The sun beat down on the amphitheatre making the set feel authentically tropical. There was just enough wind to send dust and sand into whirling columns which transformed the actors and crew into mobile statues. Most of the stage crew wore bandannas over their faces. The actors were not as fortunate. The director was stomping about on stage screaming incoherent instructions to all and sundry. It was a normal day on the set of “The All Live Production of The African Macbeth”

“Bloody 'ell,” Pete said as he slipped through the door into the tiny shed the tech crew used to keep the dust out of the equipment. “It's worse than ever out there.” He pulled off his bandanna and sucked in air.

“Careful,” Trina said, “You keep running up those stairs and you'll give yourself a heart attack.”

“Don't I wish,” he said, “I'm as healthy as a horse.”

“A horse with a pack a day habit you mean.”

“What does our esteemed director want now?” Robert turned from his computer and raised a careful eyebrow at Pete.

“The hippopotamuses are off cue.” He handed Robert a clipboard. “Here is your new list of cues.”

“Hippopotami,” Robert said, “and I told the director if he wanted to have the creatures roar on cue he should have ordered animatronics.”

“But this is,” Trina parodied the director, “'The All Live Production of the African-”

“Stop!” Pete interrupted her. “Don't say the name of the play. It's bad luck.”

“Pah,” snorted Robert, “The Scottish play is no more bad luck than any other play.”

“Then why don't you ever say its name?” Trina asked.

“It is tradition,” Robert said. “There's water in the cabinet, Pete.”

“Bless you,” Pete said. He pulled open the door of the cooling cabinet that Robert had convinced the director was necessary to keep the delicate electronic chilled. It happened to have enough space for a few bottles of water too.

“What was that?” Trina asked as a bloodcurdling roar made their shack rattle.

“That was a hippopotamus roaring on cue,” Pete said, pointing through the window to the stage where the director was poking a hippopotamus with a long stick.

“He had better be careful,” Robert said.

“Yeah, if the animal rights people hear about that they'll eat us alive,” Trina said.

“True, but I was thinking of the fact that hippopotami kill as many people each year as the river crocodiles. They might be large and appear lethargic, but when their temper is aroused you don't want to be anywhere near them.”

“That sounds like our leading lady,” Trina said with a snicker.

“You had to go and mention the only person who gives me more trouble than the director,” Pete poured some water on a bandanna and tried to wipe some of the dust from his forehead.

“She wanted this pair of ladies' shoes for the banquet scene. 'I'm a ladies' size six,' she says. I figure if she is a ladies' six then I'm a bloody brain surgeon. I borrowed a pair of the shoes she normally wears and take them to the shoe place. Size twelves they were, and extra wide at that. The girl had to special order them. When the shoes come in, I took them to Miss Piggy. They fit perfect, but she threw them at me because they said size twelve inside. I had to go back to the store and figure out a way to put a size six label in a size twelve shoe.”

“I understand your frustration,” Robert said, “but why do you call her Miss Piggy?”

“It's from an old TV show,” Trina said, “Miss Piggy was a very large, very opinionated pig who regularly karate chopped anyone who displeased her.”

“The director should have gone and seen her,” Trina said, “before he offered her the leading role. The look on his face when he saw how much bigger she had got in the decade since she retired-”

“Some of the hippopotamuses are smaller than her,” Pete said. Robert looked over his glasses at him.

“It is not entirely her fault, age makes it more difficult to maintain the unrealistic body demanded by the public.”

“Maybe so,” said Pete, “but she doesn't have to treat everyone around as if she really were Lady Macbeth.”

“Oh no!” Trina said, “Quick, turn around widdershins three times and spit.”

“What's widdershins?” Pete asked.

“You aren't spitting on my floor.” Robert said at the same time.

“Widdershins is counter-clockwise,” Trina said.

They heard another earth shattering roar then screams. The trio ran to the window and saw a broken stick floating in the water while enraged hippopotami roared and crashed through their tank. A single size twelve extra-wide ladies' shoe lay by the edge of the tank. The water was turning red as they watched.

