This piece comes from a conversation I had with my roommate over Magical Mr. Mistoffolees. We had watched both the movie version of "Magical Mr. Mistoffolees" and a live stage version on Youtube and I, being somewhat worse for the wear in terms of sleep, found myself explaining that not all the Mr. Mistoffolees disappear in a cloud of glitter after that final jump. Only Jacob Brent could do that. Several jokes later, we came up with this situation.
N.B. All the names I've used are the names of the actors and cast from the film cast, though they naturally aren't the people themselves. I say this due to 's policy on not using any real people and to explain why I don't use the character names here. They are intended to give an idea of whom I'm referencing without calling everyone "Mist" and "Tug" since that's not how actors and crew backstage would address each other. The only exception with the names is the stage manager, Lucy, since I don't know the name of the person who managed that production.
Disclaimer: I do not own Cats the musical or the movie. I don't even own a cat.
"What do you mean 'Tibet'?" Lucy growled from the other end of the line.
I massaged my forehead in exasperation, rubbing off some of the white grease paint in the process. "Just what I told you. The spell went wrong and I ended up in Tibet."
There was a brief pause on the end of the line. I could almost see Lucy doing those yoga breaths John had taught her after the first time I messed up the teleportation spell.
"Jacob," she said, her voice eerily calm. "If you don't get your ass over here before curtain call, I will personally get David's permission to wring your neck."
"You know that's not how it works, Luce," I murmured. The people over at the far side of the bar were giving me looks. Not surprisingly of course. I was dressed as a black and white cat with a sparkly vest. That's not something you usually see at four in the morning unless you've achieved a particularly potent state of drunkenness, something which I hoped these fellows thought that they'd done. "The magic takes at least forty minutes after this kind of spell. Probably sixty after doing all those fouettes and grand jetes."
We've been over this, I added to myself. It wasn't the first time I'd teleported to the wrong place after all. The first time I ended up in Gordon Square and had had to walk back to the West End in costume. The second time I ended up backstage at Sweeney Todd, which had earned me a hard plastic pie to the shoulder from a very surprised Mrs. Lovett. However, this was the first time I'd managed to accidentally transport myself to a foreign country.
"Can't you just soak yourself in water or sprinkle yourself with tea-leaves or something?" she said, desperation sinking into her voice.
I bit back a snarky comment about being a cup of chai before replying.
"No, Luce. You're just going to have to explain to David that I messed up again. I'll try to be back before call tomorrow."
With that I put the pay phone back on its hook.
Reviews appreciated as always, though I ask you to keep in mind that this is a small and very silly short, not a picture of life backstage or an in-depth take on the character of Mr. Mistoffolees.
