Chapter 6: THE 2:45 PREPARES FOR TAKEOFF – Part 2

 


Chapter 6: THE 2:45 PREPARES FOR TAKEOFF – Part 2

Rehearsal starts right up the next day, and now the stage is set for scenes and dance numbers, while the dressing room is reserved for vocal rehearsals. We begin with the dance numbers, re-learning what we learned yesterday, then changing what we learned last week. Half of what we learned two days ago gets tacked onto the end of what we learned twenty minutes ago. Then we re-learn what we were supposed to have learned but never quite did. My mind starts to spin; I can’t make sense of what I’m supposed to be learning. But we push on. Why are we even learning this?

Suddenly, a cast member screams, “I can’t take it anymore!” The music stops, and all heads snap around. “Several of our cast members have been fired and no one will talk about it!” she yells, tears streaming down her face. The room goes silent. Somewhere in America, a cow stops giving milk, children stop playing, and our shoulders slowly begin to rise. No one knows what to do, and no one will look anyone else in the eye.

Power Suit rises in the audience and begins her slow march down the ramp at the front of the stage, her heels clicking across the newly installed linoleum—the same linoleum laid down by the Cuban cast. “I did all I could do,” she says, addressing us in her practiced, measured tone. “It was beyond my control. We even called on Mr. E, and he couldn’t do anything.” She scans the room, daring anyone to challenge her version of events. I imagine her, somewhere in the background, calling Commissioner Gordon, trying to save someone’s job.

Tears begin to well up in her eyes, but we all know the truth. She’s been practicing this act, probably chopping onions backstage. As soon as the tears appear, they disappear. “We have to just do our jobs and move on,” she concludes with all the warmth of a cold, corporate philosophy. With that, she glides back down the ramp, exits through the entrance, and vanishes into the casino.

I’ve had enough. “Can we take a break?” I ask. The group nods, silent and defeated. I walk into the music room, which is still a Cuban showgirl dressing room, light a cigarette, and stare at my reflection in the mirror. Breathe, I tell myself. Breathe and relax. I begin to calm down, but then a giant rat scurries under my nose.

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