style="font-size:15px;"> None of us understood why Randy never quite looked happy that week—even after we sold out all four hundred tickets.
6
Bud’s Good Eats
Randy and Norman double-checked the props, triple-checked the flash pots, and quadruple-checked the guillotine. If a head didn’t roll at showtime, heads were definitely going to roll afterwards. But that wasn’t the biggest thing Randy was worrying about. “Is she here?”
Norman nodded. “She’s coming, man.”
“That’s good,” said Randy. “That’s good.”
Randy had never been nervous about a show before. And even though this was his baby—he wrote the script, directed it and starred as Oryon—only one thing scared him. Cousin Jane.
I was scared, too, because I’d given Sarah two tickets. She was bringing her younger sister, Robyn, which wasn’t a thrill, but at least she didn’t invite a date. And she seemed to be into older guys—maybe she’d like the fake beard.
Kyle was scared because it was the biggest audience he’d ever performed for. And he wasn’t expecting the guillotine—or the show—to work.
Lisa was scared because her parents were showing up and she wasn’t sure how they would react to her costume. I was pretty sure they wouldn’t like it nearly as much as we did.
We got into our costumes, smeared on our makeup and Norman hit the preshow music, which kicked off with The Grand Illusion by Styx.
Our illusions may not have been grand, but for $2.50 a ticket for adults and $1.50 for students, they were damn good. The flash pots flashed. The fire-shooters fired. When it was time for the Metamorphosis, Marvin and I metamorphosized. The effect might not have rivalled Houdini’s, but it scored the same shocked gasps that make magic shows magical for audiences and performers. The audience was still oohing at Zephyr’s miraculous growth spurt when the helmet flew off and they realized he’d been transformed into Adoma. Me. Some people screamed. As I stood there in my trance, I saw Sarah in the third row and had to force myself not to smile.
Then Santar captured Oryon and I strapped him into the guillotine while Pink Floyd’s Careful with That Axe, Eugene blasted out of the auditorium’s tinny speakers. As the audience held their breath, so did everyone onstage. Randy’s Styrofoam head fell straight into the bucket and blood sprayed everywhere. The audience screamed again.
Kyle didn’t wear his helmet and Santar’s hair looked perfect.
We didn’t get a standing ovation, but we managed two curtain calls and some of the little kids stuck around to get Randy, Kyle and Lisa to sign their programs.
Marvin went straight home with his parents. Kyle’s girlfriend, Wendy, kissed him and then took off. Lisa’s parents complimented her on the show and didn’t even mention her costume—at least not until she got home. I went into the auditorium to find Sarah, but she wasn’t there. So I retreated backstage to take off my beard.
By the time I had cleaned up, changed and wandered back onstage, no one was in the auditorium except the cast, and everyone but Randy had changed back into their jeans and T-shirts. Randy was still in his white wizard robes when Norman opened the auditorium door and walked in with a woman so stunning she made Lisa look like Marvin. Lisa was gorgeous, but Lisa was seventeen and gorgeous. Cousin Jane was twenty-two and built like a Playboy centrefold minus the staples.
“I’m Jane,” said cousin Jane.
“Me Tarzan,” said Randy.
“You’re cute,” she said.
“I’m Kyle,” said Kyle, trying to look cuter than Randy.
“You were great,” said Jane. Then she took Kyle’s hand and he looked like he was going to melt.
“You too,” said Jane, as she flashed a smile at Randy. “Nice work.”
Then, while both of them stammered out thank yous, Jane looked at me—or maybe through me. “Norman says you’re a writer,” said Jane. “He says you’re really good.” I’d forgotten Norman was in my creative writing class. Now it was my turn to stammer. “I liked the beard,” she said. “Sexy.”
“Jane works with Rainbow,” said Randy.
Just as this was registering for me and Kyle and Lisa, Jane added, “I work with their new theatre division. I’m handling the Beatlemania tour.”
Beatlemania? The show was touring everywhere. It was a cross between a tribute band and a stage play and it was selling out around the world. None of us had seen it because none of us was old enough to remember Paul McCartney before he started Wings, but we all knew it was huge. “We’ve only done two stage shows in our history—Beatlemania and A Chorus Line. I think you should be our third.”
Kyle laughed. “So you think we’re the next Beatlemania?”
Jane didn’t laugh, didn’t even smile, just looked at us like we were money. “I think you’ve got something here, something fresh.” She gestured to the stage that was still drenched in fake blood. “I think this could be big.”
Big? Someone from Rainbow thought we could be big?
“Wanna go for a drink?” Jane asked.
Drinking age in BC was nineteen.
Randy and Norman were nineteen. Lisa looked nineteen. Kyle had a fake ID. Even though I was a few months away from eighteen I wasn’t going to be fooling anyone. So when we went to celebrate at Bud’s Good Eats, a converted garage-turned-cowboy-diner that served Tex-Mex nachos and cheap beer, I was about to order a Coke when Jane told the waiter she was buying and ordered a round of Coronas for her friends.
The waiter, who looked like a heftier, unhealthier version of John Belushi in his Saturday Night Live cheeseburger sketch, glared at me and started to say something when Jane flashed her playmate smile. Belushi responded with what looked like an attempt at a grin, surrendered, grunted and turned.
There were nuts on the table. Kyle passed them to me. “I’m allergic,” I said. Before Kyle could put the nuts down, Jane had already ordered a large nachos—“extra salsa, extra peppers.”
Belushi was back before the next hurtin’ song was over and didn’t hesitate for a moment before depositing bottles in front of everyone including me. Each had a little slice of lime sticking out of the top. I watched as Kyle smoothly popped his lime into his bottle and I tried to poke mine in the same way. Naturally, my wedge stuck, so I discreetly pushed my finger right into the bottle hoping Jane wouldn’t notice.
I’d tried wine a few times—if you could call the Manischewitz red my family served at Seder and Friday night dinners wine—and once, when I was on vacation in Honolulu and went to a party with some friends, had a pina colada and some brown cows because they tasted like liquid desserts. That was it for me and alcohol. But I was definitely having beer tonight, because Jane was buying beer.
“Here’s what I’m thinking,” Jane said. “You need to take this on the road. Tour Canada. Then, after that kicks ass, we tour the States.”
Randy looked like he was choking
