Exit Stage Fright
From where Andre sat he could hear the
booing loud and clear. The crowd was rowdy.
A voice spoke from outside the room,
"least they're not throwing tomatoes."
True enough, last week someone was hit
with an apple. Softer foods came to mind. Please, he thought, let the audience
have dry salad at the ready.
Someone stuck their head into the room.
He didn't see who, he was staring at the floor. All he heard was the opening of
the door and a woman's voice.
"Alright kid, you're up."
Andre stood with wobbly legs and left
the room. Maybe he could make it to the fire exit? Where was it again? No time,
his legs were already moving him through the dark backstage area. The others
whispered around him. One comedian had his head in his hands. He heard a
gravelly voice say "Knock em' dead kid." It reminded him of Mickey
from the Rocky films. Must have been an older comic or a stagehand, it might
have been the janitor for all he knew. Whoever it was had more confidence in
him than he had in himself.
Andre arrived at the big curtain. It
stood tall before him. Surely he'd be saved by way of butcher knife courtesy of
the Bates motel? No, all he could hear from the other side was the MC's
introduction. Please, he thought, say my name right. No, he rethought, say
someone else so I run back home.
The audience clapped weakly. Had his
name been said already? The MC appeared through the curtain not wearing his
mother's dress but a suit and tie instead. "Okay kid, good luck."
The time was now, through the curtain
he went, greeted by bright lights and a quiet audience. He felt a stir in his
stomach. He shook away thoughts of spilling his lunch and pseudo bravely
approached the microphone. Only now did he discover that his shoes weren't
fully tied. He stepped on lace and went down hard to the floor. Someone in the
audience gasped. Someone else coughed. The rest of the shadows were quiet.
He looked stage right and saw a woman
cover her mouth. She was holding a clipboard. Was she the one who said
"Alright kid, you're up"? Was she the one who released him from the safety
of the dressing room, the harbinger of misfortune? He hated her now. She
brought him nothing but terrible news. In the right light she might have been a
demon sent to torture comedians.
Andre went up to one knee and tied his
lace. Then he brought himself to both feet and felt the awkwardness of one shoe
being tied tighter than the other. He ignored the feeling and went towards the
waiting mic again. He felt pressure in his nose so he pinched it, stood in
front of the mic and kept his eyes on the ceiling. If he saw anything it was
the glare from the lights, shining bright like a glance from heaven. Save me,
he thought.
The audience waited like those who
await an execution, sitting on the other side of the glass, with uncaring faces
and anticipation in their hearts, none caring if the man is innocent, all waiting
to see eventuality.
"Well folks," he said
finally, "I think my nose is broken."
The audience erupted with laughter.
"No, seriously, this really
hurts."
More laughing followed that. He heard a
few people clapping. From there on he continued with his pre-written bit and
the audience laughed at everything he said. When he finished they cheered even
louder. Someone yelled "Encore!"
Andre went backstage, still holding his
nose and looking straight up. Guiding hands led him around the darkness and the
person with him spoke clearly over the audience. "You were great out
there!"
"I need a tissue," was all he
could say.
The guiding hands led him to the
restroom entrance.
"Here," said the voice.
"Clean up."
"Thank you," he said. He
didn't look down but he was sure it was the woman from earlier, the one who
sent him to the gallows. He couldn't hate her anymore. She hadn't done anything
wrong. She had done her job. Apparently, he had as well.
Into the restroom he went. He cleaned
up and looked at himself in the only mirror that wasn't broken. With a tissue
stuck in his nose he examined himself. His nose wasn't broken after all. He
felt a surge of confidence. He felt more confident now than ever before, bloody
nose, awkwardly tied shoes and all.
The performance seemed less important
than previously thought. The prior anxiety seemed distant, small. He felt
better, in the dirty restroom, with the bloody tissue hanging from his nose.
"That wasn't so bad," he told
himself.
Years later he'd recall the moment in
front of a packed house, his wife waiting in the wings, auditions piling up, the
ceiling's glare kind and bright.
