Disclaimers: These guys aren't mine, they don't belong to me, worst luck, so don't bother me.
Archive: Fine, but if you want it, please ask first.
Feedback: Hell, yes.
Note: Yes, I know that Cats closed years ago, leave me alone. Any similarities between Jacques D'Ambrois and his son are intentional, done without permission and meant as a compliment to a man I admire tremendously. Quotes courtesy of TS Elliot.
Mr. Mistoffelees
"No, no, nonono. All I'm saying is that you're good, but what we do is harder. You can't do what we do."
"Bullshit"cough.
"Bullshit, yourself, dude. I'm telling you. You're as good as it gets, but you couldn't do what we do every night." Marc sat back in his seat, regarding Robin. They'd been friends for a few years now, ever since his dad had managed to get Robin as that year's guest artist for his annual kids dance show over at the Garden. Marc had been tapped to help out as well and the two kids, the same age and in similar unusual professions hit it off.
"I'd bet that I could do your job, but you can't do mine."
"Talk about ego—you been reading your own press a little too much, Robbie?"
Robin took another drink of coke. "Not ego, my man, just fact." He was going to add that he was a higher rated gymnast; number three in the world, than Marc was a dancer. He bit his tongue on that though. After all, they were friends, no point in being obnoxious.
"Talk about bullshit." Marc reached for another slice of pizza. "You can turn some nice tricks, sure, but maintain choreography night after night? Perform up to standards in front of a Broadway audience? You couldn't pull that off. You saying anything different?"
"I'm saying that I could perform well enough that no one would know I'm not you."
"Yeah? In your dreams, junior—you want to put your money where your mouth is? 'You willing to try to prove it?"
"You're on, any time; how?"
The conversation was interrupted as the kitchen door opened and Pasha Sarkov, Marc's father, walked in, taking off his jacket and shaking off the cold. "Hello, gentlemen, any pizza left?"
Robin pulled out a vacant chair with his foot and handed the man a paper plate to help himself. "Hi, Pasha."
"Robbie thinks dance is such a snap that he could stand in for me in the show and no one would even be able to tell the difference."
"Does he indeed?"
"Hey, I didn't exactly say that."
"You sure as hell did, my friend and I'm willing to bet you don't have the balls to carry through with it."
Pasha watched with some bemusement; he was a dancer, in face he'd been a danseur, the lead danseur at ABT (American Ballet Theater) for over two decades. He was past that now, honored and in demand as one of the most esteemed choreographers in the world. He was the person who'd gotten Marc started on his own dance career when the boy was still young enough, combined with his innate talent and ability, to be molded into the best. He was on his way, his current job not being ballet but a stint with Cats on Broadway. It would give him flexibility, experience and seasoning only the grind of eight shows a week can give a young performer—assuming he stayed healthy and uninjured, of course.
Pasha also taught under-privileged kids in the city, giving dance clinics in the schools culminating in a single annual performance at Wayne Arena featuring almost two hundred kids and a special guest artist. Three years ago that guest had been Robin, insisting that he would only participate if he didn't overshadow the kids. James agreed; Robin and Marc had become friends during rehearsals and now it wasn't unusual to find the two boys hanging around the house when he came home.
"So, what's the bet for, money?" Marc and Robin looked at one another; they hadn't gotten that far. "How about a free tutorial for one of my classes for the loser? And the winner, come to think of it."
"Good try, Dad. How about loser admits it in public? Rob pulls this off, I'll admit it to a reporter and if he doesn't, he admits it in public."
"Public humiliation? Perfect, you're on and prepare to eat it, Marc."
"In your dreams, Teen Wonder. You want to call home to get Daddy-Bat's permission?"
"Bite me. And we'll do the tutorials if you want, Pasha." He pulled another slice from the box, folding it as only a true Gothamite can do correctly. "And no pre-show publicity or announcements. And how are we going to get the management or the producers agree to this?"
"What do you mean, get them to agree? You show up, the make up is so heavy that my grandmother could slip by the Stage Manager; you wear the back up costume, do the number and split. Easy."
"You'll teach me the choreography?"
"Sure and I bet dad will help, too, right?"
Pasha nodded. "I think we may have to tailor it a bit for Rob's special abilities—that's certainly common enough for a guest performer. Now the question is, when?"
"Two weeks, how about Wednesday matinee? Less discriminating crowd so they'll go easy on you."
Robin shook his head. "Can't. I have class Wednesday afternoon. How about one of the weekend matinees?"
"Sunday? Three o'clock curtain and my big number isn't until the second act, almost four-thirty. You show up as my guest, hang in the dressing room and you can change during intermission. I'll handle everything on stage except my solo—you come out for that and then leave the stage for me to take over again. No one will know anything."
