Authors: Ruby Preston
“I’ve been laying the groundwork with some of my non-profit theater contacts here in the city. I think you’re right—we’re ready for a production,” Scarlett
said
.
“We could easily do any final tweaks during a rehearsal process; otherwise, it’s ready for an audience,” Jersey Jeremy
said
.
“Well, then, I’ll start making some calls. Rumor has it that the Manhattan Theatre Workshop may lose their next show if Neil Patrick Harris isn’t available to star in it…” Scarlett
said
.
“Isn’t that show supposed to be happening like next month?” asked Buff Jeremy.
“I’ll admit, it would be a little insane to pull our show together to go into rehearsals that quickly, but someone’s going to get that spot if it opens up. Why not us? We know they loved
Swan Song
when they saw the reading.”
“I never thought I’d actually be praying that Neil Patrick Harris
not
come to New York for a show,” Jersey Jeremy
said
with a laugh.
“Don’t get your hopes up, guys,” Scarlett
said
. “It’s still a long shot, and for all we know they may already have a back up show lined up. But it’s definitely worth a try. It would certainly be the perfect next step for the show. High profile but downtown.”
Scarlett’s role as producer was to continue to find next steps for the development of the show. Musicals could take years to develop. Each reading, workshop, and production that had to happen to make a perfect show took time and money. Scarlett was hoping to get this one produced at a non-profit theater company. At the right theater, it could get both the exposure it needed and the benefit of the theater’s own production budget. The alternative—namely, Scarlett producing it by herself—would be a several hundred-thousand-dollar endeavor. That was a less-ideal alternative, considering the producer didn’t make a penny until, and unless, the show found success.
“Speaking of which,” Buff Jeremy
said
. “Any news you’re at liberty to share about the
Olympus
extravaganza? I read in the paper that the show got a theater.”
If there was anything harder on Broadway than raising the many millions of dollars needed for a Broadway show, it was getting a theater.
“And not just any theater,” Jersey Jeremy
added
. “The Jackman, no less. Have you mopped the blood off the floor from the
Thelma & Louise
debacle?” Quintessential theater nerds, Jeremy and Jeremy were always well informed on the latest gossip and rarely able to restrain their cattiness around Scarlett, who loved them just as they were.
Buff Jeremy jumped in. “That reminds me, what’s the deal with the Kanter suicide? Do you think he left a suicide note written in letters from cut-up playbills?”
“That’s ice cold,” Jersey Jeremy
said
. “More important, do you think Liza Minnelli will be at the funeral?”
“Oooh, or Stephen Sondheim?” Buff Jeremy
said
. He started singing, “
Every day a little death...”
“More like ‘
He had it comin’, he had it comin’
...’” sang Jersey Jeremy from the “Cell Block Tango.” “Though I suppose that would have been more appropriate if someone had killed him.”
“How about ‘
There’s a grief that can’t be spoken...empty chairs and empty tables, now the-critic-we-hated is dead and gone…’
” sang Buff Jeremy. “I guess that doesn’t really work, either.”
They both turned to Scarlett at that moment, and Jersey Jeremy said, “If you get invited you have to take us with you! Pretty please?”
Scarlett pursed her lips. “So you two can serenade the mourners with you musical-theater funeral medley? No, thank you! Anyway, there isn’t going to be a funeral, according to the paper. And is it too much to ask that you guys show a little respect?”
“Moi? Respect?” Jersey Jeremy
said
with a dramatic gesture to himself. “I’m sorry, my name is Jeremy, have we met?”
“He’s hopeless. You should know better than to try and make him behave,” Buff Jeremy
said
, rolling his eyes at his boyfriend. “But you know how personally he took it, each time Kanter panned any new musical he actually liked.”
“Did you read Reilly Mitchell’s piece on Kanter this morning?” Jersey Jeremy
asked
gleefully.
At the mention of Reilly’s name, Scarlett felt her cheeks flushing. She hadn’t quite been able to get him out of her mind. She knew she was being silly but supposed a little celebrity crush was harmless.
“Well, no point in reveling in Kanter’s demise. I’m sure someone just as unpleasant is waiting in line to take Kanter’s place. Fortunately, that’s not my problem.” Scarlett was eager to change the subject away from Reilly’s column before they noticed anything unusual. She fished in her purse for her wallet. “Speaking of which, some of us have to get to work.”
“And some of us have to finish re-painting the bathroom
today
...” Buff Jeremy
said
mock-glaring at Jersey Jeremy. They shared a cute apartment in Chelsea that Jersey Jeremy’s father had bought for him in an overboard effort to prove that he loved his musical-theater-inclined gay son.
Scarlett often wondered which aspect of Jersey Jeremy caused his father more consternation: the fact that his son was gay or that he had chosen musical theatre as his profession.
“It’s not my fault that there was a
Desperate Housewives
marathon last weekend. You couldn’t possibly expect me to paint under those circumstances.”
“…While I was working my fingers to the bone at the office,” Buff Jeremy
said
in his best woe-is-me voice. He contributed to their finances by working part-time as a dog walker, so he could make money and contribute to his physique.
