by Mary Hughes
How superstitious? Just think of the “Scottish Play”, which to anyone else in the world is Macbeth. Think of “break a leg” instead of a simple “good luck”.
I know, I know. In this day and age, how can anyone be that irrational? But there’s a perfectly logical explanation.
Now bear with me, please. I need to get this out of my system. Smile and nod and make an uh-huh now and then, and we’ll both be happy.
Like weather, performance is a chaotic system. Night after night you put in the same ingredients, but you’re never quite sure what’ll come out. Exactly the same gestures in exactly the same voice, and one night the audience will laugh and the next it won’t.
Oh, we make up reasons. The audience has been drinking and will laugh at running water. Or it’s had a fight with its boss/spouse/stupid fuck on the road and is ready to hate everything.
We blame it on the FUBARs of fellow performers. The actor who jumps lines like a drunk Chihuahua. The followspot operator who screws your solo spot by lighting your left ear. The telephone that, after you pick it up, keeps ringing because the sound gal’s texting midshow. The singer who drops measures or misses the starting pitch and does the whole solo in the wrong key—don’t get me started.
But those are rationalizations. Simply put, audience reaction is out of our control.
Magic seems the only way to control it.
Theater folk are superstitious because Murphy reigns. Not the imp-of-irony Murphy either, but the mean mutha bent on ruin. And yeah, not to sound the wah-wah-wah brass of doom, but this is unfortunately going somewhere.
Why doesn’t life have a soundtrack so we know what’s coming?
I kept up the blank chatter as I hauled instruments through the underground parking. I chattered nonstop to the room backstage that the orchestra shared with props. There I waved buh-bye, dropped my revolting pink jacket, turned my back and assembled instruments. Glynn hovered and I thought maybe I’d have to parry a couple pointed questions, but Mishela reminded him she had to get ready and they left.
We were plenty early, but I hid in the prop room until I made myself late and had to haul ass to the pit. I threw my butt in my chair barely in time for the initial tuning.
At seven, the doors opened. Seats filled rapidly and I was hit by the familiar opening-night buzz.
A little preshow cramming usually took the edge off. I’d marked my difficult passages with a star in the margins and now rehearsed them to remind myself how they went. No playing once the house opened, so I just fingered them, which was good enough. When I’d run through them all, it was only seven fifteen.
I leaned over. “Hey, Nixie.”
“Not more viola jokes.”
“But—”
“No. Tell something else. Tell piano jokes or banjo jokes or something.”
“Okay. Why was the piano invented?”
She stared at me. “I didn’t think you’d actually know any.”
“Come on. Why were pianos invented?”
Rocky leaned up. “So the pianist would have a place to put his beer.”
We fist-bumped. Rocky said, “What’s the least-used sentence in the English language?”
“Is that the banjo player’s new Ferrari?” we said together and fist-bumped again.
“Enough!” Nixie glared. “These baka jokes can’t be good for the baby. I’m supposed to play Brahms and shit, not bludgeon it with stupid.”
I smirked. My work here was done.
But it was only seven twenty. “Hey Rocky, how did the sausage bribe go?”
She frowned and was about to answer when Takashi said, “What?”
I looked front. He was talking into his headset, low, intense whispers.
Next to Nixie, Julian arched a black brow. Nixie leaned toward him. “What?”
“Dumas,” Julian murmured.
“Something’s wrong with Dumbass?”
“Dumas is talking. Telling them something’s wrong. Shh.”
Vampire ears must be damned good. I could barely hear the electronic chirp from Takashi’s headset and was itching to know what was going on.
Fortunately, so was Nixie. She wasn’t silent more than five seconds before poking her husband. “What?”
He sighed. “Something about Lana.”
Our Glinda, the part-time hooker with the tiny voice. Not Mishela and not one of the Broadway leads, so probably nothing too awful. Maybe Dumas had found Lana on the job, so to speak. I went back to fingering.
Takashi cued the final tuning and we started. I stopped thinking about anything but the music.
