AN: For everyone who likes this story: thanks for reading! I promise it will pick up a bit, just as soon as the main cast is assembled. Right now I'm trying to backstory so everything makes sense. I'm pulling inspiration from just about every version of the story there is, see if you can spot the references! And please do review, I read all of them and really appreciate any feedback you can give, at least let me know I'm entertaining people out there!
Disclaimer: None of the characters from any incarnation of Phantom of the Opera belong to me. Any musicals, plays or places referenced by me are the property of their respective owners. I am making no money off the utilization of anything with a copyright.
"God on high, hear my prayer.
In my need, you have always been there.
He is young, he's afraid
Let him rest, heaven blessed.
Bring him -"
"Thank you," Tim said, glancing up from the resume of the young man in front of him. "That will be all. We'll let you know." There really was nothing like sitting in an uncomfortably warm room at the beginning of what promised to be a swelteringly hot summer listening to seventeen year old, acne ridden boys warble out songs intended for fifty year old men. It was a sight to behold, really. And speaking of angsty teenagers pathetically showing their age...
"Can I go home now?"
The room that Christine had just left was not only a torture chamber of sorts to those anxious masses who were forced to perform for their lives (or the suffering men whose job it was to judge them). Lowly accompanists had to share in the suffering as well.
Erik truly had not known what he got himself into when Tim called and said, "Hey, can you come down and play the piano at auditions for a few hours? As a favor?" Granted, it was seven o'clock in the morning when his phone rang and he really didn't do his best cognitive functioning until closer to noon. Technically, he was not certain that the garbled grunt he responded with actually counted as an affirmative reply, but Tim seemed to think it did, since he was quick to shoot back, "Great, see you in an hour," before he hung up the phone on him.
Now, given that his home was only about fifteen minutes from campus by bicycle, one might not think that asking Erik to be there in an hour was asking for anything too complicated, but, of course, he knew that he was going to be cutting it close. For the first ten minutes after being rudely awakened by the irritating buzzing of his cell phone, he did nothing more productive than lie in bed and curse God, Buddha, Odin and every other mythical creature he could think of that might have some reason to meddle in his life and cause it to turn so violently against him. Erik often found himself cursing God at odd moments, just because he thought his life was a great deal more complicated than it had to be, most of the time. And really, he was fragile. A delicate flower of rare and exquisite blossom. Not made for rising from bed before ten in the morning. Though his mother often complained that he seemed never to sleep, that was entirely untrue. He slept soundly between the hours of 4am and 10am, no more, no less. Six hours was all anyone really needed to function, all the most respectable mattress commercials said so.
After his ten minute bitchfest to all concerned heavenly powers, Erik rolled out of bed and stumbled off into the bathroom to put on his face – literally. It was something he'd concerned himself with for years now, so he didn't really pay the process a great deal of notice, just glancing into the mirror to make sure that no one who saw him would run screaming in horror. It had happened previously, of course, but usually after the screamer in question was already acquainted with him. Ahmed had been known to douse him with Holy Water on occasion, which was a laugh and a half considering the fact that he was a Muslim. He did have the cultural sensibilities to apply antiperspirant, brush his teeth and put clean clothes on, but that really didn't help the fact that he had a natural tendency to repel more people than he attracted. Whether by design or the simple fact of being an ornery teenage boy, Erik did not like people and people, as a rule, did not generally like him. Except for short-staffed theatre directors and their boyfriends, it seemed.
Well, insensitive youth though he may be, Erik was not going to ignore a summons from someone in need. And so, as soon as he was dressed, not smelling horrendous, it was off to St Mary's...just as soon as he got a coffee. Technically a medium iced hazelnut with two shots of espresso, whole milk and extra sugar, but still, coffee it was and ordinarily he could duck in and out of his favorite on-campus psuedo-bistro (aptly named 'The Bistro'), but being that it was seven-fifty in the morning at this point, the place was packed to the gills with zombie-like masses, so it took a few minutes more than he was expecting it to. Some might have called ahead if they knew they were going to be late, but Erik decided that, since he had been awakened at an ungodly hour that morning by a needy, balding dictator, he had at least a fifteen minute grace period before he could actually be considered "late."
