When Will Time FLow Away Part Four

When Will Time FLow Away - Part Four

That night onward Michael was officially considered and accepted as a member of the Broadway CATS cast. The applause he'd received that night for his performance had been no less--possibly more--than Brad's regular Tugger, an astounding thing only rarely seen. When the audience was on their feet going wild, the last few notes of the orchestra playing through the auditorium, the CATS cast were piling themselves into the dressing rooms backstage, laughing and rolling, practically drunk on a performing high. Slapping fives, Michael nearly stumbled over Patrick McKinley--Skimbleshanks--as he plopped down into his dressing room spot, rather Brad's vacant one.

"That was..." he sputtered through breathless laughs and exhilarated gasps, "...was the best ti...time I've ever had in my life...!"

"And hopefully not the last," Patrick chided, carefully slipping his orange and brown wig off to stuff back into its head model. "You might have to come stand-in for me in a couple days."

"Really?" Michael perked in interest, only beginning to calm down as he did the same. The Irishman by heritage fluffed up his mass of red curls from the damp flatness under the net stocking, relishing the fresh air on his hot skin.

"Yeah. I have to go visit my father in Atlanta. Cancer surgery, you know." He glanced across, grinning through a half-wiped Railway Cat face. Patrick had taken a liking to the younger understudy. Michael was a bright youth who had a lot going for him. Besides, after the conversation they'd shared after one rehearsal about a particular Jekyll & Hyde player they had both worked with, whom neither of them particularly liked, the two of them joked about anything. Patrick had watched closely Michael's development and performance that night, and as impressed as he was with the younger performer's energy and talent...well, to say the least he had reached a certain agreement with Justin to make certain Michael's success in CATS would be assured. "I'll be waiting for a good report when I get back."

"I won't let you down, Pat." Michael nodded, somewhat preoccupied with untangling the body mike from around his neck without touching his face much. He wanted to keep this makeup on for as long as possible. He loved it...looking at himself with the intricate pattern of stripes and catlike features decorating his face. Not that he was vain...rather, it was proof that he'd actually made it. He was in CATS now. On Broadway. One of its performers. His dream was a reality. He sighed in utter contentment, leaning his chin down on his fists.

Someone clapped his bare shoulder. "Hey, Mike." Michael looked up. Hunter. Still in full costume. Grinning. "You did good out there."

Praise from Munkustrap. Michael immediately perked. "Yeah?"

"Sure." Hunter lightly punched his shoulder, a comradely gesture that lacked any real feeling. He was probably just tired. "Keep it up and you'll be a regular one day."

"One day," Michael laughed graciously. "Never as good as you, though."

"No, probably not."

The dressing room now buzzed with hurried activity as the male members of the cast undressed and cleaned themselves up, all too eager to go home and crash into bed for a good night's rest while others were ready to party on. Unitards were hung up. Wigs placed back on the self. Makeup wiped away and towels tossed into the trash. Lockers slammed and emptied. The dressing room was still relatively full when the door creaked open.

"Duck, guys!" Pouncival cried out. "Girl in the room!"

In the mayhem that followed there was a flash of light that caught Michael off his guard, his startled face whipping about to the door where Fairlith stood, grinning like a fox among chickens, holding up a camera aimed directly at him. "C'mon, fellahs. It's not like Bombalurina hadn't seen you lot before." She giggled, snapping another picture at an astonished Michael. "Mike, I waited outside for you for fifteen minutes," she mock-pouted. "If you won't come out for pictures then I'll come in here and take them."

"Bal!" Michael whined, throwing on his CATS shirt. "Will you get out of here!? I'll be out in a sec!"

"Oh, fine, but hurry up!" Fairlith turned to slip back out and wait, having already changed and tied her hair back to leave. She slipped by Hunter as she went, patting his shoulder with a light smile.

Five minutes later found Michael and Fairlith outside behind the Winter Garden and among a crowd of very ecstatic people. A bit overwhelmed, Michael looked around him in amazement. These people: ordinary, everyday people whom he had never met before in his life all looked at him with admiration and respect, a kind of love that was pure and true and only doubled when he told them who he was. One young woman was entirely swept up, giggling outrageously and turning aside to her friends. "You have to talk to this guy!" Michael reveled in the attention like any natural, sweeping it up with all graciousness and basking in the warmth of a moment's fame. Autographs, hugs, words...nothing from college or even Jekyll & Hyde would ever indicate something like this. The praise from school friends and family was one thing...but this! From perfect strangers!

"That was incredible!" he bellowed as he and Fairlith walked their mutual way home. The Bombalurina performer couldn't help but laugh as he literally bounced off the sidewalks, drawing curious looks from the people they passed by. But Michael didn't care. He was beyond caring. He was in CATS now! "I can't wait to do it again!"

"You won't say that when you become a regular," she couldn't help but giggle. "You'll be wishing for days off, trust me."

"No I won't!"

"Yes you will, Michael. We all do."

