A moody, Miles Davis kind of piece
It was a cold Sunday night and something felt off. I was in one of my theatre district haunts – a cozy French place I often find myself in.
As these things happen, no less than FIVE Broadway shows had closed that night, not a sign of bad times ahead, just the way things timed out. I had been amusing myself eavesdropping on a small group of people sitting at the bar who were all about to be unemployed as of this week. I am not a very good eavesdropper, because I could not quite get the gist of what they did exactly on whatever show they were talking about.
After drinking a lot and fast, they had to rush out. They had to be there for the last curtain call. “It’s going to go on for like thirty minutes, you know that right?” One of the women said.
My guess was they were designers, wardrobe maybe. Or front of house.
I watched them leave and sat there in the silence of the empty bar wondering what came next.
It was looking like nothing else noteworthy was going on that evening and I was getting ready to leave when a woman and her husband rushed in.
I recognized her as an actress in one of the shows on the block, one that had closed just a few hours earlier. I had seen the pair in there before.
“We were just at the closing party – but we wanted to stop in and say goodbye! Well, not really goodbye, but…” She laughed. A frothy, tired glee hung around them like a fog.
The manager offered to open a bottle of the good stuff for them and even offered me a glass. The woman had a small part, just a few scenes. I had seen the show and I remembered her more than most of the rest of the play for some reason.
“So, any take-away so far from the whole experience or is it too soon?” I asked. I knew this was her first Broadway show.
She thought for a minute.
“I didn’t screw up.” She said, straight-faced. She explained it to me like this:
“I had a small part and it’s like I have one job to do, and the thing was I just didn’t want to mess it up for everyone else. Like, I have two scenes and I didn’t want to be the person who screws it up for everyone else. I should be able to get that right. I’m there to support the whole production and the actors who have the huge job of carrying the whole show on their shoulders”
I asked how the marquee names – the stars – treated her.
“Oh we were like a family,” she said. “Yes they’re in their own world and have their own dressing rooms – ours were all downstairs,” she said. “So we didn’t interact a lot, but we would all meet onstage and warm up and say hello and so forth before fight call.”
Her husband was grinning proudly, looking after her bags – the contents of her proverbial cleaned-out dressing room, some flowers sticking out.
“We’re leaving for vacation in a few days, I’m gonna just face-plant in the sand,” she said.
I asked if she was seeing more auditions as a result of her turn on Broadway.
“Yes a lot, but nothing promising yet,” she said.
I left them to their own conversation and watched the bus boys put the chairs up on the tables in the dark restaurant. The pair was making plans about who they were meeting the next day and getting ready for their trip and so on and I guess I was eavesdropping again. People who have been in a show on Broadway like that have a glow to them – a springy jaunt to their demeanor that I always hope lasts them for a good long time; to know that whatever happens next, they at least made it this far.
They were getting ready to leave. “I’ll be back when I’m back on Broadway!” she said hopefully.
The manager and bartender made them promise they would come back earlier than that and they said of course.
I left after they did. Walking toward the train, I passed the darkened marquis and contemplated the left-over confetti that was still blowing around the sidewalks and doorways of the theatre district two whole weeks later.
