A Day in the Life

Why did it always storm on the most important days?

Saturday morning, and Justin Fisher lay stretched out in bed, gazing at the distorted picture of his window as the rain hit and flooded down the smooth glass in torrents. Justin lay stretched out on his stomach, head turned sideways to the window: the only source of light in the room. Without moving his head his eyes roved to the red digital numbers of the clock beside his bed. 10:37. Plenty of time before he would have to get up. Heaving a sigh, Justin turned his head the other way and let himself drift back to sleep.

It wasn't as though he had anywhere important to go...

Some time later the phone rang. Jerking awake with a grunt and a sudden leap of his heart, Justin lifted his head. Eyes still closed and only half-awake, Justin rolled over and groped for the phone on the low table beside his bed...and losing his balance entirely he toppled over the side in a crash and tangle of sheets. Landing hard on his shoulders, Justin blinked himself into full awareness, viewing the rest of his room upside-down. Turning his head so that he glanced across at the clock, which now lay toppled on its side along with most of the table's contents, he saw only thirty minutes had passed. Wriggling his hand under the mess, he reached for the receiver and pulled it to his ear. "Hello?" Dry, groggy, his voice was cracked and raspy as he spoke, rubbing his forehead as he listened to the mechanical voice on the phone. "No! I'm quite happy with the service I got, thanks!" And he hung up.

Sighing, Justin decided to just lay there a moment, pinpointing the places in his body that were sore this morning...just like every morning. Not as many as yesterday, but he knew that tomorrow there would be a lot more. "Another day in the life of a dancer," he mumbled, almost the exact moment a large pink tongue slapped his face. "Ack! Duke, gerroffame!" Twisting himself upright again, Justin pushed the insistent black dog away from him until he sat upright against the bed again. The dog whined and set its chin on Justin's knee. Smiling gently, the man patted its head.

"Sorry, boy," he said softly. "No mornin' walk today...I slept in again. But I'll tell ya what: I'll come back afterwards an' we'll go fer a round in the park before I go back, alright?"

The dog licked his face, thumped its thick Labrador tail, and taking the act as a sign of agreement Justin pulled himself out of the tangled bedsheets and had just enough time to get himself ready for the day before heading out the door to work, leaving behind a very patient Duke lying beside the door of the small apartment. "See ya in a few hours."

The only thing on Justin's mind as he made his way down the crowded New York City sidewalk was that his life was rough. Not a morning went by when he didn't wake up stiff, sore, or aching. This morning the pain was located in his right ankle and shin, no doubt result of him landing on it incorrectly last night. Despite the constant aches and pains, Justin refused the use of pills, braces, and doctors. He hated them all. It was fortunate for him he had a high tolerance for pain and discomfort. No braces, he told himself. Despite all this, he couldn't help but grimace with a limp as he made his way to the theatre.

Justin loved where he lived. Deep in the heart of Manhattan, his residential apartment was roughly five blocks from the theatre where he performed regularly. The apartment he inhabited was small, by far too small for a grown man and his black Labrador dog to live comfortably. His well-earned salary from dancing and singing for a living was barely enough for him to afford a much bigger place outside the city, and he'd often sworn to himself one day he would move out. But he never did. It always seemed to be just on the verge of happening. Justin had been born and raised in Manhattan, so the thought of him owning a car was ridiculous. He walked or took a bus or subway wherever he went. Besides, car thieves were notorious and parking was impossible. He didn't mind the walk, and as he rounded the corner, the sight of the theatre that greeted him he always loved.

An enormous black billboard rose over the front entrance, painted solid black with two gold pictures: eyes, in which were the outlines of dancers, and centering it one word in bold, white letters....

For fifteen years now Justin had performed at this theatre since CATS reopened after its original closing, the first few being as an understudy, then he was bopped around in so many roles before finally landing the one he played now. All the other performers agreed it was a tough show to stick with considering how rough it was on your body, but after fifteen years one grew used to it. Besides, after fifteen years, Justin never had a thought of leaving.

Justin finally came to a grateful rest outside the front of the theatre, leaning his weight on his good leg. For the millionth-some time in his career gazed at the black posters with the same CATS logo that covered the gaps of black wall between the doors. They were framed in glass that had just been cleaned. When the sunlight reflected from the surrounding buildings and hit the glass just as it did now, Justin could stand in this exact place and see himself in it. He could barely read the tiny white letters that covered the black posters' middle, but he didn't have to. He knew what they said. It was the list of the cast. He'd read that list a thousand times, no matter how often it changed. He could recite it backwards if he wanted to.

At a mere glance, one could easily guess Justin Fisher as being the kind of person you would see dancing across a stage. Lean and sinewy with a somber disposition, Justin stood easily a little over six feet. He wasn't the average weight of a male dancer, but those few extra pounds were due to strong bones and solid muscles...and, though he wouldn't admit it, his uncommon diet. His frame and all-out appearance was finely toned from the years he'd spent on stage, dancing. His face looked as though it was carved from stone: hardset, somber, as though he was always angry or depressed. But it was a mask hiding what he truly thought: a necessity for one born and raised in one of the biggest-and meanest-cities in the United States of America. His grim air was only emphasized by his preference for dark clothes. His attire as he stood there, outside the theatre, was worn black jeans and a black CATS T-shirt, hidden by a ratty brown jacket: his only protection against the chilly weather. Spring in New York was horrible. At least by the time he'd gotten out of his apartment it had stopped raining.

