26
The next day I still feel like a loser for not being able to bring her home with me, but she kisses me on her way out the door for a job interview at an investment firm. I’m glad she’s got something to focus on that will bring her back to the city.
I kick my trainers aside, but still can’t find the shoes I’m looking for. Why does this happen every time I have an audition? "Ryan, have you seen my Topsiders?"
"Can't help you, man," Ryan says.
"And where the hell did I put that folder of papers? Dammit."
I rifle through the newspapers and magazines on the coffee table. Ryan's lying on the couch watching Say Yes to the Dress. He pulls the folder off the floor next to the coffee table and hands it to me.
"Thanks. You're a lifesaver."
"Hey, Tom, got a sec." He mutes the telly and sits up.
"Sure, man." I spot my shoes in the corner and slip them on.
He scrubs his hand over his face. "I've decided to head back to Kansas City."
I startle and turn to face him. "What?"
"Yeah. I just heard I didn’t get that ensemble part. It was my last hope, and my uncle’s offered me a job at his fencing company."
"Damn, I'm sorry, mate." Ryan wanted this so bad and he's worked his ass off, but it just hasn't happened for him.
"I'll keep trying for regional theatre, but I've come to terms I'm not going to make it in New York."
I sigh. This sucks hard. "When are you leaving?"
Ryan hangs his head. "Tomorrow. I can catch a ride with a friend headed home for the holidays."
"That's fast." I hate to see him go. I've had to say goodbye to too many friends who left the business.
"Yeah. Might as well just rip the bandage off. Right?" He forces a smile. "Listen, I can't thank you enough for all your help. And I'll pay you back the rent money as soon as I'm back on my feet."
"Forget it."
"No. I'm good for it," he says.
"You'd have done the same for me."
That night at the show there's a new guy in the ensemble, Connor. The poor sod is making his Broadway debut, so of course, he's over eager and throwing off the timing. He keeps missing cues and hitting the wrong marks. At intermission I speak to Wes.
"Can you please do something about Connor? He's so high strung he almost fell into the pit during the last scene, not to mention when we rehearsed the fight scene earlier, he called me Mr. Oliver."
Wes laughs. "Poor kid threw up before curtain. I'll tell him to dial it back."
"Thanks."
Paige joins me. "Trouble with the new kid?"
"Yeah. Newbie nerves." We head for the stairs to our dressing rooms.
"Do you remember your first big show?"
"Barely, I was a snot-nosed know it all. You?"
"I was so nervous I didn't eat for two days before. I nearly fainted on stage from low blood sugar." She laughs.
Fifteen short minutes later, I'm stage left, leaning against a set piece as the second act begins. I can't deny my exhaustion. I need a break, but there won't be one anytime soon. Finishing my run and trying to find my next job at the same time has turned out to be a colossal bad idea.
This first scene is the stunt where I free fall ten feet to the arms of the guys below. While they've never dropped me, the last week or so has been sloppy, resulting in my strained back and numerous new bruises.
The scene opens and the music of the chase scene peaks. I climb the set piece to escape my pursuers. When I reach the highest point, Max pushes me off the wall into the angry mob below.
The fall is a mix of terrifying and euphoria. It goes perfectly and I'm tossed back and forth in our tightly choreographed fight. I love the physicality of the show, it helps me stay in character and ups my energy, but as we work through the staged moves, I'm suddenly blindsided with a direct kick in the teeth.
I go down.
Hard.
Doubled over, the coppery taste of blood hits me. I move my tongue and discover I've lost a tooth. I'm about to moan fuck when I remember my mic is live and the audience might not appreciate the improvisation.
The orchestra plays on and the rest of the actors aren't sure how to keep going with me laid out on the stage. I rise to my knees, one hand pressed to my lips as I try to hold my tooth in place with my tongue so I don't swallow it along with a mouthful of blood.
When I stand and move my hand, blood gushes into my palm. I glance into the wings hoping Wes is paying attention. The orchestra stops in sudden waning of strings and horns. Wes's voice comes over the speakers, "There will be a ten minute delay of show."
I give the audience a slight wave that I'm fine as the curtain suddenly drops.
Connor is in my face. "I'm so sorry, Mr. Oliver. Are you okay?"
