Chapter Eight “Mutiny”

eight

" Mutiny "

I wake up the following morning to my phone buzzing. I don't recognize the number but it's a St. Louis area code, so maybe I've won some free toasted ravioli. A guy can dream.

"Hello?"

"Is this Noah Adams?" It's a twangy female voice.

"It is."

"Noah, it is so great to meet you, even just over the phone. My name is Audra Bogner and I'm the entertainment critic over here at The St. Louis Post-Dispatch . I wondered if I could maybe just ask you a few questions. I know this is probably not how it's done in New York, but I just wanted to be as up to speed as possible before I review the show on September first. Is now a good time?"

I jolt up in bed, wide awake. My arteries turn to ice. "Excuse me? You're reviewing the show? You can't review the show!"

"It's such a great story, you coming back home and working with your town's community theater. I mean, when your mother called me about it, I just couldn't resist!"

I. Am. Going. To. Kill. That. Woman.

I almost drop the phone, but fumble to keep it next to my ear. "Um, Audra, is it? I'm gonna have to call you back. I have an old woman to murder."

I hang up and run downstairs wearing nothing but my boxer briefs and a seething expression of rage. I round the corner at the bottom of the stairs and there's Mom, serenely painting away in the guest bedroom.

"What have you done?!?"

I startle her so completely that she almost drops her paintbrush. "I haven't done anything, Noah. I'm just standing here painting my eggplant emotions like usual."

"You called The St. Louis Post-Dispatch and now they're going to review the show? Is my career not enough of a tragedy for you?"

"Oh, so that nice Bogner lady called you? I figured you wouldn't mind if I gave her your cell. I'm sure you're used to dealing with press all the time. Now, more importantly, do you think this eggplant emotion is too curved?"

"Focus, woman! You have doomed me! DOOMED ME!"

"Oh, your mother didn't doom you. Mrs. Bogner was very understanding. I told her it was a community theater show, that there were no professionals involved. Well, except you, of course. She's not going to pan a bunch of amateurs. Besides, she seemed very nice to me. Truth be told, we spent most of our time talking about zinnias."

I fall to my knees and call to the heavens. "If there is a God, please prove your existence by smiting my mother right now!"

"Honey, if she rakes a community theater production over the coals, she will look like Satan himself. And there's no such thing as bad publicity, right?"

I continue to stare at her, my eyes narrowing.

Mom stops in her tracks. "Why are you looking at me like that?"

"I'm trying to figure how big of a frying pan I'll need when I sneak up behind you and whack you over the head with it."

"Well, that's a waste of time. Everyone in our family has extremely thick skulls." Clearly.

I try Audra Bogner back and get her voicemail. I very politely beg her not to review the show. I consider threatening legal action, but I figure I'll go with the "more flies with honey" route. For now.

—

On my way to rehearsal, I get a text from Chase: Don't be mad, but I'm going to see Odette without you.

I text back: Betrayal! You Judas Iscariot, you!

Chase was the one who introduced me to the American Ballet Theatre and their repertoire of classics. I went kicking and screaming. I mean, I'm gay, but I'm not that gay.

But by the time Odette flung herself into the water at the end of Swan Lake , tears were shooting out of my eyes like tiny projectiles. I was converted on the spot. Now it doesn't feel like summer without a stage full of twirling ballerinas and a little Tchaikovsky. And not to cheapen the experience, but the perfect asses on the male dancers don't hurt the proceedings any. Now Chase is going without me. Probably wearing the Brunello Cucinelli linen shirt that makes his blue eyes pop. Damn it.

I hastily text: Have fun. Missing you like hell.

When I finally walk into the theater, the cast is huddled around the piano and I hear Mrs. Henson saying, "I don't think we should be doing this."

"Doing what?" I ask cautiously.

Everyone is silent, as if they've been caught in some nefarious act. Abby Gupta starts, "Well—"

"Is this about the eye gouging? Because if it is—"

"Just hear us out," Abby pleads.

I tilt my head and sigh. "Go nuts."

"Now some musicals have these things called dream ballets."

"I know what a dream ballet is, guys."

My mind flashes to Chase sitting alone through Swan Lake for a quick second, but there's no time to get homesick.

"Oh, good." Abby continues, "Well, you know, I took three years of modern dance in junior high."

I do not like where this is going. I do not like it one bit.

"So I asked Marilyn if she could sort of weave some of your melodies together as a kind of a soundtrack."

I glare at Mrs. Henson and she mouths the words "I'm sorry" and looks like she's about to cry.

"And then Drew and I put together, well, not a ballet, because I took modern dance, so it's not ballet. So it's sort of like, oh, what did you call it, Drew?"

"A movement piece," Drew offers.

"Right! I like that! A movement piece! All of the dialogue is there, but the eye gouging is merely sort of suggested and kid-friendly." She stops and I feel the entire room staring at me.

"And let me guess. You would like to audition this non-gouging movement piece for me right now."

Abby winces slightly. "If you'll let us?"

I find Melissa, who has become the camera lens I look into when I want to do asides to an imaginary studio audience. She holds both of her hands up as if to say, "Don't look at me."

