Chapter 3: The Chopping Block Appears – Part 1

 


Chapter 3: The Chopping Block Appears – Part 1

Day in and day out, we continue to run around the room. The sun, which once provided a pleasant warmth, now blazes in the sky, scorching our eyes. The temperature, once bearable, has risen by at least 20 degrees. The electricity has blown out three times, each blackout sapping what little energy we have left. According to the locals, power outages are a daily occurrence here in the Bahamas.

I keep glancing at the door, hoping for some change, some interruption to this monotonous insanity. Then, someone new enters the room. Thank God, I think. Please be a savior. Please be someone who can put an end to this madness. Please be someone who sees us and wonders why we look like the cast of Awakenings*.

"Run!" screams the Assistant Director. "Sit, stand up, drop to the floor, be an animal, jump, now be a monkey!" Everything he yells, we do. Now, he wants us to run around, shake someone's hand, and shout, "I'm glad you're here!" We comply, sprinting at full speed.

Exhausted, I begin to believe this must be what it felt like for Manson’s followers during his reign.

But this new presence does nothing. They're just standing there, smiling, watching the madness unfold. Help! I want to scream, but instead, the words that leave my mouth are, "I’m glad you’re here!"

More people begin to enter the room, joining the first observer. They stand there, silent, hands at their sides, wearing wide smiles.

"Hello, everyone!" our Stage Manager yells, waving his arms to grab our attention. "I need everyone’s attention."

We keep running, unsure whether we’ve been given permission to stop.

"PEOPLE!" he shouts, now at the center of the room, his hands raised. "I need everyone’s attention."

We freeze for a moment, exchanging confused looks. Do we stop moving? I wonder.

The Stage Manager gestures toward the newcomers. "I want to introduce someone," he announces. "This is your director."

He points to a large man with thick glasses and frizzy hair. He’s about six feet tall, dressed in a crisp white shirt emblazoned with the company logo. I size him up. He stands there with a forced grin plastered across his face. It screams trust me, but I’m not sure that I do.

Then my eyes flick to his shoes—old and tattered—and I feel a sudden unease. He’s looking at me, but not speaking to me. His gaze lingers on us all, staring intently with a huge, goofy grin. I can feel my heart start to race. What is he looking at?

I turn quickly, hoping to catch someone behind me, but no one is there. I spin back to face him. The staring continues. My skin prickles. Crap, I’ve worked with him before.

"He's 40% blind in one eye and 60% blind in the other," whispers someone in the cast. "He lost his eyesight in an accident—flash pot went off in his face."

The director steps forward, still grinning like a game show host. "Ladies and gentlemen," he announces in a booming voice. "I’d like to introduce someone you’ll be spending a lot of time with—your musical director."

At that moment, a scrawny bald man with poor posture steps forward. He looks like Mr. Burns from The Simpsons*, someone mutters under their breath.

For the first time, there’s an air of excitement in the room. Our savior has arrived, I think. This is what we’re here for—singing and dancing, not running around like zombies.

"Everyone grab a chair and join me around the piano!" the Musical Director calls out. No one needs to be asked twice. We scramble over each other, desperate to grab the precious chairs—chairs for sitting, for singing, for feeling like we’ve actually accomplished something.

The cast, seasoned from years in the theater, quickly organizes into sections. Sopranos over here, altos there, and the baritones and basses move to the back. We grab our music, sit tall in our chairs, and open our mouths. The room fills with the sound of voices, and for a moment, the madness of the past days slips away.

We turn pages rapidly, trying to keep up with the pace. Suddenly, one of us raises a hand.

"What’s ‘QUAH’?" someone asks, looking puzzled at the sheet music.

The Musical Director, without missing a beat, explains. "The music was written by a southern musician. That’s when the 'quah' comes in, and the soloist finishes."

As we continue, we're told that a click track will play during the shows and that the music is still in the process of being recorded. Our vocal sections will change, sometimes daily.

Then, a whisper spreads through the cast like wildfire: “Did you hear? The NYC casting director got fired?”

I shake my head, trying to focus on the music in front of me. I’ve got music to learn, I think, trying to push the rumors out of my mind. “Thank God it wasn’t me,” I mutter to myself, feeling a sense of relief.

 

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