Chapter 2: That's Odd
"The rehearsals are draining. I'm having trouble getting into Porter's head. I've done hours of research on the guy, and there just isn't much about him personally. I can't get a picture of Cole Porter, the man."
"What does your director say?" Rachel was touring with a production of Les Mis. She was lost in the mid-west somewhere and Kurt really wanted her back in New York.
Kurt forced himself to stop biting his nails as he paced his tiny apartment. "He keeps telling me to go with my gut." Kurt groaned.
Rachel laughed. "How are you doing with the musical numbers?"
"The songs are great, I love them. The dances are challenging but the choreographer is a sweetheart; he's really helpful, and so creative."
"Helpful, huh, and cute?"
"Not that kind of helpful, Rachel. He's like 45 and he's been in a relationship for years."
"Anyone interesting?"
"Stop worrying about my love life." Kurt noticed that his iPod, sitting in its dock, was on. Odd, he was sure he had turned it off before he left, this morning. "So, how's it going in the wild, wild west?"
"Not so wild. Thank god I'm at the theatre every night. Some of these places have never even heard of a bagel!"
Kurt laughed. "You've actually done it. You've found the back of beyond!"
"Hah! We'll see how funny you think it is next year when you're on tour."
"Rache, I'm in a tiny little off-Broadway theatre. We'll be lucky If 100 people see the show. We're not going on tour."
"It's not impossible, Kurt. Off-Broadway plays make it to Broadway all the time."
"Yeah, cause the theatre going public is just clamoring for songs from the 30's."
Rachel was scandalized at Kurt's cavalier attitude towards the man that was arguably the quintessential musical theatre genius. "It's Cole Porter, Kurt. Cole Porter is eternal!"
"When is your tour over? I'd like you to see my play before it closes." Kurt sounded like he was joking but he had recurring nightmares about the show closing on opening night.
"Kurt Hummel, if you don't stop talking like that I'm going to call Finn and tell him to drive to New York and smack you for me."
"Oooo! Shaking in my boots, here, Rache." Kurt lay down on the couch that was really his pull-out bed. "You're right though, negative thinking is counterproductive. From now on, I'm all about the positive."
Kurt climbed the stairs to his apartment, one slow step at a time. He moved like an old man. He was exhausted. Rehearsal had been brutal today. He was only in two dance numbers but learning them was killing him. He leaned against the door, digging in his pocket for his house key. Voices filtered through the door, coming from inside the apartment. He straightened quickly, and turned the key in the lock. He could see at a glance that the place was empty. The chattering was coming from his small flat screen TV.
Kurt locked the door behind him. Crossing the room, he picked up the remote and turned the TV off. He must have been really out of it this morning, if he left the apartment with the TV on. Kurt stripped off his dance sweats and tossed them into an already full laundry bag. He had to get to the Laundromat this weekend; he was running out of clothes. That was the only real complaint Kurt had with his pocket sized apartment; there was just no room for a washer/dryer.
In the shower, standing under the stream of steaming water, Kurt tried to work the soreness out of his leg muscles. Dior! What he wouldn't give for a hot bath, or even better, a hot tub! Toweling off, Kurt consoled himself with the thought that, at least, he had the shower all to himself. Sharing one washroom with two roommates, in his last apartment, had not been fun! Emerging from the bathroom, towel around his waist, he found his TV on again.
Kurt stared at the screen, retracing his movements since he came home. Yes, he had definitely turned the TV off. Kurt picked up the remote and turned it off, again. Shrugging, he crossed the room, and opened the fridge. There must be something wrong with the wiring.
"So, tell me! Are you loving it? Is it as great as you thought it would be?"
"Cedes, I can't even tell you how great it is! Better, better than anything we imagined in high school."
"I'm so happy for you Kurt, you deserve this."
"What about you? Sure you don't want to change your mind?"
Five years ago, right after high school, Mercedes had gone to California to become a singing sensation. That dream had proved to be an illusion, but his BFF had found a new dream. She used music and her incredible voice to help autistic children communicate. "Nah, white boy, I'm good. Kurt, it's amazing…" Mercedes sighed. Kurt could hear the satisfaction in her voice. "When it works, when their eyes light up and they connect…I still get shivers up my spine. Of course, there are bad days, sometimes nothing works, and then I pray and hope and keep trying. I'm never bored Kurt, and I know I'm making a difference with my life. I'm happy."
"O.K. spill, who's the new guy?"
"I said I'm happy with my work, Kurt."
"Yeah, I heard you. Where did you meet him? Is he a social worker, teacher?"
"I don't want to say anything. It's too soon."
"Cedes, this is me you're talking to. I've told you about guys I've known for like 5 minutes."
Mercedes gave in; it's not like she wasn't dying to tell Kurt all about it anyway. "Kurt, he's wonderful. He's tall and broad, with soft curly hair, and kind eyes. He has a …" Kurt wandered into the closet kitchen as he listened to Mercedes. The radio was on; not a surprise! Kurt turned it off, and paced back to the couch. Fifteen minutes later, knowing more about Mercedes' dream man than he needed to, Kurt slid his phone back into his pocket and, in what had become a game with him, checked the radio. Yep, it was on again. He really should talk to the super about the wiring in this room. Something was way off!
Five weeks into rehearsals, three weeks till opening night, and it was finally starting to come together. Kurt let himself into his apartment, and automatically crossed the room, to turn the TV off. He'd been too busy, to talk to the super about the wonky wiring. He sank into the couch, and sorted through the mail. He tossed the junk mail, put the bills aside and laughed at a dorky post card from Finn. Actual writing was way too old school, but Kurt and Finn had been sending silly post cards back and forth since Kurt left Lima. Most of the time, they didn't even write anything on the back of them, but it had become a ritual that Kurt cherished.
He made tea, added honey for his throat, and hit play on his iPod. An instrumental recording of Cole Porter's "You Do Something To Me" flowed into the room. Kurt sang the lyrics, concentrating on his diction. The director wanted the words crisp, sharp.
You do something to me.
Something that simply mystifies me.
Tell me, why should it me
You have the pow'r to hypnotize me
Let me live 'neath your spell.
Do do that voodoo that you do so well.
"You're a little tall to be Porter, kid."
Kurt shrieked, and turned to find a man standing about four feet away, leaning in the archway to his closet kitchen. "Who the hell are you?"
The stranger dipped his head, and waved his hand in front of his chest. "Joshua Sinclair, but you can call me Josh."
The man looked about 25, black hair, blue eyes. He wore a rumpled brown suit, skinny tie, and held a cigarette between his fingers.
Kurt walked around the couch, closer to this interloper. "What are you doing here? How did you get in?"
"I live here."
"What?"
"Ok, I don't exactly live here. I haunt here.