At eighteen years of age, Erik wasn't terribly concerned with how people perceived him and he had a reputation for being...abrasive. Which was probably why, after strolling into the audition room five minutes late (twenty minutes late, actually, thank the gods for fifteen minute grace periods), he was frogmarched to the piano bench by Chester and Tim both and told, in no uncertain terms, that he was to sit, shut up, play the piano and under no circumstances was he to say anything. To anyone.
"What if I have to use the facilities?" Erik asked blandly, mightily resisting the urge to roll his eyes since that might be against the new rules and restrictions that had been imposed upon him.
"Hold it," Chester said bluntly. And at that, both of them turned and sat down behind the table and there they remained until the nervous blonde girl exited the room and Erik had the idle thought that he might be free now.
Of course, he understood the logic behind why he had been effectively silenced for the better part of the morning/afternoon (it had to be afternoon by now, his ass had fallen asleep and pain reawakened itself at least seven times). Erik was, to use the most apropos turn of phrase, an incorrigible asshole. He could never stop himself, he always had some kind of douchey comment or sarcastic sneer. It was not a particularly attractive personality trait, but really, after dealing with theatre people for all of his life, he could not help being somewhat disillusioned with watching dozens of pressed, primped and chipper teenagers march in and sing their earnest little hearts out. And, as was to be expected when dealing with theatre auditions for a semi-prestigious liberal arts college located on the prettier half of the Ocean State, most of the applicants...well, sucked. In one way or another. Every person who seemed to have musical talent had the acting chops of a drugged Keanu Reeves. Everyone who delivered a truly inspired monologue, when they opened their mouths to sing, either were painful to listen to or sang something truly atrocious from RENT or some Andrew Lloyd Webber musical fiasco that made Erik disqualify them immediately from consideration – or he would have if he was allowed to say anything.
Really, he deserved some recognition for being so cooperative. Erik didn't utter a word the whole time, just played the pieces – the majority of them from memory, so he could just stare off into space or, when no one was paying attention, sneak a sip off of his rapidly melting iced coffee during a particularly melodramatic trill. He was privately of the opinion that this audition process was really a spectacular waste of time. Theatre BAs they had in abundance, that was the bread and butter of the department and one did not need to audition in order to take the classes necessary to mass the 30 credits that would grant them a major. These were auditions for the BFA track and it was the 'F' that made all the difference. There were no less than eight, no more than fifteen students accepted to the BFA program, where they worked in close association with Memorial Repertory Company, one of the premiere repertory theatres in New England and most of the company was formed already, by virtue of nepotism alone.
For example, Ann Giry's daughter, Margaret, had an automatic 'in,' even though Erik privately felt that for all she had to offer in dance, her acting skills were sadly lacking. Ahmed's dad was an English professor, so it didn't matter whether or not he had any particular theatrical talent, he was guaranteed admission to the school in whatever capacity he so desired. Fortunately, he was moderately talented – but Erik would be thrice damned if Ahmed heard him admit as much. Really, the rest of the freshman class - "company" as Tim insisted they be called, since he was all about fostering "an authentic theatrical learning environment" - read like a veritable who's who of department staff. Charlotte Mendoza's mother was the general manager of Memorial Rep, Armand Moncharmin's dad was their accountant, Fred Richard's mother was head seamstress and his father worked in the scene shop for years, the list went on in the same vein. Erik, of course, was privy to all this information because his mother had been a member of Memorial Rep for twenty years and his father was master electrician, when he wasn't gallivanting around the country with one touring company of something or other. So, technically, yes, he too had an automatic in, but at least he had the talent to back it up – and Erik was talented. Just ask him, he would be the first person to alert the media to that fact. Musically gifted, a good actor and even a skilled dancer. It was what came of being largely brought up in and around theatres, except for those few, unfortunate middling years where he saw far more than he wanted to of the interior of hospitals. But that was all past. He was going off to school...a school where his mother as an adjunct professor, but at least he was getting his own place. With a roommate. Two roommates. But who was counting? He was going to be independent and with his long, skinny figures clasped firmly around a diploma in four years and then he would be out and away from the people he had seen every day of his life since infancy.
