Chapter 5 Reefer Madness

The holes left in the show left by the dead are enormous, my job originally consisted of understudy to three major roles, now a fourth is assigned and I am in every single minute of all three shows. Understudy rehearsal for me begins in the bathroom, I carry my script and find I do greatest actor among the porcelain. The bathroom becomes my best friend; no one can bother you here. Now in times of stress my body thinks that it has to go. We all deal with the stress differently, my roommate blasts the Spice Girls 24 hours a day. Tell me what you want, what you really, really want? I want to snap that fucking CD in half my mind answers.

Fear has gripped us by the throat and we become smiling zombies eager to please. A change in our contract gets handed to us. We are told to sign it now, by the end of rehearsal day. It takes away what little rights we had. Sign it or leave on the 2:45 we are told. Later when someone messes up a step or flubs a line we mention the 2:45. The 2:45 gets closer and closer.

We have moved out of the carpeted rehearsal halls and into the theatre. We are all excited because Halloween is right around the corner. It is another chance to throw a party and we prepare. One of our cast members has been collecting bits of string and feathers left by a Cuban show that shares our rehearsal space. Our new space is a giant stage covered with a thin board that sits on top of 12 feet of concrete. My shins and back groan when I dance, keep smiling I tell myself.

The drug testing is now in full swing. I get to go in the last group because I tried pot I tell them, I just didn’t inhale it. This last group consists of people who have vigorously been taking Golden Seal; we laugh and wonder if it really works.

The drug testing takes place in the islands hospital. The clinic reminds me of those movies where people sit in a boat fleeing a country of horrible conditions. If I see a chicken sitting on someone’s lap in the waiting room, I’m out of here. The nurse jabs my arm with a needle for the fourth time trying to find a vein. Finally she thinks she’s found one and holds the needle to my arm with a thick band of tape. I haven’t given much blood before, but I’m sure that it's not supposed to hurt this much. When she is finished she removes the needle. I see that here is a giant bruise left on the inside of my arm, it’s actually four bruises that have grown together into one.

I’m supposed to return to rehearsal, but instead I go to the pool and lay in the sun. The waves behind my head crash onto the beach, leaving bits of discarded tampons, all is right with the world I say to myself, and I fall asleep.

I wake to the sound of children in the pool, and I collect my belongings and stumble back inside my condo to lay in the air-conditioning. I'm out of coffee the only thing to keep my wits at a razor sharp jitter. So I throw on some clothes and walk to one of the only coffee stores on the island. Walking up to the counter I order a bag to be ground and a large coffee while I wait. “No coffee” I’m told. The man behind the counter points to a hand written note taped to the register. The sign simply says “No Coffee.” No coffee in a coffee shop I wonder?  “No coffee on the island,” I'm told. I'm sure that I will die when my body finds out what my mind already knows, no matter there is still vodka on the island. I have already reached a point living in the Bahamas that most things make no sense and that’s the way it is.

I go home and prepare for our Halloween party. I dress all in black throw a store bought hood on my head and enter the party as the grim reaper. I look more like a crazy Fosse dancer but who cares.

Little paper tombstones decorate the house, with epitaphs to the dead written on them. Paper bats with the faces of the producers hang from the ceiling. We are in full swing at the party when the news arrives.

Someone’s test came back positive for drugs.

To be continued…………..

Geoffrey Doig-Marx holds all written and electronic rights to his writting "Not Only Magic Floats". It can not be reprinted in part or whole without his written consent.

Chapter 4 Party for the Dead.

The minute we are allowed to leave the room by Corporate, we run to the vans. It looks like a scene out of a chase movie with car doors slamming and tires screeching out of the parking lot.

Shock is the word that comes to mind as I look into the faces of the people in the van.  No one is talking and the tension is so thick.  I think that we all want to get home to see if what we were just told is true.

The minute the vans pull into the parking lot everyone piles out and begins to run to their homes. We search for the bodies. Some of the “dead” were not able to get flights out and have to leave in the morning. The Company is in serious breach of several contracts but no one knows how to handle that. Anger, hate and lawsuits are brought up. Tears and hugs go around, “I quit!” someone yells. “Don’t do it, it will get better” is the response.

In the theatre community when someone quits, gives notice, gets fired or drops dead...we throw a party. It seems to be the way to deal. We are also celebrating that we all didn’t end up without jobs.

People begin running to the stores. Houses fill with decorations, punch bowls are dusted off, costumes are designed and beer is bought.

I stay in my room; I’m not good with goodbyes. I deal with it in my own way. The sound of laughter and assorted “fuck them” and “fuck the Company” pepper the air. I read a book, I watch television, I call NYC, I make a drink (something I would start to do a lot ) In short, I avoid.