"'Scuse me, sir."

Justin's intent train of thought was shattered suddenly by a tug on his sleeve. Looking down, he saw standing beside him a small red-haired freckled little boy who couldn't have been over five or six.

"'Scuse me, sir," he piped again. "Are you Acavity?"

Justin smiled warmly and nodded. "Yeah, I'm Macavity. Anythin' I can do for ya?"

The boy held up the Broadway CATS Playbill he held in his pudgy hands. "Could you sign this, please? Sir? My mommy really likes kitty cats."

Justin gently took the Playbill, swiping up the silver ink pen experience had taught him to carry for such occasions, and quickly scrawled his name across the front, under it, in smaller text, he wrote Macavity before handing it back. "There ya go."

The little boy's round face split in a wide grin as he held the Playbill possessively and with a squeal ran back to a red-haired woman standing near the curb. She nodded at Justin and waved before taking the boy's hand and leading him away. Justin smiled grimly to himself and went inside.

The moment he stepped through the brightly-lit foyer into the dark auditorium, Justin was nearly bowled over as Zach Brooks, the irrepressible Rum Tum Tugger player, ran for his life up through the seat aisles, pursued hotly by a furious Jordan Gabriel, whose orange and yellow Skimbleshanks unitard stood out brightly in the dark theatre.

"Jussey! Help!" Zach darted for Justin the moment he spotted the taller dancer and dove behind his back, hoping to escape the angry Jordan. "He's gonna kill me!"

Jordan halted not two inches from Justin--how he hated 'Jussey'!--and shook his fist angrily, from which dangled his brown costume vest. "I've got every right to! Move it!"

Zach grinned over Justin's shoulder, his yellow and black RTT stripes adding to the reckless expression. "Why? It was the truth!"

"RARGH!!" Jordan leaped forward and shoved Justin out of the way, unintentionally knocking him over into an aisle seat. Zach bolted off across the dark auditorium, his black and jaguar-spotted unitard fading quickly in the dim light. Jordan's orange stripes flashed brightly after him. "Just let me catch you, Brooks! Just let me-!" Both their rich tenor voices faded into the halls of backstage.

Justin grumbled a string of curses as a new pain shot from his wrist to elbow as it connected with a hard seat armrest, adding a new addition to his set of pains. Grumbling, he pushed himself up, stopping to glance at the silver form that had moved in front of him.

"You okay?" Michael Herndon asked. Justin looked up into Michael's face...those blue eyes shining with eternal friendliness, that genuine smile under those painted gray and black stripes...trademark qualities that only the current Winter Garden Munkustrap possessed. Laughing thinly Justin accepted the offered hand and stood, rubbing his arm ruefully. "Fine, Mike."

A loud crash resounded from backstage, followed by an angry bellow so deep in base it could only belong to Anthony Garson, the current Old Deuteronomy. Frowning, both Michael and Justin gazed off in the direction the sound had come from. "Jordan an' Zach still at it?" he asked quietly.

"Always," Michael laughed with equal softness.

"Already in costume? Yer here early."

"You know me," Michael grinned and shrugged, "perfectionist." Picking up the small denim jean-bag Justin had dropped and handing it back to him, the two men began to walk slowly back towards the dressing rooms. "Actually, you're the one who's late. Everyone else is here already."

"I slept in," Justin grumbled. "So sue me..."

"I won't," Michael laughed, drawing back as they neared the men's dressing room door. "But Morgan might tie your tail around your throat and strangle you with it."

"He'll hafta let me get it on first," Justin finalized, and slipped into the small side room.

Thirty-odd minutes later Justin sat before the bright lights of a dressing-room mirror, gazing at himself for any smudges in his Plato face. During his quick-changes to Macavity, to Rumpus Cat, and back to Plato in each performance of CATS, he hadn't the time to perfect his makeup like he did at the beginning of the show. But it didn't matter much...RC was a mask and Macavity never still long enough for the audience to see his face very well. He liked to take the extra time when he had it to look his best.

And in his opinion he did. Leaning forward close to the mirror, he stared at the black pencil and brush strokes that enunciated his eyes, making them seem larger and sleeker than a human's; the black marks over his white lips that would make them prominent when he sang; the nose and whiskers that added the true aspects of a cat; the brown patch that had been altered to fit his specific facial bone structure. All these things went into his Plato face at the beginning of every show he danced in, and was wiped away at every end.

For fifteen years Justin had been at the Winter Garden. Nothing anyone said or did could ever change his mind about how much he loved it. Nothing they said or did could ever make him wish for anything else. And nothing they said or did could make him quit. Not yet.

After fifteen years Justin was the only remaining performer that was part of the cast he had begun with. He had developed a love for this theatre like none of the others could. Of course he never spoke his thoughts to anyone...they would laugh. But, inwardly, he knew that he and this place understood each other. He knew every crack and crevice of that stage. He had seen the costumes and makeup redesigned and evolve again and again. He had seen success and tragedy on the stage, humor and sadness, love and hate. He'd seen the delight of young and old alike when they first catch a glimpse of a curious feline face peering at them through the darkness. These memories and more Justin dwelled in as he stared at the cat in the mirror. Drawing forward so that his nose almost brushed the stainless glass, he ended his intent observation and bared his flat human teeth in a feline snarl.

Leaning over his shoulder to reach for a black makeup pencil, Matthew Sullivan's bright Pouncival face looked far from impressed. "Oh, Justin, yer killin' me."

