The Show Must Go On

Shuffling through loose papers that are strewn about the room. Can you even read your own writing? Barely. Should really type this stuff out, but where’s the romance in that?

Again, looking for that paper, THE paper, the one, the one you need for open mic.

Your hands are sweaty, mustn’t soil the paper, that would be…undesired, unprofessional at best. You find the paper; of course, it was the last one you came across…so much wasted time. You really should be more organized. Into the envelope it goes and under your arm. You walk by the mirror and take a glance, you are a MESS. Does every curl have to stick out every which way but the way you want it to? You put on your shoes, your best ones, even though they are the ones that hurt your feet. You brush the crumbs off of your pants; yes the envelope is still under your arm. And you are out the door.

Down the hall of your apartment, you can smell all the different soups being simmered, dinners being cooked, but you won’t eat yours tonight. Your stomach is in knots, and the knots are in even smaller knots, so no food before the performance, maybe some French fries after, if you do well. You run down the stairs, missing a step unintentionally, like you needed that extra element of a heart attack just to pep you and make sure you’re still alive. That is how it goes, right? One sure way to know you are alive is to almost die?

The street is busy. People passing by you in waves, no not waves, in droves, non stop.

You swear they are all looking at you like you are already somewhere you don’t belong, but how would they know? Just push it out of your mind. You belong. You belong here. You belong there. Convince yourself of this, it is essential to your presentation.

At the bus stop now, wishing you had a car, but you don’t so the point is moot. You push your way through the bus to the back of the bus but there is still no open seating. You scramble to hold onto your precious envelope as well as grasping the over head bar so you don’t fall into some strangers lap when the bus stops and starts. Did you put on deodorant, good God you sure hope so. Either way, you are beginning to feel…moist.

The older woman in the purple suit dress is staring at you and biting her lip. What is she thinking? Does she know you’re a fraud? Is she wondering why you even bother?

And that man with the beard is actually checking you out? And what is he, 100 years old? That’s the only type that does that to you, have you noticed? Yes, you have.

So many smells on the bus, perfumes, musks, the lack of perfumes or musks when there should be. Finally, you are at your stop. You push your way through the riff raff and get to the bus’ back door. You fling the door open; it comes flying back at you and flings you back. You push it again, success. Now only to get down those steep stairs.

Back on the street, and damnit, it’s starting to rain. Your instinct is to protect your hair with the envelope, bad idea! Back under the arm the envelope goes! Protect the envelope, yes THAT makes sense! You try to not step on any sidewalk cracks, you know, superstition and all. Can’t afford any bad luck. Are your hands sweaty still or is it from the rain, no it’s sweat. Great. And your tremor is acting up. It just has to make it self known. Of course it does. At this rate, you will be lucky if you are even able to hold the piece of paper, never mind read off of it. Now, back to watching the people as they pass you, don’t want to get bumped into the street with oncoming cars speeding by. Everyone looks so discontented and old. Where are all the young, vibrant people, the people you moved to the city to be close to, to feed off of their energy and learn from? Oh my gosh, is your breath bad? Will you be close enough for anyone to tell? Should have brought some mints. They would have settled your stomach too. Multi-purpose, I like that.

Puddles are forming as you step. Your best shoes are now your wet shoes. This makes them ever so much more comfortable, not. People walking in the same direction, wonder if they are going to the performance too. It could be any of these people, or none of them at all. You have no idea what kind of crowd or lack there of you are going to be facing.

Big guy in a trench coat bumps into you; he seems bewildered as if it was you who bumped into him. He doesn’t apologize. You know, a simple apology can go a long way in comforting someone. A “sorry” would have felt good right now, but you settle for a nod.

At the venue at last, you shuffle up the stairs, then down the stairs and through the door. You THINK you are in the right place, but you could be wrong. Oh wouldn’t that be wonderful, being in the wrong place and missing your shot? That would be typical actually, for you. At last, someone comes up to you, offers you a drink while guiding you by arm, down another hallway. No drink for you, it will make you tongue-tied. Oh my gosh, you’re sweating more and your hands are mimicking playing a piano, this tremor sucks. The woman puts you in a dressing room so you can “Fix yourself up”, but you are too nervous to even look in the mirror. You sit on a random couch in the middle of the room and you wait.

You get up and open the door to keep an eye on the people as they go towards the stage. Their words are muffled; you can’t even gauge the competition, that’s probably for the best.

The woman comes to the room and calls your name; you raise your hand and follow her to the stage steps. Four steps more and there’s no backing out. Four steps more and you are naked (not really) for all to see. Four steps more and there you are, on stage, in front of a packed nightclub, ready to spill your guts. You feel the stage light burning your eyes and forehead. You feel dizzy and almost nauseated. You open your mouth and there it is…

This is it! This is it! This is…life! You open the envelope and get out the paper. Yes you are shaking still, but you can still see the words on the paper. You open your mouth and the words come flowing. The words are flowing and it is EVERYTHING!!!! You are doing it and doing it with everything you have in you. Whether they clap or not, whether your poem wins or not doesn’t matter any more, you took the hardest breath and you owned it!

And then it is over, so much quicker than the lead up to it was, and you are glad, and you are proud, but most of all, you’re alive. You’re not surviving, you’re alive.