“Stop!” San Nicolás yelled. “Mabel?” he questioned, turning to the young woman in charge of rewriting the book. “Do we even have a Martin anymore?”
“No, director,” Wägner replied, looking up from a notepad she had sitting in front of her. “We got rid of that character a few weeks back.”
“Then why is there still a reference?” San Nicolás asked.
“Because you wanted us to read the original, unaltered script today,” Wägner reminded him. “The line will be referenced to Josef the Butler instead.”
“Of course, of course,” San Nicolás. He turned to me. “Read the line again, and instead of referring to Martin, say Josef.”
“Okay.” I took a quick breath and started again, “Put them down anywhere, Josef, and run along home. We won’t be needing you tonight. We’re having guests. Oh, and Josef, Merry Christmas.”
“Stop,” San Nicolás said again. “Wouldn’t Josef be in the house already?”
“They’re not in the house. They’re in their office right now,” Wägner explained.
“That’s right.” We all stared at San Nicolás as he thought through something. “For simplicity and since this scene is so short, why not start in their home office. It would be easier that way, don’t you think?”
“I completely agree,” Wägner said. “That’s what I said we should do last week,” she grumbled.
It took us almost six hours to get through the script, which should have been readable in about an hour. There was constant starting and stopping. Periodically, the composer and lyricist would sing. Intermittently, San Nicolás berated the artistic team. With each stop, Wägner got more perturbed.
During one of our breaks, I walked around the part of the theater that was currently not under construction. I could tell the new theater was going to be pretty darn large, which would be nice. I hoped I’d call this place home for at least a few years.
I rounded a corner and immediately stepped back because the artistic team were huddled in an alcove. I didn’t mean to spy on them, but they weren’t exactly being quiet about their disapproval of what was happening in the table read-through.
“That man is on my last nerve,” Wägner practically yelled.
“Mabel,” Moses started. “You knew the rumors about working with him when we signed the contract. He’s brilliant but obnoxious.”
“He keeps trying to correct things I wanted fixed…heck, I had fixed weeks ago,” Wägner groused. “This is ridiculous.”
“I feel your pain,” MacQueen said. “He’s changed so many of my lyrics. Half the time, I want to knock him out, throw down my legal pad, and walk out, or yell, ‘Here, you write it.’”
“It’s not that bad,” Moses responded.
“Oh really?” Wägner questioned. “I wonder if you’d be singing the same tune if he was constantly trying to rewrite your music.”
“That’s because he can’t write music,” Moses admitted. “If he could, I’m sure he’d be doing the same things to me. Instead, I get general notes like ‘not very festive’ or ‘tone it down.’ What does that mean? How does one ‘tone down’ a song? He’s vague about what he wants.”
“And he’s overly explicit in my work,” MacQueen responded.
“What are you listening to?” a voice said right next to my ear.
I let out a little squeal before realizing Katherine had sneaked up behind me. I didn’t want to be caught, so I grabbed Katherine’s arm and pulled her away from the corner wall I’d been using to eavesdrop.
As we walked away, I told her what I’d learned.
“Wow,” Katherine said. “Sounds like our director is putting everyone through their paces.”
“Sounds like it. But if he doesn’t change, I think he’ll run this show into the ground.”
We rounded into the main lobby area, where cast members hung out, snacked, and drank.
“Excuse me, Ms. Saunders,” a timid voice came from my right. I looked over to see the young woman playing the main romantic lead.
“Oh, hi…”
“Tabatha,” she offered.
