Kessie's Short Stories

Theater Kid

Originally written 1/8/2018

"Listen to me, sugar," Antonio teased in my ear, "You're never going to make it here. These actors will just eat you alive without a second thought- ravenous things they are."

I shoved that creep right off of me. Of course I knew what I was getting into and what actors were capable of off screen. For years I had watched my own mother cater to the blonde bimbos and Don Juans that played at Old Charleston Theater. I was a theater kid through and through, in my own right and way. Of course I knew what I was getting into, and anyone who thought otherwise -like our dear Antonio- never knew me at all.

"I'll manage." I spat at him, not holding back any contempt. I then pushed past him to head back to the green rooms. There was still only an hour left before showtime, but in theater every moment counted until the curtain closed for the night.

. . .

Ms Marta had to have been one of my favorite players at the theater. She too had been raised in the theater; but she was far more blessed in the talent department than I was. She could act in any role so naturally that you could almost believe that she had gone through the same trails as the characters she played. Her singing range was nothing to laugh at either- one moment she would be belting out lyrics like an opera singer, the next she would be performing a power ballad with the sultriness of a dive bar hooker that had nothing to lose.

It was all good though, I suppose, because she envied the natural darker tone of my skin compared to her pale, easy to burn flesh.

"Sugar, don't ever take this the wrong way," she once told me, "But if it were legal, I would skin you alive and claim your carcass as my own. And that's the truth."

As someone who was diagnosed with dysmorphobia since middle school, I was both humbled and concerned by this declaration of envy.

Tonight, I was assigned to work with Ms Marta exclusively. Before entering her room, I knocked for good measure before coming in. Ms Marta was already dressed in her costume and sitting at her vanity.

"I'm sorry I'm late ma'am." I immediately apologized as I walked over to her. When she realized I was there, Ms Marta immediately turned to face with a smile. However, I frowned: she had already started to apply her makeup, but the foundation was uneven and her rouge was applied too thick. Seeing my reaction made her laugh.

"It really looks that bad, sugar?" she joked. Her green eyes sparkled with humor and joy- with 45 minutes left before the show, I was having none of it. I immediately set to work, correcting Ms Marta's makeup and hair with the time we had left.

"You know sugar, we all gotta have a little faith in something- something to believe in and strive for, you know?"

With several bobby pins in my mouth, all I could give Ms Marta was a quick nod. I always forget that she gets philosophical when someone messes with her hair.

"I mean," she then goes on, "We place our faith on the little things we do every day: we trust our bus drivers to obey traffic laws and not throw us over some ravine, we believe that the sun will rise for us every day and eventually let the moon take over to begin the cycle again, and then we take for granted the once kindness of a stranger we now call a friend. There are no true atheists in this world, sugar, it's impossible. If we can't believe in the little things that let us see another day, how are we able to live at all?"

I was going to remind Ms Marta that atheism was the disbelief of supernatural deities, but the callboy came around to give the five minute warning. The mad dash to get Ms Marta on stage had begun- I always enjoyed that odd, sickening rush. I can only imagine what it was like for the actors; the pre-stage rush, the hot lights glowering down on you, the audience you couldn't see but could feel the many glares of, and -of course- the exhausted, sweating faces of your fellow actors dressed in ridiculous clothes and spouting out even cheesier lines.

I may have been raised in the theater, but I was not an actor. I was the one you would subconsciously place all your faith in to make the production run smoothly. Without me, the audience would have known that Ms Marta could not apply her own makeup. Without my mother, many blonde bimbos and Don Juans would have never gone on stage competently knowing their lines, having their hair just so, or preventing a wardrobe malfunction just seconds before coming on stage.

Maybe one day those ravenous creatures called actors will eat me alive, but for now? This was the life.