Chapter 3: The Chopping Block Appears – Part 2


 Chapter 3: The Chopping Block Appears – Part 2

Our musical director is a brilliant man, and his stories fill our heads. He talks endlessly about Sondheim, Robbins, Fosse, and Elaine Stritch—tales of the drugged-out ‘70s and whacked-out ‘80s. He spins stories of who’s who, who’s not, who was, who wasn’t, and who isn’t. His anecdotes fill the hours, more and more stories, until we realize we haven’t sung in what feels like forever.

“Christ, he’s driving me mad,” someone hisses.

“Shhhhhh,” I whisper.

“Geoffrey, stop talking!” he snaps at me, cutting me off.

“Sorry,” I mutter, my face burning.

“God, what an asshole,” the voice hisses again.

“Shhhhhh,” I repeat, turning around and placing one finger to my lips, trying to silence the murmurs.

“Geoffrey, stop talking!” he screams now, louder.

“Walk away and get water,” the voice in my head says. I take the hint. I stand up, grab a cup from the water cooler, fill it, and walk out into the hallway.

This would be the day I stormed out of rehearsal.

I head down the hallway and step into the men’s bathroom. “God, this is making me crazy,” I say to my reflection in the mirror, staring back at me. I splash some cold water on my face, trying to cool my nerves.

When I return to the rehearsal room, I see that our Stage Manager has posted a sign on the wall in thick black marker: NO REHEARSAL, MEETING TOMORROW, BE THERE.

A murmur runs through the cast. “What’s going on?” they ask, panic creeping into their voices.

I shudder to think what might be happening. The Stage Manager pulls me aside. “You have nothing to fear, but some do,” he tells me cryptically.

We ride back to the hotel in complete silence, the weight of uncertainty hanging heavy in the air. I toss and turn all night, sleep impossible as my mind races with unanswered questions.

The next morning, we gather in the rehearsal room. Chairs are arranged around a table, and a video screen is set up. A thick tension fills the space, and the questions swirl around us.

“Where’s the director?” someone asks.

“Away on a trip,” our Stage Manager replies, his tone too flat.

The video begins—a cartoon version of Cinderella plays on the screen, and two Company Executives, whom we’ve never seen before, enter the room. They call out the first name on their list.

“Follow me,” one of them says. The room goes still. People start to get called out, one by one, but no one returns.

The video ends, and the second tape is inserted: Beauty and the Beast. More names are called, more people leave. Ten in total.

A heavy silence hangs in the air. We look at each other, confused, scared. And then, the Company Executives return.

"Can I have your attention, please?" one of them calls, his voice cold. "Your fellow cast members have been let go. We made a mistake in casting."

The words hit like a punch to the gut.

"So tomorrow, you’re going to come back here, and we’ll rehearse. We’re moving forward." With that, they turn on their heels and leave the room, leaving us in stunned silence.

The room is filled with whispers, shaking hands, and people fighting back tears. The weight of the announcement sinks in, and we gather together in small huddles, seeking comfort in each other’s presence. Some of us are still in shock, others are quietly crying, unsure of what’s next.

But for the moment, we cling to one another, desperate for any sense of reassurance.

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