Footlights

Why does the velvet embrace of a packed theater feel warmer than a lover’s shoulder?

Onstage, when the footlights come up, nothing can touch you. The heavy curtains draw back to the rafters, and you can’t see the crowd, but they can see you. You can hear their pulse out there, all of them waiting in the perfumed dark, waiting for your magic to begin. They love you. They want to love you. They adore you.

Why does the velvet embrace of a packed theater feel warmer than a lover’s shoulder?

It just does.

© Sbright

When you draw to the stage, you smell the chalk on the boards. Your Ben Nye foundation catches the pink spotlight. Your feet are a dancer’s, your voice is as strong as silk, and then— there’s that beautiful mic. The mic is the full silver Monty: you can hold it, you can swing it, you can caress it. When you whisper into its silver mesh, they hear you in the balcony, as if you were lying on their pillow.

Remember every night we sold out? Every night, stardust.

One time when I was a little girl, my father was seeing a girl from the Opera chorus. We’d go pick her up at lunch, or visit when I finished school. The two of us walked into the Opera House, la-di-da— I sailed past everyone in my Mary-Janes and Catholic plaids. While Pop went to find Ceci, I’d make a fixture of myself in the make-up room or paw through the new dresses, prepped for steaming.

“You can get a job doing that!” one of the chorines said.

“Oh, I love steaming. But I’m going to be an actress.”

One day, I burrowed pretty far into an unattended closet. Within minutes, a very cross Costume department Madam with frightful eyebrows pulled me out of the racks so hard, I thought my arm socket would pop.

“Those are Miss Sills’s dresses!”

I wanted to take the bubblegum out of my mouth to explain, but I figured that would make it worse. I swallowed it.

She pinched my arm again. That made it all the more worthwhile.

I had laid in fields of Beverly Sills’ glory! If only I could disappear into those yards of pink satin. The diva’s gowns smelled like Anais Anais cologne; they were Cacharel lavender soap and pink juniper.

In those days I made it a talent, a habit, to fetch sodas and candy bars for anyone who asked. More access, more access! They’d have to forgive my trespasses.

One day The Eyebrows gave me a chance. She told me Miss Sills wanted a large club soda in a glass, with bitters, and plenty of fresh ice. I was off like a shot.

Fairies took me upstairs to the barman’s lounge, where all I had to mention was Ms. Sill’s name and Mr. Harry found the perfect flute.

I looked rather nice that particular day. Instead of my uniform, I wore a black velvet blazer with a little kitten pin on it. The kitten was made out of dyed fur. Everyone I met wanted to touch it: “Where did you get such a wee thing?”

“Fairies!” I would say. They went peach with awe.

I knew Eyebrows would let me serve the flute on the lacquer tray Mr. Harry picked out.

I stepped up to Miss Sills’ dressing room with the polite knock I’d seen so many others perfect. Mine was just a little shorter.

“Oh my,” she said, when I made my entrance. Miss Sills forgot her thirst. She could not take her eyes off my brooch. “That reminds me of my lucky blue rabbit foot I had, when I was a girl!”

She bade me come close so she could pet my kitten’s little face. “Look, Starling,” she said to her dresser, “Look how beautiful it is!”

“It’s made of bunny rabbit,” I said.

“You know, sweetheart, I think it might be mink!”

The entourage burst out laughing, as if their mistress had rather inner mink knowledge.

“Who gave you such a wonderful little pussycat?”

I loved being the object of her attention, of all the beautiful women. If only we were in front of the footlights, and everyone could see us. They would be murmuring too.

“Fairies!” I twirled to show her how they appeared. My blazer sparkled.

“That’s what we thought!” Miss Sills and her attendants agreed.

They laughed so hard I thought they might scare my dear fairy spirits away, but they never left my side.

Well, you know what happened next. I grew up just like I promised. Kittens do become cats. The stars of the show.

One day, I always said, the fairies would take me to the white chalk center of the black stage, in my own gown and sparkle. The rose spotlight would come up, the footlights ablaze, and Minkie Kitty would be with me. The applause would rise, and rise, in waves, and I’d never, not once, feel alone.

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