Final Call

        I felt stupid in my gargoyle costume. After the show, the makeup was caked to my face, the mask was itchy, and the harness was getting too tight in all the wrong places. Once the director was finally finished with his speech, I booked it to the black box and peeled the costume off. My mom and the rest of my family were outside waiting for me, so I didn’t want to waste any more time. I walked over to the prop table and tossed the mask in the pile. I didn’t even notice that Michael was standing there. He sighed as I passed him, so I turned to look back. He was staring down at his own gargoyle mask.

            “I just can’t believe that it’s over,” he said suddenly.

            I was taken back by his statement. I observed my mask for a second longer. The gargoyle was a part added to the play because there were too many kids. They had no lines, they sat in the background of the scene for the majority of the show, and they had some of the most complicated face paint, yet I agreed with him. On the car ride home, all I could think about was how that role and our production of Beauty and the Beast was finally over. From that moment on, I was determined to enjoy every moment that I had left in theatre, regardless of how small a part.

            My time in theatre wasn’t long, but the memories created there will last forever. Beauty and the Beast was my third show, and I would go on to be in 12 more. Cody and Josiah were my two closest friends, with others joining us and then later becoming faces in the crowd between shows. The three of us were a little awkward at first, but theatre got us to open up. The assistant director Leesa later put it, “You guys used to hardly talk, but now we can’t get you to shut up.”

            Out of all the productions we put on, one of my overall favorites was Annie. Granted, Annie might not sound like it would be the most fun, but it wasn’t just the show; it was the people. There were a little over 300 kids in the theatre group, ranging from kindergarten to high school, split into four groups. I was in the high school group, and everyone knew each other. In the show, there are very few roles, and even less attributed to high school guys. You could either stay in the ensemble, or take a chance at auditioning for Rooster, Teddy Roosevelt, or Drake the butler. I had seen Annie as a kid, but I couldn’t remember for the life of me anything that happened. Cody and Jo briefly explained each character, and, once I heard Rooster got his own song, I was set on auditioning. I had played singing parts before, but there was the added bonus of playing the bad guy, which I thought would be fun to try. In the show, Rooster had his sister, Miss Hannigan, and his girlfriend, Lily. A while before auditions, Lizzy and Claire told me they wanted to try out for these two roles.

            “Can you imagine if we all got it, and we all got in the same cast?” Lizzy exclaimed. We all laughed. But sure enough, three weeks later, we were sent the final cast list, and we were all together. I would be Rooster, Lizzy would be Miss Hannigan, and Claire would be Lily. The parts were double cast, and Michael would play the other Rooster. Meanwhile, Cody was cast as Teddy Roosevelt, and Jo was cast as Drake.

            Rehearsals started promptly the next day. I skimmed through the script a few times, highlighting lines and jotting down stage directions. It all wouldn’t be too hard to remember. The only real concern was the dance. If you’re familiar with Annie, you might remember a song that Rooster and Miss Hannigan sing called “Easy Street”. In a production like this, there would typically be an ensemble dancing to the song. However, the directors chose to only have the three of us onstage during the entire song and performing a dance number alone. The moves were free flowing, while still being rigid and sharp. Now, I’d first like to defend myself by saying I can dance; I just can’t dance well. This meant a few extra sessions with our dance instructor Kayla.

            “Cole, your problem is you need to work on isolation,” she would explain. She would emphasize the word “isolation” as she demonstrated chest, hip, and leg movements while the rest of the body stood still. Michael conveniently missed the session where I fumbled around as Kayla, Lizzy, and Claire judged.

            Rehearsals seemed to drag on. I had memorized everything, but the performance could not arrive fast enough. We finally made it to tech week, where we would run through the show with costumes, set pieces, and a full orchestra. After practicing with only a piano, nothing could have prepared me for the rush I would get performing “Easy Street” with a full orchestra. What was once a simple melody sprinkled on a keyboard had become a magnificent symphony played with furious emotion. The strings whined out a jazzy tune, and the trumpets answered. There was something about that stage and the spotlights piercing through the dark that made you feel small. The words that Michael had said to me years before flooded back into my mind, and I was thrilled to be here, in this moment that I would never have back again.

             My suit was a crisp brown suit and a mustard yellow button-up, while Lizzy and Claire wore bright colors that contrasted the drab setting. On the stage, the energy was high, but off the stage, the real celebration occurred. The high schoolers were given their own changing and common rooms to wait for their cues. Card games were the source of most of the action, with a few arguing but most laughing. Food wasn’t allowed, but some of the more daring kids were able to sneak in candy and drinks; after all, we had finally made it, and that was worth celebrating.

            The first show was upon us. The directors tried to remain strict and serious, but they couldn’t hide their excitement. As I walked onstage, I felt the crowd’s eyes stick to my every movement. I continued the scene, but I couldn’t stop thinking about how we were here; this was real. Before I knew it, we had started singing and dancing like no one was watching. Then the lights went dark, and the orchestra continued to play. The three of us cheered and darted offstage. I stood in the wings cheering on Jo and Cody, catching their eyes occasionally. They would tell me how they almost lost character because they saw me offstage, but they got me back later. The scenes we had rehearsed hundreds of times were like second nature to us, and now we could have fun with them.

            The show ended in the blink of an eye, and we were preparing for our bows. Everyone was sad to see the show end, but a whisper of optimism had snaked its way into conversations.

            “Are you guys coming back for The Little Mermaid?” they would all ask.

            “Of course, I think I’m going to audition,” the response would always be. But I wasn’t thinking of the next show. I was enjoying the last few moments of the show we had. All the hard work we had put in would be completed with a few simple bows. I smiled to myself, while the rest of the ensemble chatted about the next show.

            But there would never be another show. There would never be a full orchestra sweeping through the theatre again. Shortly after auditions for The Little Mermaid, Covid hit, and we were forced to shut down the production. The directors attempted to keep it alive through Zoom, but hope quickly flitted away. Sure, we put on a few mini showcases to keep the theatre in business, but it wasn’t the same. Most of the cast I never saw again. Some may wish they could go back to appreciate the time they had, but I don’t regret anything. I enjoyed every detail because of the simple statement that Michael told me years before.