People like Timothy Reyer-Goldman and Chester Reyer-Goldman who felt like they had the right to summon him to perform like an organ grinder's monkey at a moment's notice and had denied him (twice now) the perfectly reasonable request to go to the bathroom. For long stretches he had been able to ignore the call of nature since all the kids lined up to audition seemed to blend into each other after a while, but this latest girl that they were coming all over themselves because of the latest blonde haired blue eyed darling who had just swept out in a whirlwind of nerves. Frankly, he was just happy that they'd found someone they had apparently never seen before in their lives to round out the incoming class. And because they had gone outside their comfort zone, Erik felt that his job there was done and he should be free to vacate. Apparently they had other ideas.
"Auditions are until 2:30," Tim said, shuffling through a pile of resumes and headshots, apparently trying to organize them in a half-hearted sort of way. This prompted Erik to sigh and throw himself backward over the piano bench, one hand over his heart as if he were experiencing a moment of supreme agony.
"Oh shut up, Erik, you're such a bitch," Chester said, leaning back in his chair and shaking his head at the ceiling.
"I learned from the best," the moody teenager shot back, not straightening up from his swoon over the bench. "I have to use the bathroom. What do you want me to do, pee on the floor? That's disgusting, Chester, I can't believe you would suggest such a thing."
Apparently Chester didn't think he had to dignify that with a response, so he just rolled his eyes and said, "Pee break, then make the little monster go back to work?"
"This isn't work," Erik said irritably, "this is slavery. It isn't like I'm being paid. I have better things to do than this. I could have gone to M.I.T."
"Not for free you couldn't," Tim pointed out dryly, not having lifted his eyes to view this latest display of infantile theatrics. He had known Erik too long to be affected by his pathos shtick. "Besides, we raised you, you owe us."
It takes a village, people. And sometimes, it takes the Village People. Erik often liked to complain that one of the major contributing factors to his myriad personality disorders had to do with the fact that he was raised, at least in part, by drag queens, the social equivalent of being raised by wolves – well-dressed wolves with great hair and beautiful legs – but his mother would sedately reply that he was alive and well today and came out of the experience with impeccable dress sense. That might be true, but Erik really didn't think he owed Tim and Chester anything in particular. And he especially didn't have to play the role of performing ape for them. "You didn't have to come down, you know," Tim said, glancing up at him. "You could have stayed at home and slept. We could have found someone else."
Erik made a derisive noise in the back of his throat, "Yeah right. You keep telling yourself that. This place needs me. Fuck you people, I'm going to the bathroom." And with that, he straightened up and stood in one smooth motion, gliding swiftly from the room with a haughty glance down at the two men behind the table, presumably to void his bowels – in the most haughty and dignified way possible, of course.
Chester shook his head and looked at the door that Erik had slammed shut in his wake. "Kids get cranky when they don't get enough sleep, huh?" Tim shook his head, closing his eyes and rubbing his closed eyelids in subtle exasperation. Chester smiled at him and gave his arm a reassuring squeeze. "Two hours more, honey, that's it. Then we can set the baby down for a nap." Glancing back at the door he pondered aloud, "Think we should admit that he's right?"
Tim glanced down at the man he had chosen to spend the rest of his life with in frank astonishment, looking at him as though he'd never quite seen him before. "Absolutely not. I am determined not to give him the satisfaction."