Playing a show is like driving. Your mind can wander, but if there’s a hiccup, you’d better be ready to compensate. I try to keep my head in the music. Sure, it’s not often some asshole swerves into your lane and jams on the brakes, but it does happen and it’s worse with amateurs. Aside from the leads, these were unpredictable newbies. And half were kids.
So when Glinda’s swing came out empty during a tremolo, I was surprised enough to stop waggling fingers, but only for a second.
Takashi didn’t miss a beat; another sign he’d make it. The show must go on may be a truism, but it’s also an imperative. The show is your product and you can’t sell excuses. Good news is audiences will forgive a lot if you give them a great product eventually. As long as Lana made it onstage soon (even pulling up her little stardust panties from a good rubbing on someone’s wand), the audience wouldn’t care. They might not even know. I snuck back into my tremolo.
But onstage nothing was happening, which was a bad thing. We hit a vamp, the musical equivalent of fat pants, and Takashi signaled repeat with a whirl of one finger. Still nothing. I kept flicking eyes between Takashi and the stage. The Munchkins couldn’t come out without Glinda to call them, so poor Dorothy and Toto were alone in front of a full audience.
Mishela was desperately improvising when suddenly, a whole number ahead of time, the Wicked Witch shot onstage.
Even Takashi hiccupped a beat.
Wicked was thin and bony and wore the usual fluttery black skirt, granny boots and tall, pointy sorting hat.
And a new green Halloween mask. We all lost a bar when we saw that. Well, except Lob, the drummer in Nixie’s bar band, who could play though drunken bar fights and Granny Butt stripping. He covered us with a totally bonkers improv.
Takashi hissed, “Number ten.” We hit the Wicked Witch theme for two bars and trilled ominously before cutting off. Eighteen faces turned up from the pit to see what would happen next.
Wicked stalked toward Dorothy, claw-like hands menacing. Little Munchkins cowered behind scenery. Toto went apeshit, barking and running in circles.
Mishela’s nostrils flared and she took a step back, Dorothy pigtails bobbing.
“I’ll get you now,” Wicked snarled and followed.
The snarl was male. Fuck, this must be the kidnapper. A he, almost certainly a vampire, and definitely after Mishela. I flicked eyes for Glynn, but no dark mountains hovered in the wings.
Julian, though, had set his cello on its ribs to leap to the rescue.
Which would ruin the show. Julian’s one sexy dude and a fine string player, but not primarily a performer. First rule is if the actors on stage can get themselves out of trouble, you let them. Best case, the audience thinks it’s part of the show.
Granted, this bit of trouble was more than your usual dropped line or missed cue. But Mishela was a pro. She’d think of something. Both Nixie and I grabbed Julian before he could bollix things up.
He growled low and feral and not human at all.
Fortunately, Toto’s barking covered it up. The dog ran at Wicked and lifted his doggy hind leg, no doubt to tell the impostor exactly what he thought.
Wicked jabbed a broom in Toto’s belly. The dog gave a pained yip and skittered back.
Mishela scooped up poor Toto. She stepped forward, hit her light and challenged Wicked with, “Are you a good witch or a bad witch?”
Yay, an actual
line from the scene. Damn, she was good.
Wicked grabbed for her again, nearly connected. Mishela swayed back, not quite superspeed. Wicked’s claws swished air.
A sucked inhale from the audience said they were caught up in the drama, not knowing it was real.
But Wicked took a menacing step forward, and another, and Mishela backed away, which was bad because the proscenium was only so wide. Once she hit the wing, the audience would know it wasn’t an act and the show would be ruined.
Of course that was when Julian shook my hand loose. I tried to grab him and his arm blurred avoiding me. He peeled off Nixie more gently, but his tensed muscles screamed his readiness to leap onto stage the instant he was free. I snatched at him. His arm shimmered again and I missed.
Nixie just jumped into his lap. He couldn’t shift her quickly without hurting her. He growled again, more human and disgruntled, and slid her gently aside. She clutched and hissed Latin curses the whole way.
Once again, he tensed for the leap.
Steam boiled from the wings, shot between Mishela and Wicked.
Snapped into a very big, very pissed Glynn, glaring at Wicked. I stopped grabbing for Julian. The scene was lost.
