Bethesda paced anxiously back and forth across the creaky wooden backstage floor that had not seen a decent wax job in years. The tell-tale markings of performers long gone were etched into the dried and cracked wood. The Imperial Theater had once been a glorious spot for entertainers to hang their hats, if only for a brief respite, and perfect their craft, whatever it may have been. The magnetic energy that had once electrified every nook and cranny of the building had dissipated over the years to a mere flicker, exciting only the die hard aficionados and those curious enough to witness for themselves the place where legends once graced the stage with their verve and panache. The once majestic venue had fallen prey to the ravages of time and was now a home away from home for aspiring actors, poets, dancers, singers and musicians, and, every so often, a few self-promoting community speakers seeking an audience to rally to attention.
Tonight, in the very theater that smelled faintly of mildew and stale cigarette smoke, it was Bethesda’s time to shine in the muted glow of the spotlight.
Bethesda stared down at the tangled weave of her long, caramel hued fingers with the impeccable French manicure. Someone had once told her, many moons ago, that her long, graceful fingers were simply made for playing the piano. She took this proffered advice to heart and endeavored, for a season, to discover the intricacies of tickling the ivories. Although talented in a sophomoric sort of way, piano playing was not in her immediate future. Alas, not even the steady tic-tic-tic of a metronome could keep her in tune with the rhythm and tempo, and she abandoned her pursuit for more realistic goals.
Silence enveloped the stage beyond the tattered and faded heavy curtains. It was a stillness that Bethesda would never fully become accustomed to, no matter how many times she would have to venture out from the shadows of the backstage world. The frenzied dance of a thousand butterflies flooded her stomach, almost threatening to burst free from their confines. Bethesda said a silent prayer, inhaled deeply of the stale odor of years long since passed and pervasive memories of those who had come before her, and slowly, ever so slowly, began to walk toward the dimly lit stage.
The tap tap tap of her boot heels resonated loudly and cut through the relative tranquility of the theater. There were no sounds of muffled laughter, stifled coughs, or impatient “a-hems”. There was only Bethesda. The echo of her own breathing was heavy in her ears, clouding her thoughts, and muffling all other sounds—if there were any to be heard—save for the rhythmic thu-thump thu-thump thu-thump booming in her ear canal. She would rather have endured a barefoot three mile trek across the hot desert sand in the dead of summer instead of trudging the thirty feet it took to reach her destination. Each step brought her closer to the microphone, yet her instincts continually yelled, Yelled, YELLED! at her to turn on her heels and run as fast as those fashionable Manola Blanc ankle strap sandals would carry her. Instead, she continued her steady gait, never once lurching forward in anticipation. She resisted the urge to follow the impulse to bolt. There were few things in the grand script of life that rose to the level of humiliation of tripping and falling while trying to make a grand diva style entrance.