“I fear it is too late.” Robert said. “The cursed play has claimed its due.”

The applause went on, and many in the audience stood up and cheered. Katrin Perle, the fabled “Gem of Austria” took a deep bow. “Zenk you, you’ve been vonderful,” she called, eyes welling with mock tears of gratitude. Her face lit up in effusive joy as she scooped up a rose that had fallen to her feet; the audience was oblivious to her disgust as she made show of smelling the crumpled flower, wilted from an evening spent in the sweaty pocket of some lustful admirer. She bowed again and the roar of the applause was muffled as the heavy velvet curtain dropped to the stage floor, Katrin’s stage persona falling away with it.

Katrin spun on her heels and strode out, her heavy footsteps masked by the sound of the audience flowing out past the white and gold geometric pillars and into the lavish foyer and lounges. As she marched down the labyrinthine corridors another set of footsteps came running up beside her. Without slowing or turning her head, Katrin reached out automatically to receive the cigarette holder from her assistant - a young woman in slacks and a waistcoat carrying a clipboard. “You were fabulous tonight, Miss Perle. Every note was perfect!”

“Thank you, Miss Wilcox. Any news?” she asked, the continental accent as far from her lips as her stage-smile.

“I’ve had two requests from local newspapermen for interviews . . . “

“No.”

“. . . one request from Vanity Fair . . . “

“I’ll consider it.”

“And there’s a . . .” Wilcox cleared her throat, “gentleman to see you, Miss Perle.”

Katrin stopped and turned to her assistant with one manicured eyebrow raised. “Is it . . . ?”

“I sent him to your dressing room.”

“Good,” she replied and started off again, leaving Wilcox to make notes on her clipboard. A sea of chorus girls spilled into the corridor, their sequined costumes replaced with coats and giggles as they made their way towards a night on the town; they pressed themselves against the walls as Katrin stormed passed without acknowledging their presence.

Pausing in front of her gold-starred door, Katrin smoothed a recalcitrant curl back behind her ear. She threw the door open and fixed the man inside with a calculated stare.

“You again!”

The man looked up from under the brim of his hat with a wry smile. “Now, darling, is that the way to greet a friend?”

“And you’re assuming that we still are?” She swept into the room and slammed the door, disappearing behind a large screen decorated with Japanese artwork.

“You’re ravishing when you’re angry, sweetheart,” he quipped and a pair of dainty black shoes came sailing over the screen towards him. He picked one up, admiring their elegant proportions and the slight scuffmarks around the heels.

“I don’t want to see you, Dean!” she called.

“Maybe if you come out you’ll find something that might well change your mind.”

She ignored his remark and continued to change at her own pace, emerging in a baby-pink dressing gown embroidered with her name. Sitting down at her dressing table she removed her make up, keeping one wary eye on the man in the dark coat and brown pin-striped suit behind her. “I should hardly think anything could change my mind when it comes to you, Dean.”

“Not even this?” He moved closer, ignoring her scowl, and placed a string of diamonds and pearls around her neck.

“Thank you, dear. And what do you expect of me?”

“Oh honey, your cynicism is most unbecoming! But sadly, as much as I would adore giving such a beautiful piece to such a beautiful woman, tonight I am only the messenger. My boss is having a little gathering tonight and hopes you can join him. Of course, he’s most looking forward to seeing you . . . personally . . .”

“And who would that be? This new boss of yours?”

“Joe Cosimo.”

Katrin shook her head, dislodging her little blond curls from her bob. “No. Never. He’s repulsive. He eats like a hippopotamus, weighs as much as one and has the manners to match. I don’t care how much money he has to splash around, I despise him,” she stared at Dean in the reflection of her mirror. “And you can tell him I said that, and he can keep his trinkets too.” She took off the necklace and threw it down on the dressing table.

“Katherine . . .”

