out of the way.
Victoria pouted, which she clearly thought was cute. It wasn’t. It looked like her lower lip was trying to escape her face.
“It’s at the bottom of my bag,” she said. “I’ll give it to you right before I go on, honey.”
Well, that wasn’t fishy at all, was it? This, in conjunction with the death grip she’d retained on her suitcase all night, added up to a sneaking suspicion that our little thief was up to something. But I didn’t have time to figure out what. Because on the other side of the curtain, Casey was announcing me.
And then the applause began.
Showtime.
I walked onto the stage, doing my Standard Politician Wave. A wink. A non-threatening thumbs-up. I took the microphone from its stand. Pause. A far-too-sincere smile.
“Thank you. Thank you. I’d like to thank you, the voters, for your support, and welcome you to Dreamland Burlesque!” (Hold for applause. The name of the show always gets applause.) “Me? I’m Jonny Porkpie, the burlesque mayor of New York City. It’s not an elected position...”
I scanned the crowd as I did my bit. It was a nicesized audience, almost a full house. The front row was packed with Dreamland regulars; folks who came to see the show every week, rain or shine, and could be counted on for a vociferous response if they liked what they saw. Good. Performers feed off the energy of the audience, and this audience would provide plenty of—
Ah, crap.
Somehow, I knew he’d end up in the front row. Near the corner of the stage, putting him unpleasantly close to touching distance, was a creepy-looking guy in a shabby overcoat who had tried to push his way in with the performers before audience seating had officially begun.
There’s always one.
Look, I don’t want to discourage anyone from buying a ticket, but if you’re going to be one of those men who sits alone, refuses to take off his outerwear even when the air conditioning is broken, wears dark glasses and leather gloves, doesn’t brush his hair or beard, and keeps trying to catch a glimpse of the girls getting dressed backstage...if you’re going to be one of those guys, maybe a downmarket West Side Highway strip club would be more to your tastes than a night of burlesque. Burlesque is a different monster altogether. It’s more about wit than anything that rhymes with wit; more about cleverness than any other c-word. Burlesque is a matter of brains over boobs... which, I suppose, is the standard arrangement, but you get my point. One creep in the audience working a Show World 1977 vibe could potentially sour the room.
This particular creep was sitting calmly enough and had his hands where I could see them, so maybe he was one of the harmless ones. Still and all, I’d keep an eye on him. And while I was at it, I’d keep the other one on that group of gigglers in the back. Probably the bachelorette party I’d noticed gathering in the bar before the show—ah, yes. The white veil and penisnose glasses on the blonde with the fresh-from-thesalon curls by the door were a dead giveaway. That bunch could go one of two ways: either they’d have a lot of fun and bring a great energy to the audience, or (especially if this was a late stop on their drinking tour) they might forget that they were supposed to be spectators and not the stars of the show. At least they were in the back row.
No worries about the rest of the audience, though. Looked like it was mostly groups of friends having a night on the town, couples out for a romantic evening —the bread and butter of any successful night of burlesque. They were here to have fun, to laugh at the half-assed double entendre, to cheer and whistle. Perfect. With a good crowd like this, when the lights hit the glitter, the underwear hit the floor, and the hooting and hollering filled the room, backstage would be a distant memory.
I glanced into the wings, and a thumbs-up from Eva told me she was ready to go. So I wrapped up my opening bit. “My
Victoria pouted, which she clearly thought was cute. It wasn’t. It looked like her lower lip was trying to escape her face.
“It’s at the bottom of my bag,” she said. “I’ll give it to you right before I go on, honey.”
Well, that wasn’t fishy at all, was it? This, in conjunction with the death grip she’d retained on her suitcase all night, added up to a sneaking suspicion that our little thief was up to something. But I didn’t have time to figure out what. Because on the other side of the curtain, Casey was announcing me.
And then the applause began.
Showtime.
I walked onto the stage, doing my Standard Politician Wave. A wink. A non-threatening thumbs-up. I took the microphone from its stand. Pause. A far-too-sincere smile.
“Thank you. Thank you. I’d like to thank you, the voters, for your support, and welcome you to Dreamland Burlesque!” (Hold for applause. The name of the show always gets applause.) “Me? I’m Jonny Porkpie, the burlesque mayor of New York City. It’s not an elected position...”
I scanned the crowd as I did my bit. It was a nicesized audience, almost a full house. The front row was packed with Dreamland regulars; folks who came to see the show every week, rain or shine, and could be counted on for a vociferous response if they liked what they saw. Good. Performers feed off the energy of the audience, and this audience would provide plenty of—
Ah, crap.
Somehow, I knew he’d end up in the front row. Near the corner of the stage, putting him unpleasantly close to touching distance, was a creepy-looking guy in a shabby overcoat who had tried to push his way in with the performers before audience seating had officially begun.
There’s always one.
Look, I don’t want to discourage anyone from buying a ticket, but if you’re going to be one of those men who sits alone, refuses to take off his outerwear even when the air conditioning is broken, wears dark glasses and leather gloves, doesn’t brush his hair or beard, and keeps trying to catch a glimpse of the girls getting dressed backstage...if you’re going to be one of those guys, maybe a downmarket West Side Highway strip club would be more to your tastes than a night of burlesque. Burlesque is a different monster altogether. It’s more about wit than anything that rhymes with wit; more about cleverness than any other c-word. Burlesque is a matter of brains over boobs... which, I suppose, is the standard arrangement, but you get my point. One creep in the audience working a Show World 1977 vibe could potentially sour the room.
This particular creep was sitting calmly enough and had his hands where I could see them, so maybe he was one of the harmless ones. Still and all, I’d keep an eye on him. And while I was at it, I’d keep the other one on that group of gigglers in the back. Probably the bachelorette party I’d noticed gathering in the bar before the show—ah, yes. The white veil and penisnose glasses on the blonde with the fresh-from-thesalon curls by the door were a dead giveaway. That bunch could go one of two ways: either they’d have a lot of fun and bring a great energy to the audience, or (especially if this was a late stop on their drinking tour) they might forget that they were supposed to be spectators and not the stars of the show. At least they were in the back row.
No worries about the rest of the audience, though. Looked like it was mostly groups of friends having a night on the town, couples out for a romantic evening —the bread and butter of any successful night of burlesque. They were here to have fun, to laugh at the half-assed double entendre, to cheer and whistle. Perfect. With a good crowd like this, when the lights hit the glitter, the underwear hit the floor, and the hooting and hollering filled the room, backstage would be a distant memory.
I glanced into the wings, and a thumbs-up from Eva told me she was ready to go. So I wrapped up my opening bit. “My
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