Quickly abandoning his expression, Justin drew back from the mirror, waiting until the younger dancer moved before he stood to go retrieve his unitard from the wardrobe closet. "Think that when Macavity comes out," he grumbled darkly. "Then I'll kill ya."

Glancing across from where he adjusted his wig, Daniel Trask's dark Mungojerrie unitard contrasted the bright lights behind him. He didn't have to really smile for his painted face to look merry. "Holler if you need help, Jus."

Wesley Taylor, mentally distraught because his Tumblebrutus unitard was feeling tight around the middle, glanced at their reflections from where he stood looking his profile up and down in a full-length mirror near the back wall of the room. "Make that three," he chimed in.

"What is this?" Matthew exasperated, tossing his hands in the air. "I'm Pouncival, guys! People are supposed t' love me!"

Grabbing a small cloth towel from the table lining the mirrors, Justin tossed it at Matthew's face. Had it been longer he would have considered giving him a good slap on the backside. "That's not all ya are..." And he slipped out before Matthew had the chance to shout back an insult in his defense.

Jonathan Callery was already in the costume closet, gingerly removing the Asparagus leg warmers from their hanger to add to his ratty brown chorus outfit. Glancing up from the bench he sat on, he grunted a hello as Justin entered. Immediately the tall dancer went for his three costumes, taking Plato from his rack while the other two would return to the dressing room and be laid out and ready for the later changes.

"Demona called," Jonathan said from where he bent over his warmers, pulling them up over his shoes and unitard legs. "She said thanks for the photos."

"Tell her she's welcome," Justin said hastily, not meaning to be rude but he was in a bit of a hurry. "Any time."

In the women's dressing rooms, things were slightly less rowdy.

"Tom Cruise or Brad Pitt?" posed Colleen Kirk, leaning against the counter already decked fully in her fiery red Bombalurina costume, twirling the end of her tail as she watched the other women intensely.

"All the cute guys have weird last names," Leva Devynne giggled girlishly. "Brad Pitt! No contest!"

"Oh, get real!" Sasha Tallis rolled her eyes, her slim brown Cassandra outfit contrasting Leva's bright-striped Rumpleteazer unitard. "Tom Cruise is soooo fine!"

"Whatever," Leva stuck out her tongue. "What d'you think, Collie? Cruise or Pitt?"

Colleen grinned, her answer quick and already prepared. "Antonio Banderas."

Russa Shepherd, whose frigid personality when it came to men matched perfectly her Demeter role, glanced up warily from her mirror. "Those three all played vampires in the same movie...I don't see much difference."

The relatively calm atmosphere at the small room rang with merry laughter. Kate Sawyer laid out her other costume, smiling widely with her Jennyanydots makeup. "If you're taking a survey I say Sean Connery."

Colleen reeled. "Sean Connery?"

"Sure. He may be 300 years old, but he's still a stud."

Another round of laughter, during which Geana DiCarlo slipped into the room already in full dress. "Forgot my Griddlebone tail," she said in response to the curious gaze from Colleen.

"Say, Geana," the Bombalurina player asked again. "Who's your favorite guy on television?"

Geana stopped her search through the hanging tails to glance back dubiously at the younger woman. "I think that if I answer that and it reaches my husband he'll never let me come back to my job." Gingerly picking up her fluffy white Griddlebone tail, the Jellylorum singer left quickly. The room was silent for awhile, but the minute the door clicked shut their giggling broke out again.

Elise Smith-Parker and Desere Arshra entered the room, chatting eagerly as friends will do. Elise's eyes, their wide innocence only emphasized by her Sillabub makeup, zipped over the room, her never-ending smile as bright as ever. "Okay," she piped, "what did we miss?"

"Just discussing our favorite men," Sasha purred smoothly, adjusting her tail belt. Desere's makeup matched Scott's somberness every inch in her Tantomile outfit, everything down to their facial structure nearly identical so that only Desere's more shapely form distinguished them. She quickly held up three fingers, counting them off.

"Elvis Presley, Henry Winkler, and John Travolta." She shrugged. "What can I say? I like men in leather."

Elise giggled as was her habit, and beckoned the rest of them with one arm warmer. "I'll plead the Fifth on that one. C'mon, girls. Kelsey is out there having a fit."

Everyone at the Winter Garden knew of the constant feud between Zach and Jordan...and though it had been going on for months now none of them seemed to know how it began or what it was about. Neither of the two ever wanted to talk about it with others, but the measures their ill feelings had pushed them to so often were astounding: such as playing an enormously effective practical joke on Tugger during a Saturday night performance, or on occasion all the Skimbleshanks tails mysteriously disappearing. Not a day at the theatre went by when the two didn't at least argue.

The angry Skimbleshanks chased a laughing Rum Tum Tugger around the hallways of backstage tirelessly before Jordan finally gave a desperate leap and tackled the other to the ground...the exact moment Anthony Garson and Alexandre Botezat stepped in to assist some stage hands carrying a cooler full of ice. They were planning a soda-pop celebration toast in a few days for the birthday of Scott Kelley--Coricopat--and hoped it to be a surprise. The kind-hearted Deuteronomy and Alonzo thought nothing about offering some assistance.

Zach couldn't stop in time. With a surprised yell, he crashed into them. Alexandre managed to drop his end of the cooler and spin away, but Anthony hadn't been so lucky. He was slammed backwards in a tangled heap of Deuteronomy fur and black unitard. Jordan skidded to a stop a safe distance away, and watched as the cooler lid flew open and ice dumped out over the hallway floor. Zach shook his wig-covered head and looked around dizzily, until something jerked under him and he found he was sitting on Anthony.