There was a collective gasp, from audience, pit and Munchkins. A tiny gap in the action as even pro Dorothy tried to think up a plausible save. Finally she stuttered, “Who are you? And…and are you a good witch or a bad witch?”
Glynn grinned down at Wicked, his teeth very white, his canines just a little long. “I’m Glynn,” he said in his musical baritone. “And I’m very, very good.” The canines lengthened a little more.
Wicked turned tail and ran.
The audience cheered.
Without a pause, Glynn turned to Mishela. Pulling a wand out of his jacket, he delivered Glinda’s lines word for word. Well, except for calling himself Glynn-deh instead, but I don’t think the audience picked up on it.
A quick double-blink and Mishela responded, in character, naturally.
They say the Welsh are a musical people. To our utter shock, Glynn completed the scene as Glinda (Glynn-deh), including singing the come out song to the Munchkins. Down an octave, since he was a baritone, but it was note-for-note perfect. And for once, we could play full volume. That boy had lungs.
Although the leather jacket clashed a bit with the wand.
But the audience applauded Glynn-deh, and the scene, miraculously, was saved.
At intermission Julian disappeared, literally. One minute he was setting down his cello, the next he was a river of smoke, running onto stage and into the wings.
Nobody noticed. They were all busy scoring their intermission chocolate from Rob, greeting friends or hitting the bathroom.
Nixie caught me watching Julian’s mist. She stopped midswab. “I can explain that.”
“No need. I figured it out.” I loosened my clarinet ligature and slid the reed out. “The fangs are a dead giveaway.”
She smiled slowly. “I thought Glynn was looking a little slugged-stupid around you. Congratulations.”
“Thanks. It’s not like he made it easy. Say, am I going to minionize or…?” I made fangs out of my index and middle fingers, wiggled them from my upper lip.
“Nope. I’ll tell you why later.”
“A secret?” Sticking my reed in my mouth, I threaded my swab’s weight through the bell.
“Big-time. It’d cost their lives. But the need to bite—” Nixie clacked her jaw “—gives them away every time. When the right mate comes along.”
“Mate?” I sucked in a breath. Along with my reed, which gouged my soft palate. I spat reed into my stand, coughed and gagged. Nixie pounded my back until I’d replaced the spit in my lungs with enough air to choke out, “What do you mean, mate?”
“Oh, not any sort of destiny mate or shit like that. Just, if you’re immune to their Illuminati mind-control, you’re a potential. Then the smell/taste thing draws them to couple up.”
“I’m not…I mean Glynn isn’t…I mean…” Actually, I didn’t know what I meant beyond duh-huh?
“I was going to give you the 4-1-1, but figured with you so duty über alles, it’d never go anywhere. Should have known nature’d win over nurture. Hey, since you’re linked in, want to come to the party tonight?”
“You mean the reception?”
“I said party, not puke-fest. LLAMA’s doing the reception, you know. They don’t throw parties, unless vomiting and mass hysteria count as good times.”
The VIP reception was being catered by LLAMA? Not good. The Lutheran Ladies Auxiliary Mothers Association was famous for their liver sausage and cheese balls, second only in popularity—well, maybe notoriety was a better word—to their pistachio fluff with stuff floating in it.
I saw a fluff recipe once. It called for gelatin, whipped topping and cottage cheese, but I think LLAMA substituted cellulite from botched liposuctions.
The fluff was why nobody ever said no to a LLAMA reception. Not twice at any rate. Rumor said they found bits of themselves floating in it. LLAMA pistachio fluff broke down people into desserts, a church-lady Soylent Green. Which I didn’t believe until I was sixteen and came eyeball to eyeball with an eyeball, staring at me out of my dessert. It turned out to be a pickled egg, but the scarring was permanent.
A rustle caught both our attentions. Rob was opening a new bag of chocolate bars, super dark, the kind that are 70% cacao and 30% orgasm.
Nixie’s eyes tracked the bag on its way to Katie Reverend, playing reed three. “Julian and I are doing a do at our place. Glynn’ll be there. Get him to tell you about his tchotchkes.”
