I am in what appears to be a speakeasy performing in a Sweet Adeline’s barber shop show, complete with snazzy twenties garb in a medley of garish hues. Everyone’s makeup makes them look shiny, literal plastic masks with bright, ever enduring smiles. The show begins and we start of with a pop-and-dazzle tune, over-performing a “bad-girls” song. We arch our brows, narrow our eyes and rip runs into our nylons with shiny red nails, crawling out into the audience and effectively making a spectacle of ourselves. The number ends and we gather in the wings. I answer a cue too early and begin to can-can onto the stage, an unappreciated solo number ensuing. Embarrassed but ready to adopt the old idiom “the show must go on”, I rearrange myself in line backstage.
The matron-like director has other plans of me. She grabs me by the arm and says it’s time for me to go home, I’ll not be required for any further participation in the ensemble. I grapple with her a bit, but things turn violent and the whole charade culminates in a kick to the ribs for her. As the point of my bedazzled toe smacked into her side, I felt the pain of the blow myself. She lied there, unconscious and I could feel my own body getting heavy, the tunnel vision that precedes a fainting spell quickly took over and I found myself in need of a place to lie down.
She and I, had somehow become physically connected, whatever happened to the one, invariably happened to the other. I wiggled my fingers to be sure, but the adjacent twitch in her own hand solidified my opinion on the matter. I woozily made my way home for fear of another altercation should she wake up any time soon. I would again be fighting myself, a foe I was loathe to face.