Local Drama

	Nick Cardinal sat backstage rubbing his palms together nervously. “There is no reason to get scared about this,” he told himself. Come on, this was a community theatre production; it wasn’t like anyone would be expecting professional quality. But still – even in the wings he could hear the musical director singing along in full voice falsetto with the struggling soprano lead. He repeated his three lines over and over in his head, his hands growing sweaty in anticipation. “I will not screw this up, I will not screw this up…”
	Michael Chamberlain waved his baton furiously, in a subconscious effort to drag the orchestra along with him in his auditory vision. The violins screeched nearly a half-step out of tune with each other and the piano tinkled merrily away from any recognizable beat. Michael beat his baton on a music stand to guide his group back to the tempo, ignoring the harsh clanking sound and its effect on the gentle, romantic solo. He resorted to shouting each measure out loud, “ONE TWO THREE FOUR,” occasionally attempting to draw the soloist back into synch with the instrumentation by shrieking the melody line at her.
	Alyssa sat in the back row with Lindsay, trying as best she could to tune out the snide comments her friend kept making. Lindsay did not like musicals. She found them to be primarily “insufferable kitsch,” to quote her. Alyssa kept her mouth shut and even nodded in agreement, because Lindsay always had the fashionable opinion. Lindsay, with her short red hair and slick Gap clothes, armed with thousands of quotes and positions and cynicism and superiority, was a force to be reckoned with. So Alyssa tried to smile when Lindsay made fun of the orchestra or insulted the actors or scoffed at the choreography. She even tried to insert a few of her own criticisms every once and a while. But before too long Lindsay’s blithe conversational volume and total disregard for the effort put into the performance, shabby as it might be, began to wear on Alyssa’s nerves as she slumped in her seat and tried to pretend to be uninterested in the goings on onstage, despite her growing urge to stand up and scream, “you don’t know what the hell you’re talking about, so shut up or leave, ok?!”
	Rose Timberland sat on the edge of the bench in the dressing room, her stockinged feet swinging several inches above the floor. Her mother was hurting her as she tried to fix the precocious seven year old’s hair, but Rose was willing to grin and bear it. She liked plays, especially being in them, and especially being in them with Kurt. Kurt was Rose’s special friend. He told her he was just a kid like her, but she knew he could drive and smoke cigarettes and talk in a big deep voice just like a grown up. He always smiled at her and shared candy and played with her backstage and was never too busy to talk to her. Mom didn’t like him much; she said he was a bad influence, whatever that meant, but Rose didn’t especially care.
	Rose’s Mom jerked on her bow and Rose flinched a little. Then Mom said she was done, and the girl skipped off the bench and raced up the stairs into the wings.
	“Hi Mr. Nick,” she whispered.
	“Hey Rose,” Nick said with a strained smile.
	“Do I go on yet?” she continued in her loud, breathy whisper.
	“Not for another three scenes, hon,” Nick said with the same fake smile. Rose didn’t think he liked kids very much. And she couldn’t understand why he got so worked up about three little lines. Rose had more than that, and she was only seven, but it didn’t scare her a bit.
	She scampered back down the stairs and politely asked the stage manager if she could go outside. May’s eyes bulged a little – Rose knew for a fact that she hated kids – and nodded curtly. “Just don’t make any noise,” the woman hissed at her.	Rose tried to get out the heavy back door as quietly as she could, feeling very grown up and responsible in her silence.
	She skipped around the back of the theater until she found Kurt sitting on a pile of unused lumber smoking a cigarette. 
	“Hi Kurt!” she said brightly.
	Kurt looked around and smiled, his dark eyes flashing. “Hey kiddo,” he answered, flicking his cigarette to the ground and crushing it with his boot. Kurt was an Indian Fakir in the play, so he was dressed in a black billowy silk shirt and big baggy black pants with a turban on his head that made Rose giggle every time she saw him.
	“Yeah, laugh it up,” he’d say, and then pull off the turban and plop on her head. “Who looks funny now?”
	“How are you doing?” Rose asked, jumping down to sit beside him.
	Kurt sighed and rolled his head back and forth. “I’m doing. And yourself?”
	Rose made a face. “Mom keeps telling me she doesn’t want me to talk to you ‘cause you’re a bad influence.”
	He laughed. “Maybe you should listen to your mother more often.” He looked longingly at the half-finished cigarette smoldering on the ground.
