The Fisher Boy by Stephen Anable Read Free Book Online Page A

YES!” It was Ian, wobbling between two men from the St. Harold’s party. They were emerging from the street with at least five more customers in tow.
    “Hey!” I answered Ian, then ducked backstage.
    At least they’d bought tickets, but performing in front of friends always spooked me; I felt the stakes were higher, meeting their expectations. Then again, was Ian really my friend? In spite of the childhood rescue, I knew that was debatable.
    “Sixteen people,” I reported to Andy. “A guy I know just brought five more bodies.”
    “It’s eight-twenty-five let’s go!” Roberto said. So I led the troupe into the spotlight, into the glare. Some polite applause broke out and someone, it might’ve been Ian, bellowed, “Break a leg!” in a beery voice. With the light in our faces, the audience was little more than a blur. My nerves were on overdrive; rivulets of sweat were coursing down my spine, but my mouth felt as dry as though it contained all of the deserts of Arizona, complete with cactus, tarantulas, and Gila monsters. “Hello!” I rasped. “Thanks for coming.”
    “Not in my mouth!” some imbecile yelled.
    Then I began our introduction, explaining improv required audience collaboration, that skits had rules, like games of baseball, but that every skit was spontaneous as a sneeze and fuelled by their suggestions. “So, when we ask for your input before each skit, or clap to stop the action and get your advice, please be outrageous…”
    “What about God?” somebody asked, and my body went on alert, sure Christian Soldiers were in our audience. I caught sight of the man in the flasher’s raincoat, the man who’d asked if we were a drag show; he was stationed at a table down front covered with pamphlets with angels on their covers.
    “Is God in your script? In the script of your life?”
    “Well, I prayed for a bigger audience,” Roberto admitted.
    Two lesbians laughed.
    “Anyway,” I said, “your suggestions, divine or otherwise, are most welcome.” Since I was “calling,” directing, the first skit, I asked for a location where the action should take place.
    “Mars,” someone in the audience yelled.
    “A gay beach,” someone else said.
    “A gay beach on Mars,” a third person suggested.
    I took the gay beach on Mars as our setting. The skit, “A Meeting,” was governed by the principle that the actors involved are two gay men, strangers instinctively attracted to each other. We cast our strongest performers, Andy and Roberto, in this skit—and they came through with some good lines, about getting “an earthburn” and being “into tentacles,” then ended with a parody song, “Red Scales in a Sunspot.”
    The applause was strong, but when we assembled backstage, Roberto kept worrying his energy was low, jealous, actually, that he wasn’t being singled out as the star.
    “At least the holy roller is quiet,” Brian said.
    “Well, he’s eating,” Andy said. “He’s preoccupied with his giant order of onion rings.”
    Our mood soared as the next two skits went beautifully. Roger Morton appeared at the bar, mixing someone a cocktail requiring grenadine and a tiny paper parasol. Tristan, the bouncer, was now manning the door. It was my turn to act in a skit, “Coming Out,” which involved taking an audience member’s true coming out story and embellishing it with bizarre twists.
    Andy, calling the skit, asked, “Who has a coming-out story he’d like to share?” The lesbian couple gave him a stare that all but sandblasted him, so he added, “Or she’d like to share.”
    You’d think he’d asked for a moment of silence. Sometimes it was difficult to get people to volunteer a milestone for comic fodder, but we were always gentle with our humor for this skit. “Don’t be shy!” I encouraged the audience. “Tell us a friend’s coming out story.”
    The man in the raincoat, the man with the pamphlets, was waving his hand, the only person in the audience to respond, so