“Christ, what have I done?”
“You’ve gotten yourself the lead in a major Broadway limited run production.” Uriah laughed. “Good luck! Put your clothes back on and get out there. They need to get you the words and start you on the blocking. You’re gonna be exhausted.”
I shook my head. “Probably not. It justcannotbe any worse than a year long tour.”
Uriah pulled up short and blinked a few times. “I forgot. You did that tour what? Four years ago now?”
I nodded. “Worst year of my life, and that says something considering my little brother had leukemia at eleven. That tour was hell. We had to take a break after that. Jon—uh, Bon Jovi—said that when he and the band did that eighteen months monstrosity in the 80s, they weren’t even sure they were a band when they got off the plane the night after the last show. We were close. We knew we still were, but we needed a break from being in each other’s faces for a long damn year.”
“You… know Jon Bon Jovi?”
I laughed. “I grew up in Lavalette, and when he heard that at an after party a few years ago, we spent the entire fucking party talking about growing up in New Jersey at the shore.” I shrugged. “We bonded a bit.”
“You know Jon Bon Jovi.”
“I do. I know a whole bunch ofholy shit oh my God are you kidding mepeople.” I smirked. “I never got used to it either. I mean, you just called William Young,Bill. The man has six Tonys.”
“Seven,” Uriah corrected. “Dress. Go. You have your first rehearsal and one week to know this whole show inside and out.”
I nodded, and headed out of wardrobe. The stage was off to my left and I headed there. I could see some people at stage left and one of them waved me over.
As soon as I was on stage, a single powerful spotlight popped and nearly blinded me.
I was about to be hazed, except…I was a veteran at spotlights, backlights, and footlights. I was expert at knowing marks and blocking and effects, set changes, wardrobe changes—though admittedly those were only once if that.
“Welcome to Broadway, Austin,” someone boomed across the room. “It’s time to prove your worth!”
A microphone rose out of the center of the stage.
“Sing for me, my angel!”
I walked over to the mic, and said, “Phantom of the Opera? Is that what I’m singing?”
“Nope,” the voice said, popping the ‘p.’ “April is going to be choosing.”
A young woman at a piano under the edge of the stage waved at me, then sat. “How well do you know Broadway?”
“Fairly well,” I answered. She started to pick out a few notes, and I burst into a grin. “You’re going to throw me into the deep end with Valjean?”
“That’s the idea.”
I cleared my throat and coughed a few times away from the mic, then came back to it. “Okay. Just remember I haven’t had a warmup today yet. Haze me.”
She cracked her knuckles and smiled. Running up the scales and back, she began the very simple, short introduction to “Bring Him Home,” fromLes Miserables.
This song was no joke. It was a tenor triumph, one of the most difficult pieces to sing on Broadway currently.
I stepped away from the mic and found myspot, the place I would aim my voice and waited for her nod as a cue to begin.
This song was a desperate prayer from a man who had everything in life destroyed and didn’t want the same for his daughter—or the son he could have known. The song was his admission that his life was forfeit at that moment and gladly, if only God would give Marius safe passage home. His final plea was for Marius, not himself…and he lifted it up as high to Heaven as he could, hoping God could hear it.
I nailed and held the last note as long as I could, which as it turned out was longer than the reverb on the piano.
The light went off, and I just stood there, my eyes closed.
I couldn’t put into words how unbelievably amazing it was to finally just let my mouth open and let the sound out. Let my voice do what I really wanted to let it do, to belt out the notes and the meaning, and let it go into the ether as the best thing I could do for the universe at that moment.
I suddenly realized it was ridiculously damn quiet.