"No, Bal," he laughed, as though in a dream. "You don't understand." He didn't think she did, either. This was CATS for pity's sake! This was what he'd been aspiring for...wanting...wishing...dreaming about...longing for...craving...since he was eight years old and first heard those notes of the Jellicle Ball ring out over the stereo in his dance teacher's studio. He'd wanted nothing else with this desire that he ever knew, and now that his dream was reality...he could very well die of happiness. Michael had never thought anyone understood him, what CATS meant to him, and nobody ever would. CATS wasn't just his life when he was growing up, it was his entire being. He wanted it...he could never express that enough. They called him crazy, weird, obsessed. His teachers worried. His parents ridiculed. Was it really so wrong? To want something so much, with such passion, that he thought about it every day? That he dreamed about nothing else at night when trying to sleep? That when he heard about CATS shows closing, or missed the opportunity to catch a glimpse of it, or lost the chance to touch and hold something related to it, that he actually felt a physical pain in his heart? Was it so wrong to love something that completely?

He certainly didn't think so. "Goodnight, Bal. See you tomorrow?"

"Two o'clock sharp. We've got that class over at the studio."

"Right. See ya!"

The two parted ways.

There was a small dance studio about a fifteen-minute walk from the Winter Garden Theatre, aptly named the Broadway Dance Studio. Small though it was, underfunded so much it had no air conditioning system and thus resulted with a long line of fans against one wall, they taught everything there. Jazz, ballet, tap, ballroom, and a number of foreign styles. Michael had discovered it his first few days in Manhattan after getting the results of his CATS audition, meandering over the city to admire its grand splendor and amazing wonders, and after a few off-hand classes found it a much more fun place to be than the spotless perfection of any college dance studio. Even if it was shoddy and a little bit sleazy.

Fairlith had admittedly seen the place a few times from across the street, eyes drawn by the bright neon lights out front and the music which blared through a propped-open door. She had never gone in, though. It didn't look like a place a young woman wanted to hang out alone. But when Michael suggested she come over for a class or two, insisting there was nothing wrong with the place that they couldn't avoid, she jumped on the chance. The next day, a bright and clear Sunday, at two o'clock she was there, dance bag slung over her shoulder as she crept in timidly and sought out Michael's trademark sleeveless CATS shirt among the crowded area. Hurriedly she made her way over to him just as he was working down into a split.

"Nice place," she whistled, gazing around, and only meant half of it. The place was bright enough from the large floor-to-ceiling windows at the front of the building, but inside most of it was painted black. The scent of sweat hung in the air. Not the bad kind that was foul body odor, but a musky tang that filtered throughout the place, giving the studio a little character. It seemed a much better smell than the sanitary products and bleaches used in professional dance studios. And the people...all around her were people of every aspect of life: a young black man, a little girl of barely fourteen, grown women who seemed far too old to ever dance again, a spicy Latin American woman in the back corner in a leotard of leopard print, and many others. They were all here for only one thing. Dancing.

"It's homey," Michael replied simply, jumping up to greet his friend with an eager smile. He brushed back his hair, features seeming to glow with an inner mischeviousness. "You know, this is where Justin got his start."

"Seriously?"

"Yeah. Who would have thought?"

Laughter. Then warm-ups. Then in bounced the instructor, an equally middle-aged lady of punk black hair and a matching, skimpy outfit. But her personality was charming. She led the class like a workout video, voice calling instructions and encouraging without end in a gentle authoritive tone. Once the class spread out standing over the floor there was barely any room to extend arms, but no one seemed to care. There was a buzz in the air, Fairlith noticed, even in Michael, as the jazzy music began playing over the loudspeakers and class took off.

Fairlith couldn't remember ever having so much fun. They danced so simply she could recall many of the steps and routines from her childhood days in a dance class, and yet the energy of the lot of them pushed into the small room was electrifying. Fairlith was amazed at the skill displayed around her by otherwise normal-looking people. These people had the skill and talent enough to dance on Broadway, but this was all for fun! The Bombalurina professional found herself swept up in the intensity, laughing and giggling with perfect strangers as they danced, improvised, and showed off. Perhaps it was the lack of stress that made the hour and a half so fun...there was no worrying about getting routines right for the sake of a paycheck and what an audience might think of you. This was casual, for absolute amusement. Fairlith really couldn't remember the last time she'd danced for the pure fun of it. It seemed ages ago...

She was downright disappointed when it was time to leave. "Already?" she pouted, wiping one stray strand of her hair back into its ponytail, damp from perspiration. Michael took a long swig from a water bottle pulled from his own bag, equally radiant after the workout.

"Well, unless you want to stay for ballet--"

"Michael! Buenos dias! Como es stas, buddy?" came a suddenly loud, bursting voice with a female Spanish accent, and neither CATS performer had much time to react before the same young Latin American woman sprang herself at Michael with a deer-like bound, wrapping her brown arms around his neck and kissing his cheek over-affectionately. Jumping back a pace, Fairlith saw him turn a lovely shade of red as her leopard-spotted leotard matched up right with his black t-shirt and sweats, entirely too embarrassed to say much except a mumbled: "Hi, Rosa."