“His what?” I reached for the bag. Nixie snagged it midair. I was practically sucked into the vacuum left behind.
“His knickknacks.” Nixie dumped the entire bag onto her lap. Carefully put two back. “He won’t tell us anything about them and it’s driving me crazy.”
“Glynn has knickknacks?” I reached again for the bag.
“Nuh-uh. Pads, girlfriend.” She started to pass the sadly deflated bag back a row, stopped. Extracted one of the two bars, and finally passed the bag to the harpist, who simply stared at the lone chocolate.
“Knickknacks.” My stomach growled. “Glynn travels. They’re probably just souvenirs.”
“I don’t think so.” Nixie popped a bar into her mouth, swallowed without chewing. “He arrived with the clothes on his back and exactly one piece of luggage the size of my clarinet case. And first thing he does is ask for a small table. Well, of course I had to look. He’d covered the table and set up these pieces like some weird shrine.” She popped another bar. “You’re gonna needle him and find out what they mean.”
“I am? Why should I do that?”
“I told you. It’s driving me cray-Z.” She made short work of two more chocolate bars. I think she unwrapped them first, but I wouldn’t bet on it.
My stomach growled again. “Yeah, except these knickknacks are apparently special to him. I’m not going to intrude.”
“Aren’t you curious?”
“Yes, but…” Glynn was the ultimate mystery man. Vampire. Whatever. He’d lectured me about home, and when he made camp, first thing he did was set out some knickknacks? Huge Freudian thing and much more serious than me slipping up about underwear when he was around.
Slipping, underwear. Argh. “It’s private. I’m not going to pry.”
“Well, I don’t usually bribe. But if you grill him, I’ll let you use my toothbrush.” Cocking a smile, she offered me a couple bars.
“No, I can’t. I mustn’t.” Without my permission, my hand reached for chocolate. At the last minute, I pulled back. “Glynn has a right to his privacy.”
She closed her hand.
I swallowed. “But if he happens to spill, I’ll tell you.”
She opened her hand and I swiped chocolate from her palm.
Entr’acte
After final bows, Glynn escorted Mishela to her dressing room, sticking like glue until the door
clicked firmly in his face. Exiled, he paced the hallway, fury eating up the twenty yards as if it were two.
The rogue vampire had cornered her onstage. Corralled her in front of hundreds of witnesses, trapped her between wicked claws and her damned show-must-go-on duty.
His pacing kicked up a notch. Good thing Elias had sent him to watch over her. Who else would’ve known she would go ballistic at a normal rescue? Only inserting himself into the action of the musical, though it’d taken him almost too long to find a wand, let him protect her in a way she’d accept.
Which was damned stupid, but he knew how performing artists were, the torrents of energy and self they poured into their art. He’d expended similar amounts distracting people as a child, but not for the sake of art. And not because he’d wanted to, but when you were four years old, you didn’t get a choice. Which was why he made sure he always had one now.
Except when he was boxed in trying to please others, like Mishela.
And Junior.
His pacing stopped abruptly. He sought her out through her blood-taste/scent, as he’d done only half a hundred times since tasting her. She was safe at the VIP reception.
He let her essence wash over him. It calmed him.
He kicked into pacing again, slower now. Almost eight hundred years he’d been a vampire, and in all that time he’d never met anyone like Junior. He wondered what she would say if he told her, “I’m an eight hundred year old monster.”
In his most pleasant dreams, she accepted him, even loved him.
But dreams weren’t reality. Reality was she had dreams of her own, and he’d respect that. Would back off, even though it killed him. Well, killed him again.
Damn it, which job was harder? Thwarting rogue vampires and making the world safer for humans, or trying to respect Junior’s need to remain unentangled?
He’d have to do both. It wouldn’t be easy, but damned Elias had trained him for that too.
He consoled himself that it could be worse. Junior could be the one woman he could love. Not likely, though. He hadn’t found anyone in eight hundred years. A good thing too. If Emerson was anything to judge by, he’d fall in love so deeply, he’d not be worth a sheep’s fart. Which wouldn’t help anybody, not Mishela or Emersons or Elias and especially not Junior.