"Get offa me!" Anthony bellowed, his bass voice rumbling deep. Zach panicked. Out of desperation, he grabbed a handful of cold ice and shoved it down the back of Anthony's fur coat before jumping up and dashing down the aisle, hoping it would stall both Skimble and Old D.

With a howl, a frantic Deuteronomy jumped to his feet and did an absolutely cute little jig trying to get the cold ice out of his outfit. "Yeaagh! Zach!" Forgetting the ice, the furious performer picked up the front of his fur as a lady would her dress and ran after him. Alexandre stood open-mouthed a moment, then leaned on Jordan for support as he fell into a hysterical episode of laughs in his deep Russian voice. Jordan would have gone after Zach himself, but the laughter was contagious and soon both men were leaning heavily against the wall and each other, slapping their thighs in merriment.

"What's going on?" rang out a sharp, clear voice. Morgan Gaillard, the strict no-nonsense dance captain at the Winter Garden's CATS stumbled into view from further on down the hallway, at his side a very curious and very somber-looking Coricopat.

Scratching his messed hair with the same hand that held his dislocated wig, Jordan glanced at the tipped ice and sodas, then up to Scott and Morgan. "It was Macavity," he said over his chortles, "but he's a mile away..."

"Don't you blame anythin' on me!" Justin's voice rang out from further down the hallway, having heard the majority of the incident.

Alonzo only laughed harder at that and the expression that covered Morgan's face, wiping his own and thus messing his makeup horribly. Rolling his eyes to the ceiling in a face that would have dwarfed an upset Munkustrap, the dance captain removed the clipboard from under his arm and literally pushed the two hysterical performers on back towards the dressing room, then set off after Anthony and Zach himself.

Things didn't calm down until after the show ended. It was a typical performance: a standing ovation, with the usual surprises occurring that defined one show from the next. No two performances at the Winter Garden were ever identical. As the performers filed back to their dressing rooms to clean up, Lydia Metz, whose beautiful voice was properly fit only in the role of Grizabella, and Christien Javalier, whose white Mistoffelees face was kittenishly adorable, were pulled aside along with Anthony, Michael, Jonathan, and Zach. Justin caught a last glimpse of them talking to Kelsey Byas, the gentle and kind-hearted director, a moment before the dressing room door closed behind him. Whatever it was, they would all hear about it eventually. News traveled fast among cast members.

"So you guys think that deal with the cruiseline'll fall through?" Matthew posed, wiping the back of his neck with a towel. Wesley pulled on his shorts, smoothing back his short black hair.

"I hope not. Performing on a cruise would be great!"

"Nah," Daniel chimed. "Let it fall through. I've seen Leva...she gets seasick."

Justin slipped in, hoping to avoid any part of the conversation, and proceeded in changing from Plato back into his human dress clothes. Usually between shows on Saturday he would go get something to eat before coming back to the theatre, or go back to his apartment and take a well-needed nap, but remembering his need to take Duke out for his walk he knew what he would spend the next few hours doing...and he wasn't going to enjoy it. But promises were promises, even to a dog. Besides, tomorrow was his day off, and being so tired he could die was a lot better than having Duke stink up the apartment. His landlord was looking for any excuse to get rid of the Lab.

Justin was ready to go back out the door to his storage locker when he was finally hit with the question he had hoped to avoid: "Hey Jus. If we go on that cruise for a week, who ya gonna take?"

Glaring back at Matthew, the Macavity dancer's face never altered its emotionless expression. A cold silence settled over the dressing room as the other men looked up. Julian visibly withered under Justin's dead stare, and took a wary step back under the power of it. Every member of the CATS cast knew better than to ask the current Macavity about relations. Justin didn't have to say anything. No one did. The tall, dark dancer stalked out without a word.

Outside in the cleared hallway, Michael--still in his tabby outfit--was standing with his mouth open, an unfolded letter open a few mere inches from his eyes. Unable to go around him down the narrow hallway Justin stopped, gazing up and down this cast member he was closest friends with. "Mike?"

Michael looked up, his striped makeup emphasizing his wide blue eyes and slightly turned-up mouth. "I don't believe it...!"

"What?"

"I got my audition for Scarlet Pimpernel..." he said breathlessly. Justin didn't bother to hide his surprise.

"I thought ya were gonna try for Phantom?"

"Fell through," the singer replied, folding up the letter as gingerly as one would an ancient document. "But hey, this is great! What I would give for a chance at playing Percy..."

Having not the faintest idea who Percy was, Justin only dropped his expression to adopt back that contemplative blankness he excelled at. Michael Herndon had a great voice, and that alone almost guaranteed him whatever part he was trying for in Justin's mind.

"Guess I'll be hopin' ya don't get it, then."

"Why would you say that?" Turning sideways to let Justin pass, Munkustrap remained where he was, watching as Justin hefted his bag over his shoulder and continued down the hallway.

"'Cause what the heck d'ya expect me t' do if my best tabby leaves, eh?" he called before rounding the corner and disappearing.

Justin managed to dodge the crowd waiting behind the theatre. Big or small, there was always one there. Normally he hung around after performances to sign autographs and chat with the people, but today he didn't have the time. He wasn't cold: he signed a little--never fully understanding what exactly was so desired about his signature, which in his own handwriting was difficult to read--and politely explained he had a dog waiting for him, much to their laughter, and made his way off. Grabbing a peanut butter and jelly English muffin on the way, he had it eaten by the time he reached his apartment.