I grimace, not trusting myself to speak. Jordan is at my shoulder, guiding me to the wings while I concentrate on catching dripping blood so it isn't spewed all over.
"Jesus, Tom, what the hell happened?" Wes says.
I gesture to the handwringing rookie shadowing me and grab a seat next to the lines. Someone smartly sets a wastebasket below me where I finally let loose and spit blood, catching my front tooth in the process.
"Looks like I'll need new head shots," I mutter with my head hung over the trash and my hands coated in blood like a scene out of Carrie.
Wes pats my shoulder, relieved I'm coherent. Someone hands me paper towels that I press to my mouth, which throbs like a son of a bitch.
"Can we get lights back here, and someone bring towels." Wes turns to Jordon, from the ensemble, who is also my understudy. "Jordan, be ready if I need you to step in."
Based on my inability to bounce back into action, which is what I've done every other time I've received a stray punch to the gut or kick to the groin, combined with the excitement on Jordan's face, he's already figured this out.
"Tom, how you doing?" Wes asks.
I gingerly touch each of my front teeth to see if any others are loose or missing. Thank God, they aren't. "Other than a fat lip, a lithp, and a gaping hole in my mouth, I'm ready to rock and roll."
"Can I take a look?"
I lean my head back and pull away the blood-soaked paper towel. He shines his flashlight on my mouth and flinches. "Eh, yeah. Jordan, you're in." Wes clicks off the flashlight. "Your mouth looks like hell. Let's have someone get you to your dressing room and we'll call a dentist."
"I can make it on my own. It's my tooth that's broken, not my legs," I say flippantly. This is the last thing I need right now.
Tanya appears out of nowhere. "I'll help you."
She takes hold of me as if I broke my arm, not my tooth, and guides me all the way to my dressing room.
"Unfucking believable!" I toss my broken tooth on the table.
"You're not having a very good time of it are you?" She grabs a hand towel from the rack and runs it under cold water.
I drop into the chair in front of the lighted mirror. I pull away the paper towel to reveal a puffy split lip, my front tooth broke off at the gum line, and a gash in my gum. Shit. I'm supposed to have an audition tomorrow. I sure as hell won't get the part if I look like this. A trace of blood seeps from the cut. I push the paper towel back into place. My hands are covered in blood, and, despite my efforts, blood is smeared across the front of my costume.
"No, it's not been a good couple of days." I sit back while she wrings out the towel and hands it to me. The cold cloth is soothing against my swelling mouth.
Before long I hear Wes over the speaker. "Standing in for the role of Jake Hammond will be Jordan Ried." There are groans of disappointment from the audience, which gives me a slight bit of satisfaction, but Jordan's a nice chap. He'll do a good job.
In the background I hear the show continue and Jordon speaking my lines. It'll be a fun story for him to tell when asked if he's ever had to jump in at the last minute. For me, I can't imagine when tonight's debacle will be party fodder.
Tanya takes another wet towel and starts dabbing at the blood spots on my face and arms, and generally hovering over me. I take the towel from her, put my feet up on my dressing table, and close my eyes while I wait to hear the plan. A few minutes later, Wes appears with a slip of paper and Janet with an ice pack.
"Here's the address of the dentist that'll see you tonight. Do you have someone to go with you?" He leans against my dressing table.
"I'll take him," Tanya says. "If you don't mind waiting until the show's over, I can change quick."
Janet cracks open the ice pack and shakes it, then hands it to me, hiding a smirk.
"I can take you," says a familiar voice from the doorway.
I swing around and there’s Chelsea out of breath and filled with concern, but looking like a ray of sunshine on this shitstorm of a day.
"Where'd you come from?" I mumble, my mouth half stuffed with the towel.
Wes heads for the door. "Give me a call and let me know what's going on as soon as you know. Don't worry how late it is."
Chelsea blushes. "You know."
Of course, she was in the audience. At this rate she’s going to go broke buying tickets.
Tanya, who is lingering next to me, rolls her eyes. Janet smiles. I pull the towel away and find the bleeding has subsided. The cold must help. "Good thing, cuz I need a new toof." I smile, revealing the gaping hole in my mouth.
"Ouch!" She flinches. "You sure you're okay?" She's at my side patting my shoulder, her brow furrowed.