	Rose shook her head decisively. “She’s just wrong sometimes. Because I know you’re good,” she said, slipping her hand into his. Kurt blinked, a little surprised at how hard the words hit him.
	“Thanks, kiddo, that means more to me than you know,” he addressed the top of her curly brown hair.
	“Rose!” May yelled sticking her head out the door. “It’s your scene! Get the hell inside!”
	“How come she can make all the noise she wants,” grumbled Rose, getting up to go back onstage.
	Kurt grinned. “Life’s not fair, you’ve just got to learn how to cheat it.” He watched her flounce back inside and lit up another cigarette.
	Nick was thinking that this had been a bad time to quit smoking. Then he heard his entrance cue line. He took a deep breath and shot onstage. He spit his three lines out in rapid-fire accuracy and all but leapt offstage before the male lead was even done dismissing his character. Nick stumbled down the stairs and slipped outside. He leaned against the wall, breathing heavily. He jumped when he saw Kurt sitting there, watching him with badly hidden amusement.
	“How’d it go?” the kid asked, blowing out smoke.
	“I think…I think it went pretty well… are you old enough to be smoking?”
	Kurt smiled. “Yep. Turned eighteen yesterday.” He took a deep drag.
	Nick wrestled with his inner demons for approximately three seconds before rushing on the kid. “Then give me one, too.”
	Kurt handed him a cigarette saying, “I thought you were trying to quit.”
	“Oh well. Got a lighter?” 
	The kid tossed him one.
	Nick’s hands shook as he fumbled with the lighter. Finally Kurt got up and lit it for him.
	“Thanks,” muttered Nick.
	“Why do you do this if it makes you so nervous?” Kurt asked, his eyes still laughing.
	“Self-purification or something. I don’t know. You?”
	The lanky eighteen year old sighed and leaned against the wall next to Nick. “It doesn’t make me nervous. It gives me something to do, I guess. Keeps me out of trouble.”
	“Oh does it, now?”
	“What’s that supposed to mean?”
	“I’m a janitor at the courthouse. Heard you got arrested for possession a few months back.”
	Kurt raised his eyebrows. “Yeah, I did. Sucked, too. But you know, I still got a pretty good scholarship to Columbia University.”
	Nick smiled too, seeing the spark of defense in the kid’s eyes. “Way to go. Columbia like New York City, Columbia?”
	Kurt nodded. “Mm hm. I’m getting the hell out of here.”
	“Well, good luck to you.”
	“Thanks, man.”
	“And thanks for the cigarette.”
	“Anytime.”

	When Kurt first appeared onstage Lindsay busted into a peal of laughter. “What does he have on his HEAD?” she gasped between giggles.
	Alyssa couldn’t control herself any longer. “It’s not like they have the money to get nice costumes, ok? Give ‘em a break. Christ.”
	Lindsay lifted her hands in the air. “Shit, sorry.”
	And Alyssa thought Kurt actually looked pretty good in his Fakir outfit, although she’d never admit it to Lindsay. And when he started singing some sort of chant in that gorgeous bass voice of his – never mind the orchestra missed the music cue and the alto sax started playing the wrong song – she felt all her insides start churning desirously.
	Lindsay leaned over to comment again and Alyssa thought she might seriously slap her. “This is so funny. He acts like such a badass at school and he’s dancing around with a TURBAN on his head. Even though it looks nice,” she added quickly. A few elderly ladies turned around and gave the girls a dirty look. “What?” Lindsay snarled. One small old lady turned around and shushed her.
	Lindsay rolled her eyes. “I hate this town,” she muttered. 
Alyssa sank even further in her seat and tried to focus wholly on Kurt. Kurt was one of those people who’d never talk to her at school. He was in her advanced chemistry class, and every once and a while would ask to borrow a pencil or something, but other than that she’d never really spoken to him. She knew he was really smart, but she also knew he smoked pot and didn’t believe in God and hung out with a bunch of “skanks and stoners” as Lindsay termed them. But Alyssa had noticed his beautiful dark eyes and his friendly smile, and it made her wish that maybe someday he’d say hi to her or ask her for her phone number or something.
Lindsay shifted her weight in the seat, making it creak and groan loudly. She did this several times before turning to Alyssa and saying, “ok, this sucks, let’s get out of here.”
