Stage Left

Over the spring, we attend a production of the Nutcracker.

Small town productions fill me with the ache felt by middle managers who once played bass in an Indie band that produced nothing greater than perfect-fitting t-shirts for some all-ages show back in the 80s.

The Nutcracker shakes as he holds Clara, unable to lift her as a prince should, even though she’s saved his life from the Mouse King. It’s mostly because Clara, in this small town production, towers over the Nutcracker, a muscular, but slight Chinese boy. A small town prince.

I’m thinking about him as I write this. Thinking about the face he’s going to make the day he recognizes the dream won’t last the hour. It’s light outside, and the alarm is making that faint, vibrating buzz before full blown blare.

I want to be there with him that day. Take him out to the small town bar next to the small town theatre and fill him with one whiskey after another. It won’t take much, because he’s so goddamned small. But I’ll feed him a whiskey and another and another until his face breaks character and he starts to scream at the cruelty of the world. And when he’s at his shit-faced worst, I’m going to put my arm around him and ask him,

‘What about me? When should I give up the dream?’

Because at this stage of his life, what else can he be but honest?

At first I think he’ll say:

Could it be? Yes, it could.
Something's coming, something good,
If I can wait!
Something's coming, I don't know what it is,
But it is
Gonna be great!

And I’ll ask, ‘But do I have it in me to wait?’

And he’ll break character once more, look me in the eye, and say, ‘Drink this, my friend, and try your god’s honest best not to wake.’