There's a knock at my bedroom door, it’s one of the dead, I answer, "Fuck you" she says, “You're so god damned cold” she tells me. “I thought you were my friend and you can’t even say goodbye”, she slams the door in my face. Tears begin to stream down my cheeks, she's right “I’m cold,” I tell myself.

I turn up the volume on the TV, and stare at the wall. I take a walk, I walk to the door of the party, I reach for the knob, I go home.

I lie in bed and stare at the ceiling.

The alarm begins bleeping and pulls me out of a nightmare I was having where a giant rodent with white gloves is laughing and chasing me. I swear off vodka for the moment. I run downstairs start the coffee, I dig through the cupboard and pull down saucers and cups, I pour the coffee and stack the cups one on top of the other. I go door to door finding the dead packing and offer coffee. “Keeps your mind off dealing,” I think. I drag luggage to the parking lot, I ring buzzers. Are all the dead who couldn’t leave here? I hug and kiss and say I'll see you soon.

They pile into three vans and drive off, I wave and blow kisses, I crumble inside. I return home to find rehearsal is still on, lots to do they say lots. We were supposed to have a spokesperson from the company come to give us lessons on the history of the company. No one feels like having pixie dust blown into their eyes or up their ass today.

A new executive is brought in to help us cope. She enters the room in her power red suit

(This is to be the only color she will ever be seen in) one of her faces smiles and says trust me, while her other face says "Don’t fuck with me".

We all smile meekly, god help us, please help us. We aren't allowed to talk of the dead, this is a direct order from Power Suit.  We all wander around with blank looks on our faces, are souls are wounded.

We rehearse and rehearse and rehearse. I kick peeled and old shrimp off our rehearsal carpet. I look at my face in the stretched mylar. God I've aged so in one night.

We are told that drug testing will now start, and I wonder if vodka is a drug?

To be continued…………..

Geoffrey Doig-Marx holds all written and electronic rights to his writting "Not Only Magic Floats". It can not be reprinted in part or whole without his written consent.

Chapter 3 The Chopping Block Appears Part 2

Our musical director is a brilliant man and his stories fill our heads, stories of Sondheim, Robbins, Fosse and Elaine Stritch, tales of drugged out 70's and whacked out 80's, tales of who's who, who's not, who's what, who was, who wasn’t and who isn’t. His stories fill the hours, more and more stories, we haven’t sung in awhile. “Christ he's driving me mad” someone hisses. “Shhhhhh” I say. “Geoffrey stop talking” he says to me. “Sorry,” I say. “God what an asshole” the voice hisses again. “Shhhhh” I say again turning around placing one finger up to my lips. “Geoffrey stop talking!” he screams at me. “Walk away and get water,” the voice in my head says, so I do.  I stand up and walk over to the water cooler grab a cup, fill it and walk out into the hallway.

This was to be known as the day I stormed out of rehearsal.

I head down the hallway and walk into the men’s bathroom.  “God, this is making me crazy” I say to my reflection in the mirror.

When I walk back into rehearsal our Stage manager has posted a sign written in black marker.  NO REHEARSAL, MEETING TOMORROW, BE THERE, it says in thick black letters. “What’s going on?”  Cast members begin asking each other in a panic.  I shudder to think what might be going on.  The stage manager pulls me aside.  “You have nothing to fear but some do,” he tells me. We ride back to the hotel in complete silence. I toss and turn all night.

The next morning we enter the rehearsal room, and chairs are around the table, a video screen is set up. “Where is the director?” Someone asks. “Away on a trip,” is the response from our Stage Manager. The cartoon version of Cinderella is placed into the video player, and two Company Executives who we have never seen before enter the room and call out the first name on their list.

“Follow me,” he says. Everyone looks around because people keep getting called out of the room, but no one comes back in. The video finishes and a Company Executive place a new tape in the VCR.  It’s the cartoon version of Beauty and the Beast. More people are called out of the room, ten in total.

There is a moment of silence and then it’s over. Shaking and crying no one is sure as to what’s going on, and then the Company Executives enter the room.  “Can I have your attention please?” he calls out. “Your fellow cast members have been let go because we made a mistake in casting.”  “So tomorrow you are going to come back here and rehearse, we are moving forward.”  With that said they turn on their heels and leave.

We look around and huddle together for warmth.

To be continued…………..

Geoffrey Doig-Marx holds all written and electronic rights to his writting "Not Only Magic Floats". It can not be reprinted in part or whole without his written consent.