Ms America and the Brouhaha on Broadway Read Free

in.
    “Fuhgeddaboudit!” the man yowls, and disappears into Manhattan’s chilly night along with his three compatriots.
    “Don’t feel bad, lady,” another departing theatergoer tells Trixie. “You put on the best show I saw all night.” Then he and his gal pal flee as well.
    I look after them with envy. Fabulous New York City is pulsing all around me, but all I get to see is the inside of this godforsaken theater.
    “What now?” Trixie’s face is ashen. “That’s the last thing we needed. That man pretty much spat on the biggest Broadway superstition ever.”
    “You ask me, that spinning and spitting routine is nutty,” Shanelle opines.
    “Superstitions exist for a reason,” Trixie insists. “If it’s really true that the first actor who ever played, you know, the M word, died after his performance, that play is cursed. Its name should never be mentioned in a theater.”
    “What are people supposed to call it then?” Shanelle asks.
    I’m starting to answer “the Scottish play” when my voice catches in my throat. I swear I stop breathing. Everything fades into the background as I stare at a well-dressed man walking across the theater lobby, a handsome man with dark hair and olive-toned skin and a certain something in his profile—
    “That man kind of looks like Mario,” Trixie murmurs.
    That’s the M word I’m not supposed to say. Or even think. I’m not having much success with that New Year’s resolution, I can tell you.
    “It’s not Mario, though,” Shanelle points out.
    I clear my throat. “No, of course not. He has no reason to be in New York.” Because Mario doesn’t follow me around anymore. Not that he ever really followed me around , but you know what I mean. All that’s stopped. There’s no more of that.
    The tabloids prove that he’s doing exactly what I told him to do. He’s getting on with his life. I told him that’s what he had to do the last time I saw him, in Minnesota a month ago. And you can’t get mad at a man on that rare occasion when he actually does what you tell him to do, now can you?
    No, you cannot. Not even when it feels like your heart is being ripped out of your chest and stomped on by evil women wearing extremely high stilettos. And especially when you have no business being upset because you have your own husband and he’s a pretty great guy.
    Fortunately, my BFFs don’t bring up any of the tabloid news. They can tell I’m flustered enough. Trixie rubs my arm. “We’d better get back in there.”
    I manage to smile and even crack a lame joke. “We shouldn’t have any trouble finding places to sit.”
    Truer words were never spoken. We plant our butts in abandoned seats in the third row right off the center aisle. Moments later the orchestra launches into an abbreviated version of the overture, presumably to get everybody back in the mood for Dream Angel . That’s a tall order. I know what I’m in the mood for: an adult beverage.
    At long last the musical wends its tortuous way to the closing scene, when our heroine finally wins the pageant title she’s always dreamed of. You’d think this would tug at my heartstrings—after all, it parallels my own life story—but the dialogue is so forced and the heroine’s final song so sappy that the only emotion I can summon is a raging desire for the curtains to fall.
    Singing all the way, the heroine begins the tricky ascent up the steep, glittering staircase atop which her gold and crimson throne awaits. From my left side, Trixie lays a hand on my leg. I know why. I’m sure that like me, she’s wondering if tonight, like every other preview night, Lisette will appear on stage at the tippy top of the staircase to scream about how much she detests the music in this final scene of “her” musical.
    “Oh my Lord!”—Trixie’s fingers clutch—“there she is again!”
    “Stop everything!” Lisette hollers, raising her arms wide like a mad preacher and stepping out in front of the