Alyssa started to agree, but then a sudden wave of resolve swept over her. “You go ahead and go. I’m just gonna stay here.” She turned to Lindsay, who was giving her a look of disgusted disbelief, and batted her eyelashes over her pretty gray eyes to affirm her rebellion. Lindsay stared at her for a second, then said, “Ok, fine, I guess I’ll call you later.”
“Ok,” Alyssa whispered sweetly, and smiled to herself as Lindsay made a noisy exit.
In the next row up, Lyta Holland ignored the commotion behind her. Kids. Lyta had been a teenager once too, and she could appreciate the restlessness of the up and coming generation. She was a large older woman, about seventy five years old. Her proportions somehow suited her. She resembled more than anything a tastefully dressed royal elephant, with all an elephant’s age, wisdom, and majesty in her countenance. Her hair was silvery and thinning, but always impeccably arranged. She wore a tasteful amount of makeup, which was not needed to show the natural beauty of her wrinkled face. Her eyes were sharp green and flashed intelligence and independence in all directions when she looked around a room. She moved slowly and regally at all times and in all movements. Now she was sitting, wrapped in her silk black shawl, enjoying the performance of The Secret Garden. Lyta had been to Paris, London, Rome, and Vienna, but no where had she found a theater troop that gave her as much satisfaction as the Ozark Players. It was far from professional, to be sure, but she loved the intense and serious effort that went into it.
Michael gesticulated frantically, half in ecstasy and unable to hear the shrieking cacophony his orchestra had disintegrated into, trying to follow his erratic conducting, not to mention the chorus on stage, which had simply stopped trying. The conductor shot a dirty look at Derek, the percussionist, who stared innocently back over the timpani. Michael hadn’t wanted him involved, but wasn’t about to say anything as he didn’t want to be seen as a racist. And he wasn’t a racist; he just didn’t want colored people in his peaceful hometown, that’s all. And Derek struck him as cocky and dangerous. He made every effort he could to antagonize him to the point of dropping his involvement with the Ozark players. But the little prick had dug his heels in; Michael could swear that he had guessed the older man’s prejudice and was staying just to spite him. Even now, as the two locked eyes, Michael thought he saw a trace of contempt and a definite shade of mockery in Derek’s brown eyes. He broke the stare and tried to get his mind back on the score. Derek laughed to himself behind the drums.
Lester Roads was still kicking himself for accidentally starting “Lily’s Eyes” in the middle of Kurt’s solo. Now he held his sax gingerly between his lips, half afraid to blow into it again. His intonation was not quite up to par tonight. Lester was easy going as a general rule, but music was one thing he did take very seriously. He played the bass guitar, any variety of saxophone or clarinet, the trombone, and the piano far better than he would ever admit to anyone except, occasionally, shyly, the bathroom mirror. He eventually reclaimed his nerves and blew out a sweet, mellow note to close the first act, accidentally hanging over the cut off. Chamberlain shot him a go-to-hell look which he ignored. He saw Michael as a pompous idiot and held him in particularly low esteem.
The house lights came up, a warm yellow glow, and the audience struggled to adjust to the light change. Then slowly, gradually, the murmuring wave of conversation and squeaking seats rose toward the pitifully inadequate restroom facilities.
“It’s just wonderful, don’t you think?”
“You know, that Mr. McGarity – he’s my lawyer, you know, but I never knew he could sing like that.”
“I’d love to be involved in these things, but I could never get in front of all those people –“
	“We may just be a small town , but I’d put these guys up in front of a Broadway crowd any day of the week.”
	“It’s so nice to see the young people involved in the community like this. Why, just the other day some juvenile delinquent spray painted my cat Mouser neon orange-“
	“I just think the costumes are WONDERFUL.”
	“Does the orchestra have to have those violins? They’re giving me a headache.”
	“Did you see that black drummer? Maybe our little corner of the world is getting a little bigger.”
	“Oh, that man playing the hunchback fellow – he’s my preacher and the other day at our church picnic –“
	“I don’t know about all this Indian magic broo ha ha – doesn’t seem quite Christian to me.”
	“Now, could you tell me exactly what the story is again? I just can’t keep up with it.”
	“Why, good evening, Ms. Holland, enjoying the show?”
	Lyta smiled graciously. “Yes, I think they’re doing a fabulous job.” She turned as quickly as she could before Mrs. Young could attempt to proselytize her into coming to her Baptist Wednesday night service. “Why, hello, Alyssa, enjoying the show?”
