“Kinks?” Peeter whispered next to me. “I’ve seen fewer kinks at the Folsom Street Fair.”
I tried not to smile at his joke, so I let out a cough instead, covering my mouth.
“The artistic team needs time to process everything that happened tonight, so we’ll wait until tomorrow morning to go over notes,” San Nicolás informed the group. “Good night. And get some rest. We still have a lot of work in front of us.”
“Okay, people,” Serafina then said. “Call time for tomorrow morning is our usual 8:00 a.m. We’ll rehearse until 3:00. Your call time for tomorrow evening will be 7:00 p.m. unless your hair and makeup require the extra half hour.” She then nodded and added, “Get out of here.”
I got back to my dressing room, and Gladys helped me out of my costume while the assistant hair supervisor did the same with my wig and microphone. While all this was going on, I texted Brice, Johnny, and Amani to let them know it would be a few minutes before I was free. I told them to head over to the restaurant, and I’d meet them there.
I showered as quickly as possible before throwing on the simple pair of jeans and sweater I’d worn to the theater that evening. The receiving line for autographs was out the back entrance to the building, near the loading dock, but I didn’t feel like taking selfies with any adoring fans at 1:30 a.m. Instead, I walked through the theater and out the main entrance. I figured anyone looking for the cast would be out back, so slipping out the front would be quick and easy.
I was about to walk across the stage and up through the orchestra seats when I heard a loud argument on stage. I wasn’t trying to eavesdrop, but I couldn’t help myself. They were just simply too loud not to.
“This was a total sh—“
“Language,” Eldridge barked. “How many times must I say this around here?”
“I’m sorry,” Noam Weiss, the show’s general manager, said. “But this was a disaster.”
“What happens on my stage is none of your business,” San Nicolás said with no emotion in his voice. “Keep to the things you know…go write a paycheck or something.”
“Why, you little smarmy—“
“Silence!” Eldridge said with two claps. I couldn’t see her, but I could imagine her well-manicured eyebrows arching simultaneously. “Yes, tonight was rougher around the edges than expected. But let’s focus on the positives.”
“No one given a free ticket asked for a refund,” Weiss said.
“Weiss,” Eldridge said, clearly warning the man not to continue.
“The positives were that the acting and music worked,” San Nicolás said. “There are a few areas that need tweaking. And we need to redo the eleven o’clock number. It’s not working.”
“I hate admitting it,” Eugene Moses said, “but there are about three songs that aren’t working and at least two that are dragging the show. I don’t want to cut anything, but we must. Mable, what are your thoughts?”
I hadn’t heard Mable speak very often, so I was curious to listen to what she had to say.
“The book is working, mostly. I need to punch up some jokes. Some of the elf moments aren’t getting the laughs we thought they would.”
“Is it delivery or the jokes?” Eugene asked.
“Maybe a combination of both, but I think the jokes need help,” Mable responded.
“I may know a dramaturg who did a stint at Second City in Chicago. I can call him tomorrow?” Serafina chimed in.
“How much will that cost us?” Weiss asked.
“I don’t know,” Serafina admitted.
“I don’t care about the budget,” Eldridge said. “I want the show to work. Call the dramaturg.”
“Mrs. Eldridge,” Weiss cut in, “as the general manager, I want to warn you that any changes to the budget can impact other parts of the show.”
“Do I look like I’m concerned with budgets? I know that’s your job, but I can always throw in another $100K or more if it makes the show a success. This show is my late husband’s legacy. It. Must. Work.” There was silence as no one said anything else. “That will be all. And Weiss, once we know how much the dramaturg will cost, send the expense report to my office, and we’ll transfer funds into the show account.”
A voice cleared behind me. I spun to see Vladislav Nicolai, the house manager, standing behind me in his usual three-piece suit. “It’s not nice to listen in on others’ conversations,” he chided in his thick Russian accent.
“I wasn’t…I didn’t mean…Oh, son of a nutcracker!” He raised an arched eyebrow at my outburst. “It’s not like I intended to spy. I was trying to walk through the theater, and they were there.” I gestured toward the stage. “I couldn’t get past them.”
“And why didn’t you exit by the rear stage door where your adoring fans were waiting?”