“It’s Katrin now!” she snapped.

His lips curled up, amused. “Katrin, since you’ve rejected my boss’ token of his admiration, I’ll have to be a little more persuasive.” Katrin watched him pull a handgun from his coat, holding it to the back of her head.

“So, you’re kidnapping me, are you Dean?” she laughed, continuing to apply her moisturiser. “And to think I was once in love with you!”

“You have to understand, darling, what Mr. Cosimo wants, Mr. Cosimo gets . . .”

Katrin stood up to face him. “Stop being so silly and put that away! I’m not going!”

“Oh, I think you are, Katherine,” he smiled, but he was caught off guard as she lunged at him, trying to wrench the gun from his hand. For a moment they wrestled, Katrin mad with rage and indignation, but in the heat of the tussle the gun discharged . . .

*****

Wilcox heard the shot and ran down the corridors screaming for help. She was nearly at her employer’s door when she saw a figure in a dark coat disappearing out the fire escape . . .

Simon P. Morris looked down at his clipboard and sighed. The show would be premiering in less than a month, and yet the director still could not be bothered to show up for rehearsal on time. Had he still been in charge of the production, things would have been a lot different. But no, Mr. Wakowschkerwitz would only make a donation to the theatre in exchange for the role of director. And given that his superiors viewed the world through dollar sign pupils, they had of course agreed. No respect for the art; they or the idiot they let direct the next production.

“What else can you expect from a moron wearing women’s flats?” he muttered under his breath. As if to provide an answer, the new director chose that exact moment to arrive, throwing open the double doors for his grand entrance. Pat strode down the aisle at a leisurely pace, sporting a garish Hawaiian shirt ‘for comfort’, a bright pair of athletic shorts ‘for function’, and a plaid pair of women’s flats ‘for medical reasons’. “Orthopedic problems my foot,” said Simon, glaring over the rim of his clipboard.

“Hello, all!” said Pat, in a booming, friendly voice. “Let’s begin rehearsal! We’ve only got a month left before ‘Tony and Cleo’ hits the stage!” Simon bit his lip; Pat had yet to refer to the play by its given name. “But before we begin, I want everyone to gather around. I’ve had a few new ideas that I think will really be able to sell this to a modern crowd.

“I think we can all agree that most of the Egypt scenes fall flat. And it’s through no fault of your own, lemme tell you,” he added quickly, looking around at his actors. “I think that the setting itself seems a bit bland. In the play, Egypt is supposed to be a land of sensual pleasure in comparison to Rome. But they both seem the same. But then it hit me- chorus lines.”

Simon bit down so hard that he drew blood. “I beg your pardon?” he asked, his hand distractedly rubbing his lip.

“Brilliant, isn’t it?” replied Pat, completely oblivious to the intended meaning. “If we just put a flashy, feathered chorus line into the background of the Egypt scenes, the metaphor will really pop!”

“And you do not think that the addition of a flashy, sequined dance team will interfere with the setting of the play because…”

Pat stared at him in confusion for a brief moment. “Oh, Simon, I almost forgot! You missed last week’s announcement! We’re putting a twist on Shakespeare’s work by setting the play during modern times! I think a more modern staging will attract a younger audience without sacrificing any of the underlying themes.”

“You what!?” cried Simon, throwing his back up against the wall to support his weight. “’Antony and Cleopatra’ is one of Shakespeare’s great History plays! The play is nothing without the time frame! You can’t possibly change it!”

“I believe that you will find we can,” replied Antony, with a smug grin.

Simon began to feel faint. “But, you… all of the characters are famous historical people! How can Octavius become Emperor of Rome if Rome doesn’t even exist!?”

“Oh, I’ll admit that there might be a few anachronisms…” said Pat, shrugging his shoulders. “But on the whole, I don’t think the audience will mind.”

Simon had no reply. “Did you come up with a solution for the dull water battle scene?” asked Eros, filling the void left by Simon's silence.