	Alyssa turned, startled. “Well, yeah.. umm, yes ma’am.”
	Lyta grinned. “Don’t call me ma’am, young lady, it makes me feel old. Your father’s doing wonderfully. And I never knew he could sing.”
	Alyssa stared at the ground. “Yeah, neither did he. This makes him SO nervous.”
	“I can imagine. I’ll gladly cough up the money to support the performing arts, but my involvement ends when the lights go up. And where are you headed to college next year?”
	The girl shrugged. “Haven’t really thought about it. I’ll probably go to UCA, maybe Hendrix.”
	Lyta raised her eyebrows. “Thought about going out of state?”
	“Not really.”
	Lyta looked around and lowered her voice. “Now listen to me. You’re young and very intelligent and there’s a lot of world out there that this town chooses not to acknowledge. I highly recommend you take a look at some of it before you settle down.”
	“Well, you came back here eventually,” Alyssa retorted, then realized how rude she sounded and nonverbally apologized with her eyes. Lyta took no offense.
	“True, true, I thought maybe I could do some good, try to introduce some culture to the area. And I think I have, a little. But this isn’t a place to be young in, this is a place for age. Trust me.”
	“Ok,” Alyssa said uncomfortably.	
	Lyta broke the moment by suddenly smiling. “Well, I’ve made you shuffle around and stand up straight long enough. Tell your father excellent job for me, and take some advice from an old lady; life is short. Take it for all it’s worth.”
	Alyssa smiled politely. “Thank you, Ms. Holland. I’ll tell Dad.”
	Outside behind the theatre, the cast and the orchestra were congregating, smoking, talking, frantically reading lines.
	“Derek, my man, what’s up?” Kurt said with a smile, slapping palms with the percussionist.
	“Not much, not much. And yourself?”
	Kurt shrugged. “I’m here, I guess. How’s Shayla?”
	“She’s good. We’re thinking about moving back to Kansas City.”
	“Why, had enough of the racism capital of the world?”
	Derek laughed sarcastically. “I’ll tell you what, this is the most homogenous shithole I have ever seen.”
	“That’s why I’m getting the hell out the second I graduate. I mean, ideally, I’d have a helicopter waiting at the end of the graduation stage and just jump in and fly off.”
	Derek lit a cigarette. “I’m thinking about going back to school. Getting a doctorate.”
	Kurt whistled. “Have at it, man.”
	“And, you know, it is a little tiresome being stared at every time I’m in public. You know, kids peeking around the corners – ‘oo, look at it, I wonder if we can feed it?’”
	The teenager laughed. “Yeah, I’d imagine. I respect you for coming here though. You really love that girl that much?”
	He sighed. “Sure do. But the fact that we’re an interracial couple doesn’t exactly make it easier.”
	“It’d be perfect if she was a man.”
	“And we were Jewish.”
	“I’d almost be gay and convert to Islam and marry a Mexican immigrant just to piss off this town.”
	Derek slapped him on the shoulder. “How about you just get out of high school without getting into any more trouble and go to college, huh?”
	“That would make sense, I guess.”
	Rose ran up behind Kurt and goosed him. “Woa, hey!” he yelled. “Do you know who you’re messing with, young lady?” He grabbed her and started tickling her.	
	“Stop it!” she shrieked, laughing hysterically.
	Nick watched from a few feet away. He liked Kurt. The kid was fundamentally decent, even if he did screw up now and then. In fact, the truth of the matter was, Nick was a little jealous. He’d screwed around in high school, too, for the same reasons. Extreme boredom. Apathy. The grades came easily and there were no real challenges. He could have gotten out too – he was accepted to every college he applied to, if only he hadn’t gotten Shannon pregnant. She refused to have an abortion and he refused to abandon her. So now they lived in a trailer and he worked any job that would pay the bills and feed the kid, whom they both all but actively resented. Nick wanted to tell Kurt all about it so that the same thing wouldn’t happen to him, but one thing Nick remembered about being eighteen was that you had to make your own mistakes for yourself. Otherwise, how could you call it your own life?
	“So tell me about New York again,” Rose said breathlessly after the tickling war died down.
	Kurt grinned at her. “Well, there’s all kinds of people there. And a lot of pigeons.”
	“Can you feed them?”