The Latin American woman-who seemed about their age and had an enormous red-lipped smile among her cinnamon-brown features-giggled in a way that reminded Fairlith much of Rumpleteazer and hugged his shoulder, seeming to hang there as though they'd been married for years. "Didn't expect to see you back so soon, muchacho." Still smiling she glanced across at Fairlith, finally recognizing her. "Who's your friend here?"

"This is Fairlith Harvey," he explained, at the same time carefully peeling her off of him. "She works with me. Bal, this is Rosalinda."

"Nice to meet you," Fairlith nodded, thinking it best to be polite despite the girl's slinkiness. She only laughed again.

"Por favor, the pleasure is mine, Fairlith," Rosalinda grinned, tossing back her mane of black curls into its previous hairband. "You in CATS, too?"

Fairlith nodded, but now it seemed Michael who was eager to leave. Gesturing towards the door he edged away slowly, trying to be as inconspicuous as possible. "Yeah, uh, nice seeing you again, Rosa. I'll probably be back in a couple days."

"Oh," she mock-pouted, cocking her head to the side. Fairlith thought that, looking that way, she would have made a great Cassandra. "Leaving so soon? Don't wanna shoulder rub or anything, hun?"

"No, thanks. Gotta go!" Michael grabbed Fairlith's arm and nearly dragged her out of the studio, though when they were completely out in the fresh air was met with only Bombalurina's hysterical laughter. "Don't ask," Michael rolled his eyes.

"Sorry," Fairlith choked through her laughs. "But you know I'm going to...!"

"She's a friend. That's all. Just a little over-affectionate..."

"Sure. And you like CATS only a little..."

"Oh, shut up, Bal."

The making a new Broadway CATS recording using the current Winter Garden cast had been a rumor circulating around since the current production twice broke the record for longest-running show in musical theatre history. It was a well-known fact on Broadway that any cast recording for a show was an excellent way for a performer to promote themselves. In a way, it was a dream, gaining a little bit of immortality. A cast recording would still be around long after the performer was gone, still playing in millions of places in their voices, their names in the cast list.

Entirely out of the blue Justin confirmed the rumor.

"There's directions by the stage door t' the recording studio," he was telling the cast after a nice, long, successful clean-up rehearsal. The cast lay out before him on the stage of the Winter Garden, leaning against and across each other. Fairlith sat between Michael and Trevor, arms and legs crossed easily as they gazed up at their director in respectful quiet. "I want every'un there this Thursday bright'n'early. Be ready t' sing."

"So we're really going to be making a new recording?" Hunter asked eagerly from his perch against the car trunk, hardly able to sit still. Justin glanced up from his own beside the enormous tire and grinned. That dark, knowing grin of his.

"Unless you'd rather lissen t' a bunch of people singin' back from 1982."

A group cheer rose up and filled the auditorium, then they were allowed to go home. Fairlith caught Michael eyeing the direction sheets as she reached the stage door and took one herself. His grim expression didn't escape unnoticed. "Michael?"

"Yeah?"

"What's the matter?"

"Nothing."

She nudged his shoulder. "You sure?"

He shrugged. "It's just...the recording...a little disappointed."

"Oh," Fairlith's own expression failed when she realized what he was getting at. As an understudy, Michael wouldn't be able to sing for the recording. That was for regulars only...her and Hunter and Lauren and Trevor...everyone else. The more she thought about it, the more it troubled her just as it did Michael. It didn't seem right...but there was nothing they could do. Again she nudged his shoulder.

"I'm sorry, Velv."

"Eh, don't worry about it. Maybe next time."

Neither of them noticed Justin's approaching until he finally spoke, startling them both. "Hey, you two. Busy?"

"Err, no, Jus," Fairlith swept back her hair, smiling again. "What's up?"

"Somethin', that's fer sure," the director nodded, gesturing the two aside a moment to clear the doorway for other people making their way home that night. He glanced aside a moment, rubbed the back of his neck, before speaking. "Look, I'm goin' out on a limb here, but I think it's fer the best."

"Why? What's the matter?"

"Patrick's gone. Ya know that, right?"

"Sure. He said his dad had cancer."

Justin shook his head with a small, ironic chuckle. "He's a good liar. Naw, Mike, it's Patrick who has the cancer."

Faces turned white and Fairlith covered her mouth in horror. Quickly Justin lifted his hand to halt any immediate questions. "It's alright. He's goin' fer surgery this week an' should be fine. It's nothin' big. But he's also put in his notice that he wants t' leave the show. So..." His gaze met Michael's. "I can't promise ya the part, Mike. Yer d**n good, but without a proper audition there's nothin' I kin do. However...we will need a Skimbleshanks fer the record."

If Michael's jaw had dropped any lower it would have hit the floor. "But...but...I..."

"What's to protest about?!" Fairlith exclaimed, suddenly bubbling. "Michael, this is Skimbleshanks! You can be in the record!"

Fairlith looked at Justin. Justin looked at Michael. Michael looked dumbfounded. "What can I say?" he sputtered, shrugging. "Thanks!"