"Heya, Duke," he greeted his dog as he stepped inside the small dwelling. "C'mon, I know. Let's go. I'll eat on the way..."

And they were off to Central Park.

Justin hated being on a diet. In the first few years of his career as a professional performer he had tried one of those low-fat high-protein diets that the other dancers had told him about, and after a week he was ready to kill himself. That was the last time he tried one of those...

Strolling at a leisurely pace over the sidewalks of Central Park with Duke's leash in one hand, the other held six inches of a Subway club sandwich. After so many years of dancing as a cat he'd realized that he could pretty much eat anything he wanted as long as he didn't over-do it. CATS just plain took a lot of it out of you... That made Subway sandwiches a blessing. Supposedly healthy, they also tasted delicious and filled him up. He at least had that much...

But, boy, was he going to be tired tomorrow.

Justin and his black Labrador were back at the man's apartment half an hour before Justin deemed it time to go back to the theatre for the second show. A half an hour which he intended to spend stretched out on the couch and resting. Someone else had other ideas...

"Hello?" he grumbled the second time that day as he picked up the ringing phone.

"Justin?"

He recognized the voice immediately, and with a sigh of mixed irritation and relief he lay back limply on the couch. "Demona..."

"Are you busy?"

"Not really."

"Good...I was hopin' I could talk with ya a sec before you went back."

"Shoot."

"Well, I have two friends I met on the Net...two other CATS fans...an' they're comin' to see the show on Broadway in a few weeks. I was wonderin'...if you could mebbe arrange to meet `em? Maybe slip `em in for a backstage tour?"

The young CATS fan's voice had taken on an uneasy tone as she asked the last, knowing how some of the people at the Winter Garden Theatre felt about backstage tours. But if she knew Justin...

"Yeah, sure. Be glad to."

"Thanks, Jus," the teenage girl giggled. "You're the best!"

Justin made a verbal shrug at that, rubbing his forehead before moving his hand down to pat Duke's, who lay quietly beside the couch. "No prob." A short silence followed in which Justin could hear the shuffling of papers on her end. Then:

"The President's visiting Manhattan this weekend."

"I know."

"Did you vote for `em?"

"Demona, I gotta rule: there's two things I never discuss with other people. That's religion an' politics."

She laughed. "Hey, keep living by that an' you may actually survive in this city."

"I think I kin manage..." Though his eyes were closed, Justin's mind was working. The President of the United States, eh? Well, that would explain probably what Kelsey had been talking to the major performers earlier... Justin wasn't overly worried. As far as he was concerned, the President was just another audience member.

"Mike's got an audition for Scarlet Pimpernel," he finally mentioned as he could think of nothing else. "He's gonna try for Percy."

A long silence. Justin didn't like the intensity of it.

"So he's leavin' CATS?" she managed quietly. Justin saw his attempt collapse.

"He doesn't have the part yet, Dem."

"You know he'll get it, as good a singer as he is..."

Inside Justin cursed. It seemed a strong possibility, but the edge in Demona's voice was one of definite sadness...one of someone losing their best friend. Justin couldn't understand why fans like Demona felt so strongly towards the CATS players. Of course her uncle was Gus, and she had met them all more times than most other fans did, but in his mind it wasn't a just enough reason. Maybe she didn't need one... So his next weak attempt was to make her feel better about it.

"C'mon, Dem," he sighed, also confused by her sudden mood swing. "He loves playin' Munkustrap. Even if he does get cast, it'll be heck for him t' leave. He's been at the Winter Garden fer pretty long." For a moment he wondered: it had been the Broadway Phantom of the Opera Michael had originally been going for. Was Pimpernel going to be on Broadway as well, or some tour in a distant city? He would have to ask later...

"Performers don't care what they play," Demona said quietly. "Just as long as they have a job."

Justin couldn't help it...he laughed. "An' what book did'ja read that in?"

"Everyone knows it," she pouted, and Justin could picture her now crossing her arms. "They hafta make a living."

"Hey," he said in mock-sternness. "Yer talkin' to one, an' lemme tell ya, Dem: it's not jus' a job. Ya hafta at least like yer role t' play it well, and--" He paused. "Why'm I explainin' this t' you? Yer a actress. Well, beginnin'..."

Demona gave a small laugh. "Yeah, I guess you're right... Uncle Jon seems t' like Gus an awful lot." Another giggle. "You're a really nice guy, Jus. One day you're gonna make some girl real happy."

"Thanks, Dem. I'll remember that. I, uh...gotta get goin' now."

"Alright. Catch ya later."

"Bye, Dem."

Justin set the phone back down on leaned his head back, letting it roll sideways until it came to meet the gaze of Duke, now sitting up. Justin lifted his head, glaring suspiciously at the dog's innocent stare. "What?"

The Winter Garden Theatre was a bustling center of activity thirty minutes before the Saturday evening performance. The biggest crowds usually came on Saturday night, which was also the night the cast of CATS at the theatre put forth every ounce of effort they could muster from the moment they crept down the dark aisles until that final note ended on the last flip of the curtain call. That was probably also the reason Kelsey had a fit when the President and First Lady decided to come to the theatre on a Saturday night cost-free, robbing them of an entire night's section of ticket sales. The couple sat on the front row aisle of the auditorium, right beside the ramp, surrounded by countless burly men clad in black tuxedos and ear pieces that took up nearly the right orchestra section. From where they stood in the hallway that would lead them into the auditorium once the lights went out, Justin, Colleen, Christien, and Matthew did their best to look out into the audience and not be seen.

