This Moment

People went by at a hurried pace. Walkie talkies screeched frantic words. Behind the curtain, the crowd seemed full of excitement. Beacon stood close to the small set of stairs leading up to the stage. She looked at her reflection in the floor length mirror, oddly placed across the hallway. Lime green pantsuit. White high-top sneakers. Sparkling rings. Expensive (but truthfully not) glasses. Everything was up to par. Beacon glanced at her phone. Six forty-four. “Beacon!” A man, with an untucked black dress shirt, black dress pants and a gold chain glistening from his neck was running toward her. A line of sweat glistening from his forehead. When he reached Beacon, the man kneeled over, out of breath. After a moment, he gathered himself. “Don’t blow it.” The man frantically ran off into another direction. Six forty-six. The crowd went silent. The lights must have gone off. A voice came over the loudspeaker. “Good evening! Welcome to the show!” The crowd erupted with applause. The voice came over the loudspeaker again. “Ladies and gentlemen, please welcome Beacon Hall!” The crowd erupted into applause once more. A woman, with a messy ponytail and headset, appeared from out of nowhere and waved Beacon behind the curtain. Beacon looked at her phone before she slipped it into her pantsuit pocket. Six fifty. She walked onto the stage. The crowd of over two thousand was standing and applauding. The theater’s hall was lightly dimmed but Beacon could see people from as far back as one could see. She reached the microphone stand. “Thank you for the kind applause. Please sit down!” The crowd took their seats. A buzz was permeating throughout the room. The crowd was full of anticipation.

              “I know you are all here to see Patrick Gage, but I figured you guys could spare a few moments with me.” The crowd let out a chorus of laughter. Beacon pulled the microphone from its stand and walked to the left. “Do you know the hardest part about being a woman?” Beacon waited two seconds and said, “Trying to figure out if shaving your legs or plucking your chin hair is priority any given morning.” Laughter filled the air. Beacon continued. “It is honestly awful. I want to have a steaming cup of coffee and a chocolate donut. Not decide what hair battle I want to choose.” The crowd laughed once again. Beacon walked to the right. “With all seriousness, that is the one good thing about being single. I do not have to worry about waking up next to someone and him looking at me and seeing that single hair that never disappears, popping out of my chin. I mean, good morning darling, give me a second. I must go brush my teeth. But honestly, I must dig to the bottom of my sink drawer and find my trusty tweezers. I must stand in the mirror and try not to cry aloud. I mean, sometimes that feeling is excruciating!” Laughter filled the theater hall once again. Beacon walked back to the center of the stage. “Let me shift here.” Beacon placed the microphone back into the stand. “Patrick Gage is one of a kind. Patrick Gage is the reason we are all here tonight.” The crowd applauded. Some even whistled. Beacon smiled. “I met Patrick Gage in a bookstore. He was trying to discreetly hide behind sunglasses and a top hat. I am not sure if you can discreetly hide behind a top hat in a bookstore.” Beacon continued over the crowd’s laughter once again. “I asked him if he was searching for anything in particular. He let out a small chuckle and told me no bookstore would ever have what he was searching for. I looked at him with a confused look and then he said, I am searching for white sand.” The crowd was silent. “Anyone that performs for mass groups of people, often thinks of their mortality. The white sand is a metaphor.” Beacon stopped talking for about ten seconds. “The white sand is a place where you can eat chocolate cake any time of day and sleep in past noon, and nobody will call you and tell you must be somewhere else. I mean, honestly, deadlines and time restrictions are just ridiculous.” The crowd stood and let out raucous applause. “Without further ado, ladies and gentlemen, Patrick Gage!” A man, wearing a black suit and black Chuck Taylor sneakers, came from behind the curtain. Patrick always wore suits. His hair was slightly falling down his face and his beard looked about a week old, but Beacon never underestimated Patrick’s preparation for a show. Patrick stopped by Beacon and flashed a smile. That was the sign she had done well. He reached for the microphone and raised his arms in Beacon’s direction. “Beacon Hall.” The crowd all cheered, and Beacon waved before exiting behind the curtain. The man, with the black dress shirt and gold necklace was standing there, waiting. “Nicely done.” Beacon saw a hint of relief. “I always appreciated your enthusiasm.” The man rolled his eyes. “As your manager, I have to be supportive and a skeptic all in one.” Beacon shook her head. “Of course, Ben.” Beacon could hear the laughter behind the curtain. She knew Patrick had successfully begun his show.

              About two hours later, Beacon found Patrick sitting on the edge of the stage. The crowd had dispersed outside of the theater. Beacon sat next to him. “Great show.” Patrick glanced at Beacon, but his face was expressionless. “Two hours of self-deprecation.” Beacon placed her hand on Patrick’s shoulder. “Nobody does it better.” Patrick laughed. “I’m glad you’re back.” “Well…. for now.” Patrick sighed. “Beacon, I wish we could stay here forever.” “Here?” Patrick put his hands in his pockets. “Not here, necessarily. But on this stage forever. That feeling when you walk onto the stage and the crowd is applauding. That feeling is irreplaceable.” Beacon nodded. “I would stay in that moment forever. Eventually, the admiration will fade.”

              “And you won’t be funny anymore.” Patrick looked at Beacon, with his sparkling green eyes. “I will still be funny. I will just be alone with my humor.”