Tonight
The bus doors whoosh open. He stops going over the songs in his head and looks up to see the glint of the setting sun shining off the glass, like the star on his door. It's time. Eagerly, he steps through.
He pauses to look around him. People bustling, rushing to and fro. Got to get to your seats, my public, can't miss a moment.
He strolls down the street, letting the music around him blur, all the pop and hip-hop and jazz and Latin rhythms, coalescing between his ears as an orchestra tuning up. Then, overture. Break a leg!
He turns to face the curtains, finding an opening before him that looks like an alley. He steps forward. This setting is familiar, so he knows he won't miss his cue.
He thrills to see other players, already in character, into their scene. Two men getting tough with a third. A rumble! The opening notes of "West Side Story" melt into his ears. Snapping his fingers, he makes his entrance.
The dark-skinned gentleman -- a Shark? -- looks at him. "What have we got here?"
Is there speaking in this scene? He guesses they can ad-lib.
"What's with this white-ass finger snappin'" the man continues.
Yes, I'm white, he thinks, I'm a Jet -- a Jet all the way, from my first cigarette to my last dyin' day. Am I singing that out loud? How unprofessional.
"What?" Oh, now this man has drawn out a gun. He must have his scenes mixed up. "Now step off, music man, or you gonna get some of this."
His costar is confused. Music Man is a totally different style. He looks over at the others in this scene. The first man's confederate stands perplexed, waiting for a cue. The third, who the others had been confronting -- ebony as the others, perhaps a Shark out of line? -- has added confusion to the terrified look he had when the scene started. Still, this isn't going right. Who knows what the audience must be thinking. It's up to him to get this show back on track. He exaggerates his movements, dancing towards the Shark with the gun, to engage him as this moment demands.
"Oh, hell no," the man swings the gun wildly, as if to aim. A shot fires, and a breeze kisses his shoulder. That could have hurt. This man has brought the wrong prop, and now must receive instruction.
His dance becomes faster, more purposeful. He ignores the man's shouts, the partner's jeers. They are NOT CATCHING ON, he thinks, this is unacceptable -- A disgrace to the memory of Jerome Robbins. Time to instruct.
The fool doesn't notice the flick of his wrist while firing again and again, right and left of him. He advances with his best Fosse-smooth lunge to show the man's true colors.
Oh, did I do a little "Chicago" there? he muses, looks like I can improvise, too.
Thank god the man finally stopped shouting. Dropped the gun, too, and stumbles back, grasping a throat with hands turning scarlet. It's like those lovely red scarves used in off-Broadway plays to signify blood. And the man collapses. Take five, you've earned it.
Oh, but the partner resumes the scene, hands shaking, holding up yet another gun. "Oh-shit-oh-shit-oh-shit-oh-muthafuckin-shit!"
Such language! What is this, "Rent?"
Boy, boy, crazy boy, get cool boy! As his knife dances gently before him, he catches a glimpse of himself in the blade. That reminds him. Yes, he has another. Here it is in another pocket. My friends, he remembers, from his turn as Sweeney Todd, when vengeance was as sweet as Mrs. Lovett's meat pies...
He is interrupted by a gun blast. Seems his shaky-handed adversary wants his attention. Really, if these actors didn't hold their guns sideways, maybe they'd hit something. Best end this scene quickly. The blades drink deep; this man was not meant for the stage anyway.
Now the third man, who is unarmed, and scared for some reason. The scene has ended -- Go to your own kind, stick to your own kind! -- The extra runs back up the alley, shouting back a "Thank you!" during the exit. It's good to be appreciated by one's peers.
He makes his way down the other direction. As he emerges on a street, pigeons take to the air, the flapping sound swells into applause.
Intermission.
---------
This has been a production for LJ Idol Season 8, Week 17, topic: " Bringing a Knife to a Gun Fight." The words that aren't my own are borrowed affectionately from Mr. Sondheim.
He pauses to look around him. People bustling, rushing to and fro. Got to get to your seats, my public, can't miss a moment.
He strolls down the street, letting the music around him blur, all the pop and hip-hop and jazz and Latin rhythms, coalescing between his ears as an orchestra tuning up. Then, overture. Break a leg!
He turns to face the curtains, finding an opening before him that looks like an alley. He steps forward. This setting is familiar, so he knows he won't miss his cue.
He thrills to see other players, already in character, into their scene. Two men getting tough with a third. A rumble! The opening notes of "West Side Story" melt into his ears. Snapping his fingers, he makes his entrance.
The dark-skinned gentleman -- a Shark? -- looks at him. "What have we got here?"
Is there speaking in this scene? He guesses they can ad-lib.
"What's with this white-ass finger snappin'" the man continues.
Yes, I'm white, he thinks, I'm a Jet -- a Jet all the way, from my first cigarette to my last dyin' day. Am I singing that out loud? How unprofessional.
"What?" Oh, now this man has drawn out a gun. He must have his scenes mixed up. "Now step off, music man, or you gonna get some of this."
His costar is confused. Music Man is a totally different style. He looks over at the others in this scene. The first man's confederate stands perplexed, waiting for a cue. The third, who the others had been confronting -- ebony as the others, perhaps a Shark out of line? -- has added confusion to the terrified look he had when the scene started. Still, this isn't going right. Who knows what the audience must be thinking. It's up to him to get this show back on track. He exaggerates his movements, dancing towards the Shark with the gun, to engage him as this moment demands.
"Oh, hell no," the man swings the gun wildly, as if to aim. A shot fires, and a breeze kisses his shoulder. That could have hurt. This man has brought the wrong prop, and now must receive instruction.
His dance becomes faster, more purposeful. He ignores the man's shouts, the partner's jeers. They are NOT CATCHING ON, he thinks, this is unacceptable -- A disgrace to the memory of Jerome Robbins. Time to instruct.
The fool doesn't notice the flick of his wrist while firing again and again, right and left of him. He advances with his best Fosse-smooth lunge to show the man's true colors.
Oh, did I do a little "Chicago" there? he muses, looks like I can improvise, too.
Thank god the man finally stopped shouting. Dropped the gun, too, and stumbles back, grasping a throat with hands turning scarlet. It's like those lovely red scarves used in off-Broadway plays to signify blood. And the man collapses. Take five, you've earned it.
Oh, but the partner resumes the scene, hands shaking, holding up yet another gun. "Oh-shit-oh-shit-oh-shit-oh-muthafuckin-shit!"
Such language! What is this, "Rent?"
Boy, boy, crazy boy, get cool boy! As his knife dances gently before him, he catches a glimpse of himself in the blade. That reminds him. Yes, he has another. Here it is in another pocket. My friends, he remembers, from his turn as Sweeney Todd, when vengeance was as sweet as Mrs. Lovett's meat pies...
He is interrupted by a gun blast. Seems his shaky-handed adversary wants his attention. Really, if these actors didn't hold their guns sideways, maybe they'd hit something. Best end this scene quickly. The blades drink deep; this man was not meant for the stage anyway.
Now the third man, who is unarmed, and scared for some reason. The scene has ended -- Go to your own kind, stick to your own kind! -- The extra runs back up the alley, shouting back a "Thank you!" during the exit. It's good to be appreciated by one's peers.
He makes his way down the other direction. As he emerges on a street, pigeons take to the air, the flapping sound swells into applause.
Intermission.
---------
This has been a production for LJ Idol Season 8, Week 17, topic: " Bringing a Knife to a Gun Fight." The words that aren't my own are borrowed affectionately from Mr. Sondheim.