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.