Replacement

Kathy Philpott

philpott.kathy@yahoo.com

Replacement

“This is my worst nightmare,” Kat told herself. Not only was the theater sold out, but the local newspaper reviewer was also sitting next to the show's director. Kat could see they were engaged in an animated conversation. Could they have been talking about her and how much the show needed her? It was maddening not to know, and she knew her insecurity was showing, but she couldn’t help it. Her confidence was dribbling away like a spoiled child’s ice creme cone on a hot summer's day. Kat quietly took her seat in the balcony section, trying to avoid being noticed even though it was very crowded. After all, not too long ago, these people would be coming to see her in this play. Now, they were excited to see the woman who took her place in the role Kat had created.

When Kat was in the show, it became wildly popular and was in a five-year run. For the main characters, an almost cult-like following developed around them in the community. It was fun being recognized and adored. This feeling was seductive; for Kat, it became a need. Even the reviews of the show praised her performance. By the end of the third year of the run, Kat was a legend in her own mind; the seduction was complete. Her paychecks were often sweetened with bonuses. She was living her dream. Now her dream was a nightmare.

“Why in the hell did you take time off to do another show” Kat lamented to herself as the lights went down and the show began. “What was I thinking?” she sighed? Deep inside her well-intentioned heart, Kat hoped more than anything her replacement would be dreadful. She told herself that it was a problematic role and few actors could bring what she had brought to this character. Her breathing became rapid as the curtain went up on the opening scene. Her character's entrance would be soon. Maybe her entrance would appear weak. The role demanded intensity and confidence on a Herculean level. From the moment she arrived on the scene, her characters' dialogue shaped the rest of the act. Like one reviewer wrote, Kats character ‘wrapped the audience in the mighty web of her ultimate deceit.’

The replacement made her entrance; it was seamless in its subtlety. For Kat, the next 90 minutes were spent in utter horror and painful amazement. Kat sat in an almost out-of-body trance. Her replacement was not as skilled or talented as she was. Her replacement was in a class by herself. The replacement was better in every way imaginable. She was able to draw out the other actors in ways Kat never thought about doing. Everyone was better. The show had more spirit and shine than any night Kat experienced. The dialogue, which was rapid and focused, appeared effortless, falling from the lips of Kat's replacement. This performance was nothing short of a miracle. Kat was in total despair.

After three curtain calls and before the fourth, Kat slipped out of the theater. She was defeated because she had witnessed in real-time her own demise. It was even more stunning because Kat really liked the replacement's performance. She had created a likable but confident force to be reckoned with a kind of character. She was also better-looking and younger than Kat. There was an almost ethereal quality to her presence on stage. Kat’s career was over.

Before she walked to her car, Kat walked around the open town square across the street. It was dark outside, but the area was well-lit and stunning this time of night. A cool, moist breeze swept through the air, whispering that winter was close by. Kat sat on one of the benches facing the theater, her gloved hands deep within her pockets. In all the years of doing this show, Kat had never taken time to really notice how spectacular the theater looked on the outside. But, unfortunately, this was the way she would have to look at things from now on. Her career was over.

Time escaped Kat as she sat on the bench staring at the theater. Slowly she came back from her pit of despair and started for her car. A woman in a black puffy type coat was leaning against her car, smoking a cigarette. On closer look, Kat saw it was a familiar face. It was the face of her replacement.

“The house manager told me you were in the audience tonight. John saw you too. For an over-the-top kind of director, he doesn’t miss much. So, what did you think?” 

Kat sensed an almost confrontational tone in her demeanor. Before Kat could say anything, her replacement lit another cigarette. 

“You have no idea,” she continued, “how incredibly hard this has been to come into a show where I was not wanted nor accepted. I’ve had to prove every single night I deserve to be in this role. I’ve seen your performances over the years, and frankly, I’ve never understood the reverence people and other actors have for you. So I just wanted to tell you to your face that this is my show now. I’m here because of my talent and drive, not for some fucking ridiculous hero worship.”

She stepped on her cigarette, turned, and walked away, pointing her car key fob at a car close by. Kat watched her drive away.

“What the hell just happened?” Kat asked out loud. She stood there in disbelief, her hands still in her pockets. Before turning on the ignition to drive home, Kat checked in her rearview mirror to make sure she was alone. It was an old habit acquired during many late, solitary nights after the show. This habit had become second nature. Tonight had been weird, and she found herself still a bit uneasy. It started to rain. Kat put her hands on the wheel, took one more look at the Theater, and started for home. She couldn’t help but smile.