"I've been better."
"Come on, Tanya. He’s in good hands." Janet practically drags Tanya to the door.
I gaze up at Chelsea. "You get to be my babysitter for the evening."
"More likely your nurse maid," she says.
"Oh? I could get into that." I laugh, which tugs at my swollen lip and starts it bleeding again.
Tanya huffs as Janet pulls the door closed behind them.
"Is it just me, or does that woman hate me?" Chelsea stares at the door.
"She's harmless. Can you give me a hand, please?"
“Sure, but if you ask me, I’d say she’s making a play for you.”
“But I only have eyes for you.” Chelsea helps me off with my shirt. I clean the blood off my face and hands, change into street clothes, and drape my bloodied costume over a chair. I consider calling my agent, but decide to wait until I know more. Chelsea slings my backpack over her shoulder while I put on my coat, scarf, and hat. With a fresh wad of tissues in my hand we make our way to the street while the show goes on without me. An experience I despise.
We take the D Train uptown. I lay my head back and try to keep my tongue away from the sharp edge of my broken tooth, but it naturally finds its way there. My mind flits to my schedule for the next few days. Tomorrow is an important call back, I have the show, and I need to learn sides for the next two auditions. Add to that I need to find Christmas gifts for my entire family and something special for Chelsea.
I'm starting to freak out, but then I look at Chelsea who rushed to my side. I'm a lucky man, and I don't intend to let her get away. And now that I think of it, my trip home couldn't come at a better time and not just for some overdue time off.
The dentist explains that I need a root canal. Fuck. And a crown. Double fuck. The good news is that he'll do the root canal tonight and the crown tomorrow morning.
While my mouth is numbing from a shot of Novocaine, I call Sean to see if we can move my call back. He promises to let me know first thing in the morning.
I call Wes and explain the situation. While the dentist gives me full clearance to be back on stage tomorrow night, Wes insists they can get along without me for one more day, which is a sucker punch on top of the kick to the teeth I already got.
An hour and a half later when I return to the waiting room, a proud survivor of my first root canal, a drowsy-eyed Chelsea waits patiently.
"Let's see?"
I give her a toothless grin.
She cringes. "Where's your new tooth?"
"We figured it wasn't worth the time to build a temporary one when I'll be getting the crown in the morning anyway."
"They can do it that fast?"
"Call it the magic of show business. When money's involved, anything can happen."
The subway is quiet this time of night, mostly shuttling people on their way home from working the late shift. We ride in silence but get off a stop early to hit the all night pharmacy and fill a prescription for painkillers. The moment we're home, Chelsea insists I take a one.
"It's not bad," I say through a numb upper lip.
"And we're going to keep it that way. You need to sleep." She fetches a glass of water.
"But I've gotta get up in the morning to prepare for a meeting."
“Under the circumstances don’t you think you should cancel it?”
“If I can I will, but this is a very important…meeting.”
She sighs and holds out a pill and the glass of water. “Here.”
The next morning Sean calls to say he couldn't change my call back, so I prep for it while on my way to the dentist. By the time I arrive at the audition three hours later, my upper lip is tingling as the medication wears off.
I knock out the audition, try to say all the right things to the assembled team, and hope I'm what they're looking for. Whipped, I catch the subway home. If there were frequent flier miles for subway rides, I'd have earned myself a trip around the world by now.
* * *
Monday afternoon Tom walks in as I’m sliding a roast in the oven. Despite losing his tooth after a kick to the mouth, he went right back to the show and was out all day. His shoulders sag as he slumps down on the couch. “You’re cooking. It smells good.”
“It’s the garlic and onions. Long day?”
He nods. “I’m winning the battle, barely, but losing the war.”
When he’s not at the theatre, he’s constantly preparing for or at another audition, but I’m learning not to ask about it. His non-stop schedule is insane and having me around probably makes it worse. I join him on the sofa. “Tell me about it.”
He kicks off his shoes and stretches onto his back with his head in my lap. “Eight shows a week for a year is kicking my ass. My throat is killing me and I feel a cold coming on. I bet Paige gave it to me. She was sick last week.”
I cringe. If he’s catching a cold from stage kisses with Paige, then will I get it? “Do you want some pain killers?” I run my fingers through his hair, pushing it off his forehead.
