Over two months of “hard work” have finally
come to an end. The rest of the cast embrace one another,
a python’s grip sapping the last bits of strength from their
bodies. Adrenaline carries them to the wings. I remain frozen,
waiting for the all-too-familiar muscle ache and shredding
of my vocal cords to do the same, but it never does. Instead,
I stand alone before an unrecognizable crowd, golden
halogens spotlight my every flaw.
“You stick out too much.”
The usual degrading voice in my head isn’t just mine anymore.
I was a fool to believe the excuses I was told. Apologies
from ensemble members ricochet off my ears;
they have nothing to be sorry for. They didn’t ask “who?”
when I was sitting on my backstage throne, waiting for a cue.
The post-show adrenaline rush never hits me. The last time
I felt it, I was staring at a cast list with my name written
beside “Josh Newstead”. I had known that I couldn’t
truly be “One of the Boys,” I would never have auditioned,
or stuck through the nights of not being needed. But I’m no quitter.
Not anymore. Either way, I’ll stick to the script I was given.
Exit stage right
The Tributary 