The Home For Wayward Ladies by Jeremy Blaustein Read Free Book Online Page A

Yesterday’s audience didn’t leave much mess behind - some errant ticket stubs and one crusty tissue that I kick under a chair. I’d get in trouble if anyone knew I didn’t pick it up but this job is torture enough without catching the norovirus that’s obviously going around.
     
    The stage manager is pacing near the orchestra pit carrying a binder full of blocking. The understudy is being rushed through the staging for the final moments of Act Two.  She affects a quiet calm as she’s hurried from point A to point Z. From the looks of it, she’ll do just fine. Still, I can’t help but think that, if I were in her strappy La Duca shoes, I don’t know which I’d need more: Valium or Imodium. 
     
    I look at my watch; the house is already five minutes late to open, which means the audience is stranded out in the cold. As soon as the stage manager gives the thumbs up, the theater doors will open. Hundreds of unfamiliar faces will pour in carrying Christmas presents that will be too big to fit under their seats. And when I tell them to put their oversized bags in coat check, they’ll adamantly refuse. But I mustn’t let those assholes bring me down. With Jason on my mind, I have all the reason I need to be happy. All I’m asking for is a quiet matinee. If only that could happen, it might not be such a bad day after all. I mean, even if it is cold outside, well, “at least there isn’t snow.”
     
     

    6
    NICK
     
     
    To add injury to insult, after I get booted from that audition, I’m back to freezing my tits off out in the cold. At least getting “typed out” puts me relatively on time for my survival job at the TKTS Booth in Times Square. (Don’t judge me; ever since my Ma found out that my Bar Mitzvah money went up my nose, the purse strings have been tight.) I’m not even at the end of the block when all three pairs of socks I’m wearing let the subzero temperatures seep through. The numbness in my toes are further proof that God’s not listening. Yet, still, I take a page from Hunter’s book and pray.
     
    “Our God, King of all disappointment, Creator of the bacon cheeseburger, which Exodus says we’re not supposed to eat-- grant me patience today as I explain to foreign tourists that The Lion King has no discount and, quite simply, that it never fucking will .”
     
    But as far as survival jobs go, I guess this one’s not so bad. I much prefer the shit I deal with on a daily basis than to what I hear the other Ladies must endure. Eli’s days are spent with his cellulite sewn into a monkey suit handing out Playbills, and while he may be capable of working with his nose stuck in the air, I think I’d go bananas if my place of employment had a rule against slapping my co-workers asses like they was bongo drums. And poor Hunter’s got it even worse. He’s doing every odd job except knob polishing in order to turn a buck. I can’t remember the last time he had the strength at the end of a day to muster a “hello” before collapsing on top of his always made bed.  
     
    Meanwhile, at TKTS, I get the chance to talk about theater like somebody appointed me chief gardener of the Broadway landscape. From my vantage at the booth, I see which shows are running well and how soon the also-rans will be run out. Since management expects me to know what I’m talking about, they give me tickets to almost everything. And that’s not even the best part— no one seems to mind when I sneak away for a few minutes to steal a few drags off my one-hitter. Since no one doubts that weed is to me what spinach is to Popeye, they let it slide. It’s a good thing too, because on the pennies they pay me, I can’t exactly afford health insurance and getting stoned is my primary defense against the loss of faith I feel in humanity when I’m asked if Cats is still playing. 
     
    The cold hasn’t seemed to deter any of the usual idiotic suspects. When I arrive, the throngs of people are already three queues