“I just took some an hour ago.”
I know how worried he gets about his voice. If it gives out, he can’t perform. His brow is creased. I massage my thumb and forefinger along his brow line.
“God, that feels good.” He closes his eyes and sighs. “I don’t know how much longer my body can hold up.”
“Can’t you call in sick tomorrow?”
“No.” His eyes pop open. “My name is on the marquee. People pay a lot of money expecting to see me, not my understudy. It’s one thing when a kick to the teeth forced me out, but the audience always feels let down when they don’t get the headliner.”
“Yeah, I suppose. But I hate watching you run yourself into the ground.”
He sighs. “The only way I know how to perform is to give everything I have. And I will keep showing up and putting my heart and soul on that stage until I physically can’t.”
His eyes connect with mine and his dedication is admirable and frustrating. He continues. “But that’s also why I can’t keep doing this show. I love it, but it’s killing me. At least I’ll have Christmas week off, and then I only have a few more weeks until I can take a real break for a bit. Then I can finally give you all my attention.”
“But you have all these auditions.”
“True, because I also need another job.”
I shake my head. It’s an impossible situation. I resume playing with his hair, lightly running my fingernails against his scalp.
He gazes up at me with a grateful smile, his eyelids growing heavy, and mumbles, “What should we do tonight?”
“You’re kidding, right? You can barely keep your eyes open.”
“No. I miss you, and I don’t want you to get bored with me gone all the time. Any luck with the job search?”
“Nah. The investment firm turned me down. I didn’t really like it anyway. Turns out it’s hard to find a job right before the holidays. Now how about you relax for a while? Just close your eyes and let everything else drift away.”
His eyes open wider revealing flecks of gray along with the clear blue. “You’re bewitching me, aren’t you?”
I laugh and resume grazing my fingertips over his forehead, cheeks, and lips. “Trying to. Would you please stop talking and close your eyes.”
He kisses my hand and closes his eyes. “Promise you won’t go anywhere?”
“I wouldn’t dream of it.”
Within minutes, his breathing shifts to slow and steady. His face relaxes in slumber and he looks younger, peaceful, the burdens he carries are released for now. I admire his strong cheekbones, his straight narrow nose and solid jaw. How did I get so lucky? “I love you, Tom,” I whisper, and he sleeps on.
When he shifts to roll over, I slip out from under him, placing a pillow under his head and a blanket over his lanky form.
Two hours later, he appears in the kitchen yawning and rubbing his head. “Something smells delicious.”
I’m elbows deep whisking a flour mixture into juices from a roast. “Good. I hope you’re hungry.”
“I’m famished. What are you making?”
“Gravy.” I glance at him quick for his reaction, then back to my bubbling sauce. “I know you don’t usually eat anything with fat, but tough. You’re exhausted and working yourself to death. You need comfort food and calories.”
“Yes, ma’am,” he says in way too agreeable tone.
I glance at him. “No argument?”
He sneaks his arms around my waist and says into my ear, “When a beautiful woman wants to make me a dinner that smells this good, I’m not about to argue.” He kisses my neck.
“Good.”
“Where did you learn to cook like this?” he asks carrying the platter of roast beef, potatoes, and carrots to the table.
“My mom. She made a roast every Sunday in the fall and winter.” I set a lettuce salad next to it. “When I was little, she’d push a stool up to the stove and have me stir the juices from the roast while she poured in the flour mixture. By the time she got sick, I was a pro.”
We take a seat and he looks ready to devour the whole thing. “I had no idea you could cook.”
“You’ve been obsessed with eating skinless chicken and spinach smoothies, so I haven’t had much chance,” I say pointing my fork at him. “Mom taught me a few recipes before she died. I make a mean meatloaf too. I have her recipe box. People don’t use them anymore, but I love it because it’s got her handwriting on the recipes. Some are even written by my grandmother.”
“She’s gone too?” He lifts his fork to take a bite.
“Yeah, the same cancer as my mom.”
Tom lowers his fork. “Are you worried you might get it?”
It’s obvious it worries him. “I was for a while, but then I had genetic testing done in college. By some miracle I don’t carry the same gene. It’s the one good thing my dad ever gave me, healthy DNA."