"Marc—the entire cast will know, c'mon."
"Yeah, sure but they won't say anything, they're cool. Besides, if we do this right, no one will suspect anything until you change into the costume—you'll just be one of those annoying friends who hang around backstage."
"We have different builds, even with the makeup people will realize we're two different people."
"And when it's over, it's over and there's nothing anyone can do about it."
"You could get fired, man, you could lose your job."
"Robbie, seriously—once it gets out that you're the guy who filled in for me the publicity will make the box office light up like Christmas."
Robin and Pasha both nodded, Marc was right. Win or lose, the show would win.
"Uh, I just thought of something. This is Broadway, Cats is a union show—you don't happen to have your Equity card, do you, Rob? I mean, it probably doesn't really matter for a one-shot, but…"
"Equity, SAG, AFTRA and the IA. I'm good." Actor's Equity, Screen Actor's Guild, American Federation of Theater and Radio Artists and The International Alliance of Theatrical and Stage Employees. Robin, well—Dick Grayson had gotten his union cards back when he was a circus performer and kept still up his dues.
Marc paused in the sudden silence. "Should I ask?"
"…Nah."
"Okay, that looks fine, but on that pirouette, could you make it a triple instead of a double? And when you come out of that leap straight downstage, see if you can add some interest."
Robin turned the triple then set up for the leap, adding a triple twist off the end of the stage onto the aisle, then back flipping back up and out of the audience. "Too much, Pasha?"
"Uh, no…That works…"
The decided upon Sunday rolled around and Robin, instead of being nervous, was looking forward to this. It had been years since he'd performed for a real audience, gone full out just for the fun of it and got to show off a lot ore than the Bat felt was appropriate. This was going to be damn fun!
He walked in the Stage Door with Marc an hour before show time, Marc stopping to sign in and tell the door man that he had a friend with him today and he'd just stay in the dressing room and out of the way. And not to worry, he was a pro himself, and knew how to behave. There wouldn't be any problems.
Robin, wearing a GCPD baseball cap low over his face, hid the mask. Marc went straight to his spot at the makeup counter and Rob took up an empty seat off to the side. There were other actors already getting ready, some half-dressed and a few starting their time consuming makeup.
It was the usual dressing room set up; a large room curtained off and divided into several sections, one for the boys, one for the girls. There was also a green room area with a couple of decrepit couches, tables and chairs; most of which were probably left over from some old show. The dressing areas held racks full of costumes, long counters backed by mirrors and lights for making up, each performer having their own spot and chair. The atmosphere was light hearted, professional and relaxed. It was the same backstage at any theater and Robin had been in a hundred of them.
Marc introduced him to the others as they came in and he was treated politely but largely left alone as they chatted and prepared for the show. Robin or not, they were used to celebrities visiting and were too cool to be impressed.
The Stage Manager called half hour, fifteen minutes, five minutes and finally, places. The orchestra had warmed up, the usual house announcements about no cameras being allowed, turning off cell phones and pagers was made. The overture started. Robin was left alone to watch the black and white monitor in the green room and listen to the show over the tinny speakers. He knew to get into the spare costume in about thirty minutes, giving him enough time for the change. Marc was going to do his make up during the intermission at which time he'd also have to tell some of the cast who'd be watching.
Finally the show was at the half-way point, the actors all filing back into the too small space, sweating and looking for some water and to touch up their faces. Marc found Robin sitting at his place in the boy's dressing area and got right to applying the heavy greasepaint, transforming him into;
Mr. Mistoffelees… 'He is quiet and small
He is black
From the ears to the tip of his tail'
Black base, whiskers drawn in, heavy eye makeup to hide the shape of his own eyes, contouring around his cheeks and jaw and then the full head coverage wig complete with cat ears.
"Marc, man, you're screwed when Rick finds out what you're doing."
"Nah, you know who this is, Johnny? This is frigging Robin taking over for like three minutes. The second this gets out our ticket sales will double. It'll be cool, just keep your mouth closed and watch him, okay?"
"You're really Robin? Holy crap." Like they didn't know who'd been sitting there all afternoon…
"Shut up—anyone hears us before he goes on and we're in trouble."
"Okay, okay. Oh man, this is gonna be a rip."
'He can creep through the tiniest crack
He can walk on the narrowest rail'
Rob waited quietly in the back of the dressing room as places were called for the second act. He just waited, doing stretches as the songs came over the speakers and the thuds from the dancers pounded over his head as they hit the stage. Finally, almost the end of the show, Ian, the other actor, ran in and hissed, "C'mon, you're on".
