A flicker of studio light bounced off every single white sequin on the entertainer's gloved arm as he ran up to await his cue. The glare from above was blinding -- or was it the overalls? He shook his head and something rattled, probably the false ears but then you never can tell. Someone about 50 feet away snickered, most likely one of the stage crew. The entertainer tried not to be bothered by it. Let them snicker, he thought, he was getting paid good money for this, good Hollywood money. It didn't matter if he looked, from most angles, exactly like an idiot.
He looked out at the audience, reading their dull expressions like an electrical gauge, and almost as a reflex shot them all one of those big, blank Hollywood grins that had of late become his specialty. The commercial was rolling now, and the entertainer, anonymous on an only half-lit stage, was basking in the silence. The only sounds came from sundry camera and lighting men, fiddling with their ludicrously expensive equipment and expecting that everyone would be expecting everything to run in perfect sync. The entertainer, knowing the natural state of man to be clumsiness, was ever-so-slightly unnerved. A short, useless bit of banter from his high-school Physics textbook hit him now, something about the difference between accuracy and precision, strange, long-uncomprehended words melting away into the icy canyons of the mind. He stirred a bit, and his outfit rustled. He wondered where they went to school.
Would everything go all right tonight? Had he put his trust into the right hands? It was live TV, he knew that, and no matter how many (or in his case how few) times he had rehearsed, he would have to be perfect now, or the world would know.
Working out of a little presentation studio in the puddiest bit of Britain, he had for his haypenny wages pushed himself to the very limit, appearing onscreen all-too-often in a state usually reserved for 5:30 in the morning -- where he would be half-dead, pajama-clad and waiting for breakfast, thankful to be alone -- he would be in the studio, equally groggy but facing the all-seeing camera to tape bits that, when played back, would make him think just a little less highly of himself. It made little matter there, though, as he and his famous partner were pretty much the only ones watching. Here, to say things were different would be a gross understatement. This was another world entirely. This was the good ole U.S. of A., it was 11:48 PM, and somehow, defying all logic, million upon millions of people would be staying up late to watch -- him. The entertainer.
He swallowed hard at nothing in particular, and his pride hopped up his windpipe, choked at the saliva and fell back into the depths of an unremarkable body now encased in shiny, metallic, fat-enhancing green-and-yellow-striped overalls that you could easily have convinced him were chosen for him by Nazi sadists if he didn't vaguely remember picking them out himself. The entertainer laughed at life and himself and tended in an ineffective way to the back of his neck, which had stiffened up like a lobster in heat. He rubbed his head and snapped it back. Something rattled. It wasn't the ears. He looked about nervously and the seconds went by like generations.
"All right, on mark," croaked a fat stage manager in clothes he wouldn't feel ashamed to walk down the street in.
"Ready in five," called a grubby camerahand, holding up five overlong fingers to make the point.
"Four!" A finger dropped. His partner, the great Ricky Noble, brushed himself off on a mark comfortably set on the opposite stage from his own.
"Three!" A second finger dropped. A fake Queen Elizabeth coughed quietly to herself. She was with Ricky.
"Two!" A third finger dropped. The entertainer saw the fires of hell flash, ever-so-briefly, before his eyes. But no, this was Ricky's cue, not his. All he needed was five seconds, and that he would get. He would survive.
Two more fingers dropped, but the grubby, apelike camerahand with the elongated digits made no call-out to mourn them.
A few clicks, a dull hum, and the lights came up on Mr. Ricky Noble, comedian. Entertainer. He hit his cue flawlessly. Smug bastard.
"No, there's nothing to worry about, your majesty," he whispered in a voice so loud you could hear it from Rutland, "the Save Our England telethon is going smashingly."
The fake Queen Elizabeth, sitting on a fake studio couch, only pursed her lips in reply. She had no lines in this bit.
"We've raised almost ..." he looked up, in a grandstanding counterfeit of masked worry - "er, one dollar." The big board was all zeroes. That was fake too. The audience gave a polite chuckle. This was the second time Ricky had hosted this show, rather ironic as in the beginning he'd ranted and raved for days about how they'd nicked -- er, stolen -- all his best bits. The entertainer stood silently, a sentinel in day-glo trappings, and prayed that they succeeded, Ricky be damned. "Hey queenie," said the comedian in a way that made the stagehands cringe, "you wanna give this Hollywood crowd a thrill? Wave for 'em, come on now." He was improvising. They'd told him not to do that.
The fake Queen stared at him in a bewildered way that seemed somehow to convey that every time a live performer tries to improv up someone else's show, a little baby seal dies.
He smiled broadly back at her.
She stood up and waved, to the sound of the audience's applause. Ricky applauded too. Rotten smug bastard.
Laughing at nothing in particular he recovered and whispered out loud enough to shatter windows in Tunbridge, "Save Our England, folks, the lines are always open, please, give all you can." They'd told him to play it like Prince Charles. As usual he failed that and instead did a passable, if rather uninteresting, impression of Ricky Noble. Yet the audience was eating it up. Maybe, thought the entertainer, that's what talent is.
It didn't matter. He was still a dirty rotten smug bastard.
"And now, ladies and gentlemen," said the comedian, "it's talent-spotting time, and let's see if you can spot any talent in our next ..." Laughter. "No, he's a great entertainer and a very good friend of mine, I was just kidding there Ian, let's give a big hand and a warm welcome to Ian Martini !"
Riotous applause. The entertainer -- Ian -- stood in disbelief. His legs wouldn't move, no, they were bolted to the floor, he'd be standing still too long, he couldn't go on, he'd look a fool, everyone would laugh, and ...
The orchestra began to blare a wonderful lilting, wafting melody and the entertainer smiled, because he knew he'd written it. His legs came unstuck.
Now the lights were coming up, full blast, like some awful Chinese Sun Torture, but it didn't matter. He saw himself projected onto a hundred monitors, and he saw a face that, while not conspicuously handsome, had served him well. He saw a red-and-green striped beanie cap on top of it, with buttons and huge false orange ears, that nevertheless looked more normal on-camera than his own balding head. He saw, draped over his fingers and everything beyond, white sequined gloves that reached over his elbows, an alien parody of something a turn-of-the-century burlesque girl, or perhaps Miss Piggy, might call their own. He saw a simple navy t-shirt that cost three dollars but suited him. He saw metallic, day-glo green-and-yellow striped overalls that cost three hundred dollars and wouldn't suit anyone. He saw his little silver moonboots. He saw an oddly apathetic microphone stuck close to the lips of a big fat idiot.
He saw the audience. No one was laughing. They were a trifle confused, but they'd survive.
He saw the chorus girls, dressed like shrubbery and clutching tight to huge painted cartoon suns and moons and pigs and dollar signs. He saw the set, decked out with fake blue sky and fake green grass and a few fake businessmen (painted, with umbrellas and wheels) and one very real bagpiper. He saw the studio orchestra, clean-shaven and cool, and didn't have to worry about where they'd gone to school, even if they did look a trifle less like model hipsters than usual, dolled-up like London policemen.
He saw Ricky, with his counterfeit queen, who couldn't take this moment away from him.
And he saw in thoughts his wife Yvonne, who would stay up tonight to watch. He thought about her. The others disappeared like a top-heavy dream.
He opened his lips and sang.
Property of Orange Cow Productions. ninc., 1999. This piece may not be copied, reproduced, distributed, altered, forwarded, or otherwise worked with in any way without the express written consent of Orange Cow Productions, ninc. We can be reached at ocpmovie (at) lycos.com.