"Can you see them?" Matthew's eager young Pouncival face peered over Colleen's red shoulder.

"I think so," she whispered harshly. "Right there, down in front. Lucky those boys have buzz cuts."

"Is that him?" Christien's white Mistoffelees face squinted, then lit up in surprise. "Monsieur l'President!"

Colleen laughed. "If you ever meet him, Chris, do not say that!"

"Oui. Pardon moi."

Colleen glanced back down the dark shadow of the corridor, her white Bombalurina face emphasizing her grin. "Look excited, why don'cha, Justin."

Leaning casually back away from the curtain, the Plato-dressed Justin seemed the only disinterested cat dancer in the hallway. "Why should I be?" he yawned. His lack of enthusiasm was true. Currently his thoughts dwelled sourly on the precautions the "men in black" had felt it necessary to take prior to the President of the United States' arrival.

They'd nearly torn the theatre apart. The agents had swept in like a storm, searching every crevice of the auditorium, every wire backstage, right down to the cushions of the seats. When the cast and crew arrived, bags and lockers were checked, each person interviewed. To top it off a guard was assigned to stand every twenty feet or so throughout the halls. Even now a cross-armed agent stood only a few yards behind Justin, looking as though he would rather be somewhere else. Justin didn't blame him. With the crowded hallways, he knew he would have a tough time going through his quick changes tonight.

The theatre darkened. The music began. The cats readied themselves for their peak.

A peak performance it was. Not a moment after the cats stepped into view of both the special audience and the guests of honor was lacking in its energy and focus. Not when Victoria danced her solo adagio. Not when Tugger's voice cut the ceiling. Not when Mungojerrie and Rumpleteazer completed their two-person cartwheel across the stage with maximum enthusiasm. And especially not when it came time for the Jellicle Ball. Each and every cat-dressed performer on the junkyard stage of the Winter Garden--though many of them would not admit it--loved the opportunity to show off their amazing skills and talents to the head of the country's government. The singing, the dancing, the acting was certainly to rank that night's show one of the top five best performances in each of those cats' careers. And they were having the time of their life doing it.

After Tugger had graced the First Lady with a dance and Munkustrap serenaded the couple with a rich tenor voice, the Jellicle Ball dance was nothing short of electrifying. Every kick was in unison, every note hitting the nail on the head, every expression an exact portrayal of what the actor wanted to get across. Extra measures were taken to make certain the President and First Lady wouldn't forget this night.

Justin was never really one to go out of his way to impress or "play" with audience members when he was on stage if he could avoid it. He liked to keep focused on his work, knowing that whatever he felt created inside him by the performance was enough to make the fans and people out there feel it, too. But there was always exceptions. Tonight, as Justin waited for the trap to spring him up in full Rumpus Cat costume, he deemed it one of those nights.

Successfully completing a split before landing back on his feet again, through the eyes of RC's mask Justin couldn't entirely see the whole audience, but he knew where his target members were. Claws flashing, eyes blazing, mane bristling, his mocking portrayal of The Great Rumpus Cat--which he had always considered the character as just Plato dressed up for the lead in a play, or something of the like--drew several laughs from the giddy audience. Though Michael alone in his Munkustrap outfit was a master of the stage, he could still be surprised. Such was the case when Justin, instead of letting his clawed swipe fall short of the gray tabby's face, landed a smart cuff on the side of Michael's head. Recovering quickly as an actor in-character will only do, Michael swiped back. Justin ducked, rolled around, then popped up with a dancer's grace to deliver a cuff from the other side, all the while the steady beat of the Pekes and Pollicles song played on. Flustered, Munkustrap whirled, trying to get his hands on the mischievous hero-dressed kitten, but in accordance to the little improvisation Rumpus remained out of reach, finally ending when he somersaulted down to the stage's edge and, his wildcat grin hidden behind the mask, presented the nearest bald Secret Service agent with a tangle of silver and black threads from Munkustrap's tail which he dropped onto the burly man's forehead. Even as Justin slipped back up to the stage, mocking the men in black's serious attitude, he knew he saw a grin. It was a pity he couldn't have snatched off all of Munkustrap's tail to toss out at the President...

Other cats also saw their chance in the spotlight. Alexandre, his scruffy brown-shaded Alonzo form a dark contrast to Colleen's red Bombalurina as they slid together for that nerve-wracking section of the Jellicle Ball that marked the mid point of the dance, worked his mind quickly. It didn't seem proper to do this sort of "dancing" before the President and First Lady, so, despite Bombalurina's annoyance, he refrained from the section and instead flirted with the President's wife.

Other cats didn't have to do much out of the norm to leave the audience awed. Gus and Jellylorum, Old Deuteronomy, Mistoffelees, Tugger, and above all Grizabella were nothing less than breath-stealing sensations as they worked their performing magic over the minds of their spectators. The First Lady's eyes were in tears long before that tender moment when Victoria's white hand touched Grizabella's, mouths open in awe before Mistoffelees finished his high-flying dance, seats creaking in anticipation as Macavity crept unseen among the garbage. None of it had to be explained to the performers, or the audience. They all knew these were the best at what they did, and none were willing to argue the point.