Pat responded by snapping his fingers. “Yes, yes I did. Thank you for reminding me. As I’m sure you all recall, we ultimately decided against using submarines or Navy Seals. It would be silly to try and show the audience what was is happening above and below the water.”

“Oh, yes, I would hate for this production to become silly,” whispered Simon, who was nearly hyperventilating at this point.

“But then I came up with a solution. Have you ever wondered how nature would respond to a battle like that? I bet the creatures wouldn’t take to all of that noise and destruction very kindly. So we’ll just have a few scenes depicting the wildlife fighting back. I’m sure we can do some wonderful things with birds. And just imagine the audience’s reaction when a hippo starts attacking one of the boats!”

Simon let out a deep moan. “Shall I let the techies know to start working on some fake birds and hippos?” asked Cleopatra. “They did such a good job making that fake asp, after all.”

“Oh, there will be no need for that,” replied Pat, smiling wide. “You see, we’re going to be using real live animals.”

Simon briefly pondered the reality of a gigantic hippopotamus stomping around his immaculate theatre. His eyes rolled up into the back of his head, and he hit the ground unconscious.

Pat couldn’t help but laugh. “Now I know this play is going to be a smash hit,” he said with a hearty chuckle. “Poor Simon here just fainted from excitement!”

Most of my friends have moved out of the area, gone to the city in search of a career. Some are still at home, trying to find a way to separate the basement from their mother's house. I sure wish I had been able to stay at home for a while longer, just a few more months and I might have had enough money to put on the electricity. I guess, I’m lucky to have a night job. Refilling the shelves at the local shopping center doesn’t pay a lot but it gives me somewhere to go when the sun goes down. The sporadic illumination from the giant neon dancing legs for the theater below my flat is more then enough to keep me from sitting in the dark on my nights off.
Well it may not be much but this is my new home, for now anyway. The add described it as a two bedroom furnished flat. Close to transport and cultural entertainment. Well the entertainment is downstairs with a train track across the street it’s as close to public transport as I ever want to be. It does have some great scenery, looking out across the lake and of cause the stage door that is right below the stairs to my front door.
It is an old building and has really old waxed timber floors and they creak a lot. It was one of the things that really attracted me to this flat. Not the creaking, but the smell of the wood. It has that fresh cut wood smell like in granddad's shed where he kept the firewood. I don’t think I’ll ever forget that smell. It brings back so many memories, happy memories of a carefree childhood.
The other advantage to living above a theater was free tickets to all the shows, which at the time sounded so good I almost snatched the clipboard out of the agent's hand to sign my name on the contract. At least I thought it was going to be so cool going to the theater broadening my cultural horizons. Ha what a joke. I’ve been here almost six months and haven’t been to see a single show. The one thing that I didn’t think about were all the rehearsals. The singing is OK it’s not like at a karaoke bar, the people downstairs can at least sing. The dance numbers can be a little hard to take especially after a hard night on the town. The first few days of a new show are always the worst. I know these graceful young ladies are learning new steps but sometimes they sound like a chorus line of hippopotami doing the Cancan in thigh high army boots. Some how they always manage to get it together in time for opening night.
Tonight is my night off and I’m going to the theater. I can’t remember what the show is called but it sounded pretty good in rehearsals, quite up beat and sort of funky with lots of quickstep dancing or lots of stumbling, hard to tell from upstairs. Showtime is finally here. As I was walking down the stairs one of the steps broke and I fell. I lay at the bottom of the stairs with my leg contorted in way it should never be, remembering what my mum used to say “Going to the theater never hurt anybody”. Ha boy was she ever wrong. I wondered how long until the show finished and someone would come out the back door to find me. The pain has settled but there is no way I can walk or even crawl. I shall just have to enjoy the music and wait. I have never noticed how many pairs of women's shoes have been slung over the power lines out here. It’s amazing what you can see you’re your flat out on your back laying on sidewalk, with your ankle up somewhere near your ear.