	“Probably. And there are rats the size of dogs in the sewers –“
	“Can you feed them too?”
	“You’re not scared of rats?”
	“I’m not scared of anything. Mom is, though. Rats are just – misunderstood,” she concluded sagely.
	“That’s so true,” he said, barely suppressing a laugh.
	“You’re like a rat.”	
	“Oh, thanks, Rose.”
	“Not many people like you, Mom’s scared of you, but I think you’re interesting and I’d never try to poison you or trap you. If I found you in the sewer, I’d share my lunch with you any day.”
	“You’re a pal, kiddo.”
	She turned big serious blue eyes to him. “Will you marry me?”
	He took her hand. “I would, but your mom would crucify me.”
	“What’s ‘crucify’ mean?”
	“Uh… stick you up on a cross till you die.”
	“Like Jesus?”
	“Yeah, like Jesus.”
	She made a face of disgust. “Why would anybody want to do that to somebody?”
	“I wish I had an answer for that.”
	She thought for a moment. “Ok. I’ll tell you what. In ten years, when Mom can’t tell me what to do anymore and I’m all grown up, too, I’ll move to New York and then we can get married and feed pigeons.”
	He smiled at her. “It’s a deal, then. And even if it doesn’t work out, you’ll always be my number one girl.”
	“Of course I will, dummy. There’s no body else like me anywhere, even in New York”
	“I believe you.”
	“ROSE!” They both heard her mother yell. “Get over here right now!”
	The eight year old rolled her eyes. “Coming!” Kurt heard her declare in her crystal clear voice, “Guess what? Kurt and I are going to get married.”
	
	Alyssa sunk down into her chair, pleasantly alone and ready for the second act. She gradually realized as the orchestra started up and the curtains opened that she was really waiting for Kurt to take the stage again. And she was thinking about coming back the next night just to see him again. She was ashamed to be thinking this, but at the same time a little excited to be continuing her rebellion against Lindsay. Lindsay would have a shit fit if she found out Alyssa had a crush on Kurt.

	Lester reluctantly removed his sax from his mouth. Lately especially, he’d been caught up in a constant urge to be playing something, even until his wrist ached or his lips bled and the music wouldn’t flow anymore. Music and marijuana had come to compose his entire existence.
	Lester wanted to go to Jouliard. He got accepted, but couldn’t come up with the money, so he’d gone to a state school and earned a degree in music education. But being a junior high band director hadn’t exactly fulfilled his life’s expectations, so he dropped the job, took up a management position at a fast food restaurant, gave private lessons in his spare time, and devoted his life to music in a town where, as far as he could see, there was nothing else to live for.

	So the play finished out the second act, and for that evening nearly half the community was wrapped up in another world, feeling emotions and experiences denied to them by every day life.

	Kurt took his bow, gave Rose a hug, said goodbye to Derek, and dashed backstage to grab his stuff. He changed quickly out of the admittedly ridiculous costume and into his customary baggy jeans and Jane’s Addiction tee shirt. He said a few more goodbyes and good jobs, and sauntered out into the parking lot, willingly leaving his respectable role as community actor and taking up once again the part of the suspicious-looking hoodlum.
	“Shit!” he yelled, when he discovered that he’d locked his keys in his car.
	“Problems?” he heard a female voice behind him.
	“Yeah, I locked my damn keys in my car.”
	Alyssa walked up beside him, unable to believe her luck. “Need a ride?”
	“Can I smoke in your car?”
	“Sure,” she shrugged, deciding to figure out how to get rid of the smell later.
	“I’m Alyssa, by the way.”
	He grinned. “I know who you are. Chemistry, right?”
	She nodded, trying not to laugh out loud to find out that he’d noticed her before.
	“I appreciate the ride, I really do,” he said, getting in the car and lighting up.
	“No problem,” she said, pulling it into drive.
	“Girls like you don’t usually talk to guys like me, so I really am grateful for the charity.”
	Alyssa glanced at him. “How do you know what kind of girl I am?”
	He raised an eyebrow. “Maybe I don’t, then.”
	“So I hear you’re going to New York next year?” she said conversationally.
	“Yeah,” he said, smiling. “I am getting the hell out of this town. How about you?”
	“We’ll see,” she said, and they drove off down streets they’d each seen a thousand times, by houses they’d visited all their lives, and thinking thoughts they’d never thought before, both relishing the foreign scent of change.