Justin had slightly different ideas as he crouched, ready to make his entrance as Macavity. His leg was still aching in dull irritation from that morning, and after completing almost two shows upon it he figured he may as well give himself the next day or two off. Give the understudies a chance...even if Justin hated missing work. It had been too long since he had a break.

A standing ovation after the show ended with Wesley's Tumblebrutus flipping out to land in a crouch, tossing gently a rose to the honored couple, was not unexpected or to be debated. The cheers and hoots came, the applause thundering, entire audience rippling up like a wave to their feet as the cats bowed and blew their kisses. After the final chorus of Mistoffelees's song and Tugger chased a sassy Bombalurina off the stage, the clapping continued, stopping only when the theatre's orchestra exhausted the last note of the closing title, and as per their instructions the cast of CATS came back out on stage to meet their audience that night.

It was all the usual things, as far as Justin was concerned. Things he'd all heard before: the same congratulations, the same humbling replies of how honored and pleased each party was to see the other, the same smiles and handshakes. But he kept his opinions to himself. He knew that it wouldn't last. In a few days the President and First Lady would probably hardly remember any of them, if not likewise. Still, he wasn't going to ruin the mood for others. After all, how often does one received compliments from the leader of a nation?

"Wonderful, wonderful," the President drawled as he passed through the groups of cat-dressed men and women, shaking hands with that trademark politician way, accompanied by never less than two guards with his wife not far behind. "Never seen anything like it."

"Nor we you," Jonathan's well-educated voice returned. "It's not enough to say it was an honor to perform for you, Mr. President. Mrs. President."

Justin was glad to leave the talking to the singers, himself remaining quiet as the couple passed by unless he was spoken to. In automatic reaction he extended his furry-gloved hand to the President's.

"Pleasure," said the man. "And you were...?"

"Macavity," Justin answered respectfully with a nod. He rarely bothered to say "Rumpus Cat" unless he was speaking to someone more familiar with the show-which if he was, they wouldn't ask who he was in the first place. Macavity was his dominant role, even if he was Plato the longest. Of course, in Plato costume as he was now, hardly anyone could recognize him as Macavity or Rumpus. Oh well. Their loss. Upon hearing this the President smiled warmly.

"That was a very thrilling scene," he complimented. "Had me on the edge of my seat."

"Thankyou, sir." Justin ducked his head as the man passed on by, eyes on the floor until they chanced to rise again and see the First Lady kneeling with Pouncival and Sillabub on her knees as a photographer snapped away. Then she stood, laughing merrily at some well-timed joke Michael always managed to find, and came Justin's way. Not in the mood to say "thankyou" one more time that night, Justin instead dropped to his hands and knees, rolling over onto his back as the woman approached and squirming in a kittenish manner. As he'd hoped with his antics, she laughed, and bent down to play along, ticking his stomach.

"Oh, I like this one," she cooed to her husband as Plato nuzzled her ankle with his yak wig. "Honey, can we take this one home?"

"I don't know, darling. A cat that big would scare the guard dogs."

"Yes, but the White House would be remarkably free of mice and rats!"

A round of laughter, some of which sounded forced from the men in black, and satisfied with a job well done Justin righted himself and slunk to the back of the set, letting the rest of the cast schmooze away. But even perched on the tire with Michael leaning against it, the mingling and excitement couldn't be escaped. Features perked as though still in-character from the performance, Justin's attention was caught as Colleen chatted away with some white-haired politician who had accompanied the couple. What a Washington diplomat and a Bombalurina dancer could find in common he hadn't the faintest idea. Nor could he pick up on it before the conversation turned.

"I must commend your performance," he was saying in that New Jersey accent Justin could pick out anywhere. "You are a very talented dancer."

"Thanks, Mr. Falarka," Colleen replied sweetly, hip jutting in that Bombalurina-like pose. "It keeps bread on the table."

"My daughter and son-in-law will be coming to New York for their anniversary. I'll be sure to suggest they come see the show here."

"We'd be honored to have them, sir."

"Yes, well, goodnight."

"Goodnight." The red cat turned to leave. Smiling as he did the same, the old man patted Colleen on the backside as he moved away.

Eyes widening from across the stage, Michael laughed knowingly so only Justin could hear. "Oh man. That was a mistake!"

No sooner had he spoken, then Colleen turned around very slowly, one hand on her hip, the expression on her face some mix of anger, knowing, and disbelief. Michael couldn't restrain his laugh, and Justin watched, crouching warily in expectation of any outburst, as she fluffed her Bombalurina wig, then approached the presumptuous man.

"Excuse me," she said overly sweet. Mr. Falarka turned around, smiling at the sight of her painted face again. Crossing her arms, jutting her hip, Colleen asked plainly: "What was that?"

"What was what?" he asked, genuinely honest.

Smiling smugly, Colleen returned the gesture by reaching around the man and slapping his backside. "That."

Stiffing visibly in surprise, his smile only grew wider. "Just being social," he laughed.

"Oh yeah," Colleen nodded, her red painted nails flexing into her hip. "I'll bet you were." Grabbing a hold of his collar, Mr. Falarka barely had time to cry out before Colleen had him shoved against the trunk of the car built into the set, leaning perilously close to his face. "Listen, pal! I'm a workin' Brooklyn woman! I get up here in skin-tight clothes and dance like a tramp every day just so my kid can have somethin' to eat every night! I've had men come onto me constantly! I've been hit on! I've had to literally beat men offa my friend in the gray over there! I've kept a list of all the men who've touched my backside without my permission, an' let me tell you: none of them have left this city with a smile! And I think I'm speakin' for all women in New York City when I say keep your frickin' hands to yerself, buddy!" And she let him go.

