“Of course, you would be a lovely date, and who knows where it might lead.”
“Nicholas, you are so right.” Josie inhaled deeply, forcing the entirety of her rib cage to rise so high her breasts almost touched her chin, but she exhaled before they hit the dimple. “Timing is everything. In the theater. In life. In love. You and me? We live with the broken hands of time.”
Calla Borelli, in a white party dress and pink ballet flats, yanked the pulley to release the stage curtain, which fell to the floor with a loud thud. She called out to the cast and crew, “Rosa is opening the house.”
“I better get dressed,” Josie purred in a way that told Nicky this wouldn’t be the last time he’d feel her nails on his chalkboard. Her satin mules clopped all the way back to her dressing room like she was a pony in need of new shoes. Nicky shook his head and organized his script. Leading ladies needed so much reassurance.
“You look lovely,” Nicky said to Calla.
“Thanks.”
“You’re welcome,” Nicky said, then murmured, “Frosty.”
“Who, me?”
“Yeah. You’ve been giving me the stink eye. The cold shoulder. The first day of winter. I guess because I made you fall.”
Calla had to think. “Oh, that. No, that wasn’t your fault, I was distracted.”
“So was I.”
“Why?”
“Doesn’t matter. Why the dress? Something’s up. A skirt. Then a dress. Did the fire department ask for their overalls back?”
“You’re a real cut-up. If you must know, I have a date.”
“Lucky guy.”
“You think so?” Calla’s eyes narrowed.
“It’s finally been confirmed that you have legs. The young men of South Philly are rejoicing.”
Calla closed her eyes and smoothed the space between her eyebrows. “Nicky, I need to talk to you.”
“I’m only one man. I have a fiancée, and Josie is next in line. You’ll be sixty-two before I get to you.”
Calla folded her arms and looked down at the floor. “I can’t afford to keep you on staff. I’m afraid this is your last night.”
Nicky swallowed hard. “You’re firing me?”
“I wish the financial situation around here were better and that things were different.”
“I make seventy-five cents a night.”
“I can’t afford it.”
“It’s not the quality of my work?”
“You know the play better than the actors. I like you. You do anything we ask. But we’re not making box office. Something has to go.”
“You mean somebody.”
“I’m sorry.” Calla placed her hand on the lectern as if to soothe the situation. “If it helps, I hate this part of my job. Hate it.” She turned toward the stairs.
“Calla?”
“Yeah?”
“I don’t like your haircut after all.”
“You and my dad.” Calla went down the stairs.
Nicky was stunned. He had never been fired, and certainly not by a girl in a white piqué cotton dress. Granted, his only employers had been his uncle and the United States Army, and while family would never put him out of work and he had earned his honorable discharge, Calla’s cold and abrupt canning of his position stung. Nicky was hurt, but he had a job to do, so like all theater people, he put the bad news out of his mind and got on with the show. He would deal with his feelings after the final curtain. For now, he would savor what was left of his time at the theater and stay in the moment. Nicky had heard Sam Borelli give this bit of direction to the actors many times in rehearsal, and while his job as prompter was strictly behind the scenes, it would only help to remain focused on the task at hand.
Of all the wonderful aspects of working in the theater, Nicky’s favorite moments were spent standing in the wings before a performance, watching the audience take their seats. Over time, he had come to make certain assumptions about the patrons based upon their pre-curtain behavior.
Occasionally there was a tussle between an usher and a patron over the seat assignment. Women wore their best outfits to the theater, which often meant their biggest hats, with the widest brims decorated with enormous silk flowers and large satin bows. A big hat worn by a woman sitting in an orchestra seat could knock out an entire act of Shakespeare for the patron unlucky enough to sit behind her. Try asking the woman who was proud of her Agnes of Paris creation to remove it. If the woman wouldn’t remove her hat, and the usher couldn’t make her move her seat, she’d leave in a huff, and if she stayed, the patron with the compromised view demanded a refund.
When a group bought seats in a cluster, they would enter the theater with their stubs and proceed to engage in a version of musical chairs until everyone was satisfied with their particular view of the stage. The long-legged, claustrophobic, and hypochondriacal always fought for the aisle seats. Nuns never cared where they sat. Priests wanted center orchestra. Politicians wanted the front row while bookies, gamblers, and other players of the street stood in the back. As a director blocked the actors, Nicky could block the audience.
Nicky observed the single-ticket buyer with keen interest. This was usually a man who came alone, paid close attention to the action, and laughed and cried through the show, only to return the following night to repeat the experience. He related most to that fellow, the audience member who felt the production spoke directly to him.
Audiences were similar night after night, but onstage, the world of the play was never the same.