Chapter 4: PARTY FOR THE DEAD

 




Chapter 4: PARTY FOR THE DEAD

The moment Corporate releases us from the room, we’re out of there like bats out of hell. It’s a scene straight out of an action movie—car doors slamming, tires screeching, vans peeling out of the parking lot.

Shock. That’s the word that keeps repeating in my mind as I look around at the faces in the van. No one says a word. The tension is suffocating, thick enough to cut with a knife. We all want to get home, to check if what we just heard is really true.

The vans pull into the parking lot, and the doors fly open. We scramble out and make a beeline for our homes, searching for the bodies. Some of the "dead"—those let go—couldn’t get flights out and are forced to leave in the morning. The Company has violated several contracts, but no one knows how to handle it. Talk of anger, hate, and lawsuits fills the air. There are tears, hugs, and a few dramatic shouts of "I quit!"

“Don’t do it! It’ll get better!” someone protests.

In the theater world, when someone quits, gets fired, or even dies... we throw a party. It's just the way we cope. We're also celebrating that at least some of us still have our jobs.

People start running to the stores, buying decorations, dusting off punch bowls, pulling out costumes, and grabbing beer. It’s an odd, desperate celebration of survival.

I stay in my room. I’m not good with goodbyes. I deal with things in my own way. I hear the sound of laughter, and the occasional “fuck them” or “fuck the Company” floats through the air. I bury myself in a book, flick through TV channels, call NYC, and pour myself a drink—something I would do a lot more of in the coming days. In short, I avoid.

There’s a knock at my door. I open it, and it’s one of the dead.

“Fuck you,” she says, her voice sharp. “You’re so goddamn cold,” she accuses. “I thought you were my friend, and you can’t even say goodbye.”

She slams the door in my face. Tears immediately spring to my eyes. She’s right. "I’m cold," I think to myself.

I turn up the volume on the TV to drown out the hurt, and just stare at the wall, feeling the weight of her words. I try to walk it off, pacing around the room, then I walk to the door of the party, reach for the knob, but then turn away. I go home.

Later, I lie in bed, staring up at the ceiling.

My alarm clock blares, yanking me out of a nightmare. In it, a giant rodent wearing white gloves is chasing me, laughing as it corners me. I swear off vodka for the moment.

I rush downstairs to start the coffee, rooting through the cupboard for saucers and cups. I pour the coffee, stack the cups, and head door-to-door, offering coffee to the dead who are still packing. “Keeps your mind off things,” I tell myself. I help drag luggage to the parking lot, ringing buzzers to check if all the dead are accounted for.

I hug and kiss people as they pile into the vans, saying, “I’ll see you soon.” They drive off. I wave, blow kisses, but crumble inside as they disappear.

When I return to my place, rehearsal is still on. "Lots to do," they say. "A lot." We were supposed to have a spokesperson from the Company come in and give us a lecture on the history of the Company. But honestly, no one has the energy to be inspired today. The last thing anyone wants is more pixie dust shoved in our faces.

Then she walks in. A new executive—our “help” to cope with everything that’s gone down. She enters the room in a power red suit. It’s the only color she’ll ever be seen in.

One of her faces smiles in a way that’s almost reassuring, while the other one says, Don’t fuck with me.

We all smile meekly back, our spirits crushed. God help us.

We aren’t allowed to talk about the dead. That’s a direct order from Power Suit. The air in the room is thick with unspoken words. We all wander around with blank stares, our souls wounded.

And so, we rehearse. And rehearse. And rehearse. I kick old shrimp off the carpet, already starting to rot from some previous party. I look at my reflection in the stretched mylar, wondering when I aged so much overnight.

Then the announcement: drug testing will begin. I wonder to myself if vodka counts as a drug.

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