“Same time and place next week?” Scarlett had to be aggressive to get a word in when those two got started.
“We’ll be here with bells on,” Jersey Jeremy
said
.
“Speak for yourself. I’ll be here
sans
bells,” Buff Jeremy
said
.
Scarlett made her escape as their banter started up again. It was a pleasant start to her Friday.
Scene 8
Candace ascended the steps to the unmarked door on 46th and entered the elite hot spot that was Bar Centrale. The bar was already crowded, but Candace wasn’t looking to rub shoulders. Tonight, her mind was on work.
Her managing editor, Tom, hadn’t arrived yet, so she grabbed the last two stools at the bar. A booth would have been better, but on a Friday night at 7:00 p.m., that wasn’t going to happen. As she ordered her usual Manhattan, Candace glanced at the young woman on her other side. She didn’t particularly want an audience for her upcoming conversation. Luckily her bar neighbor, from the looks of her, was just another pretty enough, dime-a-dozen wannabe actress in a zebra coat. The girl practically blended in with the zebra-print bar stools. How tacky, thought Candace, uncharitably. She caught the eye of her editor and waved him over as he came in through the heavy velvet curtains at the door.
While he ordered a glass of wine, Candace took a few unladylike gulps of her Manhattan.
“Nice to get out of the office. What a week,” her editor
said
as his wine arrived. “Shall we toast our fallen comrade? To Ken Kanter, may he be wielding his poison pen wherever he is.”
“Tragic,” Candace
said
, forcing her face into a grim mask as they clinked glasses. She polished off her drink with a nod to the bartender for another.
“So, Candace, you wanted to talk to me about something.”
“Yes.” Candace perked up. Thank goodness he’d been willing to meet there. She needed some liquid confidence that night. “I’ve had some thoughts about the replacement for Kanter.”
“I assumed we’d promote the junior critic to chief. That’s certainly what
he’s
bound to assume, though I’m not opposed to discussing alternatives. He’s still a little green. Don’t we have a short list of candidates in a file somewhere whom we could interview?”
“We could, and we do. But I think this could be an opportunity to generate some new attention around our section. Kanter came in with a whimper and went out with a roar. What if we started with a roar?”
“Okay. I’m intrigued.”
Candace had to give Tom credit. For all the pressure he’d been putting on her, he was a good guy and respected the fact that she’d been at the paper twice as long as he had. Of course, that might just be the bourbon speaking. Her second Manhattan had arrived, and Bar Centrale was anything but stingy on their pours.
“What did you have in mind?”
She leaned closer in an attempt to not be overheard. “You know how our reviews are getting diluted by the bloggers and chat rooms?”
Of course he knows, she thought. It’s the reason we’re having this conversation in the first place. “Anyone with a computer these days thinks they can be a journalist. They love nothing more than to tear apart our reviews and lambast our critic, regardless of what he prints.”
Tom nodded and took a sip of his wine. She couldn’t understand people who could nurse a drink all night like that.
“Well, what if we let
them
pick our next critic?”
“Go on.”
“I’m thinking of it as our version of a reality show. It would work like this: We select, say, five candidates qualified for the job. Then, for the next five high-profile opening nights this season, we give one of them a shot at the review. The bloggers and chat room folks knock themselves out, analyzing the finalist’s every word. It would be a reading frenzy. At the end, we put it out to a vote. Let our readers and detractors pick the critic. They’ll stand behind whoever it is, because it was their choice!” She finished triumphantly, aware that her voice was getting loud.
“I like it, Candace. We let the people pick the next critic, up our sales in the process, and bring back the respect of our critic’s pen,” he said. Candace could practically see the wheels turning in his head. “Let me run it up the food chain and check it with legal.
I have a feeling they might just bite. Like you said, it smacks of reality TV, and there is no denying that’s where the ratings are these days, god knows why.
”
They discussed the logistics for a few more minutes. Heading into spring, there’d be a lot of shows opening to get in the running for the awards season. The junior critic could pinch-hit for the next couple of reviews, but they’d need to put the plan in action right away to have the first candidates ready to go.
Candace was pleased with herself. She nodded to the bartender for a third Manhattan—a personal celebration of her successful proposal.
“Can I have him bring you another glass of wine?” She batted her eyes at her boss, feeling the weight of the week lifting from her shoulders. Her phone, which she had set on the bar, buzzed. She ignored it.
“No, thanks,” he said to the bartender quickly. And to Candace: “I have to get home to my family.”
Family. Who needs family? thought Candace derisively as her drink arrived.
“I can have an answer for you next week,” he continued. “But feel free to start pulling together a list of candidates. We’ll need to get the initial interviews out of the way, and there won’t be a lot of time to vet our five finalists.”
“That won’t be a problem. I can reach out to our colleagues and contacts and have some legitimate resumes on my desk right away. I’m sure it won’t surprise you that I’ve already received several inquiries.” Her third drink was hitting the spot. Her phone rang again. “A job opening like this doesn’t come along very often.”