specifically, one of the orphans named Tessie. Please tell me you’ve seen the movie. Carol Burnett as Miss Hannigan? I can’t even.) It just hit me. Not only is Maya going to leave, but someone new is going to take her place.
Who will she be, I wonder? Will she be kind, polite, and super talented like Maya? Will she be younger? Will she be older? Will she be my friend, or Amanda’s? She won’t fall for Amanda’s sugarcoated cruelty, will she? What if she’s just like Amanda? What if she’s worse? Whoever she is, like it or not, two weeks from today, she’ll be here, and Maya will not.
One of the things about theatre folk that’s both frustrating and wonderful at the same time is we bond super quickly; we become more than friends—we become family. We get used to one another, fall into a routine. We can’t imagine not being around one another six days a week. And then one day, something changes. Someone leaves, or even worse, the show closes. This is the fifth show to inhabit this theatre during my lifetime, the seventh since my parents have lived here. A show closes, a new cast and a mostly new crew moves in; the new show takes the old one’s place. We’re left with memories and stories and, hopefully, friendships.
But tell me, what kind of career requires falling in love with a group of people, bonding, working together six days a week, and then abruptly abandoning all of it for another job? Or worse… unemployment. I know I’m just a mouse, but I think about all of these things. It breaks my heart when cast members of the show that closed last year come back to visit and say they haven’t worked since. And as a fellow performer, it scares me. Being an artist means years of inconsistency, change, and unabashed commitment to one’s art!
Whoa, now. This is all getting wayyyyy too serious. We’re too young for this level of anxiety. It’s hottie dottie time, fo’ sho’. (That’s Chris talk for “for sure.”)
I’m in Maya’s palms as we make our way downstairs for Places and the overture dance, following Jeremiah and Milly. Heather Huffman and Jodie join our parade; they’re still talking about Jodie’s audition. Jodie flails her arms around for emphasis. “It’s a gee-dee miracle they didn’t ask me to dance. Can you imagine?”
“I can. It wouldn’t be pretty,” H.H. replies.
“Heather, did I ever mention that I saw you play Miss Adelaide in Guys and Dolls?” Jeremiah asks. He has mentioned it before. I was there when he mentioned it. I think he just likes reliving the experience. Guys and Dolls is a fabulous show.
“No!” H.H. exclaims. I guess she likes reliving it, too. “Oh my goodness, you must have been a baby.”
“I was fourteen. But I still knew a star when I saw one,” Jeremiah says with a smile that makes the dimple in his left cheek… dimple. “Your dancing in ‘A Bushel and a Peck’ was something to see.” Jeremiah dates men but is “such a flirt,” according to everyone.
“That show was a dream. Oh, Tiny, I wish you could have seen it,” H.H. says.
“I do, too!” I say. Pretty sure I said that last time this scene played out.
“I was—”
“Fabulous, but far too young for the role,” Jodie finishes.
“When you’re right, you’re right,” H.H. says, linking arms with Jodie, the two ladies cackling like non-scary witches.
We land by the stage door, right in front of the sign-in sheet and Rosa, our night doorwoman. She’s been working at the Shubert since the eighties. My parents say she has looked exactly the same since they met her many, many years ago, and because of this, Walt and Matty did their best to convince me that she’s a ghost. Nice try, big brothers, but I’m certain she’s not a ghost. Not because I don’t believe in ghosts, but because I’m pretty sure ghosts can’t leave the theatre and go across the street to get iced coffee and bagels with lox and a schmear.
“What’s all this noise? Don’t you people know there’s a Broadway show about to begin?” Rosa snaps.
She’s kidding, obviously. She’s always pretend-scolding people, and sometimes real-scolding. When she’s real-scolding, you’d better watch out. She doesn’t take any shenanigans from anyone. Not even our—
Star. There she is. Stella James, in the flesh, heading out of her private dressing room, a room that smells like lilacs and fresh laundry. I swear, every time I see her I get a little dizzy. I never know what to say. I get completely tongue-tied, and you know me by now: finding my words is not usually a problem. She has two Tony Awards, she’s been in movies and on television, and she performs concerts all over the world. She’s my idol. And she’s small, for a human. Five feet, two inches on the dot. Does that stop her? No, it does not.
“Hello, everyone,” she says, followed by her dresser, Chris.
“Hey, y’all,” Chris says. He’s not even from the South but he still says “y’all.” How cool is that?
“Why, Lulu,” Stella says. “Isn’t that a becoming accessory.”
I gulp. She’s talking about my chartreuse ribbon-scarf. She likes my chartreuse ribbon-scarf. Sits-front-row-at-Fashion-Week Stella James likes my chartreuse ribbon-scarf. Don’t faint, Lulu. Don’t get tongue-tied. Just say thank you. Say thank you.
“Thanks, Stella.” (FYI, I called her Ms. James until she repeatedly told me it wasn’t necessary.) “It’s chartreuse,” I say. Like she didn’t know that already. Uggghhhhh.
“It certainly is,” she says. “Very becoming.” And she pats me on the head. “Have a good show, everyone.”
Everyone says their good shows back, and she’s off, with Chris trailing behind her. He turns around, points to my scarf, and whispers, “Fierce.” He usually saves his “fierces” for a particularly expensive purse or someone’s brand-new, “bank-breakingly natural” highlights. I got a pat on the head from Stella and a “fierce” from Chris. What is this, my birthday?!
My spell of happiness is instantly broken by the fact that Maya has started to cry. Nothing too loud or dramatic, just real and heartbreaking. She wipes away a single tear, the kind of tear television actors dream of.
“What’s wrong?” I ask. Even though I’m prett
y sure I know.
“I can’t believe I only have two weeks left,” Maya says, leaning into Milly, who’s doing her best not to cry, too.
“I know, honey,” Milly says, hugging her close.
“This is just the beginning for you, Maya,” Jeremiah says.
“And this stage door is always open to you,” Rosa chimes in. “Anytime you’re walking by, I expect you to say hello.” All of this is making Maya cry even more, so Jodie does what she does best. She dumps a big bucket of sass on the flames of sadness.
“Look on the bright side, honey,” Jodie says. “At least you won’t have to put up with Little Miss All-About-Me anymore. I swear, the next contract I sign, I’m having them put a no-Amanda clause in it.” For the record, Jodie and the rest of the cast tried very hard to be nice to Amanda for the first five or six months of the run, but even grown-ups can only put up with so much.
Maya smiles and, like the classy young lady she is, says, “Amanda’s not that bad.”
Jodie looks at Maya with a serious stare and says, “I’d rather pluck my eyelashes out one by one than share a dressing room with her. You’re a saint.”
On cue, Amanda appears. “Did someone say my name?”
“Yep,” Heather Huffman says, shooting Amanda her best don’t mess with me, kid glare.
“Why?” Amanda asks, with the bite of an extra-sharp block of cheddar. “Who said it and what was said?” She’s so paranoid. For good reason, I suppose, but still.
“I was just saying how much I’m going to miss everyone,” Maya says. “Including you.” And although I’m sure she’s saying it mostly to appease Amanda, I think a little part of Maya means it. Like it or not, Amanda was a part of Maya’s Broadway debut. Their histories are forever linked. Amanda may have tortured her, but she did it in a Broadway theatre. Things could be worse. All of this animosity could have happened somewhere regular, like sixth grade or karate class.
Lulu the Broadway Mouse Page 3