Finally, I can't take all the Kewpie doll eyes and I give in. "Sure, why not."

"Oh, thank you!" Abby gushes. "Now, this is just a first draft."

Abby and Drew run up onto the stage in excitement. The rest of the cast takes their places slightly upstage of them. Mrs. Henson reluctantly sits at the piano. Abby gets into position and nods to Mrs. Henson to begin. The opening chords of Lear's song "Spit Fire, Spout Rain" fill the theater. But at a much slower tempo, which gives it an eerie quality.

"Pluck out his poor old eyes!" Drew says, pointing at Abby. They then begin to dance the scene in a stylized manner and I warn myself not to laugh.

Then something completely insane happens.

Maybe it's just because the cast is taking it so seriously, or maybe it just…works? Drew moves in a sort of hypnotic slow motion toward Abby as she's being held on the floor. Abby says very slowly, "Give me some help! O cruel! O you gods!"

Drew is on top of her in a flash and pulling a red, flowing ribbon out of Abby's fist, which she holds over her eye. Mrs. Henson segues into the fiery melody of "The Prince of Darkness." Drew pulls another red ribbon from Abby's face and grinds it into the floor. Abby writhes on the ground in pain as Drew stands above her body, raising his fists to the heavens, the ribbons dangling from his fingers and billowing in the air. The music ends and they freeze in a tableau.

Abby breaks out of her pose and comes to the edge of the stage. Everyone is silent for a moment.

"You hated it."

I walk slowly toward her and the rest of the cast looks on nervously. "Abby, you drive a school bus, right? That's your job, am I right?"

Her expression goes from worried to defeated. "Oh, I get it. I know what you're going to say…keep my day job, right?"

"Nope. What I'm going to say is that I hope you don't mind moonlighting, because you are now the official choreographer of Stage of Fools !"

Abby's eyes widen. "What? You mean, you liked it?"

"Liked it? You're Agnes fucking de Mille!"

"Oh, my God! Oh, my God!"

She starts jumping up and down and tearing up. The entire cast applauds for her, cheering loudly. Drew and Abby share a victorious hug.

"Now, let's get back to work, you talented people!" I shout. "And by the way, Abby, I know you stole that ribbon shit from The Lion King ."

She holds up her hands and shrugs. "If you're going to steal, steal from the best, right?"

Strangely invigorated, I start to plan out the rest of the week. "Now, look, I've been thinking this through and I figure if we all really work like crazy, we can have the entire first act up on its feet by the end of rehearsal on Saturday."

I look up to realize a scandalized hush has gone through the cast.

"Is there a problem?" I ask.

Louis, clearly comfortable in his role as group spokesperson, clears his throat. "Well, Noah. We're not really going to rehearse this weekend, are we?"

I give him a baffled look. "And why wouldn't we?"

"You're kidding right? This weekend is the Plainview Balloon Faire."

My eyes go dead. "And?"

"And?" Louis asks incredulously. "You just expect us to miss it?"

"That's exactly what I expect you to do. We've got a truckload of staging to do. And…" Out of nowhere Mrs. Bogner pops into my head and I use the poor woman as a weapon. "And, get this, it turns out a critic from The St. Louis Post-Dispatch is going to review this little dog and pony show. What do you think about that?"

Everyone is suddenly looking at anything but me. And a light bulb pops on above my head. "Wait, you knew? You all knew that the show was going to be reviewed? How could you not say anything?"

Jackie speaks up. "We figured you knew. I mean, it was your own mother that called the damn paper."

"Fine. The point is we're now going to be judged in print. In black and white. So we have to be perfect. We all have to suck it up and skip the fair this year."

The silence is tense and grim.

To my surprise, it's Melissa who speaks next. "Noah, I know you don't get it, but the Balloon Faire is sacred to this town. It's like a national holiday or something. You can't rehearse during the Balloon Faire. It's just a fact of life in Plainview that everything stops for two days while everyone enjoys the fair."

My eyes remain dead.

"Wait, you've been to the fair before, right?"

"Why would I go to the fair? Standing around looking at hot air balloons and eating funnel cake is not my idea of a good time. I'd rather undergo a colonoscopy performed by a drunken orangutan."

Melissa gives me a very admonishing, Melissa-y look. "You have to give us the weekend off. This show is so important to all of us, maybe even more important to us than it is to you, if that's even possible. But nothing trumps the Plainview Balloon Faire."

A little dial in my brain switches from disbelief to flabbergasted. "So we're going to lose two precious, precious days of rehearsal for some stupid hot air balloons?"

I realize we're clearly in the middle of a standoff that I can't win, even with reason on my side. The cast is teetering toward a full-out mutiny. If I don't give in they'll probably parade my head around town on a pike. And while having your head on a pike can be very slimming, it's never a good look.

I have no choice but to give in. "Okay, go look at your beloved balloons. But today's already Wednesday. So you have to promise that you'll work extra hard tomorrow and that you'll show up here with the new blocking embossed on your brains."

