It Ain't Over

*My "narrative prose poem" for today's prompt morphed into flash fiction. Thanks to all the one-stoppers who indulge me and take the time to read!


Officially, it was the wiring. But really it was that black, bitter, backstage boil we call coffee, and I never would have spilled it on the frazzled light cord, its spliced rubber casing revealing live wires, if it weren't for Giselle who makes me nervous even when I look at her from the scaffolding above. When she dances, removes one shimmering cloth to reveal a dark thigh and then another to uncover her breasts overflowing from a robin’s egg blue bra adorned with sequins, I come undone, shaking and shimmering like one of her veils—the silvery orange one, flame-colored, heated as my face. And this time I spilled over like my coffee which first just sizzled on the wiring some and tricked out the spotlight, as it winked on and then off and then dimmed and finally dramatically cut just as Gisele cast off her last veil and the audience clapped an unknowing irony.

Some call it Cabaret, but Catherine, the artistic director, calls it Theatre. I call it a part-time job. I still blame Nick for not taping that cord. I mean, what good is a tech director who doesn't keep up with the details. And I’m only there for “experience” and “love of the craft” and admittedly Gisele. But hell, without me to fetch and run for everyone, the show wouldn't go on because Nick wouldn't have me to yell at, and Victoria who’s admittedly overweight would probably still be pitching a fit about not having fresh donuts, Perrier, and throat spray. And Gisele would never get that dress zipped up, and Stanwyck wouldn't be able to run his lines on that monologue he’s done for over a year now and who’d have caught Merrick’s damn birds, which fly to the rafters on a regular basis? As I see it, I’m the glue, the scotch tape, and the bent nail keeping this show together; so maybe it’s appropriate that I’m responsible for it coming apart.

If Nick or at least Catherine had checked that fire extinguisher, then maybe disaster could have been averted. I mean, when Catherine was finishing her introduction for Victoria’s act, I tried to put out the flames, but what can you do with a dead fire extinguisher, but yell “Fire!” and run like hell. And after the audience laughed, and I darted on stage and yelled it again, everyone with any sense ran too—jumped the rows, trampled on their dates, and stampeded towards the exits. I could only think of Gisele, and how I had to make sure everyone in the dressing room would safely escape. So, I was still running around backstage when the curtain caught fire and billowed those flames all over the stage, and it was fast becoming clear that I was the only one left in the theatre, except for Victoria. Why she was still standing center stage among the flames, hitting that high note, when the scaffolding finally fell, I have no idea.

Everyone was accounted for on the street, and most of us stood and watched the firefighters drench the building. I was crying and shaking and gagged on my own guilty tears flooding my throat, so distraught that even Nick, not knowing, was like, “It’s okay. It’s going to be okay.” And all the other women who were crying too started hugging and kissing me, and then Gisele dried her tears like a real pro, pulled herself together, patted me on my back and said, “Honey, let’s get you a cup of coffee.”

© Ami Mattison

Photo courtesy of Jacob F. Lucas

For One Stop Poetry's Sunday Picture Prompt Challenge