Fiction
The First Note

By Bryan Manno

The curtain goes up at eight o’clock sharp. You have been rehearsing day and night for this debut. It is only half past five, but you can already feel the intensity, the energy, the butterflies turning your stomach.

The theater is dark. Not because it is the infamous Black Monday, but because you are the first one there. But, that is to be expected. You are the lead, the center of attention and, for all intents and purposes, the core of tonight’s performance. All eyes will focus on you. All ears will be tuned in to every song, every run, every flat note.

The lights suddenly flicker on, but you realize that it is only the janitor. He notices you sitting on the front of the stage with your legs dangling nervously off of the end. With the dustpan in one hand and the high school sized garbage pail trailing in his other hand, he briefly acknowledges you with a bob of his head. Not wanting to seem completely out of place, you return the gesture and allow him to prepare the theater for anticipated crowd.

It is now approaching seven o’clock, and you must leave the front of the stage, where you have been perched since you arrived, because the doors will be opening to the public in about thirty minutes. Your quiet time is coming to an end and you must get in to your costume, get your make-up on, get your hair done and get in to character.

Your first stop is hair. You hate when someone else does your hair, but you have no choice. It must be worn this way because, well, that is how your character is supposed to wear it, according to the director. Layers and layers of film begin to form as at least a gallon of hairspray is misted in to your hair. You prefer mousse as opposed to hairspray, but again, you say nothing because this is what the director wants.

You move to the make-up vanity and sit quietly as the make-up artist goes on and on telling you, “The color of this foundation just goes so well with your skin tone.” You just let her speak because you fear that if you try to reply, you will drape her with a color that may not go so well with her skin tone.

Then, after you are made up like some porcelain doll that you swear belongs in your mother’s china closet, you head over to the costume rack. There are five costumes on the rack, and you hate every one of them. The costume for the opening scene is heavy and layered and ugly as can be. Your other four costumes are nothing to write home about either, but again, you say nothing because this is the director’s vision.

It is time for you to get miked up. You are used to a small microphone with a wire that is run from your neck, down your shirt and attached to a little black box affixed to the small of your back. But, not today. Today you have made it to the big time and they have what they call body microphones. A little wireless microphone artfully made to match the color of your hair and carefully taped to your hairline. “Will they notice? Will it even work? When I go to open my mouth, will the sound man know it is my time to sing?” You will just have to trust the sound check you did earlier that morning.

It is almost time to get in to position on the stage. “Ten minutes to curtain!” You wonder who just made your dinner come up in to the back of your throat. You remind yourself to have them fired after the show, but for now, you have other things to worry about. The stage hands, the crew, the orchestra leader and, of all people, your family gather backstage and give you one last encouraging pep talk. They all form a circle and begin a group prayer. You partake, not because you necessarily believe in that higher power, but because it just feels like it is the right thing to do. Besides you are too caught up in your character to tell everyone to just leave you alone.

It is now time for you to take your place. It is time for the show to begin. The sharp piercing heat of the overhanging lights revealing every imperfection, every facial blemish the make-up artist neglected to cover with her "perfect" foundation. You have already sweat through your multi-layered costume and you must stay that way because your first costume change does not come until at least twenty minutes after the curtain rises. But you just do not care; you hate this costume anyway.

The silence on the stage just before that heavy crimson curtain parts, is deafening. You know all too well that once that curtain is removed, it will reveal thousands of people who will be staring at you. Criticizing your every move, your every note, snickering, waiting for your voice to crack. You finally realize that you are all alone. Your solo is the opening number of the show. That curtain is your only safety net; your only separation from reality.

Here it is. The curtain is up. The people are dead silent and the person operating the spotlight has made it so no one could possibly miss your presence on the stage. The orchestra begins and there is no turning back now. You open your mouth to begin your first song and....

Everything goes black, it always goes black at pretty much the same point every time. You try to push forward each time the music decrescendos, but you are just not able to do so. Then, as it always does, the light begins to creep back in. Slowly, but surely, the light gets brighter and brighter until it is all just a distant memory. You know that you will just have to wait and try again the next night when you lay your head to rest with the hopes that one day, you will be able to sing that first note.

Author Bio
Bryan Manno is an attorney living in South Florida. His passions in life include the theater and writing. He has recently published  a poetry book, Behind the Broken Glass, and is working on a second publication that will include both poetry and fiction and non-fiction short stories.