They actually applaud in appreciation. Thankfully, my phone vibrates right on cue and distracts me from this madness. It's a text from Kiara. She's attached an article from Variety that says Chase has just signed Aleister Murphy. Kiara adds a "WTF?"

What the fuck indeed. I thought Chase hated Aleister's latest play. I text Kiara back: Will investigate posthaste.

I put down my phone and realize that Luke is sitting next to me. And he's changed into paint-splattered overalls. Very tight paint-splattered overalls. Without a shirt .

I actively command my brain cells to continue functioning. Come on, guys. Pull it together.

Luke finally speaks. "You're kidding, right? You've never been to the Balloon Faire?"

This topic just refuses to die. "Oh, come on. Not you, too."

"What do you have against hot air balloons? What did they ever do to you?"

"Maybe I was traumatized as a kid, because a hot air balloon screwed Dorothy Gale over pretty hard. That was supposed to be her ticket out of Oz."

Luke laughs. "That was Toto's fault for jumping out at the last second and you know it. Besides, your dad loves the fair."

"Not anymore. Dr. Dunbar won't let him go up in a tethered ride because of his oxygen tank. So there are officially two Adams men who are being raw dogged by your pointless balloon fair."

Luke thinks for a second. "Well, he can still go to the Glow. Your mom and dad wouldn't miss the Glow for a million bucks."

And now I have to ask, "The Glow?"

Luke's eyes light up like a pinball machine. "The Glow! You've never been to the Glow? Well, that's just downright criminal."

"Elaborate," I say, my voice as dry as the desert.

"Well, everybody brings blankets or lawn chairs and then just as the sun is going down, hundreds of balloons bunch up in a group on the Francis Park main grounds and then they take turns lighting up against the night sky. It's freakin' beautiful, man. You've got to go. You've got to let me take you and your parents. It's kind of like watching fireworks, only without all the noise. Trust me, you'll love it."

He's got that eager, puppy dog look in his eyes and it melts my jaded heart on the spot. "Fine. I'll go look at idiotic balloons with you."

"Great! I think you're gonna be surprised by how much fun it is."

The boyish enthusiasm written across his face takes my breath away for a second. And I find I can't stop myself from asking, "But seriously, Luke. Overalls?"

His smile morphs into a smirk and he says, "I knew you'd hate them. So I wore them just to fuck with you. Do you really think I'm that big of a hick? Oh, wait, I forgot something…" He pulls an actual piece of hay out of his bib pocket and sticks it in his mouth and lets it dangle nonchalantly. "Nature's toothpick."

I cross my arms and study him academically for a second before I announce, "Well, it definitely completes the look."

The crazy thing is, it actually does.

The denim is practically laminated to his powerful thighs. Luke starts posing like a dork with his thumbs hooked casually over the straps. I notice the almost imperceptible trace of tiny blond hairs traveling across his buff chest. And that his button fly is… straining .

Overalls have never looked so mouthwateringly good.

Fuuucckk!

I quickly snap my attention away and bury my head in my script until Luke's gone. I feel a strange sense of accomplishment that I was able to resist checking out his ass when he turned around to go.

When Chase calls later that night I skip any niceties and get right to the point. "You're signing Aleister Murphy? I thought you hated his latest play."

Chase sighs. "I do hate it. I loathe it! But the Shubert Organization happens to be completely chuffed about it. It's a business decision, Noah."

"The Shubert Organization? Is his play going to Broadway?"

"I'm no fortune teller, but possibly."

I can never let sleeping dogs lie. I always have to kick them in the teeth until they're awake and biting. So, of course, I pry further. "What's Aleister's latest play called, anyway?"

Chase hesitates, clearly embarrassed. "It's, um…it's called Pattycakes ."

"You're lying!" I scream in disbelief. "What's it about?"

"Nuremberg."

"Oh, fuck off!" I sit in a dumbfounded silence for a moment. "It'll probably win the Tony for best new play. Or the Pulitzer."

"Jealousy is not a good look on someone as handsome as you, Noah."

"I'm sorry. I guess this isn't exactly the sexy late-night call you were hoping for."

"You'll be back home in three little weeks. And then ‘we shan't be parted no more.' How's the musical going?"

"We added a dream ballet."

Chase tries to stifle a chuckle and fails. "You did what?"

"It's a child-friendly, eye-gouging movement piece with ribbons and it's strangely moving."

"Well, all right, then. By the way, I sent Danielle Vincent a bottle of champagne on your behalf."

"Thanks, but why?"

"She's directing the new Michael John LaChiusa musical at the Public."

"Oh," I say. Then add somewhat petulantly, "Glad to hear she's landed on her feet."

Chase gives me a chastising, "Noah."

"No, you're right. I'm happy for her. And you're so sweet to always think of these things. How are you so perfect?"

"I do what I can. Right, well, we both sound knackered. I'm going to nod off to sleep and dream about riding on top of you in what the kids are calling the ‘reverse cowgirl' position."

"No spurs, please. I have delicate skin."

And the line goes dead before we can exchange the words "I love you." Or even say goodbye. I assume he was just hoping to make his joke about performing the reverse cowgirl land. Or he's just tired. That's probably it. "Knackered."