'His manner is vague and aloof
You would think there was nobody shyer
But his voice has been heard on the roof
When he was curled up by the fire
And he's sometimes been heard by the fire
When he was about on the roof'
The number was a solo, a virtuoso athletic dance which Robin, with Pasha's help, had turned into a high soaring, feather-light tour de force of grace and power going on non-stop for almost four minutes. The flying, twisting leap put him in the house left aisle, fifteen feet from the lip of the stage and close to an empty aisle chair where he collapsed, fake panting from his efforts. Petting the head of the person in the seat ahead of him, getting a laugh from the audience then immediately springing from the chair to finish the dance with all the showmanship he'd been born with. The rest of the cast cheering him on (while staying in character or crowding into the wings, of course) as he hissed at a couple of kids in the front row and bounded off stage to show stopping applause—almost unheard of in a show running as long as this one was.
Out in the audience, Pasha watched, impressed and knowing a star turn when he saw one. Somewhere along the way the kid had learned how to work an audience and he did it with the skill that only comes with years of practice. He'd performed before and often, that was obvious to trained eyes but there was more than that; he had stage presence, he had charisma, he had it.
And he had it in spades; the ability, the training, joy of performing, the connection with the audience, he had it all and he knew what to do with it.
Three more numbers, the finale and it was curtain call. Robin listened to it from the dressing room, changed back into his civilian clothes and taking off the last of the make up as the cast came in, laughing and surrounding him with slaps on the back and high fives. Mask back in place just in time (though not quite exactly in position because of the cold cream) he gave Marc a look then, "Well?"
"You were okay."
"Okay? You should live to be so 'okay'."
"Marc, Rick wants to see you—both of you—now." No surprise, the surprise would be if they weren't called on the carpet.
"Shit, busted. C'mon, Rob, face the music with me."
The two of them went to the SM's desk by the side of the stage, knowing they were about to be reamed out in ten different directions. Rick was on the phone, looking at them and holding up his finger to tell them to wait. "Yes, I understand. Okay, I will."
"You," He looked at Marc, "Just lost a week's pay for unprofessional behavior during a performance but management isn't filing a formal complaint with Equity. And you," he looked at Robin, "they want you in their offices as soon as you can get your ass over to Fifty-fourth Street to sign a contract. Like now." He turned back to some paperwork; Marc and Robin were dismissed.
They headed out the stage door, Robin's baseball cap back in place to hide his face and were greeted by a bunch of fans wanting autographs which Rob declined with "Sorry, I'm nobody." He waited off to the side while Marc signed a few, remembering how it used to be after a show with his parents and, while nostalgic, didn't really miss it. Been there, done that, yesterday's news.
"So, want to get dinner?"
"Thanks, but I've got to get back, or the Bat will pitch a fit if I'm late to whatever he has planned."
"Bummer." They were at the subway entrance, Marc about to head downtown to the family brownstone. "So, you have a good time?"
"Yeah, you know, I did. It was kick—tell your dad that if he wants I'll do some stuff with his kid's classes in the schools. Just let me know."
"Okay—and Rob? You were good." He meant it; all kidding was pushed aside. "You stopped the show."
Robin shrugged, "No big deal. I'll be looking for that announcement in the Times and back Stage, though."
"You got it, I bet the producers are already on it. Later."
"See'ya."
Walking over to where he'd parked his bike he smiled to himself, grinned really. That was about the most fun he'd had in a while and it had been a kick. Okay, he did miss it; he admitted it but only to himself. He'd swallow his tongue before he let anyone else know.
He straddled the custom Ninja, Dick Grayson's ride instead of Robin's because of his civilian clothes and pulled the helmet on, the face shield hiding his face. He paid the parking fee and pulled out onto Eight Avenue, headed uptown to the bridge. He'd be home in twenty minutes.
He went through the performance in his mind, saw the looks of the kids in the front rows, heard the music and the applause just like it used to be when he was a kid. The only thing missing was the smell of the sawdust and the animals. "I stopped the damn show—fucking go me!"
The next morning the Arts section of the paper was by his breakfast plate, opened and folded to page three; An unannounced guest artist revved up the usual Sunday matinee performance of Cats yesterday to heights of applause the war-horse show hasn't seen in years. According to producers Robin filled in for the solo dance number of the character of Mr. Mistoffelees, earning a standing O and leaving before curtain calls. There are no plans for a repeat, though sources say that it would be welcomed.
"Planning a career change, Master Dick?"
He smiled, "Just keeping my options opened, Alf, that's all."
9/16/08
8