The man fell back against the car trunk, speechless. The entire auditorium had gone silent, but Colleen never lost her composure. Turning around, she fluffed her yak wig again and politely folded her hands in front of her as she addressed the star couple. "I'm sorry, Mr. President. That was uncalled for."

The gray-haired man who sat in one of the most powerful seats in the country raised his brows in what seemed deep thought as he approached the Bombalurina performer. "Actually, Miss...?"

"Colleen Kirk."

"Miss Kirk, I think that was a very bold and noble defense, and not only for yourself." Extending his hand, Colleen's blush could be seen under her white makeup as she took it for a gentle shake. "Have you ever considered politics?"

"I've been Munkustrap's campaign manager in the election for the next Jellicle Leader, if that counts," she laughed in return.

"...then Colleen slaps him back, gives him one of her motivational speeches, and he...haha! He goes limping off back to D.C. like a scalded dog!" Michael rocked back in his chair, unable to contain his cackling laugh. Surrounding him at the large company table, the other cast and crew members joined in to the merriment over their drinks and pizza, among them Russa, Geana, Jonathan, Wesley, Zach, and a reluctant Justin. Over the sounds of music and New York's night life at the bar-restaurant--Barley's--just down the street from the Winter Garden, Munkustrap's fine voice could be heard plainly without his having to shout.

Justin for the most part kept to himself as he sipped his Coca-Cola, choosing to ignore the conversations around him. Little after-show cast celebrations like these were common among the Broadway production of CATS, but rarely did he ever attend them. Noisy bars and loud rock'n'roll wasn't his idea of fun. Plus the pizza in this place was awful... But when Michael and Russa both insisted, he humored them.

"Wish I coulda had a snapshot of that guy's face after Colleen smacked `em!" Zach howled, downing the rest of his beer in one gulp and nearly choking as he tried to laugh at the same time.

"I don't think it'll be necessary," chimed in Geana. "We'll see both their photos pop up on the news tonight. 'Washington Senator Assaulted by Six-Foot Singing and Dancing Cat.'"

Several laughs rose up at that. Ducking below the mirth Russa glanced sideways over Michael to catch Justin's somber expression. Justin returned it blandly, expectant for her to say something. She didn't have to say anything. In her own chiding Demeter-like way Russa pushed both ends of her mouth up to indicate a smile. Catching the jest Justin forced a momentary smile to indulge her so she went back to talking. It faded immediately. Right now he didn't have much energy to be jovial.

"Well, I should be going now," Wesley stood up, gobbling down one last bite of pizza as he did so.

"Oh, c'mon," Desere pouted, sitting opposite him.

"Sorry. Church tomorrow."

The night wore on much in the same manner until Michael, Russa, and Justin lingered in their own space. Pizza now cold, drinks empty, they sat huddled in quiet conversation, content in the quiet presence of each other's company in the midst of their bustling, complicated lives. This was where Justin was more comfortable. A place where he could be familiar with a few friends instead of preaching to a crowd. After sending off the last cast member in a taxi--which was well-needed--he settled down beside opposite Michael and Russa with a sigh, leaning forward onto the table to trace one finger over the rim of his glass. An old habit.

"Think about it," Michael was saying, "when did it ever first remotely cross your mind as a kid that you would be sitting in a restaurant after performing on Broadway in a show that never ceases to amaze people and break records?"

Russa paused in a melodramatic moment of thought, then answered bluntly: "When I was fourteen."

"So modest," the singer laughed.

"No, really," Russa insisted, brushing back her thick brown mane of hair. "When I was fourteen I had a part in a concert the local theatre was putting on. Sort of a tribute to Broadway musical theatre, and I had to sing `Memory' in the second act."

Michael whistled. "At fourteen? Jeez, what kind of training did you have?"

"The best. Anyway, I was standing there singing it in front of the audience opening night, and I just suddenly had this thought...right in the middle of the song. `I'm gonna be in this show one day if it kills me.' I mean, I'd heard enough about it."

"Jus' like that?" Justin finally spoke up.

"Yup. Just like that."

"Well, my trip here certainly wasn't that easy," Michael laughed, "but you all know that story."

"Speaking of which, Mike: how's your throat?"

"Good as ever."

"And he says she has a big ego," the Macavity performer said darkly, ducking a swipe from the present Munkustrap. Demeter laughed at them both.

"Oh, go scare a mouse, you two."

"Too bad it's not Karaoke night. What do you think, Russa? Think Justin and I could get up there and slam out a decent Summer Nights?"

"Depends. Which of you would be Sandy?"

"Don't tempt me, guys."

"Yeah, you're right, Jus. We've heard you sing solo before."

"I don't know, Mike. Stranger things have happened."

It was past two in the morning before Justin headed home, having said his good-byes to Michael and Russa who both lived in the opposite direction. Hands shoved into the pockets of his jeans, jacket draped over his shoulders, he gazed up at the sky as his tall, dark form sauntered down the sidewalk. It seemed imperative it would rain again. Great. At least he could sleep in tomorrow...rain on glass always was a soothing sound. He didn't have much planned for the next day. Sleep in, walk his dog, rest...that was the way Justin lived. And he liked it. Besides, after a day or two he would have to do this all over again.

Oh well. It was just another day in the life.