Final Act by Dianne Yetman (best free ebook reader .TXT) 📕

your skinny ass and go find it before the cast has to eat with their fingers.”

Andrew watched him scurry away.  It should take him no more than five minutes to find it.  And then it came, just as he hoped, the expected question.

“Why do you keep him on”, the tall, skinny one asked.

He smiled at the two worried looking men.  “Ed’s not that bad really.  He does his job the best he can but he’s not had an easy life.  His wife took sick years ago and his sons are useless.  Jeffrey wanted him gone, but I fought to keep him.  Just didn’t have the heart to kick someone when they’re down.”

A hint of a smile on the skinny one’s face.  The short, heavy one looked stern.  “Are you willing to take the risk of no silverware because you feel sorry for the man.”

“Of course not.  There’s no real danger, I spouted off to a fire under Ed’s butt.  Can’t have him complacent.   When I discovered the silverware was missing, I sent Brenda Parsons, my assistant, off to Wal-Mart in a taxi to pick up another set.  She should be back any moment. I’ll return it tomorrow if Ed turns up the missing one.”

The two men said nothing but Andrew knew he had their approval and the three of them headed back towards centre stage at a more leisurely pace.

From the large, common dressing room, a chorus of laughter, jokes, shouts, and curses melded together into a bizarre orchestration of excitement and spilled out into the hallway. It was music to Andrew’s ears for he loved the theatre, the excitement, the chaos, the stress.  All of it. It was the reason he got out of bed in the morning and it was the reason he had hood winked the two bozos tagging along with him.

The theatre and the Director’s chair was centre to his hopes but not the only reason he got up in the morning.  There was Rusty, his Golden Retriever, his Dashiell Hammett collection, his single malt whiskey and until a week ago, there was Stella. Darling Stella, the bitch betrayer, who slept with the talent scout. The sleaziest schemer in town.

Time to demonstrate how well thought he was by the cast and crew.  He stuck his head in the door of the common dressing room, waved and shouted hello, hoping for a big response.  Not too bad.  Some waved, said hello but others didn’t notice him; they were too busy jostling for mirror space, applying makeup, or adjusting their costumes.

He continued on, the two men rubber necking behind him, passing more actors in the hallway, some who were pacing, others rehearsing their lines, and the more introverted, insecure ones were sitting Zen-like on chairs in empty rooms.  From the costume/design room, the shouts of two actors arguing over scene stealing assaulted their ears. He ignored them and winked at the Board members a knowing wink.

Coming down the home stretch, a dressing room door opened that Andrew was sure would have stayed shut until it was time for the toast.  No such luck.  Charlotte Beauvoir, aka Big Mama, stood centre hallway blocking his path, motion unleashed - emerald costume jewellery on the move, necklace springing out from the fat folds of her neck, dangling ear rings swinging two and fro, plastic rings on her right wrist clacking and her ample, heaving bosom.

Damn, deep breath.  Here we go.

“Andrew, I was just setting out to find you.  Something has to be done about the noise.  Those morons may not be serious about their roles, and that’s why they can’t get within sniffing distance of a lead, but I’m trying to focus, get in character.  Speak to them, please, ask them to show some consideration for others.”

“Impossible, Charlotte; it’s the last night and their adrenaline is flowing faster than a New York City fire hydrant.  Relax.  You’re a pro; your performance won’t be hurt.  I know your powers of concentration – phenomenal.  Tune them out, dear heart, just like you do the Director.”

Amused and appeased, she tweaked his left cheek and closed the door.

More approving glances.

When the next one to open a dressing room door, Andrew wasn’t surprised.  He had hoped his timing would be good.  Now he had his chance to really show his stuff for the person who opened the door wouldn’t be so easy to appease.  Tall, gangly, Philip Lawson, aka angst driven Rick, was a powerhouse among actors. His skills were admired and envied by all who worked with him.

He had a problem though, a big problem.  The man was a quaking, quivering mess on the first and the final performance of every play.  Never bothered by the performances in between.  But on these nights, the thought of the rising curtain draining his confidence.  Andrew had worked with him on two previous plays and had coaxed, cajoled, and manipulated the terrified actor to go on stage.

Wringing his hands, voice quavering, Philip made his appeal. “Look, Andrew, I’m sorry but I’m in an awful state.  I don’t know if I can go on stage tonight.  My guts are in knots, I can’t breathe.  It’s really got a grip on me.  I’m scared shitless.”

“Calm down, Philip, you’ll be okay.  You always are.”

“I don’t think I can do it, honestly.  Can you get John, stand-in?  I can’t go on.”

“Listen, Philip, if you don’t go on, nobody goes on.  You’re the lead. John, your stand-in’s, left town for a try out in Toronto.  He checked with me this afternoon to get the ok. I gave it to him Philip because I knew I could count on you.  Listen; can you hear the noise back there?  It’s your colleagues.  They can’t contain their excitement.  They just want to go out there on the night of the last performance and give their all.  Are you going to deny them?  Can you do that to them?  And what about all those people filing into the theatre, making