The Man in the Center

No, please, please don’t. The dancers walking past me can hear me begging through the squeaky wooden door, but none of them stops to check on me. I don’t blame them; actually, I am glad they are not distracting themselves with me. They will be performing The Nutcracker for a group of middle schoolers soon. We are the only group in this area deep in the mountains and valleys. On tour from late November until Christmas, we go through the small towns and gain money and fame. The kids are brought to watch us every year, while the adults scroll through social media or play candy crush in the very back roll.

I used to be in the center of the stage, under the spotlight. Yes, right there, where a young blonde boy is standing now. Now, inside a dark dusty room, I crawl. A tall, strong man is getting closer and closer to me. I begged and begged; I told him I have no money, why else would I be here? I told him I know we are both back-ups because of the young men from Los Angeles; they went to some professional dance academy; how can we compare? He doesn’t listen. I don’t even think he heard me. My voice is buried by the applause in the front.

“They don’t need or want us anymore,” the man says with an evil smile, “we aren’t getting up there any time soon, why not have some fun?”

“What fun, what are you talking about, and who are you,” I take a closer look at this man since he’s now right in front of my face: thick beard, tanned face, messy black hair, “and I don’t want no fun. I don’t care if I’m the center or a back-up, if you have a problem with it, go fix it yourself.”

“Ha-ha, really, brother,” the man laughs so loudly and for so long which made me think I am a joke, “I am Louis, the first chair musician last tour, is your memory this bad?”

“Uh- Louis Nikon?” I hesitate, the first chair musician last year was a tall and gentleman, who knew how to play ten instruments, “and why are you here on top of me? Man, what do you want from me?”

“Do you not miss your fame, Kim? Or all of the other things stolen by those young men?” Louis tries to find envy and lust from my clear brown eyes, “ok, ok, fine, if you are this weak and easy to defeat, you deserve to be a back-up!”

“I don’t care,” I spread my hands on the floor to hold myself up, “I have nothing to lose. Plus, I am tired of the busy and famous lifestyle. I’m now focused on becoming a better person myself.”

Louis stares at me with mixed emotions – anger, grief, and some sympathy. That’s not how I remember Louis, but maybe some things have happened to him. Nothing has been soothing for me after the young boys arrived. The blonde boy, Adam, took my spot in the center, and now I am one of the back-ups for the show. I’ve been in this group for the past ten years. The night I was fired, the manager came to my room. He apologized and apologized, for the rudeness, for my doomy future.

But, he said, they, the audience, they don’t like wrinkles on the side of your face, they don’t like the heavy make-up you have to put on nowadays. Suppressing the watery feeling in my nose and eyes, I said it is ok, I understand, I will be here whenever you need me. The chubby man smiled, but I felt sick to my guts. I graduated high school then joined the group. I watched the group grow and shine and present shows which caught the eyes of the kids. And I was just dumped like that.

I cried and yelled, to myself of course. Through negotiation and begging, the manager agreed for me to stay as a back-up, in case some of the boys get sick. There’s no way I will ever step on stage, I once told myself, all of the young dancers are as healthy as a horse. When I’m free, the dancers talk to me and often ask me for favors. In their eyes, I’m a nice man from this rural town. Only a few years younger, some of them look at me with sympathy and tell themselves to never end up like me.

“Kim, Kim,” a girl sneaks up to me and calls my name while I am zoning out, “do you want to go watch the show? I am sure we can get into the back without disturbing anyone.”

“Oh, Maria! Hello, why are you here?” I question, she’s the manager’s daughter, I watched her age from playing with dolls to learning ballet with the rest of the group, “and how did you know I was here.”

“Kim! Well, this was the only room with lights on and I was wondering who was doing what here,” Maria explains in a quiet voice; while the music is loud enough to cover their conversation, she doesn’t want other people to hear it.

“Smart girl,” I smile and puts on my jacket, “let’s go, I know you always want to watch this, even when you’ve watched this twenty times by now.”

“It’s warm in here… You don’t know, the front stage is like freezing. I don’t think the heater is working, and the dancers’ noses are all red like a carrot,” Maria continues to mumble, sharing the interesting things she saw, “let’s go, let’s go, I can’t wait.”

Walking after Maria, we run through the slim pathway between the backstage and the lobby of the auditorium. Through the crack on the main doors, I see the whole room is silent and the characters are performing the beginning of Act two. That’s my favorite part of the whole show, Maria knows that. Before I can react, she drags me forward into the auditorium. I just want some rest and peace; I mumble but hold on tighter to Maria’s hands.

They are soft and warm. Looking down, I see the pink-glittered nails and her long, thin fingers. I’m sorry, I apologize but Maria immediately covers my mouth with her hand. Shut up, don’t talk, watch, Maria, demands. On the stage, the Tea furies move out to the center of the stage with the melody, and the audience cheers. Her palm is starting to feel a little wet, mines too. What is it? It is freezing in the room but my hand is burning out.

Getting out of the room before the end of the performance, I feel my heart beating once again after the incident. Maria is pretty, in a natural way; she looks cute and hot without any make-up. I am twenty-eight. I can do it, I still have a chance, right? Pondering, I walk in circles in my bedroom and occasionally slaps myself in the face. I don’t know what to think. The remaining of her smell on me is battling with my morals. It is making me frustrated and bipolar.

You are such a crackhead, what the heck would you think she likes you? I question myself for one second. Then, I recall the warmth of her hand in mine and the feelings of being right next to her, smelling a mix of her sweat and perfume. If she doesn’t like you, why would she go find you of everyone? I boost my confidence and feel alive again the next second. I don’t know what to think, how to think; but I do know that I cannot have a calm and quiet time this Christmas as I was hoping for.